"The bartender," Graedeker said. "Those tattoos-Good G.o.d, eh? Never seen the like."

"Here's my theory," Doyle said. "He's a tattoo artist himself, right? Comes home to his old lady after a weekend of hard partyin' with the biker gang he runs with, demands s.e.x, throws up on her halfway through and pa.s.ses out. Well, she's had enough. So she gets his electric needle and some ink, and starts to express her opinion of him on his face-but she loses her nerve when she realizes what he'll do to her when he wakes up. Right about then their five-year-old daughter comes in and saysshewants to draw on Daddy, too. His old lady grins, hands over the electric needle and tells her kid to go to it."

The bar had a waitress, a young woman who might have been attractive; it was hard to tell under the multiple piercings and heavy makeup. She came over to the table and Graedeker ordered a beer from her. She managed the whole transaction, payment to delivery, without saying a word.

"What about her?" Graedeker asked.

"Deaf mute with a chrome fetish. Goes to thrash concerts just to feel all that metal vibratin' in her head."

Graedeker chuckled. "Ah, Doyle. I like to watch people, but I could never come up with stories like those."

"Well, we all have our talents, right? Yours seem a touch more profitable than mine."

"I take it your finances are somewhat unstable?"

"My finances are dead stable. Emphasis on the dead."

"I see. Well, maybe I could help you out."

"I was hopin' you'd say that."

Graedeker took a long swig of beer. "You have something to put up as collateral?"

"As a matter of fact, I do." Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out an amulet on a silver chain. The amulet was shaped like an eye, with a deep purple gem for the iris. He slid it across the table to Graedeker.

"Hmmm," Graedeker said, picking up the amuletand studying it. "The Gaze of Tuskara. Where'd you come by this?"

"From my boss. He used it to send a demon back to its own dimension, so I figure it has to be pretty valuable."

"Uh-huh. Well, let's say I'm interested. What sort of loan do you want?"

"It's not exactly a loan I'm interested in. Actually, what I need is some information."

Graedeker's eyes narrowed. He took another sip of beer before he answered. "I guarantee my customers' privacy."

"It's not your customers I'm interested in-more like your compet.i.tion."

"And who would that be?"

"The Serpentene."

Graedeker frowned. He hefted the amulet in his hand, then glanced around. "I think perhaps we should talk in a more private place. My shop's right around the corner."

"Fine by me."

Graedeker's rig was parked about a block away, in a vacant lot full of weeds and rusting junk. The semitrailer was painted a flat white, the Freightliner rig in front of it a dark brown. It was as unremarkable as Graedeker himself.

Graedeker walked around the back and rapped on the rear door. Bolts slid aside and the door swung open.

The demon on the other side was a little more impressive.

He was big, six and a half feet or so, with scaly white skin like an albino alligator. His skull was too thick and wide at the top; it looked like his brains were about to bulge out of his head. He had huge black eyes, and a thick-lipped mouth full of sharp, crooked teeth. He wore tattered jeans, army boots and a black muscle shirt. Behind him was a black velvet curtain that concealed the rest of the interior.

"This is Leo," Graedeker said. Leo put out a ma.s.sive, moon-white hand and helped Graedeker into the trailer. Doyle scrambled up after him before Leo offered to help him, too. "Leo's my driver. He also keeps an eye on the shop when I'm not around."

Leo nodded. Doyle nodded back. Leo crossed his arms and did his impression of a statue. Doyle resisted the urge to applaud.

Graedeker drew aside the velvet curtain and motioned Doyle in. "Welcome," he said, "to the Devil's Tulips."

You'd never know you were in the back of an eighteen-wheel truck,Doyle thought. It looked exactly like a little curio shop: a row of gla.s.s-paneled display cases formed a counter on one side, while tables and stands were scattered throughout the rest of the floor s.p.a.ce, covered with various types of merchandise: African masks, shrunken heads,nonshrunken heads, jewelry, weapons, carvings, books, jars with vaguely obscene things floating in them.

The walls were paneled in wood, and light came from a large window set into one wall. Doyle hadn't noticed the window when approaching the truck, and wondered how he could have missed it.

Then he realized what lay on the other side.

