We wound up “Stella” and then played “Song For My Father” as a Latin groove. After that, I unplugged and put my guitar away. There were more than a few players waiting their turn to sit in, and it’s not polite to hog at a jam session.
“Say, Joe,” I said, “you know any good keyboard players?”
“Not a one,” he said, doing a quick arpeggio over the piano keys.
“Yeah, me either. But seriously, a friend of mine just moved to the city, and she’s thinking of putting together an all-woman jazz quartet and needs a piano player.”
“How about Wanda?”
“I thought of her, but my friend wants to put together something with all new faces, as a promotional thing, and Wanda’s been around for years. You run into any new players lately, preferably talented?” Joe thought for maybe half a second before snapping his fingers.
“Shit, yeah. A new woman started coming around a couple of months ago. She’s good, too, and I don’t think she’s playing with anyone yet. Her name’s Melissa. I’m surprised she’s not here today.”
Jackie probably wouldn’t be using her own name, so it could be her.
“Melissa?” I said. “I think I might know her. Redhead, kind of goofy-looking?”
Joe laughed. “No, not at all. A black chick, and goofy-looking’s the last thing you would call her.”
Bingo.
“Huh. You wouldn’t have her number, by any chance?”
Joe shook his head. “I don’t, but I’ll give her yours if I see her.”
I thought a moment, dug out a scrap of paper, and wrote down Sherwood’s cell.
“Give her this,” I said. “It’s the woman who’s putting together the group—her name’s Sherwood. Maybe it’ll work out.”
“Maybe,” he said. “She’s a good player, but there is one thing your friend should be aware of.” My ears perked up.
“Really? What?”
“She’s kind of an eco freak—except for music, every conversation I’ve had with her comes back to how we’re all destroying the planet.”
“Well, we are.”
“Don’t I know it. But you can’t go around yelling about it all the time. It gets old. Still, she can play; I’ll give her that.” Joe reached in his pocket and pulled out a wallet. “Hold on a sec.” He fished around until he came up with a worn business card and handed it to me. “Melissa gave me this, said to come by if I was interested. Maybe you can find her there.”
The card had a stylized graphic of a raccoon holding a small globe of the earth. On the top were the words
Earth Abides
and an address and phone number.
“I’m surprised you kept this,” I said.
“What can I say? She is hot, you know.”
I tucked the card away and returned to my seat at the bar where Lou was working the crowd. I stared him off the bar until he jumped back down onto the floor. I examined the card, but there was nothing else on it. Maybe I wouldn’t need my scheme after all; maybe this address would lead me right to her.
It would be good to keep a backup plan, though, and I thought this was a pretty good one. Jackie would surely be skittish if she thought someone was looking for her, and any new acquaintance might be viewed at first with some suspicion. But if a jazz musician she knew told her that a friend of his, another jazz musician, was looking not exactly for her, but for a keyboard player, she’d have to be extraordinarily paranoid for it to set off any warning bells.
Still, given that a black practitioner was looking for her, she might well be that paranoid. As soon as I got home, I called Sherwood.
“I need a favor,” I said.
“I’m shocked.”
“It’s work-related.” I told her about my conversation at Dogpatch. “I gave Joe your cell number to give to Jackie if he runs into her. She’s calling herself Melissa. If she does call, you’re a bass player looking to put together an all-female band, like I said.”
Sherwood wasn’t a player, but she knew a lot about jazz and jazz musicians. She’d be able to fake it convincingly.
“What’s my name?”
“Sherwood. I thought you knew that.”
“Very amusing. And what if she’s done some poking around the practitioner community since she got here and my name has come up in conversation?”
“I would guess she’s been staying as far away from practitioners as possible. And if she’s come across your name, she’s surely heard the name Mason as well, in which case I don’t imagine we’ll be hearing from her anytime soon.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. Eli told me about your new job, helping a black practitioner hunt someone down. It’s creepy.”
“I get that. But it’s not like I’m going to be turning her over to anyone. I’m just trying to find out what the larger picture might be, and get in good with Jessie. You can suggest she come over to my place for an audition.”
That setup would have two advantages. First, we’d be two against one if things got out of hand. Second, we’d be at my place, and a practitioner is always strongest on home turf. That’s why you never go to another practitioner’s house if the situation is problematic—public places like coffee shops are the preferred neutral territory. I didn’t expect any trouble, though. She’d be expecting to meet some musicians and play some music, and practitioners would be the furthest thing from her mind.
“Sounds perfect. And I’m sure it will all work out. Your plans always do, after all.”
I didn’t mind the gibe. Sherwood’s occasional sarcasm is always friendly, more jokes than digs. Whenever I try that kind of thing, it just sounds petty and mean-spirited.
“Well, this plan will work,” I said. “Why shouldn’t it?”
“No reason. Except . . .”
“Except what?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“Probably. Remind me.”
“Well, she’s a practitioner, right? And she doesn’t know we’re practitioners, right? She thinks we’re musicians.”
“ So?”
“So we’re inviting her over to your house.”
“And?”
“Your
house
, Mason.”
I still didn’t see what she was driving at. I live in an in-law flat in the Mission, a converted garage in the bottom of a house. It’s got greenery all around, a driveway that used to run up to the garage that I can park my van in, and is surprisingly cheap—for San Francisco. The landlord lives upstairs and travels a lot, which is a blessing for both of us. Sooner or later he’ll be home when something odd happens, though, and that will certainly create a problem. I might even have to find another place. But it’s pleasant and cozy, and not the sort of place you’d associate with a practitioner.
