CREST’S RIDE WAS EXPENSIVE, METALLIC GRAY, AND bullet shaped. He held the door open for me and I arranged myself on the leather passenger seat. He got in and we took off. The inside of the car was spotless. No used tissues wadded and stuffed into the cup holder. No old bills or worn receipts littering the floor. No grime on the panels. It looked immaculate, almost sterile.

“Tell me, do you own a single pair of worn jeans?” I asked. “Just one pair so old that it has permanent dirt in it?”

“No,” he said. “Does it make me a bad person?”

“No,” I said. “You do realize that most of my jeans have dirt embedded in them?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes laughing. “But then I’m not interested in your jeans, only what’s in them.”

Not tonight. “Okay, just as long as we’re clear.”

The city scrolled by us, its streets channeling an occasional gasoline-burning car feeding on the death throes of technology. I counted as many horsemen as I did cars. Fifteen years ago the cars had dominated the streets.

“So who was that man?” Crest said.

“That was the Beast Lord.”

Crest glanced at me. “The Beast Lord?”

“Yes. The top dog.” Or cat.

“And that woman was one of his lovers?”

“Probably.”

A snow-white Buick cut us off, squeezing into the lane and screeching to a halt before the traffic light. Crest rolled his eyes. The traffic light flickered, flaring with blinding intensity and dying to a weak glow.

“Residual magic?” Crest wondered.

“Or faulty wiring.” The good doctor was picking up the magic jargon. I wondered where he’d learned about the residual magic effects.

“It makes sense.” Crest parked next to a large building. “We’re here.”

A valet opened my door. I stepped out onto the pavement. Crest’s car was in distinguished company. All around us Volvos, Cadillacs, and Lincolns spewed well-dressed people onto the sidewalk: women, smiling so wide, their lips threatened to snap and men, inflated with their own importance. The couples proceeded to make their way up to the tall building before us.

The valet got into the car and drove off, leaving us standing in full view. People looked at me. They looked at Crest, too.

“Do you remember the Fox Theater?” Crest said, offering me his elbow. Opening doors was one thing. Hanging on his elbow was another. I ignored it, walking to the door with my hands loosely at my sides.

“Yes. It was demolished.”

“They took the stones from it and built this place. Great, isn’t it?”

“So instead of building a new, fresh, sterile building, they dragged all of the agony, heartbreak, and suffering that permeated the stones of the old place into the new one. Brilliant.”

He gave me an incredulous look. “What are you talking about?”