After that, as afternoon settles in, Mookie grabs a couple tacos from a taco truck and heads to see a couple kooks from the Skein, one of the lesser and more harmless cults of zealots who venerate the Great Below. The Skein contains a bunch of rich-folk academic-types who think that the power of the Underworld is to show humans the way to enlightenment – something about men and women “walking the Labyrinth in their own hearts” and “confronting Satan in his own house”, which is all well and good except Mookie’s never met Satan or Lucifer or anybody in the Deep Downstairs who would claim the title.

They invite him into their loft space in Chelsea and he asks them about Death’s Head and of course they sit him down and give him some tea that tastes like they filtered water from a potted plant through a jockstrap stuffed with old gym-socks, a tea that has “live and active cultures… oh, and love.” Then they want to give him all the academic foo-faw, all the wisdom of the ages that Caput Mortuum is Latin for “worthless remains” and that in the world of painting and also in alchemy the pigment is iron oxide on hematite, though did Mookie also know that Caput Mortuum sometimes refers to a brown pigment which was made from ground-up mummies and–

None of this matters, so Mookie gives them their gym-sock tea back and moves on.

By the time night falls, he’s talked to a couple amateur spelunkers, a few Blue addicts, a Snakeface named Sirko (they always have S-names, those slithery sneaky pricks), and a homeless squid-faced half-and-half who calls himself “The Bishop of New York City.” He hits the few mystical bazaars and visits a few bars. Asks a lot of questions.

Everybody says the same thing. Death’s Head is a myth.

Eventually, evening settles on the city. Night closes like an iron door.

Mookie has a few more options. None of them he much likes.

He could go see Smiley. Chinatown Snakeface, sells information. Under Organization protection because, well, he pays for it. And he’s good to have around. But that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. No Naga is. Some Snakefaces are assassins in that they’ll kill your body, but Smiley, he’s a character assassin – he’d sell your social security number and your mother’s anal virginity for a half-a-secret.

So, for now: no Smiley.

Which means it’s time to go under. Into the Great Below. The Deep Downstairs.

It’s time to descend.

Mookie runs crews of Mole Men. Or, to be politically correct, Mole People, since a good half of them are women.

Now, in the city of New York, you have Mole People, and then you have Mookie’s Mole People. The city has a whole contingent of homeless lunatics who live under the city – a lot of them live in a ramshackle shantytown under the Freedom Tunnel. They put up little plywood houses and burn barrels and live with the rats and the dogs. Some of them know about the Underworld – what goes on deeper beneath their rag-swaddled feet – but a lot of them don’t. Mookie’s Mole People know. It’s their job to know.