Nelson shot him a look. “This isn’t Lucifer. It’s Carl. He works in, what is it? Ghost Enemas and Party Favors?”

Carl straightened his shoulders. “Phantasm Reconnaissance and Logistics. But I don’t work anywhere until I—and the other ghosts, apparitions, wraiths, and poltergeists in the department—get a fair hearing about working conditions.”

Nelson uncorked his crucifix and took a drink. The priest looked at Bayliss, who shrugged.

“You want to talk about working conditions?” said Nelson. “Haunting cushy foreign embassies isn’t exactly work. Hell, half of you assholes should be moaning around in graveyards and abandoned shotgun shacks. At least you get to be somewhere civilized. Look where the rest of us are stuck.” Nelson held his hands up to the subterranean chapel. “It looks like the seventies took a dump in Castle Grayskull.”

Carl looked around. “Still. We feel we’re being taken for granted.”

Nelson leaned against the dais. He wondered when Woolrich would wake the fuck up and fire all these ethereal pantywaists. “Welcome to the civil service, pal. We’re a bunch of weirdos and eggheads run by Washington bureaucrats, Carl. We’re all taken for granted. You’ve got it good. You’re already dead. Us meat monkeys? We’re on government salaries and they aren’t even matching our 401(k)’s anymore. When we retire, most of us are going to end up living in our cars. The rest are going to eat their guns and take your spook jobs because they won’t be whiners. Then you can all go back to your cobwebby attics with the squirrel corpses. Is that what you want, Carl? You want to drift around in some rotting basement or possess underclassmen at frat parties for pocket change?”

“No,” said Carl sullenly.

“Of course not. Now you and the rest of your little rodeo clowns unpossess management, go back where you’re supposed to be and forget about this strike crap. Remember how Reagan fired all the air traffic controllers when they went on strike? What do you think they’ll do to a bunch of shitknuckle dead troublemakers? First, they’ll get some real exorcists . . .”

“Hey!” said the priest.

“Then they’re going to round you up and you can all work the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland for the next thousand years. That sound like fun? Screaming kids stinking of cotton candy and puke. Their parents praying for a ten-point-oh earthquake to end their misery. Parades every night. Double shifts on holidays. Try that ‘we’re so overworked’ shit on the mouse. You’ll be exorcised and in Hell faster than you can shake that skinny spook ass at the Sultan of Brunei.”

“Enough!” said Carl. “Fine. You made your point. I’ll talk to the others. You’ll have the rest of your department back by tonight.”