Li'l Booker Washington got old. He was only a year older than Blake, but completely bald with a face that wasn't all wrinkled up the last time they had met. They were good wrinkles, though, the kind people get from smiling and laughing. He was smiling now, when he bear-hugged Blake.

'Man, it's been a long time,' he said. His voice rumbled like an oncoming thunderstorm. Even though Blake was a big man, over 180, broad-shouldered and athletic, he looked almost like a child next to Booker.

'Long time indeed,' nodded Blake. 'Last time that beard was all black, brother.'

Booker grinned and touched his greying goatee on his chin.

'Yeah, what can I say? This ageing shit is out of hand, one day I wake up, lookin' into the mirror and my own Dad looks back,' he let out a roaring laugh. 'But you, brotha, you look great! Just look at you, big man in a suit.'

'I do what I can, you know how it is,' Blake said. When he wanted to put on something casual for a friendly drink, he had to realise that he had nothing but suits: he didn't need clothes for the time he wasn't working, because he was always working. 'Not now, that I'm home, though: Mom made her cajun ribs, remember those?'

'The one with mac & cheese? Man, I used to dream about it!'

They both laughed and for a moment the years spent separated melted away. But when the laughter's echo died out, those years crept back, sitting on their shoulders.

The place they used to go had closed a long time ago, so they went somewhere new. Booker said he knew a spot, cops didn't like it and the beer wasn't watered that much, so it was a decent pub for a drink.

The day being Wednesday, the local was almost empty. It was a typical sports bar with a huge flat-screen TV up in the corner. It showed some off-league basketball game now. There were no tables, only booths, the walls were full of framed posters showing famous moments of the history of sports, and the ceiling was so low Booker had to hunch down a little.

'I hear you bought the garage,' mentioned Blake after they sat down with a pint. 'I didn't think old Tony would ever retire.'

'He did… In the last couple of years, he was all complaining, you should have heard it…' Booker changed for a surprisingly good Italian accent. 'Kids bringing in their cars, the damn thing is full of computers, what am I, a scientist? I'm fixing cars, not spaceships, goddamnit.'

Blake laughed. Good old Tony loved to complain, if not about the gangs, than about some politician or just the weather.

'So you are the boss now, no more cleaning up at the end of the day for you.'

'I still do that,' shook his head Booker. 'Yeah, after 20 years you just got used to it. I'd say it builds character but I'm the same fucker I used to be, more or less, so God knows.'

They laughed again. The tension, the feeling of an incoming thing, the brewing trouble almost entirely left Blake's mind. Almost.

'How are Deja and the kids? They are not even kids anymore, are they?'

'Nah, man, Booker Jr is almost 19, big as me but three times smarter…'

'Let's be honest it's not that hard…'

'Shut it, little man,' grinned Booker. 'The youngest one, C. J., is a troublemaker, but I guess a boy at his age is supposed to be a troublemaker, right?'

Maybe in the eyes, maybe in the slight tremble of the voice, but something was off. Just a little, just a bit. Blake could have convinced himself that he only imagined it, if he wanted to.

'Deja is good, though,' he continued. 'At first, now that the kids don't need that much attention anymore, she was a little out of it a bit, but now she found a new hobby, so she is alright,' Booker looked around and leaned forward as if he was about to tell a big secret. 'She is writing books, can you imagine? Like those silly little love stories with the half-naked people on the cover, except she writes about our people, love story in the fucking ghetto… Believe it or not people like it. Two years ago she made a little money, last year she made almost as much as the garage, I think this year she is gonna make twice as much. I don't know, brother, I was never a big friend of books, which is funny given my name, but smart people say they are good, so I'm happy. But hey, enough about me, you tell me about your life, man! I hear you are like a black James Bond now.'

Blake took a big sip of his beer to buy some time. His job wasn't exactly a secret, but there were a number of things he wasn't allowed to talk about. Even though the MAGE had the same jurisdiction in the States as it had in Europe, they rarely had to interfere, because everything they would have interested in, was already covered by the supernatural department of the FBI. Because of that, people on this side of the pond had only vague ideas about what the MAGE actually was or did.

'I'm just a simple field agent,' Blake said. 'If anything, I would be the one getting James Bond's coffee.'

'Nah, that can't be it…. You always wanted to help people, if you weren't doing some important job, you would have quit long ago, like you did from the police. How long have you been doing this shit, twelve years?'

'Sixteen,' answered Blake.

'Shit, man, that's a long time,' shook his huge head Booker. 'See, you must be more than the guy doing the coffee run. I get it, though, no worries, brother, it's like super top secret shit, you can't be talkin' about it.'

'It's not… It's not like that,' said Blake. He felt like he had to explain himself for some reason. 'I don't want to act like some kind of "big man in a suit" as you said. That's a uniform, nothing else. I am the same man… I think.'

'Yeah, but that man used to be a cop…' pointed out Booker. He wasn't smiling now.

'So?' asked Blake. He felt like he was 18 again. They had this same argument over and over again for years. Just like the inside jokes and the laughs, everything that was bad in the friendship was coming back too.

'C'mon bro, you are the last person who needs to hear what's wrong with cops…'

'That was a long time ago, Booker. Times have changed.'

'Like shit they did, just two weeks ago a fucking pig were shooting at my son!' he burst out. The thunder in his voice made the walls tremble. 'Thanks to the Lord for people with a shitty aim, otherwise you would be just in time for another funeral!'

The silence after his words was terrible, deep and echoing and heavy. Booker shook his head as if he wanted to scare away a fly.

'Shit, I didn't want to say it like this…' he looked at Blake's eyes. 'Truth is, I didn't want to have a drink to catch up. I was lying when I said I don't know shit about your job, too. I have read everything I could find about the MAGE and you. That's kinda my hobby, like writing is Deja's. Sure, they don't mention your name in the papers, but you would be surprised how many times I caught a glimpse of you in the background of some pictures… Other people wouldn't see it's you, but I grew with you, man,' he raised his hand, because Blake tried to cut in. 'No, hear me out. Two years ago, an unidentified MAGE agent saved the King of Sweden from an assassin. Three months later, the same agent was standing behind the Pope on a picture, who later revealed that he had got death threats and the suspect behind bars, thanks to the MAGE. Last year in London, civilians and two MAGE agents took down the man who robbed the British Museum and killed all of those people. This February, two unidentified MAGE agents caught the serial killer vampire who has been killing people in Moscow for 30 years. I knew it was all you, Cornel, and I was so fucking proud of you. You did good. Then right after shit gone sideways here, you came back… I don't know shit about religion and faith and that stuff, but even I say it can't be for nothing. Can't be a coincidence. Shit, never in my grown-up life had to say this, but man, I need your help. I need you to save my son.'