Following behind is a thin slip of a man, skin so pale it might as well be gray, sliding along with all the posture of a broken coat-rack. A black V-neck T-shirt hangs loose over his sickly frame – his match-stick arms are inked with symbols and sigils, ones Mookie’s seen but can’t place, ones that tell him right away what he’s looking at even without blazing.

“Ten to one that guy in the black shirt is a Snakeface,” Mookie says.

“Shit, yeah. Look at the arms.”

The man in the suit and his wormy attaché head toward the Boss’s table in the back of the room, the pair gliding through the crowd, earning stares. They don’t belong.

Mookie feels himself tense up. This could be it. This could be a hit. Maybe one of the gangs is sending someone. Or maybe this is from another city: the Sicilians, the Irish, or any number of Mexican, Aryan, or Dominican gangs. Or maybe it’s someone from the Deep Downstairs – some pissed off half-and-half wants to take over.

Mookie reaches into his pocket and starts to move toward the new guests. His big hand fumbles for his little tin of Cerulean – he’s ready to powder up, rip open his third eye and become aware. But then he sees Haversham stand and cross the room. Haversham and the man in the suit shake hands.

“Mr Candlefly?” Haversham says.

Mookie lets the tin drop back into his pocket.

Haversham greets the man in the suit. This man, Candlefly, speaks with a European accent. A Spanish roll to it. The voice warm, dark, like a fresh cup of black coffee. “Good day, Mr Haversham. Nice to finally meet in person.” Candlefly gestures toward the Snakeface: “This is my associate, Mr Sorago.”

The Snakeface – Sorago – bows his already bent head.

And with that, Haversham ushers them toward the Boss.

Werth pops up again by Mookie’s side. He’s eating a roll. “Why would a Snakeface be hanging out with the Boss?”

Mookie grunts: a wordless answer of, not sure.

Around a mouthful of bread, Werth says, “Strange. The Boss doesn’t usually deal with… that type.”

“Times are changing.”

“Hope they don’t change out from under us.”

Mookie shrugs. “I gotta go.”

4

Cerulean. The bright blue mineral vein shot through the prehistoric schist of the Great Below. Equal parts pigment and drug. It goes by many names: Peacock Powder, Truth Talc, the Straight Dope, Blue Jay (or just, “Jay”), Bluebird or Blue Butterfly (or simply “BB”), Blue Mascara, Cobalt, Azure. But many just call it – and the effects it engenders – the Blue Blazes. Users smudge some of the blue powder on the temples to bring on effects that include: preternatural strength, preternatural toughness, as well as a wiping away of the illusions that keep mortal men from seeing the truth of the denizens of the Underworld. In first-time users the Blue Blazes create an adrenalin rush and an eerie, powerful focus – a high that peaks with the initial use and is never again matched. Blazeheads are said in this way to “chase the blue” or “hunt the peacock”. Many never know that the visions they sometimes see are true – they believe them to be by-products of the drug, hallucinations that accompany the feelings of invulnerability and clarity. As a drug it’s quite rare and fetches a high price among those who know of its existence. The Organization controls Cerulean. Or, at least, they think they do.