Chu lives in the hills above Ventura Boulevard among the twisting side streets where the houses are hidden by overgrown ivy and shade trees that have been there since the thirties.

We ditched the truck. It was a little conspicuous, what with the dented, blood-covered hood and the missing passenger door. The thought of stealing another car made Letitia a little sick, so I took that hit. A snap of the fingers, a little bit of magic, and we were on the road in a gray Honda Accord in no time flat.

She’s not sure what to do with me. I’m giving off mixed signals by keeping the gun in my hand with a round in the chamber, but the safety on. I might shoot her. I might not. Who can tell? Certainly not me. I haven’t made up my mind, yet.

She pulls onto a tiny side street off of Hayvenhurst and onto a steep driveway. At the top it widens into a circular patch outside a two-story mansion with a three-car garage. One car, a nice, but not too nice, Volkswagen SUV sits to one side. Letitia pulls up the Honda behind it and parks.

“Real man of the people, this Mister Chu. So down to Earth and humble. How many bedrooms does this place have? Five? Six?” Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against money. I’m a fan of money. I steal it whenever I get a chance.

But I’m not a fan of the rich. I don’t know if it’s irony, chutzpah, or my own Holier-Than-Thou-Angry-Young-Man shtick that’s let me ignore the fact that I’m just as much the privileged, moneyed elite as this guy, but since I found out I’ve inherited more money than I can count, it’s harder to lie to myself.

Money, like magic, is power. And like any power, you can do something cool with it, or you can wave it in everybody’s face like a drunken frat boy swinging his cock around. I don’t know this Councilman Chu, but I already don’t like him.

“He’s one of us,” she says, as though it explains everything. Sadly, it pretty much does. With so many mages it’s all about power, presentation, influence. Anyone worth a damn wouldn’t be living in a series of motels across the city like I do. They’d buy property, cement their positions, grow their network.

There’s that annoying cognitive dissonance again.

“Who owns the krautwagon?” I nod toward the VW. It’s clearly not Chu’s. Too shabby, no flash and dazzle. This is a car that actually gets used, probably for a commute.

“Peter Sloane. He’s an Assistant District Attorney.”

“What? No circuit court judges? Senators? The President? And I thought this was a professional circus.” We get to the door and she rings the doorbell. “You don’t need the gun,” she says.