“What’s wrong with my place?” I said. “It’s perfect for—Oh.”
Now I got it. Practitioners’ homes are just like anyone else’s—with one big difference. We ward our houses to protect them from magical attack, or even magical intrusion, for the less paranoid. It’s as common and normal as having a lock on your front door, and few if any practitioners live unguarded.
Victor’s house is as secure as Fort Knox—the wards are direct and powerful, set up by an entire team, and nothing gets through uninvited. He needs that level of protection; acting as the chief enforcer of magical mores has earned him some powerful enemies over the years.
Most practitioners don’t have that level of protection, nor do they need it. My own wards, though effective, are comparatively modest. But although wards are not perceptible to ordinary civilians, they are instantly apparent to any practitioner. In fact, you can tell quite a bit about a practitioner by the type of warding they employ.
The moment Jackie showed up at my front door, she’d sense the wards and make me as a practitioner. And that would be the last we’d see of her.
“Hmm,” I said. “I see your point. A café, then—that’s neutral ground for practitioners, and it will make her feel more comfortable, even though she won’t be expecting anyone but a musician. And it’s natural to want to check out someone thinking about joining a group, to see if you’re compatible.”
“Any preferences?”
“Not really. Maybe you could have her suggest a place—she’s likely to choose somewhere near to where she lives, so if things go south, we’ll at least have an approximate location for her.”
“Good enough,” she said. “Tomorrow, then.”
After I hung up, I thought for a while. The plan was good, but complicated. Maybe I should go a more direct route and save all that trouble. If that didn’t work, the plan with Sherwood was still a good fallback option. So I made another call, to the number on the card Joe had given me. A woman’s bright and sunny voice answered, friendly, but noncommittal.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Sam. A friend of mine gave me this number. I’m new in town, and looking for some environmentally conscious groups. I used to be an animal rights activist, but there doesn’t seem to be much need for that here.”
“Oh no,” she said. “There’s plenty of need everywhere, believe me. But we’re always happy to have new people. Where are you from?”
“Chicago,” I said.
“Really. What part? I used to live there myself.”
I had actually spent some time in Chicago, which was why I picked that city. Anytime you’re fabricating a cover story, it’s best to stay as close as possible to the truth. Otherwise, you’ll get tripped up in no time.
“Hyde Park,” I said. “My girlfriend used to go to the University of Chicago.” Another morsel of truth.
“Wow,” she said. “I had a friend there as well. Lived close to campus, on Barrister Avenue. You know where that is?”
This was interesting. She was testing me, seeing if my story held up. Which meant this group was probably engaged in more than just talk when it came to environmental issues.
If I’d just picked Chicago at random, I would have had to guess at what to answer. If it was the main campus drag, you wouldn’t want to say you’d never heard of it. But if she’d made up the name off the top of her head, then saying sure, you knew where it was, would be even worse.
“Barrister?” I said, letting a tone of doubt creep in. “I don’t think I know where that is.”
“Oh. Well, maybe I got the name wrong. It’s been a while.” Her tone changed, becoming a tad more relaxed. “Actually, we’re having a get-together tonight at my house, if you’d like to drop by and meet some of the folks.”
“That would be great.”
“About nine, then. I’m Haley.” She gave me the address, the same one that was on the card.
“I’m looking forward to it,” I said.
THE ADDRESS WAS A HOUSE IN THE UPPER FILLMORE, right off Fillmore Street itself. Upper Fillmore’s not as snooty as the nearby Pacific Heights, but you still need some money to live there. Nice restaurants, elegant bars, patisseries instead of bakeries.
In the Mission you get a diverse crew of hipsters, down-and-outers, yuppies, and assorted other types. The upper Fillmore is more stylish; the men wear expensive casual clothes and the women wear outfits, ensembles that could have come right from the pages of
Glamour
.
I put a psychic shield around myself before I went up to the house; if Jackie was at the house, I didn’t want her to make me as a fellow practitioner. And I left Lou in my van, with one window open as usual so he could come and go as he pleased. There wasn’t anything to steal in it, anyway.
It wasn’t that I thought Jackie might recognize him as an Ifrit if she was there. It was more about keeping a low profile, just in case. If I was going to be poking around for the next few days, he’d be too obvious an identifier. Describing me as six feet tall with dark hair is accurate. But so are a thousand other guys. Add a small black-and-tan dog tagging along into the mix, and you become instantly identifiable.
The woman who answered the door was blond, late thirties, pleasant-looking, and stylish.
“You must be Sam,” she said. “I’m Haley. Come on in and meet the folks.”
She led the way to a large front room with a hardwood floor and rugs scattered throughout with the random appearance that speaks of careful thought. “Everyone, this is Sam, new to the city. Sam, this is everyone.”
I got a pleasant chorus of hellos and nods from the assembled group. I’d been expecting a more radical-looking bunch, some compilation of guys with dreadlocks and women in combat boots. But like most stereotypes, it was way off. They were a very ordinary-looking collection of people who would have looked equally at home discussing PTA issues, neighborhood dog-leash regulations, or at a cancer awareness fund-raiser.
I counted ten of them besides myself, four men and six women, all white, none of them Jackie. I sat down off to the side as unobtrusively as possible. They ignored me, not rude, just focused on the conversation at hand.
Most of the talk centered around a supposed developer’s land grab involving the Point Reyes National Seashore. I don’t know where they got their information, but that was just not a realistic concern. Apart from the legal protections involved, the public would never stand for it. I asked a few questions, which were answered politely enough, but mostly just listened. Finally that paid off.