"All right, I'm sitting. What next?"

Drexler pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and removed a pair of sugar cubes and a strange slotted spoon. From another pocket he produced a silver flask.

This was getting interesting.

"Some hard stuff, ay?"

Drexler's lips twisted. "You have no idea."

He opened the water bottle and set it aside. Then he removed the cap from the flask and poured maybe three inches of clear green fluid into the globular base of each gla.s.s. He placed a sugar cube in the slotted spoon and held it over one of the gla.s.ses as he poured a thin stream of water over the cube. Hank watched fascinated as the green liquid turned a cloudy pale yellow.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

"A hundred years ago we would have been at the tail end of the absinthe era in France."

"Absinthe. I've heard of that. Makes you crazy."

"Rubbish. Propaganda put forth by the winemakers who were afraid of the compet.i.tion. In nineteen hundred the French consumed twenty-one million liters of absinthe. It was so popular that five o'clock became known as 'l'heure verte' 'l'heure verte'-the green hour."

He added another sugar cube to his spoon and moved it to the second gla.s.s, with the same effect.

"My father taught me the technique. He found absinthe most entertaining and was quite a connoisseur. Quite a man, actually."

"Was he in the Septimus Order too?"

He nodded. "My family has an unbroken string of membership back as far as anyone can remember."

"Was he an 'Actuator' too?"

Another nod. "He accomplished many great things for the Order. One might even say he helped change the course of history. Before he died he pa.s.sed his vast store of arcana to me. He also pa.s.sed me his cane and his private stock of absinthe. This is a custom blend from that collection."

Hank snorted and shook his head. "h.e.l.l, I barely knew my daddy. He only came by now and then. But I'm pretty d.a.m.n sure he didn't drink anything like that."

Drexler had fixed up two gla.s.ses. He didn't really expect Hank to drink that stuff, did he? Obviously he did. He lifted one and held it out.

"Bitte."

Bitter? Was he warning him about the taste?

He took the gla.s.s, saying, "It's not going to make me go crazy now, is it?"

He said it jokingly, but he was concerned. He'd stayed pretty straight and clean since this Kicker Evolution got rolling. Used to do weed regularly and a little crank now and then, an Oxy or two when he could get them, but he'd cleaned up once Kick Kick found a big-time publisher that wanted to put him out in front of the public. He was the face of the Kicker Evolution now. He had a good deal going, the best deal imaginable, and he wasn't going to let anything screw it up by landing him in jail. found a big-time publisher that wanted to put him out in front of the public. He was the face of the Kicker Evolution now. He had a good deal going, the best deal imaginable, and he wasn't going to let anything screw it up by landing him in jail.

He was on a mission to change the world, to get everyone dissimilated, make everyone a Kicker.

Kickerworld.

Then what?

He had no idea. And that worried him at times.

"I've been drinking it since I was fifteen," Drexler said. "Do I seem crazy to you?"

"No."

Might have made him into one weird-a.s.s dude, but Hank sensed he was not the least bit crazy.

"Then here."

Hank took the gla.s.s and checked out the cloudy yellow liquid. He swirled it but it didn't stick to the sides. He sniffed it. Not much of a smell.

"To the end of history," Drexler said, raising his gla.s.s. He clinked it against Hank's, then sipped. He tilted his head back and swallowed. "Ahhh. Wonderful."

Hank didn't drink-not just yet.

" 'End of history'? What's that supposed to mean?"

"A stolen phrase. I use it in my own sense. We are nearing the point when, as the Secret History of the World is revealed, we will see the end of history as you knew it-or thought you knew it. Then the reality to which the world has been blind through the millennia will be made manifest."

Hank stared at the liquid. One sip and already Drexler was talking crazy. How powerful was this stuff?

He took a sip and the burst of bitterness rocked his tongue. He looked for someplace to spit, didn't find one, so he swallowed. The back of his tongue tasted like sweet dirt. He'd never tasted sweet dirt, but if such a thing existed, that was how it would taste.

"That's like licorice mixed with-I don't know."

"That's the wormwood. This blend has extra. Come. Drink up. I wish to show you something."

Hank set the gla.s.s back on the table. "I'll pa.s.s."

"No-no. You must drink it. The wormwood will open your eyes to things that you cannot otherwise see."

"What is it-like LSD?"

"Not at all, not at all. It has a unique property I discovered quite by accident." He pointed toward the Orsa. "And it has something to do with our friend over there."

"Darryl?"

