“I was surprised to hear that you were still up and moving,” the white-haired man said, staring into the middle distance and pointing toward a chair in the center of an elaborate protective circle. “Not many of us from back in the day still above ground.”

“You look good, Frankie,” the bokkor said. “Righteous living's done well for you.”

Frankie Five-Angels smiled. It didn't move much past his lips.

Desamours remembered Francis Pentangeli as a punk with a gambling racket based on Enochian numerology and a daemon in his ear who kept him one step ahead of a bullet. Now, dressed in raw silk and linen, signet on his pinky, he had the well-fed, comfortable look of a don's court sorcerer. Nice work if you could get it.

“Talked to a friend of mine,” Five-Angels said, hand moving smoothly as he looked Desamours up and down. “I hear that you put together a crew, started some shit, raised some heat.”

“Not me, Frankie,” the bokkor said, hands raised. “I'm out of the game.” Five-Angels raised his hand, still writing.

“Talked to another Friend,” he said. “This Friend, I trust. I'm told that you're digging around, asking questions. Starting shit. Raising heat.” He looked down at the paper, raised his eyebrows and stood.

“This thing of ours, it's quiet. Easy,” he said. “Mostly because you and the rest of the savages ground yourselves to dust and let it become... quiet. Last thing I need is you staking a claim. Starting shit. Raising heat.”

Desamours saw the uncertainty in Five-Angels' eyes. Noted it.

“No claim, boss,” he said. “Just want to clear my name and put it in the wind.”

“The wind speaks to me,” Five-Angels said, folding the paper into a precise square. “In voices of thunder it speaks. Know what it says?

He smiled again, flipping the paper between his fingers once, twice and gone.

“Skip town, hoodoo man. Mumbo-Jumbo, god of the Congo, ain't welcome in my city. I abjure thee the fuck hence.”