The phone rings.

– He looks for some people who can stabilize a situation and bring a little balance before things can get knocked off kilter. He knows. His riders relied on the Candy Man. So he knows what this could mean.

The phone rings.

– And, yeah, maybe it’s all as simple and screwed up as a Van Helsing. Maybe we can get him, or her, before a little panic takes place. And then, well, market forces will take over and someone will fill Solomon’s void and it’ll all be cool.

The phone rings.

– But maybe, and I’m not talking from any secret well of knowledge here, I’m just saying, maybe.

The phone rings.

– Maybe it’s someone fucking with us.

The phone rings again and Terry grabs it from its cradle on the wall.

– Hello? Hey. Hello. Yeah. How ’bout that? Been a while. OK, OK, the usual. Yeah? Wow. That was fast. Sure. Hey, we all got our ways. Who? No. Not them. Sure the Freaks did. No surprise, but not them. Uh-huh. I know. Old times, kind of. Well, sure, you know, that was different. Yeah. Uh-huh. Hang on.

He holds the phone out to me.

– It’s for you.

I take the phone and put it to my ear.

– Yeah.

– Pitt, it’s Predo. I understand there is a Van Helsing in your midst. We will need to address this. Come see me.

Fucker.

Little fucking fucker Predo is, he keeps me waiting in the lobby with nothing but back issues of The New Yorker and Town amp; Country to read.

I fiddle a Lucky out of the pack and stick it in my mouth.

– Uh-uh.

I look at the giant behind the reception desk.

– Uh-uh what?

He waves his pen back and forth.

– Not in here.

I take out my Zippo.

– What’s with everybody? It’s smoke. It doesn’t hurt us. It’s like the best part about the Vyrus. Look, Ma, no cancer.