It was a scene straight out of d.i.c.kens. Snow fell softly while people in Victorian garb strolled past, down what was obviously a street in London. Some of them peered through the window curiously, shading their eyes as if the interior were too dim to make out.

"Neat trick," Doyle said. "How d'you manage it?"

Graedeker was busying himself behind the counter. "Oh, it's a scrying gla.s.s I picked up from an Ulgar demon. It relays scenes from wherever the gla.s.s happened to be a hundred years ago. Not much practical value, but pretty all the same."

Doyle picked up a voodoo doll and studied it. "Well, you've got somethin' for everybody, don't you?"

"My stock depends on what's available. The Serpentene, though . . .they'vegot something for everyone."

"Then youdoknow about them."

"Oh, yes. And I'll even tell you what I know-butsince this isn't the kind of transaction I usually make, the trade will have to be permanent. I get to keep the Gaze of Tuskara."

"'Uh-okay. It's a deal."And hopefully Angel will think it's a fair swap.

Graedeker opened a drawer behind the counter and dropped the amulet inside. He closed the drawer again, locked it, and looked at Doyle. He smiled.

"The Serpentene. Where to begin . . . well, what do you know about them so far?"

"Not much. They're originally from Ireland, they're descended from snakes, and they seem to be as good at spendin' money as they are at makin' it. They keep to themselves, and sunshine puts 'em to sleep. That's about it." He thought for a second. "And they have excellent taste in Scotch."

"Congratulations. That's more than some people ever find out, even after dealing with them for years."

Graedeker rummaged around in a cabinet and brought out a bottle and a shot gla.s.s. "Speaking of Scotch-care to try a little of this?"

Doyle took the bottle and examined it. "Glen Culkhain? Don't think I've heard of it." The bottle was dusty, made of clear gla.s.s with a label that showed a dragon wrapped around an enormous pair of armored legs, with a tiny village in flames between the feet.

"I'd be amazed if you had. It's from a parallel dimension." Graedeker took the bottle back, uncorked it and poured a few drops into the gla.s.s. "Distilled by giants, as a matter of fact."

Doyle tasted it carefully. "Very nice," he said.

"It should be. It's over a thousand years old."

Doyle eyed his gla.s.s in disbelief. "You treat all your customers this way? Because if you do, I'm sure I can find somethin' else to hock."

Graedeker smiled and shook his head. "Just making a point. I obtained this bottle from someone who had dealings with the Serpentene; I think telling youhisstory is perhaps the best way to tell you about them."

"I'm all ears. And tastebuds."

"His name was Rudolpho Faranetti, known to his friends as Icepick Rudy. Rudy was a member of a New York crime family called the Corzatos, and he performed certain unpleasant but necessary jobs for them. This made him both an a.s.set and a liability to the Corzatos, because while Rudy was very good at disposing of problems, he also knew where all those problems were buried, and who ordered them buried in the first place. So even though the Corzatos made sure he was well-rewarded, Rudy was aware that at the slightest sign of betrayal he would disappear, and someone else would take over his job.

"Needless to say, this put Rudy under a lot of pressure. As a lot of people under pressure do, he found a hobby to distract himself. Some men turn to women, some to gambling, some to food; Rudy turned to Scotch.

"Not just any Scotch, though. Rudy become a connoisseur of the finest single malts illicit money could buy. Not only did the drink lessen the tension of his existence, but searching for and sampling the very best bottlings kept him occupied.

"One day he heard an apocryphal story concerning a Scotch called Glen Culkhain. It was said to be made by a race of giants, distilled from tears of happiness and barley grown on the graves of virgins. It was said to be the rarest whiskey in existence, as well as the most expensive-and it produced a most unusual effect in those who drank it. When Rudy heard about this effect, he put the word out: he was looking for such a whiskey, he was willing to pay what it was worth, and he would personally torture to death anyone stupid enough to try to pa.s.s off a fake.

"Eventually, he was contacted by one of the Serpentene. They had such a bottle, and they were willing to sell. Would Mr. Faranetti care to sample the product to ensure its authenticity?

"Rudy said he would be delighted.

"They met in a hotel room, as is often the case inthese sorts of deals. Rudy was shown the bottle, and allowed to pour his own shot. Before he sampled it, he told the Serpentene representative-a beautiful young woman-that he had heard a story about the whiskey, that it produced a certain intriguing effect.

