“Huh, some of the rumors are true,” I said. Superfly had mentioned the “kids” had a penchant for rotten meat and worse. “This is the village temple. What do the peasants make of these folks?”

“You got your Civil War reenactors and dorks who wear chainmail for medieval fairs. The Mares relive their high school glory years while speaking in tongues and sacrificing animals and getting bombed out of their gourds. Religious insanity.”

“Greek mythology,” I said. “Hercules stole the Mares of King Diomedes as one of his Twelve Labors. Matter of fact, Alexander the Great claimed his horse, Bucephalus, descended from those mares. Probably a goddamned lie, but it sounded bitchin’.”

Boss Man gave me a blank look. Classical history wasn’t his bag.

“Are members of the society all Valley High grads?” I said.

“Who knows? Not me. Once in a blue moon some tourist asks how to contact them. Gonna be honest. That’s fucking unsettling.”

He and I were in agreement on that count.

“Admittedly, I don’t have much experience in this area. I’ve watched a ton of Italian giallo and devil movies from the seventies. This kind of shit is never good.” I opened a notebook and clicked my pen. “Hit me.”

“Listen, chief, this would only be hearsay. It’s not like they got a public roster.”

“Do your best. I’m easy.”

He named names.

“Tom Mandibole?” I underlined the name and glanced up from the notebook. “The Tom Mandibole?”

“He works for the Redlick Group. He is a Redlick, as a point of order.”

“The company mouthpiece? Snappy dresser, grins maniacally?”

“The very one. Rides around in a midnight-black Bentley. Before he went to work for the RG, he did theater and television. Comedy clubs. I saw a video of his comedy act. Wasn’t funny.” Boss Man lowered his voice in reverence. “He did a ventriloquism routine with a dummy on each knee. Camera pans in tight, and he’s slathered on makeup and prosthetics so he’s a dummy too. Fucking life-size.”

“Back up. He’s a member of this society? Mr. Personality?”

“The main man. Tom’s busy globetrotting for the RG. Redlicks raised him, although he was in boarding school mainly. Gerald Redlick’s dad fostered him as an orphan. No secret there, or anything.” He hesitated. “Tom is pleasant. I mean, yeah, pleasant, but weird.”

“You think?” I said, picturing Mandibole in pancake makeup and a tight letter jacket. Brrr. “This crowd is somewhere to the right of weird.”

“Each to his own. Not mine to judge.”

I estimated this interview to have reached the juncture of diminishing returns.

“You’re going to rat me out to Mandibole, or whomever, thirty seconds after I leave, aren’t you?” It was a rhetorical question. The powers-that-be wouldn’t be powers-that-be if a goon could indefinitely schlep around their territory causing a ruckus and not attract attention.

“Dude, I’m making that call before you make it down the hall.”

“Be that way. While you’re at it, tell whom it may concern I’d like a sit-down.”