“Drifters?” “Or Jehovah’s Witnesses. Or census takers. Or the Fuller Brush man.” “When you figure it out let me know.” “Sure.”
I go to the nightstand and find some aspirin in the top drawer. I pour out four and sit there for a minute. “Your JD is under the bed, in case you forgot.” I shake my head. “I don’t want that. You have any water in your fridge?” “Oh shit. You really are dead.” “Do you have any water?” “I have beer. That’s kind of like water.” “No. That’s kind of like beer.” I go back into the bathroom, dry-swallow the pills, and drink water out of my cupped hand. “There. I’ll be fine once those kick in.” “That’s what Jeffrey Dahmer said when his doctor gave him Valium.” I find my phone and dial the number Cabal gave me. “McQueen and Sons bail bonds. We can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a number and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. If you already have a bond with us, don’t even dream about leaving the jurisdiction. Have a nice day.” I go back to the bathroom and drink a little more water. Then I dial the number again. It goes straight to the message. I go back to the other room and lie down. “You’re going to break the news to Lucifer about this shit,” I say. “Am I?” “Yeah. I’m Dirty Harry. You’re Paul Revere. It’s called division of labor.” “It’s called having a Martian’s grasp of history.” “Just let him know.” “I mean, one of those people isn’t even real.” “Of course they’re real. I saw them on TV.” I dial the bail bondsman again and get the message. Fuck it. I need to close my eyes. “I’m going to lie down and wait for a callback. You should go lock yourself up.” Kasabian does his bug thing, crawls down to the floor and over to the closet on his little legs. He stops by the door. “Seriously, man, are you going to go cannibal crazy?” I sit up.
