The 5th Witch Read Free Page A

washed-out denim. Scraggly black hair and an unshaven chin.
    “You again,” he said that morning. “You sorry-looking bastard.”
    His doorbell chimed. He kept staring at himself in the mirror until the bell chimed again. Then he shuffled into the living room and called out, “Who is it? As if I didn’t know!”
    “It’s Annie! You were shouting in your sleep again. I brought you something.”
    Dan went over to the front door and opened it. A girl was standing on the balcony outside, holding a tumbler covered by a beaded cloth. She was slightly Hispanic looking, with glossy black hair and wide brown eyes and pouting lips that made her look sulkier than she really was. She was wearing a green silk head-scarf, a patchwork dress, and a necklace made of big brown wooden beads. Her hands and her feet were decorated with henna designs.
    “Oh God, Annie,” said Dan. “Not the myrtle tea.”
    “Myrtle tea is the best thing for bad dreams.”
    “I know. But it also tastes like tomcat piss.”
    “You’ve been doing it much more lately. Shouting. Well, screaming , to be truthful.”
    “It’s a bad dream, that’s all. I’ll get over it.”
    “It’s been three years now, Dan—longer—and you’re getting worse.”
    He went back into the living room, and Annie followed him.
    “It’s still hot,” she said. “You should try to drink it while it’s hot.”
    “Why? I don’t like hot tomcat piss any better than I like cold tomcat piss.”
    Annie put the glass on the kitchenette counter. “Tomorrow I’ll make you up some more essence of nettle. That should help.”
    “Annie—”
    “What?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe I can’t get over it. What then?”
    She went up to him and laid her hand over his heart. He was six-foot-one and she was only five-foot-four, but there was no doubt who was comforting whom. “She’s still here, Dan. You won’t ever get over what happened. But for your own sake, you have to accept it. You can’t go on blaming yourself for the rest of your life.”
    “Maybe you can mix me up some hemlock.”
    “Don’t joke. Hemlock would give you a horrible death. It swells the lining of your throat so that you can’t breathe.”
    “Is that less horrible than being hit in the face with a scaffolding pole?”
    “It’s one hell of a lot slower.”
       
    He went to 25 Degrees for lunch, in the Hotel Roosevelt on Sunset, and took his usual stool at the corner of the bar. He ordered the three-cheese sandwich and a Bloody Mary, and sat popping olives into his mouth and looking around the diner to see who was ensconced in the big, circular leather booths.
    25 Degrees was glitzy but casual, and there was always a watchable mix of directors, agents, tourists, and chiselers, as well as out-of-work actors saving money by sharing a burger and a milkshake among three of them.
    “Late again, Detective,” said Pedro, the smooth-faced barman, looking up at the clock. It was a joke between them. It meant that Dan was starting to drink early for today but late for yesterday.
    “Slept badly,” said Dan. He spat out a small handful of olive pits.
    “You know what the cure for that is?”
    “I have a terrible feeling you’re going to tell me.”
    “Always go to bed with a very ugly woman, so that you pretend to sleep. You close your eyes, you breathe deep, you don’t do none of that tossing and turning—and before you know it, zonk , you really are asleep.”
    “Well, thanks for the advice. But I don’t know any very ugly women.”
    “Hey—you can borrow my wife.”
       
    Dan was halfway through his cheese sandwich when his cell phone warbled.
    “Dan? It’s Ernie Munoz.”
    “Ernie, I’m off duty this week, remember.”
    “I know. But we just lost three guys from the Narcotics squad. Cusack, Knudsen, and Fusco.”
    “Jesus. When did this happen?”
    “About forty-five minutes ago and in highly frigging peculiar circumstances. They were outside the Palm on Santa Monica, surveilling