“That’s great news.”
He looks at me.
“I have the awful feeling that you’re holding out a little on me. Maybe there’s something you don’t want to say. Something you think I won’t be able to handle?”
“Do you really believe the things people say about me? That I’ve been to Hell and back. That I was there again and I saw the dead members of Wormwood?”
“I told you that I do.”
I swirl the whiskey in my glass.
“Yeah. But there’s believing with your head and believing with your gut.”
“I’m not sure I know the difference, but I trust you and what you tell me.”
“Good. Then you need to know that I killed them all. Didn’t just kill them, but sent them somewhere worse than Hell. And I was able to do all that because of an angel. Her name was Hesediel. I want you to remember that name. It’s important. She’s the one who did the worst part of the work. Not me.”
He writes it down on a pad on the table.
“Hesediel,” he says. “It’s a pretty name. Would it be possible for me to thank her?”
“She’s dead.”
“You seem bothered by that.”
“I am.”
“But I thought you didn’t get along with angels.”
“I’m not big on kids either, but I saw one do a pretty good card trick at a party once. It was kind of like that.”
“The exception that proves the rule.”
“There you go.”
A flunky in a suit comes in with a loose-leaf binder. He gives it to Abbot and goes out.
Abbot drops it on the table.
“I had a feeling you might not be the computer type, so I printed out the list of suspected Wormwood members we put together.”
“All of them?”
“Council members, Sub Rosa families, and their civilian associates all of whom have left the country or disappeared since the deaths of Geoff Burgess and Charles Anpu.”
“That book’s for me, is it?”
He pushes it to me.
“You said you wanted to be part of the cleanup team. Unless you’ve changed your mind, it’s yours.”
I pick it up. It’s heavy. I flip through it. Names. Addresses. Work histories. Known associates. Where they were last seen. I weigh the binder in my hand.
“It’s like a goddamn phone book.”
He cocks an eyebrow.
“That’s why most of us prefer the electronic version.”
I drop it back on the table.
“Maybe it’s time for me to buy a laptop.”
“I know someone. I can get you a deal.”
“I bet you can.”
Abbot opens the book and flips through it.
“I’ve put together a small team to help with this. We’re meeting here in a couple of days. I’d like for you to be there.”
“Good. I will.”
“I’ll text you the details.”
I sit back in the chair.
“I don’t suppose you can get me a deal on a new phone too? I lost mine somewhere between Hell and L.A.”
“That sounds like a long walk.”
“Five days when you get lost.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Well, it could have been ten.”
“Days? I’m not sure I understand.”
I shake my head.
“Sorry. It’s a joke they tell Downtown. The fallen angels fell for nine days into Hell. So, when everything is fucked up, you say, ‘It could have been ten.’”
He stares at me, smiling.
“Funny. Do they have a lot of jokes like that in Hell?”
“No. That’s the best one. Most Hellion humor is just a notch above junior high fart jokes.”
“I learn more and more from you every day.”
“Just trying to be useful, boss.”
“Good job so far.”
I look around, a little uncomfortable.
“Tell me. When does the actual Wormwood manhunt start?”
“I thought we’d discuss that at the meeting. Is there a problem?”
“It’s just that I need a few days to take care of some things.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“Do you know any travel agents? I sort of promised someone that I’d take them to Disney World.”
He opens his eyes wide.
“You are full of surprises.”
“It’s not my idea. In fact, the whole thing is blackmail. But I promised.”
He nods.
“It will take us a while to get the logistics worked out. After the meeting, you can have a few days to see the Mouse.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“What are friends for?”
He holds out his glass and I clink mine against it.
It feels like I’ve been drinking a lot of toasts in the last few days. If I can trust my life to an angel, I guess it’s no stranger than partnering up with Abbot and some Sub Rosa 007s. It might even be fun. Maybe they can find me a new Colt.
Abbot and I shoot the shit for a few more minutes, but then he has to get to a meeting.
I take the binder and head back to the limo.