He asked if the story about this effect were true, and the young woman told him that it was.

"Rudy nodded, and took a sip.

"Rudy had done a lot of bad things in his time. For the most part, those things hadn't bothered him; they were simply how he earned his living. But there was this one job that had been harder than the rest. A lot harder.

"Usually, Rudy didn't know the people he . . . took care of. Occasionally he was asked to extend this service to a colleague, but these instances were rare. In this one particular case, though, he was asked to take care of someone he had known for over twenty years, someone whom he'd grown up with and in fact was very close to. Though it caused him a great deal of sorrow, he chose to accept the job rather than have it performed by a stranger.

"He had carried a heavy burden of guilt and remorse ever since that day . . . until he took that first drink of Glen Culkhain."

Doyle stopped with his own lips an inch from his gla.s.s. He met Graedeker's eyes over the rim. "And then what?"

"The guilt vanished. That's what this whiskey does. If you take a swallow while holding in your mind that one image from your past that causes you the most regret, it will cease to bother you. It will grant you peace. It willforgiveyou."

"Really? Hang on a second." Doyle's brow furrowed in thought, then he brightened. "Ah." He tossed back the rest of his gla.s.s, closed his eyes, and sighed.

"Ah, Bridget," he said softly. "Whenever I see a parole officer, I still think of you . . ."

Doyle set his gla.s.s down on the counter. "Bottled absolution. How long does it last?"

"As long as whiskey ever does."

"And what did Rudy pay for this miracle?"

"That I can't tell you, because I don't know. I can, however, tell you what I paid for it: three-quarters of a million dollars."

"And why did Rudy sell it to you?"

"He ran into trouble of a more pragmatic nature, and needed to get out of the country fast. I understand he's no longer employed by the Corzato family."

Graedeker drained his own gla.s.s, and returned the bottle to the cabinet. He picked up a jeweler's loupe and fitted it to his eye, then began to examine a ring lying in a small tray. Doyle couldn't help but notice the ring was still around a finger.

"So," Doyle said, "the Serpentene can get hold of some pretty esoteric merchandise. Considerin' their tastes, that's hardly surprisin'."

"It's not just that they can get such merchandise-it's the people they sell it to. Politicians, celebrities, CEOs. They move in some very powerful circles."

"Yeah? They make any powerful enemies?"

"As a matter of fact, I understand there was some unpleasantness recently over a real estate deal. Seems the Serpentene refused a very lucrative offer for some land."

"Oh? I don't suppose you'd happen t'know who made the offer?"

"Of course. It was a law firm-Wolfram and Hart."

"Look," Cordelia said, "I don't care what you do to me. I won't betray the people I work for."

The handsome blond man with the scar on his face moved closer, out of the shadows and into the light.

"You don't know who you're dealing with."

Cordelia glared at him. "I know plenty. Who do you think I am, some dumb s.e.xetary? I mean, secretary-"

"Cut!"

"Sorry!" Cordelia said. "I'll get it this time, I promise!"

"That's fine, Ms. Chase," the director said. "We'll just splice together a few of your other takes. We have all we need."

"Okay, then. Thanks!" Cordelia said.

"Clear the set, please," a production a.s.sistant said. "We've got another audition to do."

"Oh, right," Cordelia said. She hurried over to where Maureen was sitting at the edge of the set.

"You did great," Maureen told her.

"You really think so?" Cordelia asked.

The Serpentene woman rose from her chair and gave Cordelia a big hug, saying, "Of course! Come on-I'll buy you lunch."

They took Maureen's car to Spago, where they got a booth in the corner. Maureen ordered a double espresso through a yawn.

"Hey, your tongue looks normal," Cordelia said.

"That's because I have two of them," Maureen said. "The forked one is underneath. It doesn't show unless I want it to."

"Huh. So, like, does it give you any special demon abilities?"

"Well, it is sensitive to changes in temperature. Some snakes have what is called a pit organ, which does the same thing. It comes in useful, sometimes; I can tell when my espresso is too hot to drink without actually tasting it, or adjust a hot tub to the perfect temperature without getting in."