working out, and Anton was eating a chili dog he'd bought from a street vendor.
'I didn't lose him, Domino,' he told me when I pulled up. 'And he didn't see me.'
'That's good, Anton. Where has he been?'
Anton shrugged. 'We were at mall. He was looking at the suits, but I don't think he bought them. Then we come here.' He nodded to the gym. 'He goes in maybe twenty minutes ago.'
'Did he meet anyone?'
'No, he is alone when he goes in. I didn't follow him in there, because I thought he would spot me.'
Good thing, too. Anton wouldn't exactly blend in at the fitness club.
'Okay, nice work, Anton,' I said, slipping him a hundred. 'Keep this quiet and get yourself another hot dog, on me.'
Anton smiled and nodded. 'Thanks, Domino. It's pretty fucking good.' He jerked the hand holding a napkin over his shoulder. 'You want me to get you one?'
I declined, and Anton drove away in his Monte Carlo. I saw him pull up by the vendor and order two more hot dogs like he was at the drive-through.
I settled back in my seat and watched the gym, where Adan was lifting, treading or stepping his way to cardiovascular fitness. Or pretending to-his father's magic probably had more to do with his delicious figure than the elliptical trainer.
While I waited for Adan to finish his workout, I looked for a way to fit this new development into my theory. Papa Danwe wanted to make a move against Rashan's outfit. He summoned a spirit from the Beyond, or maybe the spirit contacted him. The Haitian made a deal, just like I bartered with Mr. Clean. He agreed to help the spirit possess a host in the physical world, and loaned out his soul jar so the spirit could do some remodeling on its host. Papa Danwe got to pick the host-Rashan's son-and the ritual victims. The spirit was okay with that-it needed victims with some juice, and at least in L.A., that meant gangsters. It also needed a host who could get close to connected guys. Adan had to look like a pretty good candidate. Papa Danwe also got a pledge from the spirit to back him when he moved against Rashan. He got a powerful ally deep inside his enemy's organization.
It fit pretty well-hell, it was right out of the evil wizard's playbook. It matched what Jamal told me, too. He'd said the killer was flowing juice from the Beyond. That was the same reason Mr. Clean had ruled out sorcerous possession. A sorcerer's magic comes from this world, he'd said. I'd been wrong-the killer couldn't have been a sorcerer. In fact, the killer couldn't have been anything other than a spirit from the Beyond.
I sat there for thirty minutes, wondering what I was doing. I didn't really want to leave Adan alone, on the off chance the spirit might stop by for a visit. But I couldn't be in two places at once. For a moment, I regretted sending Anton home. I could have kept him on Adan-he seemed to have done an okay job of it, despite the constant distractions provided by junk food. But if the spirit wasn't coming, there wasn't much point in it. And if the spirit did come, I knew Anton would just get himself killed. I really didn't need to see him without his skin.
The simple fact was that I couldn't watch Adan twenty-four hours a day. The only way I could stop the possessions and derail Papa Danwe's scheme was to cross into the Between and destroy the spirit. And I didn't like my chances at that if I stayed up all night following Adan around. I had to sleep, and Adan would have to take care of himself for a while. I took one last look at the gym, then pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.
The next morning, I prepared myself to cross over into the shadow world. Mr. Clean explained that I wouldn't be taking anything with me but me, so this really just amounted to a few minutes in the bathroom. Then I sank into my recliner in the living room, relaxed my body and mind, closed my eyes and worked my magic.
'I have harnessed the shadows that stride from world to world to sow death and madness,' I said, and unleashed the juice.
I opened my eyes and found myself sitting in my recliner in the living room. The spell had worked, though. There was no moment of disorientation, and no precious seconds were lost thinking the spell had failed.
The colors in my living room were all wrong, mainly in that there weren't enough of them. Everything had a kind of washed-out yellow tint, like an old sepia-tone photograph.
Plus, there was an old woman screaming in my face and trying to strangle me.
'Jumpin' Jesus!' I yelled, for the first time since I was eleven. I grabbed the bony wrists and shoved the crone away from me. She flew across the room and landed in my fichus tree, a tangle of spindly limbs both human and arboreal. At first, I was surprised at my own strength, but then I realized I'd put a little juice behind the shove. Apparently, the effect was magnified in this place.
The woman was moaning and untangling herself from the tree. She looked to be at least eighty, and her clothes were elegant Jackie-O specials from the early sixties. Her hair was a chaotic white halo around her skeletal head, and her eyes might have been a pale blue if everything hadn't been painted in some variation of yellow or brown.
And she was cursing me. I was a slob. I was inconsiderate. I came in at all hours of the night and woke her up. I brought men into her home and made her watch the unspeakable things I did to them. And so on. I wasn't sure why she had to watch.
'Sorry,' I said. 'I didn't know I was sharing my condo with a ghost.'
The woman stood up and straightened her dress. She sniffed disdainfully-of course, more sniffing. 'I was here a long time before you, young lady. I was here before there were any of these wretched condominiums in the building.'
'Well, yeah, I can see that now. Anyway, like I said, sorry. What's your name?'
'Mrs. Robert Dawson,' she said haughtily. I suspected she'd say everything haughtily or disdainfully, at least when she was talking to me. 'My Christian name is Margaret, but my friends call me Maggie. You may call me Mrs. Dawson.'
'Nice to meet you, Mrs. Dawson. I'm Dominica Riley. Sorry about throwing you into the tree.'
'I know who you are. I've been living with you since you began squatting in my home. In my day, there were no wet-backs in this neighborhood unless they were cleaning house or tending the lawn.'
Great. I was sharing my condo with Maggie the Bigoted Ghost. She'd probably fit right in on the playground in Crenshaw. 'Yeah, well, nothing much has changed. These days it's mostly white folks with a few of us gangsters to add some color.'
'It's tragic,' she said. 'In my day, we kept the criminal riffraff in the ghettos where they belong.'
'Yeah, we've gotten uppity, lady. Anyway, now I know you're here, I'll try to be a little more considerate. I can't make any promises about the men, though.'
'Flowers,' said Mrs. Dawson.
'Huh?'
'You could brighten the place with some flowers, Miss Riley. It's so terribly drab, what you've done with this place.'
I looked around the washed-out living room. 'Yeah,' I said, 'something in a nice yellow, I think. Tulips or carnations, perhaps.'
'That would be lovely.'
I stared hard at her, but there was no trace of sarcasm on her wrinkled face. I shrugged. 'Done, first thing when I get back. Right now, though, I have some business. Nice meeting you.'
'Goodbye, Miss Riley,' she said, and sniffed. Jesus.
I left the building and walked out onto the sun-bleached street. It looked like my neighborhood, like L.A., just with all the color sucked out of it. It looked and felt dry, lifeless-more so than usual, I mean.
'Honey?' I said, putting a little juice into it. Nothing happened. I sat down on the steps in front of my building to wait.
The streets were empty, deserted. I almost expected to see a tumbleweed roll by. There were no cars, which was especially strange for L.A. Occasionally I saw a shadow move in a window or a furtive form dart out of sight around a corner. Ghosts, probably, I couldn't be sure. It was quiet. No sounds of traffic, no birds singing, no children laughing or howling miserably. The only sound was a dry wind blowing, though the fronds of the palm trees lining the street were utterly still. A pale mist or fog clung to the ground and obscured my view of the streets beyond a couple hundred feet.
'Who are you?' a voice asked. It was clear, musical, like a wind chime dancing in the breeze. I looked around and saw…nothing.