Willem is on the pier with some of his men.
“See you around, Willem.”
“Have a nice drive home.”
“Thank you.”
“Watch your back.”
“Love you too.”
We hit traffic on the drive home. While we’re sitting bumper-to-bumper, I thumb through the binder. I’m a little disappointed when I don’t find Willem’s name among the Wormwood suspects. I know it’s kind of a dickish thing to hope for, but I’m not used to this forgive-and-forget thing yet. Maybe Allegra’s PTSD pills will help. They still scare me, but what the hell? I’ll give them a try. But no yoga.
That’s a deal breaker.
IT’S ANOTHER DAY before I get on the Hellion hog. I wait until Candy’s at work, of course. No need to worry her. But if I can deal with Abbot’s whiskey, I think I can keep my balance long enough to make a couple of runs. My first stop is Griffith Park and Quay’s mansion.
Unlike his Hellion digs, Quay’s pied-à-terre in Earthly L.A. is underground. He might not have been Sub Rosa, but he was rich enough to afford a Sub Rosa mansion. Not many civilians can say that. I was only there once, but it was a memorable meeting.
The entrance to the place is in Griffith Park’s abandoned zoo. Through a graffiti-covered cage big enough for a bear or tiger. The mansion’s entrance is controlled by a hoodoo code you have to punch into a crack in the floor. I only saw it used once, so I never got a chance to memorize it. I should have brought Vidocq with me. He’s good at breaking into things. But I wouldn’t want to get him involved with this kind of trip, so it’s up to me. I might be able to blow the place open with Hellion hoodoo, but that would make the kind of awful racket guaranteed to attract a crowd. I could get in through the Room, but, well, you know. I can’t think of any way in that doesn’t wreck something, so I decide to do it fast and dirty.
I manifest my Gladius and cut a hole in the floor of the cage where I sort of remember the entrance is.
And get it right after just a couple of tries.
There aren’t any lights on in the dead man’s digs and I can’t find a switch, so I keep my Gladius burning and use it like a torch.
The place is just as I remember. A kind of faux-Greek palace full of sculptures and death charms. Not the kind that cause death, you understand. These are the kind that the user hopes will chase death away. The collection didn’t work out like Quay planned, but it left him with a nice assortment of morbid tchotchkes.
I wander the marble rooms checking out every flat surface. I’m looking for something very specific.
It doesn’t take long to find his office. The door is covered in wards and charms to keep prowlers exactly like me out. Only, none of this backwoods magic can stop a Gladius. I cut straight through the heavy oak door and
kick it off its hinges. Now I need to pick up the pace. The charms might not have been a problem, but there’s a better-than-even chance that Quay still has a civilian alarm system running down here. He’s the type to want to protect his toys even after he’s gone. I probably have just a few minutes before hired goons come speeding up the hill.
I go for his desk first. Pull out all the drawers. Check underneath and along the sides for hidden compartments. Nothing. Next, toss all the furniture and pull up the rugs to check for a floor safe. Again, nothing. Pull all the paintings off the walls and the books out off the shelves. I still can’t find anywhere he might hide his most valuable possession.
Next, I head for his bedroom. Yank the drawers out of the bedside tables and check under his bed. Pull down more paintings and kick up more carpets. Not a goddamn thing.
Where would a fucker like Quay hide his ticket to immortality?
On a stand in a corner of the room is an interesting object. I turn to the frontispiece to make sure I’m right, and bingo, I am. It’s a Gutenberg Bible, dated 1452. Now why, of all his death charms, would he keep this one in his bedroom? Quay never struck me as a sweet-blood-of-Jesus type. I turn a few pages looking for markings, ciphers, codes, anything that might lead to a secret hiding place. Naturally, I’m overthinking the whole thing. That’s why people like Quay get away with so much. Those of us trying to guess their supervillain moves get so clever with ourselves that we miss the most obvious answer. The smart guys like Quay expect that, so while we’re looking for Dr. Moriarity puzzles within puzzles, they go with the simplest solutions possible. And Quay’s is wonderfully simple.
