The shorter detective drew closer, shaking his head. Coop could finally see him when he stood in front of the light and blocked it. He was a squat man, roughly the shape and size of a mailbox, and, from the look on his face, with even less of a sense of humor.

“This is bad, Coop. Real bad,” said the detective.

Oh, good. He even knows my name. This night can’t get any better, thought Coop.

A uniformed Abracadabrat spun Coop around and handcuffed him, spun him around again to face the talking mailbox. The look on the cop’s face slipped from utter disgust to amusement as he punched a button on his cell phone.

“Yeah,” said the detective. “He’s right here. Put the asshole on.”

The mailbox held the phone up to Coop’s ear. Coop didn’t hear anything for a few seconds. Then someone started talking.

“Coop? That you? It’s me, Morty.”

Morton Ramsey. He’d known Morty since they were both six. Coop didn’t have any magical skills at all, but Morty was a natural Flasher—he could open any lock, window, or door he encountered. The problem was, Morty was a lousy crook.

And right now, an even lousier friend.

“Hey. I’m sorry, man,” Morty said. “They picked me up last night. It was my third strike. I had to give them someone. No hard feelings?”

The mailbox took the phone from Coop’s ear and hung up. He raised his eyebrows at the thief.

“Anything to say, smart guy?”

“Yeah,” said Coop. “Duck.”

It burst through the trees, hissing and limping, heading straight for them. The detective turned around just in time to get a face full of imp, all teeth and what was left of its claws out, and really, really pissed. One of the uniforms shoved Coop facedown on the hood of his car, where he spent the next several minutes listening to a small army of L.A.’s finest trying to pull the creature off the screaming detective.

At least I get a floor show, he thought. Then, They’re going to blame me for this, too.

Still, as he listened to the mayhem, he couldn’t help but smile.

THREE

Eighteen months later.

OUT OF GUILT AND BASIC CROOK SOLIDARITY, MORTY got Coop the best lawyer he could afford, which basically meant he could dress himself and read the charges, but not much else. Coop didn’t like Ferthington, the lawyer, the moment he laid eyes on him. The guy smiled when they first shook hands. Coop didn’t trust lawyers who smiled too much. “Smiling lawyers are fatalists and you’re the fatality,” an old con had once told him. Looking at Ferthington’s eyes, Coop felt like shark chum.

When he told him about it Morty opened his hands, groping for words. “Maybe it wasn’t fatalism. Maybe it was irony.”