September 10, 2006 (idea)

After the meeting with Avery I went to Moby's, an all-night greasy spoon downtown. The food there ain't the best, but it's cheap and the wait staff don't bother you too much if you linger over a cuppa for a few hours while getting your head together. When I get there, it's getting late, but the place is still half full. Moby's aint the kind of place where some maitre d' dressed like a penguin seats you at a table covered in linen, so I grab an open seat at the counter. It's my lucky night. Dixie's working late. she's my favorite waitress. A tall, blond drink of water with legs that won't quit and a mind to match. We once got hot and heavy in the backseat of her Chevy, but the weird shit I deal with on a daily basis is too much to put a nice girl like her through, so we never got serious. But my palms still get itchy and my mouth waters whenever I see my Dixie. She smiles at me cooly, doesn't bother to bring me a menu and says, "Hiya handsome. What'll it be?"

"Meatloaf special tonight, gorgeous. And coffee. Keep the cups coming."

I plop down the manila folder Avery gave me on the counter. Dixie eyes it cautiously and gives me a curious look, "Looks like you're gainfully employed again. Been a dryspell, hasn't it?"

"So you can see that. I thought a high class job like this would put at least a misdirection spell on confidential materials."

"I can see it and read the name on the label."

I curse softly. You'd think someone who was so intent on discretion would at least learn the basic rules of the game. Dixie watches me cooly while I unscrew the cap on the salt shaker and pour out the salt in a small mound on the folder's cover. I trace a slightly tricky sigil in the pile of salt, pull my leatherman from out of my pocket and jab the meaty part of my thumb. A few drops should do it. Then I say aloud the Name of one of the Seven. The sigil glows faintly orange before fading away. Dixie's eyes widen and she says, "Say, that's a nifty trick. You never told me you could do that before."

"Baby, I got plenty of tricks you've never seen. You just gotta give me another chance."

Dixie smirks, "Maybe when you plan to make an honest woman of me, you can show me the rabbit in your hat. Until then --" Dixie squints her eyes at the folder then whistles, "A girl could use a feint like that to keep her diary private."

"I might show you how for a kiss."

Dixie laughs, "I got other customers, sugar. I'll be back with your meatloaf."

I settle in for some light reading. On the first page there's a picture of the kid. Cute kid. Big brown eyes and a mop of curly hair. He ought to be in commercials or breaking the heart of some junior high girl with scabby knees, not messing with the fabric of the universe and consorting with unnatural entities. Target's history was written in a no-nonsense manner. He was an only child. His parents were solidly middle class and apparently solidly inattentive. Mom was a night nurse at a swanky private hospital. Dad was an accountant for a mid-size firm. The time the family spends together don't amount to much more than a few hurried weekend dinners a month. Little Andrew's been a latchkey kid since about eight or nine, leaving him plenty of time to play with imaginary friends. Only his friends weren't so imaginary. Andy's got three spectres attached to him; although whoever put together his bio wasn't sure if they were familiars, guardians or haunts, or even a mixture of all three. At least one of the spooks had a real nasty dispotion and wasn't a bit shy about manifesting trouble for people with an unfriendly bent towards the kid. And Casper the unfriendly ghost was noted to be especially good at affecting the natural world. But most of this I'd heard straight from Avery's mouth. I was flipping towards the section where the kid's abilities were detailed when Dixie appeared with a cup of hot coffee and my meatloaf, "Hey hot stuff. Got our chef de cuisine to give you a couple of those pearl onions you like, and extra gravy on the mashed potatoes."

"You're the best, doll."

"So. Your new case. Sounds mysterious. Andrew Laveau's a sexy name. Makes me all curious."

"Aw, You know I don't talk about work, not even to you. Nobody hires a blabbermouth."

"Can't blame a girl for trying, Rick. Anyway, even if you don't satisfy my curiosity. Maybe you ought to see Shalene."

"The nail queen? Baby, you know she's a cat and I'm a warm bath."

"But she's the best clairvoyant in this city and I know you well enough to know that this job is something big. Maybe something you shouldn't go in alone on."

"What makes you think this ain't just some ordinary tail job."

"Because you wouldn't be throwing around serious spellcasting in my diner if it was some ordinary tail job. Let's face it, you're sloppy on the mundane work."

I grunted. Dixie ignored it and kept going, "Besides, you know Shalene is nothing but professional when she's working and she won't let a little dislike get in the way of her getting paid."

"Okay, I'll pay her a visit, see if she can see any traps that I'm walking into," I lie to get Dixie off my back.

"Promise?"

"Do you want me to swear a blood oath on the Seven?" I snarl.

"I just worry about you, is all."

"My meatloaf's getting cold," is all I answer. I can see the hurt in her eyes as she backs away. It gets to me. But worrying about a guy like me is a bad habit for a girl like her. I dig into my meatloaf like everything's alright with the world. Another waitress comes to refill my cup of coffee when it gets low. She's got accusing eyes and flabby arms, and slams down my cup a little too violently for my taste. She's built like a water heater. I hope Dixie's just gone somewhere to cool off, 'cause I don't much like the blitzkrieg look in the eye of this battleax whose nametag reads Helen. I meet those beady, bloodshot eyes with a steady gaze and ask for the check. Helen stomps off, possibly to launch her 1,001st ship, and returns a few seconds later with a bill. I notice that she kindly already included a gratuity of what amounts to roughly thirty percent. I shrug, smile, drop a twenty on the counter and say, "Keep the change."

Helen doesn't smile back. As I get up to leave, I crane my neck and stare past Helen into the kitchen to see if I can get a glance of Dixie, but wherever she's gone, she's not in my line of sight. I walk outside. The night air's taken on a chill that wasn't there before, but I've got a fully belly and soon-to-be full pockets, so I whistle a happy tune. When I turn the corner, the tune's cut dead 'cause I notice three figures leaning against my car. This never means anything good. Still, a man's got to have transportation. I decide the direct approach and call out towards my new oversized hood ornaments and say, "Good evening, fellas."

The figures step out into a pool of light under by the street lamp. They're girls. good-looking and dressed in leather outfits that ought to be illegal. There's a blond, a brunette and a redhead. The redhead looks me up and down and the brunette sashays over to my side. The redhead speaks, "You Richard Hutchence?"

"Friends call me Rick."

The brunette's fist connects with my jaw and I hear a clicking sound as my teeth slam shut. It hurts. A lot. For a few seconds I struggle to stay conscious. Then I spit blood into the gutter and say, "Now, that wasn't real friendly."

The brunette socks me in the stomach. Hard. I double over and make funny noises. I can hear the redhead tsking at me like an old schoolmarm, "Tandy doesn't like smartasses, Mr. Hutchence."

The blond puts a burlap sack over my head. It smells unpleasant, like old potatoes and vomit. I struggle a little and hear the redhead say, "You're coming with us."

A voice I hadn't heard before says softly, "Lullaby," and the air gets uncomfortably warm and visions of blue roses bloom before everything goes dark.

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