I flip to the end of the book, wondering if maybe he’d get a giggle from writing his clues in Revelation, and find that he’s outsmarted everyone, especially me.
At one time, Quay was the richest man in California. He probably has a whole stack of Gutenberg Bibles lying around this dump. It wouldn’t be a big deal for him to sacrifice one.
Sure enough, the whole last half of the Bible is gone. What’s left is a compartment carved out of the heavy pages. Lying inside is a little 1908 Colt .25 pistol and a vial of black milk. But poor, poor Quay didn’t live long enough to get one of the syringes. He was that close to immortality, but because he wanted to hedge his bets by following me into Kill City, he was never able to use the one potion that might have saved him.
I pocket the pistol and take the black milk to a bathroom off the bedroom. Pour the vial down the sink, then burn the rest with the Gladius so there’s nothing left for anyone to scrape out. That’s one less dose of black milk in the world. One baby step toward ending the war in Heaven.
There’s an adorably gruesome little bronze Kali on one of Quay’s bookshelves. I pocket it with the pistol. On the way out—partly to keep his other trinkets away from Wormwood and partly because it seems like fun—I drag the Gladius across Quay’s bed so it bursts into flames. Do the same thing to the paintings and drapes on the way out. The sprinklers kick in while I’m going up the marble stairs to the zoo. That’s fine. I never intended to destroy the place, just char it up to mess with the snoops whose job it is to figure out why someone broke in.
On my way to the bike, a whole gaggle of private security storms past. None of them looks at me twice, just another asshole having a cigarette by the FIRE HAZARD signs.
I get on the bike and make one quick stop before heading out of Hollywood. The drive down Highland is a lot faster than it was with Quay or when me and Bill had to walk home. I blow past the I-10 and the 105 in record time.
Security around this treatment plant is just a wee bit tighter in L.A. than it was in Hell. There are no guards, but a lot of security cameras and KEEP OUT signs. That’s okay. I don’t need to go inside.
I leave the roses between the links in the hurricane fence by the gate. A couple of guys in vests and hard hats give me funny looks, but none of them bothers coming over. Good. I’m not in the mood to explain the situation. “An angel died in here to save your shitty souls. Touch the roses and I’ll come back and saw your arm off. Have a nice day.”
That’s what’s been bothering me since I got back. The final good-bye I never got to say Downtown. It’s stupid and pointless and sentimental, and if anyone I knew saw me doing it, I’d say it was a gag. But sometimes we have to do pointless things because that’s all that’s left for us. It’s a ritual. Something an angel would understand perfectly.
When I’m sure the roses won’t blow away, I kick the bike into gear and head back to Max Overdrive.
It hasn’t been a long day, but I’m tired all the same. Not like I was when I was sick. It’s more like the weight of what happened Downtown is back on my shoulders. But it won’t be there for long. With that last good-bye, I’m done with this part of the story and ready for the next. I wonder if Abbot will fly me first class when I James Bond around the world, strangling Wormwood hotshots in their sleep. I like those little airline liquor bottles. They’re like the fun-size candy bars you get at Halloween. I’ll be treat-or-treating at six hundred miles an hour and eight miles high.
Made it, Ma. Top of the world.
IN THE EVENING, I take Candy to Musso & Frank’s for martinis. I feel a little guilty for drinking somewhere that isn’t Bamboo House of Dolls, but there will be a lot of nights to make up for it.
I can’t remember how many drinks we have, but it’s too many, which is just the number we came for. We even find a cab to take us home. Maybe Heaven has been keeping tabs on me after all. Decided to throw me a bone when they knew I was disastrously incapable of walking home in a dignified manner.
Thanks for the ride, Mr. Muninn. I’ll be seeing you around, but not for a while, okay?
