Coop had never seen magic talked about so openly in a hotel with civilians before. He’d been raised to always keep his mouth shut about it around strangers, but here it was on TV with the room service menu and the personal massage services.

I guess they figure the rich are more discreet than the hoi polloi when it’s their money on the line, he thought.

Mr. Babylon came back with their drinks. He held up his ginger ale in a toast. Coop and Morty did the same with their drinks.

“To good work and honest companions.”

Cooper wasn’t sure what to think of that. There wasn’t an honest man in the room, as far as he knew. Maybe not in the whole hotel.

“To all that stuff,” he said.

“And more,” said Morty.

Mr. Babylon stared into his ginger ale for a few seconds.

“In that vein, Mr. Cooper, I understand that you’ve just been released from, as they say in old movies, the Big House.”

Coop sipped his bourbon. It was a lot better than the swill at the Grande Old Tyme.

“State prison, actually. Out east in the desert.”

“Then you must be used to this heat wave.”

“Actually, we had very good air-conditioning. Some of the cons were dead and others would melt if it got too hot.”

Mr. Babylon moved his shoulders in a mock shiver.

“My, what a colorful world you two live in. All hocus-pocus and will-o’-the-wisps. I myself possess no conjuring abilities at all. I was once given a magic kit as a young man and set the downstairs parlor on fire.”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of magic to get done any job you need,” said Morty.

“Just so we understand each other,” said Coop, “I’m like you. I can’t conjure either.”

Mr. Babylon held up his glass in Coop’s direction.

“Thank you for admitting that, Mr. Cooper. Of course, I knew it already from having you checked out, but the fact that you came right out and said it makes it easier to trust you.”

“Making you happy is what we’re here for,” said Morty. Coop gave him a take-it-down-a-notch look.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Babylon. He got very close to Coop and spoke quietly. “Now, if you lack any wizardry, tell me exactly why the fuck I should hire you?”

Coop thought the word fuck sounded funny coming out of that pale baby face.

“Because I have something you don’t, Mr. Babylon. Another ability. A rare one,” he said. “I’m immune to magic. Conjury, enchantments, fascinations, mesmerisms, mind reading, and ladies sawed in half. The whole bit.”

Mr. Babylon sipped his drink, made a sour face, and set it on a large mahogany desk. He went around it, opened a drawer, and looked inside.

“Yes. Your report said that, too, though I have trouble believing it. Are you telling me that no curse or spell can harm you?”