Eventually, the Church had sent some of its more troublesome priests and lay hangers-on to join Freydis in the godless land of early Los Angeles. They were in charge of studying and suppressing what was known as Peculiar Science, a catchall phrase referring to both magic and any strange supertechnology used for a variety of nefarious purposes such as preserving Hitler’s talking head (which resided in the basement of the Department of Peculiar Science building, along with other treasures). Other fun artifacts included a parchment written by an alchemist named Wexford in 1377 that was the actual formula for turning lead into gold. Wexford had produced so much gold so quickly that he almost bankrupted the European economy. The Inquisition leaked a false version of the formula and alchemists around the world have been trying to re-create the original ever since. This was how Fresca was invented.

The priest went on. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost . . .”

“Seriously. We got to the moon quicker than this,” Nelson said.

“Will you be quiet?” barked the priest.

Nelson frowned at him and took another drink from his crucifix. “I’m a taxpayer, so don’t try to pad your hours around here, Padre.” He pocketed the crucifix and went to where Woolrich, his and Bayliss’s supervisor, lay on a dais leaking a green puddinglike substance from his mouth. It wasn’t St. Patrick’s Day, so Nelson was reasonably sure Woolrich hadn’t gone on a green beer bender.

The priest stepped between Nelson and Woolrich. “Don’t get near him. He’s in a delicate state,” he said.

Nelson nodded. “I understand entirely,” he said. And brought his fist down on Woolrich’s chest. “Hey, fucknut!” he yelled. “Who’s in there?”

A quivering, growling voice issued from Woolrich’s green mouth. “My name is Legion. For we are many.”

“This isn’t the Vatican,” Nelson said, “so you can put the lid back on the fruit cocktail. Who are you really?”

“Azmodeus. Mephistopheles. Dagon . . .”

“Drop the Batman whisper, Carl,” said Nelson. “I recognize your voice.”

“No!” rasped a voice from Woolrich’s mouth. “We are Behemoth. We are Baal . . .”

Nelson punched Woolrich in the balls.

“Ow!” the voice shouted.

“Come out of there, Carl, you sack of ectoplasmic dog shit. The grown-ups have work to do.”

A moment later, the ghost of a prim young man dressed in a dark suit and starched collar appeared next to the dais. Carl’s arms were crossed in front of him and he was frowning deeply. He looked like a Victorian banker trying to expel a fiddler crab from his intestinal tract without anyone noticing.

“Work is all we ever do,” said Carl. “Our entire department is on strike until our demands are met.”

“I don’t think you should be chatting away so lightly with an unclean spirit,” said the priest.