CHAPTER 8
BLACK MASS PİZZA

The police were barely out the door when Savannah appeared from her room and dropped down beside me on the sofa.

“Black Mass,” she said. “I can’t believe they still believe in that stuff. Humans are so stupid.”

“You shouldn’t say that,” I said, without much conviction.

“It’s true. About the Satanism stuff at least. They get all weird about it. You try to tell them the truth, that Satan’s just one of tons of demons and that he doesn’t give a crap about us, and they still figure you can conjure him up and he’ll give you anything you want. As if.” She sunk back into the sofa cushions. “My mom had this friend, a necromancer, who used to make really good money selling Black Masses.”

“Selling Black Masses?”

“You know, setting them up for people. He ran this business, ‘Satanic Rites by Jorge.’ His real name’s Bill, but he figured he could charge more with ‘Jorge.’ He’d supply all this fake stuff, set it up, give them scripts, the whole thing. If he did a full Black Mass, which cost a lot, he’d buy us pizza. Black Mass pizza, we called it. We tried eating it upside-down, but the toppings fell off, so we settled for eating it backward.” She sat up. “There’s still pizza left from last night, isn’t there? That’s what I’ll have for breakfast. Black Mass pizza. You want some?”

I shook my head.

Savannah trotted off to the kitchen, still chattering. I collapsed back into the sofa.

Two hours later, I was still on the couch, having ignored eight phone calls and three answering machine messages, all from reporters dreaming of a “Satanism in a Small Town” scoop. Like the police, these people knew nothing about true Satanism—not to say that I agree with that belief system, either, but at least it has nothing to do with mutilated cats and bloody pentagrams.

The Satanic cult scares that crop up periodically are just a new form of witch hunts. People are always looking to explain evil, to find a rationale that places the blame outside the realm of human nature. The scapegoats change with remarkable ease. Heretics, witches, demonic possession, the Illuminati, they’ve all been targeted as hidden sources of evil in the world.

Since the sixties, Satanic cults have been the favored group. The damn tabloids publish so much crap on the subject that it’s a self-perpetuating cycle—they print one story, some psycho reads it and copies the methods described, so they print his story and so on. In 1996, the government spent $750,000 to reassure the American public that Satanic cults weren’t operating in the nation’s day care facilities. I sleep so much better knowing they cleared up that one.

With this new development, I’d have been reluctant to send Savannah to school. Fortunately, it was Saturday, so that wasn’t an issue. After lunch, she went down to the basement to work on her art. Yes, I know, most artists like big airy studios filled with natural light and soothing silence. Not Savannah. She liked the semidark basement and blaring music.

When the doorbell rang, I suspected it was one of the reporters, deciding to try something more proactive than making phone calls. So I ignored it and continued emptying the dishwasher. It rang again. I realized then that it might be the police come to renew their search. The last thing I needed was cops busting down my door. They’d done enough damage already.

I hurried to the front hall, undid the spells, and flung open the door to see a young man. He was about six feet tall, thin, with a face so average I doubted anyone remembered him five minutes after meeting him. Short dark hair, clean-shaven, Hispanic. Presumably dark eyes behind his wire-frame glasses, but he wouldn’t meet my gaze. He stood there, eyes downcast, clutching an armful of papers with a beat-up satchel slung over one shoulder. Oh, did I mention he was wearing a suit? On a Saturday? Wonderful. Just what I needed. A Jehovah’s Witness.

“Lucas Cortez,” he said, shifting the papers to his left hand and extending his right. “Your new legal counsel.”

“Look, I’m not interested—” I stopped. “Did you say ‘legal counsel’?”

“I’ll be taking your case from here, Ms. Winterbourne.” Despite his lowered gaze, his voice was confident. “We should step inside.”

He brushed past me without waiting for an invitation. As I stood, momentarily dumbfounded, Cortez took off his shoes, walked into the living room, and surveyed his surroundings, as if assessing my ability to pay for his services.

“I assume the disarray is from the search,” he said. “This is unacceptable. I’ll speak to them about it. I presume they had a warrant? Ah, here it is.”

He picked up the warrant from the coffee table, added it to his papers, and walked into the kitchen.

“Wait a second,” I said, hurrying after him. “You can’t just take that.”

“Do you have a copier?”

I swung into the kitchen. He’d already established himself at the table, moved my things aside, and started spreading his papers.

“I take my coffee black.”

“You can take your coffee down at the doughnut shop unless you tell me who sent you here.”

“You are in need of legal services, are you not?”

I hesitated. “Oh, I get it. No one sent you. What do they call you guys? Ambulance chasers? I’m not interested. And if you try to bill me for this visit—”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. This visit is entirely free. A sampling of my services. I’ve taken the liberty of acquainting myself with your case, and I’ve devised a strategy for defending you.” He moved two papers across the table, and turned them to face me. “As you’ll see, this is a simple contract stating that, by agreeing to speak to me today, you are in no way committing yourself to retaining my services and will not be charged for this meeting.”

I scanned the contract. For a legal document, it was surprisingly straightforward, a simple statement that relieved me of any obligation for this initial consultation. I glanced at Cortez, who was busy reading the warrant. He couldn’t be more than late twenties, probably just out of law school. I’d once dated a newly graduated lawyer, and I knew how tough it could be to find work. As a young entrepreneur myself, could I really blame this guy for hard-selling his services? If, as the police suggested, I did need a lawyer, it certainly wouldn’t be someone this young, but there was no harm in hearing him out.

I signed the contract, then passed it to him. He said nothing, just added his signature and handed me a copy.

“Let’s start by discussing credentials,” I said.

Without looking up from his papers, he said, “Let me assure you, Ms. Winterbourne, there is no one more qualified to handle your case.”

“Humor me, then. Where’d you go to school? Where do you practice? How many custody cases have you handled? What percentage have you won? Any experience handling defamation of character? Because that may be a possibility here.”

More paper gazing. Some paper shuffling. I was two seconds from showing him to the door, when he turned, eyes still downcast.

“Let’s get this over with then, shall we?” he said.

He looked up at me. I dropped the contract. Lucas Cortez was a sorcerer.