“Shut the fuck up and help me.”
Two scuffed boots entered my field of vision, followed by a face bearing a shit-eating grin. In two seconds, he had Marvin subdued. While they both watched, I dragged myself off the nasty pavement.
My right shoe lay to the right, so I limped over and grabbed it. As I bent down, I noticed a vomit stain on my elbow and a smudge of something disconcertingly brown on my skirt. “You’re paying for my dry cleaning,” I said.
Morales opened his mouth to respond, but Marvin beat him to it. “I was you, I’d burn that shit.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, we were parked in a lot a few blocks from the Green Faerie. Mr. Funny Guy was pouting in the rear seat. I was back there with him because Morales said he didn’t want his passenger seat to get dirty.
Ass.
“Y’all gonna get me killed picking me up in broad daylight!” The paint spatters that decorated his hands were brilliant against his white-knuckled grip on the tail of his T-shirt. The black shirt also sported fresh red paint stains over the logo for the popular Alchemist rock group, Spirit of Vitriol.
“And selling potions won’t?” Morales said from his spot in the front. “Come on, Marvin.”
“Picasso,” he corrected. “And I already told you, my homeboy PeeWee got a sweet gig as one of them chauffeurs. He was asking for directions.”
“A chauffeur was asking for directions?” Morales asked.
“Didn’t say he was a good chauffeur.”
“Where was he headed?” I asked. “To the stash?”
Marvin feigned an almost convincing frown. “What’s a stash?”
I rolled my eyes. “Who’s putting Gray Wolf on the streets?”
“What’s Gray Wolf?” This time his pupils dilated, as if his eyes were trying to hide secrets.
Morales raised a brow. “You know, Marvin, the jails are full of assholes who wouldn’t talk.”
“Stop calling me Marvin,” he said, setting his jaw at a stubborn angle.
Morales’s cell chimed. He grabbed it and punched a button like he wished it were Marvin’s face. “What? Hey, Shadi.”
While he talked to her, I stared down Picasso. He met my look with a curious one of his own. Finally, he said, “What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?” I snapped.
“Being a traitor.” He didn’t say it in an accusing tone. More curious. Like maybe he was thinking of becoming one himself.
Since that’s exactly what I wanted him to do, I thought for a moment about my answer. “Not gonna lie. It’s not easy.” He nodded as though that’s what he expected me to say. I leaned forward. “But I’ll tell you this: I don’t miss looking over my shoulder and waiting for the fuzz to snatch me up.”
“Cut the shit, Prospero.” He laughed. “Helping you two might get the fuzz off my back, it might not. But it sure as hell will get me ass-fucked by Volos.”
I raised a brow. “So he’s back in the game?”
“You already knew that, right?” He shook his head. “Problem is you don’t got the evidence. And I ain’t got none to give you.”
At that moment, Morales ended his call. “Plates checked out. National Limo owns the car and the registered driver is Jerome Simmons, who goes by the alias PeeWee.”
“I told you,” Marvin said. “PeeWee works for them.”
“That doesn’t mean you weren’t selling him a potion.”
Marvin made a disgusted sound and jerked back toward the seat. “If I sold to the man, where’s the money at?” He raised his hands. “Ask me, y’all are holding a brother against his will. This is some straight-up kidnapping and shit.”
Morales and I exchanged a look. Technically we couldn’t hold him without charging him with something, but there were ways around that. We were grasping at straws now. When we’d patted him down, we’d found only a box of breath mints he’d clearly forgotten about, a Velcro wallet, and a pack of generic cigs in his pockets. His wallet turned up a bus pass, a few bucks, and a condom that looked like he’d stolen it from a Gas ’N Gulp in the ’90s.
I glanced at the glowering Herald. As much as I didn’t want to let this go, we weren’t getting anywhere. I shook my head at Morales.
“All right, Marvin,” he said. “Looks like we gotta throw you back.”
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t suppose you could spare a little extra scratch.”
Morales and I shared a look. “For what, exactly?” I asked.
He sat up straighter. “Seeing how I told you it’s Volos.”
Morales laughed. “I’m pretty sure the judge won’t accept hearsay from a known vandal as proof.”
The kid chewed his lip. “Okay, look. All I know is Volos has some plan cooking. A big one.”
“What kind of plan?”
“I don’t know exactly.” His eyes darted around quickly, like he was looking for ideas. “Maybe he’s trying to take over where Abraxas left off.”
“Good-bye, Marvin.” Morales reached for the door.
“Wait! I helped you, right?”
I snorted. “That’s about as useful as you telling us Volos prefers boxers over briefs.” For the record, he preferred nothing at all. At least he hadn’t a decade earlier.
“Hey! What do you want here? You ain’t gonna get that kind of evidence interviewing low-level assholes like me.”
“So we’ll go up the chain,” Morales said. “Bye now.”
“Shit,” Marvin said, not moving. “Good luck with that. Ain’t no one want to get in the middle of this turf war.”
I tilted my head. “Wait. What turf war?”
The kid froze and swallowed. “Just, you know, everybody trying to stake a claim.”
“Out!” Morales threw open the door and pushed the kid out. Marvin stumbled into the alley.
“Hold on,” I said, grabbing Morales’s arm. “He knows something.”
“Should have shared it when he had the chance.” He threw a couple of crumpled bills out the door after Marvin. “Here’s a little something for your dry-cleaning bill.” He hit the gas before I could grab the door and slam it shut.
I leaned over the back of his seat. “I don’t think we should leave him here.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re in Votary territory. If anyone saw him with us—”