Back at Max Overdrive, me and Candy tear each other’s clothes off on the way up the stairs to the apartment. We make it as far as the sofa, fully intending to wreck a lot of furniture, but we’re too drunk and ridiculous to get very far.
We wake up around ten in the morning still on the sofa, with gin headaches and surf music blasting from the stereo. Our clothes aren’t piled by the door so much as they’ve been hurled with great force, no doubt by Kasabian when he found the evidence of our indiscretion while opening the store. Candy makes coffee while I carry our wrinkled rags into the bedroom. I think I fall asleep again because when I sit up, the coffee by the bed is cold and Candy has gone to work. I take about fifty aspirin and head downstairs to shelve discs. It’s the least I can do after forcing Kasabian to handle our delicates.
“You planning to pull that stunt often?” he says when the there’s no one in the store.
“Sorry for the inconvenience. But we were suffering from an acute case of martini poisoning.”
“Just make sure to clean up after yourselves next time. I’m going to need psychiatric help after finding all that crap on the stairs. I thought you’d done some of your half-assed magic and disappeared like the Wicked Witch of the West.”
“I’m melting. I’m melting.”
“Yeah. That.”
I carry a pile of discs to the racks. The most famous movie David Lynch never made, Ronnie Rocket, has been a popular new title this week. I haven’t even had a chance to watch it yet. Maybe tonight.
“I’m starting to feel guilty about not paying royalties on all these movies. We need to send some anonymous money to the AFI.”
“Sure. Bankrupt us. Good plan.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m ignoring you.”
I go over to the counter.
“Are you and Fairuza talking?”
“Yeah,” Kasabian says. “Thanks for scaring the holy hell out of her, then throwing her at me. There’s nothing better than your ex calling you at three in the morning with night terrors.”
“Sorry. But you’re still getting along?”
“It seems that way. It’s been nice having the band around, you know? Her and Candy having fun. Like old times.”
“I hope things work out for you two.”
; He stares at me.
“Wait. Did you just say something nice? Call Allegra. Your fever is back.”
“Nope. It’s just me. I’m turning over a new leaf. Saving the shit for Wormwood and those that deserve it and keeping things low-key at home.”
“So, we have to choose between you being an asshole or a hippie? I vote for asshole.”
“Be sure to put that in the suggestion box.”
“I’ll leave something for you in the box. But trust me, it won’t be a note.”
THE BAND FINISHES rehearsing around ten. I’ve never heard them sound better. They’re moving back to Alessa’s place tomorrow, where they’ll have more room. And she and Candy will be going on their first official date. I take this as a vote of confidence in my recovery since it means Candy will leave me alone at night with no one but Kasabian to babysit.
The four of them pile out of the room, sweaty and excited. Fairuza heads over to Kasabian and doesn’t seem freaked out at all anymore. It looks like she just enjoys being with him. Good for her. It takes a while to get over seeing your first corpse, but since Kasabian has been a corpse, I knew he was the guy to send her to.
Candy and Alessa chat with Vidocq and Allegra while I go around checking the doors and turning off lights. When that’s done, I order everyone out and lock the front door.
I’m putting my keys in my pocket when I remember something.
The rest of them are already down the street, heading for Bamboo House. I take the little statue out of my coat.
“Candy! I forgot to give you something.”
They turn and look at me standing in the doorway holding Kali. Oblivious to the fucking world. I head over to them when Candy points at something.
“Stark! Behind you!”
I turn around, but it’s way too late.
Where the hell did he come from and how did he know we’d be here? We never close this late. Maybe he’s been hiding by the corner of the store all night. Maybe he floated down in a gauzy bubble like Glinda the Good Witch. Whatever it was, I don’t see Audsley Ishii until the last minute and his knife is already halfway into my heart.
Kali hits the ground and I go down flat on my back.
Whatever Audsley stuck me with, it isn’t a normal blade. I’ve been knifed plenty of times and I know what it feels like. This time it’s all electric sizzles and paralysis. Down on the ground, I can’t move a goddamn muscle.