Kill City Blues. Richard Kadrey

might have come off a car’s exhaust system. Mike’s terrifying tools are spread out on the table. They look like things Hellions would use to perform surgery on people they don’t like very much.

      Once Mike has a second to process that this is an unscheduled visit, thankfully, a smaller wave of panic sets in.

      “Oh God, don’t tell me. Something went wrong with Kasabian’s hands? His legs? I swear I’ll get whatever it is working again.”

      “Attempt to be cool, Mike. Kasabian is fine. What’s the story with your spiny friend?”

      “It’s a puffer fish. A fugu. Some famous Sub Rosa sushi chef is in town and one of the families wants to give him a present.”

      “A fish. So, if the guy made barbecue, you’d be making him a mechanical brisket?”

      “No, man. Fugu is special. Like an art form. It’s loaded with this stuff called tetrodotoxin. A badass neurotoxin. Cut the fish wrong and bam. Everyone’s dead. You need a license to make it and everything.”

      I shrug.

      “And people pay brisk money for this stuff?”

      “‘Brisk’ ain’t the word. It’s more like make-you-weep money.”

      “I didn’t realize that civilians were as stupid as Hellions when it comes to the shit they’ll stick in their mouths.”

      “I wouldn’t know about that and hope I never do.”

      Mike detaches the clamp from his little fish and wipes his hands on his dirty rag.

      “The commission sounds like a good thing for you. You’re moving up in the Tick-Tock world.”

      “Yeah. Things are going okay. You didn’t come by just to check up on me, did you?”

      Up until now I’ve been holding the 8 Ball under my arm like a loaf of bread. I take it and hold it up so he can get a good look at it.

      “Nothing like that. I was wondering if you’d look at something for me. It’s a fake mystical object I’m guessing someone paid a lot of money for. I was hoping you’d have some idea who made it.”

      Mike takes it gently, like he’s handling a baby duck.

      “I’ll have a look but I mostly know animals. Those charm- and talisman-making assholes won’t give us the time of day. They talk about Tick-Tock Men like all we make are big-ass Tamagotchis. But we’re artists, you know?”

      “I know. That’s why I brought it to you. I figure an artist knows an artist.”

      Mike turns the 8 Ball over in his hands, looking over every inch of it. He pulls down a magnifier mounted on the edge of the table and examines every bolt and fastening.

      “Beautiful work,” he says. “Incredible detail. And these materials. Brass-and-platinum skin over a core of surgical steel and cinnabar. You see these tiny sapphires by the base?”

      He holds it up. There are a few blue specks on the 8 Ball’s belly.

      “Someone’s charmed them. That’s what gives it a low-level magic signature. It’s gorgeous work. Does it have a name?”

      “Qomrama Om Ya.”

      “Never heard of it. I like animals.”

      “If it helps, the guy had a raven in his room. Good work. Very convincing.”

      Mike looks up from the magnifier.

      “You didn’t happen to check under the tail feathers, did you?”

      “You mean, did I look at the bird’s ass? No. It never crossed my mind. I’d go back and try, only by now the ass is probably blown halfway to Las Vegas.”

      Mike goes back to the 8 Ball.

      “Too bad. Lots of people sign their work in places most people don’t look. That way if the bird changes hands and needs repairs, they can find the original builder.”

      “That’s truly fascinating. I’ll look under your ass if it’ll help you tell me something I can use.”

      “Wait,” says Mike. “Gotcha. Right there.”

      He hunches over the magnifier, holding the 8 Ball closer.

      “I know who made it.”

      “You sure?”

      He crooks a finger at me and I go around to his side of the table. The 8 Ball is huge in the magnifier. He uses one of his delicate tools to point to a single sapphire stud.

      “You see that little mark etched around the sapphire? That’s the alchemical symbol for verdigris. Only one Tick-Tock Man signs his work with that. You’ll love him. He’s a total asshole. Atticus Rose.”

      “Do you have a number for him?”

      Mike does a sarcastic little laugh.

      “Are you kidding? Rose is a golden eagle riding a gumdrop thermal over Candy Land. On a good day I’m a snail crawling across that grease pit out front. Eagles don’t give their business cards to snails.”

      “You’re not a snail, Mike. You’re at least a ferret.”

      “Thanks,” he says like he actually means it. “Anyway, like I was saying, we don’t move in the same circles.”

      “Who would know him?”

      “The high-and-mighties. Someone who can pay the equivalent of a Lamborghini for a parakeet. Someone like Blackburn. Maybe his government or showbiz buddies. You ever party with them? Me neither.”

      I take the 8 Ball back from Mike. It’s hard for him to let go. It’s like he’s fallen in love and doesn’t want to see his girlfriend carried off by a highwayman.

      “I don’t party with people like that, but I know someone who might. Thanks, Mike.”

      I’m halfway to the door when Mike calls after me.

      “Hold up. I’ve been thinking about Kasabian.”

      “Don’t do that. You’ll get lesions on your brain.”

      “I figured it out. If you can get me another hellhound body, then I can modify that and then put new parts on Kasabian’s body without taking him off.”

      “Great idea. I’ll stop by Costco on the way home and pick up a new hellhound. Oh, wait. They only have those in Hell.”

      Mike frowns.

      “It was just an idea. You don’t have to be mean about it.”

      “Sorry, Mike. I was just down in Hell and it wasn’t fun. I’ll see about getting another hound, but I have other things to do first.”

      “Okay. Make sure Kasabian knows it was my idea.”

      “Will do.”

      I go out through the garage, wave to Mike’s cousins, and climb back into the Charger. By the time I’m in, I’ve already thumbed Brigitte Bardo’s number into my phone.

      BRIGITTE IS MY favorite zombie hunter in the world. Except we killed off all the zombies a few months ago and she’s been kind of at loose ends ever since. She was a big-time, classy porn star in Europe and she’s been trying to get a legit acting career going. With her looks and brains in a town like L.A., she can really work the hell out of a room. Brigitte has more phone numbers and dirt on people in her little black book than Homeland Security.

      “Jimmy,” she says in her sweet Prague accent. “How lovely for you to call. How are you? Have you killed anyone interesting lately?”

      “Does it count if I just happened to be in the room when the bomb went off?”

      “Of course not.”

      “Then no.”

      She