"No. The Orsa itself. You will see it as you have never seen it before, as only a privileged few have seen it. It is a ... revelation, one I promise you will cherish because it concerns the future of you and your Kickers, and even your father's Plan."

Hank stiffened with surprise. "What do you know about that?"

"Everything."

"Can't you just tell me?"

He shook his head. "No. You must see. Drink up and you will see-literally." He took another sip from his gla.s.s. "Come, come."

Hank looked at the gla.s.s, then at the Orsa. Nothing else was making much sense right now. Might as well go with this and see what Drexler was talking about.

But he'd be d.a.m.ned if he was going to sip it.

He grabbed the gla.s.s and tossed down the contents in one bitter, convulsive swallow.

"Oh, my," Drexler said. "This is going to be quite entertaining."

18.

"How do you think they found him?" Weezy said as they tooled south on the turnpike.

Jack considered that as he drove.

Eddie wanted Weezy to stay with him and Jack thought it was a good idea. Weezy had argued against it, saying she didn't want to be out of the city. What if she needed to consult with Veilleur about something in the Compendium? Compendium? Jack thought she'd be safer in Jersey, and she could hop a train in to Penn Station any time she wanted to. She'd finally given in. Jack thought she'd be safer in Jersey, and she could hop a train in to Penn Station any time she wanted to. She'd finally given in.

So he'd shot the Verrazano, crossed Staten Island, then taken the Goethals Bridge to the New Jersey Turnpike. The plan was to meet Eddie at the service area near exit twelve.

"They could have known where he lived all along, or could have followed him home from the hospital yesterday."

Jack had thought he'd been a little too c.o.c.ky about no one being able to tail him.

"Aren't you worried? Isn't it risky using your own car like this? I mean, what if someone took down your license plate numbers. They could trace you through the DMV."

Jack smiled. "I hope they try. Good luck if they do."

"Oh, I see," she said, nodding. "Fake tags."

"Well, yes and no. Ever hear of Vincent Donato?"

"Vinny Donuts? Sure. Who hasn't?"

"This is his car."

Her eyes widened. "You know Vinny Donuts? Well enough to borrow his car? Get out!"

"Okay, not his car itself, but exactly like it, right down to the plates and registration."

"Now why on Earth-?" She stopped and grinned. "Oh, I get it. Anyone who tries to track you down through the car-"

"-will wind up dealing with a notoriously ill-tempered mobster."

She clapped her hands. "I love it. It's so sneakily brilliant." She turned toward him and stared. "Just what are you, Jack? What do you do that makes it necessary to drive around in a clone of a Mafiosomobile?"

He shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. If it were anyone else, he'd give her the brush-off. But this was Weezy.

Besides, she'd seen him kill three men this morning. She already knew plenty.

"Remember my telling you about those stunts I used to pull as a kid-you know, Toliver's locker and Canelli's lawn? Well, I'm still at it, only I get paid for it."

"I'm not following."

"I hire out to fix things."

"Things? What sort of things?"

"Situations."

"And how do you fix them?"

"Depends. I do custom work."

"Please don't tell me you're a hit man."

He knew she was thinking about the recent gunplay. He forced a laugh.

"No. I've lost count of the number of times people have tried to hire me to kill someone, but no, I don't do that."

"But you have ..." She seemed afraid of the word. "I've seen you."

"I do what's necessary, Weez-to protect myself, people I care about, or a customer."

"But you never hesitated, even for a second, and you didn't look the least bit shaken or upset afterward-not the slightest sign of remorse or regret."

"I've had regrets." He thought of Hideo back in May. "But those guys? How do I feel bad about stopping someone from killing us? No regret there." He smiled. "Is this where I start to sing 'My Way'?"

She didn't smile back. "I just can't help wonder what happened to the sweet boy from Johnson, New Jersey. The kid we all called Jackie when we were little."

He stared through the windshield.

"s.h.i.t happened, Weez. A whole load of s.h.i.t happened."

"But-"

"Let's find a topic other than me. Like, how about them Mets? Some slump, huh?"

Weezy said nothing for a while and Jack concentrated on the road. He had the cruise control set at sixty-five and kept to one of the middle lanes. His New Jersey driver's license was the best money could buy, and was supposed to be able to pa.s.s muster against a DMV computer, but he'd rather not put it to the test. So he drove carefully, avoiding any moves that might draw attention.

Lack of an official ident.i.ty made for safe driving. Everyone should try it.

Finally Weezy heaved a sigh and said, "Okay. New topic: I have a big favor to ask."

"Ask."

"Will you go to Los Angeles for me?"