Part 8 (2/2)

I sighed. ”Typical. Just typical. And I understand you're just doing your job, sir. Let me go to the bathroom and I'll be right down.”

”Perfectly all right,” he told me. ”Officer.”

The cop stood up from Mouse and gave me a lingering look. Then she nodded, and the pair of them headed back down the hall.

I let Mouse back in, then closed the door most of the way and Listened, narrowing the focus of my attention until nothing existed but sound and silence.

”Are you sure?” the cop asked the security guy.

”Oh, absolutely,” he said. ”Toe-moss,” he said, emphasizing the p.r.o.nunciation, ”is as queer as a three-dollar bill.”

”He have any other men here?”

”Once or twice,” the man said. ”This tall one is new, but he does have one of the original keys.”

”He could have stolen it,” the cop said.

”An NBA-sized gay burglar who works with a dog?” the security guy replied. ”We'll make sure he's not stealing the fridge when he comes out. If Raith is missing anything, we'll point him right at this guy. We've got him on video, eyewitnesses putting him in the apartment, a copy of his driver's license, for crying out loud.”

”If they're in a relations.h.i.+p,” the cop said, ”how come this Raith guy never cleared his boyfriend?”

”You know how queers are, the way they sleep around,” the security guy said. ”He was just covering his a.s.s.”

”So to speak,” the cop said.

Security guy missed the irony in her tone, and let out a smug chuckle. ”Like I said. We'll watch him.”

”Do that,” the cop said. ”I don't like it, but if you're sure.”

”I don't want a jilted queen making a big scene. No one wants that.”

”Heavens, no,” the cop said, her tone flat.

I eased the door shut and said to Mouse, ”Thank G.o.d for bigotry.”

Mouse tilted his head at me.

”Bigots see something they expect and then they stop thinking about what is in front of them,” I told him. ”It's probably how they got to be bigots in the first place.”

Mouse looked unenlightened and undisturbed by it.

”We've only got a couple of minutes if I want them to stay complacent,” I said quietly. I looked around the apartment for a minute, ”No note,” I said. ”Not necessary now.”

I went back to the war room, turned on the light, and stared at the huge corkboard wall with its maps, notes, pictures, and diagrams. There was no time to make sense of it.

I closed my eyes for a moment, lowered certain mental defenses I'd held in place for a considerable while, and cast a thought into the vaults of my mind: Take a memo. Take a memo.

Then I stepped up to the wall and scanned my eyes over it, not really stopping to take in any information. I caught glimpses of each photo and piece of paper. It took me maybe a minute. Then I turned the lights back out, gathered my things, and left.

I breezed out of the elevators, stopping at the security guy's desk. He nodded at me and waved me out, and Mouse and I departed the building, secure in our heteros.e.xuality.

Then I went back to my car and headed home to seek counsel from a fallen angel.

CHAPTER Nine

I picked up some burgers, four for me and four for Mouse, and went home. I got onion rings, too, but Mouse didn't get any because my cla.s.s-four hazmat suit was at the cleaners. picked up some burgers, four for me and four for Mouse, and went home. I got onion rings, too, but Mouse didn't get any because my cla.s.s-four hazmat suit was at the cleaners.

Mister, of course, got an onion ring, because he has seniority. He ate some, batted the rest around the kitchen floor for a minute, then mrowled to be let outside for his evening ramble.

By the time I'd eaten it was after ten, and I was entertaining thoughts of putting off more investigation until after a full night's sleep. Pulling all-nighters was getting to be more difficult than it had been when I was twenty and full of what my old mentor Ebenezar McCoy would term ”vinegar.”

Staying awake wasn't the issue: If anything, it was far easier to ignore fatigue and maintain concentration these days. Recovering from it was a different story. I didn't bounce back from sleep deprivation quite as quickly as I used to, and a missed night's sleep tended to make me grouchy for a couple of days while I got caught up. Too, my body was still recovering from way too many injuries suffered in previous cases. If I'd been a normal human being, I'd probably be walking around with a collection of scars, residual pain, and stiff joints, like an NFL lineman at the tail end of an injury-plagued career, or a boxer who had been hit too many times.

But I wasn't normal. Whatever it is that allows me to use magic also gives me a greatly enhanced life span-and an ability to eventually recover from injuries that would, in a normal person, be permanently disabling. That didn't really help me much on an immediate, day-to-day basis, but given what my body's gone through, I'm just as glad that I could could get better, with enough work and enough time. Losing a hand is bad for anyone. Living for three or four centuries with one hand would, in the words of my generation, blow goats. get better, with enough work and enough time. Losing a hand is bad for anyone. Living for three or four centuries with one hand would, in the words of my generation, blow goats.

Sleep would be nice. But Thomas might need my help. I'd get plenty of sleep when I was dead.

I glanced at my maimed hand, then picked up my old acoustic guitar and sat down on the sofa. I flicked some candles to life and, concentrating on my left hand, began to practice. Simple scales first, then a few other exercises to warm up, then some quiet play. My hand was nowhere close to one hundred percent, but it was a lot better than it had been, and I had finally drilled enough basics into my fingers to allow me to play a little.

Mouse lifted his head and looked at me. He let out a very quiet sigh. Then he heaved himself to his feet from where he'd been sleeping and padded into my bedroom. He nudged the door shut with his nose.

Everybody's a critic.

”Okay, Lash,” I said, and kept playing. ”Let's talk.”

”Lash?” said a quiet woman's voice. ”Do I merit an affectionate nickname now?”

One minute there was no one sitting in the recliner facing the sofa. The next, a woman sat there, poof, just like magic. She was tall, six feet or so, and built like an athlete. Generally, when she appeared to me, she appeared as a healthy-looking young woman with girl-next-door good looks, dressed in a white Greco-Roman tunic that fell to midthigh. Plain leather sandals had covered her feet, their thongs wrapping up around her calves. Her hair color had changed occasionally, but the outfit had remained a constant.

”Given the fact that you're a fallen angel, literally older than time and capable of thought and action I can't really comprehend, whereas to you I am a mere mortal with a teeny bit more power than most, I thought of it more as a thinly veiled bit of insolence.” I smiled at her. ”Lash.”

She tilted her head back and laughed, to all appearances genuinely amused. ”From you, it is perhaps not as insulting as it might be from another mortal. And, after all, I am not in fact that being. I am only her shadow, her emissary, a figment of your own perception, and a guest within your mind.”

”Guests get invited,” I said. ”You're more like a vacuum cleaner salesman who managed to talk his way inside for a demonstration and just won't leave.”

”Touche, my host,” she admitted. ”Though I would like to think I have been both more helpful and infinitely more courteous than such an individual.”

”Granted,” I said. ”It doesn't change anything about being unwelcome.”

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