Killing Pretty

by Richard Kadrey

  He swings the machete hard at my head. I step back and bark some Hellion hoodoo. It freezes him in place, the empty-­headed creep. I take him by the arms and lower him to the floor, pull his parka off, and drag him and his blade behind the stairs. Stack a ­couple of boxes in front of him and leave him there to sleep off the hex. The parka fits fine over my coat. I shove the crate of champagne against a wall and head downstairs.

  THERE ARE DARK clubs and there are dark clubs, but this one is goddamn dark. I stand in the back of the place for a minute, letting my eyes adjust to the nonlight.

  There’s a good reason the Ibis is so cold and dim. Ever hear about those ice hotels in the winter in Sweden? This is an ice club. The bar, the chairs, the tables, the glasses, the low walls around the VIP booths—­all glass-­clear ice. And the only light in the place comes from glowing test tubes suspended in the frozen blocks.

  Each of those shimmering tubes contains a piece of a person.

  What I mean is, they’re using human souls to light their love shack. I didn’t think I could hate these assholes more, but they just hit a level of disgust a notch below where I’d consider locking all the doors and setting the Ibis on fire. But this isn’t the time or place for a lecture on Buddha-­like compassion for all living things, and I’m not the person to give it. My meditation mantra for the next few minutes is “Ask some questions. Get some answers. And get out before I’m surrounded by a mountain of ground chuck and have to fight my way out.”

  I zip up the parka and walk around, looking for any familiar faces. Of course, the only ones I spot are the Rat Pack that used to go slumming at Bamboo House. “Used to” because we had a disagreement and I sent them home from the club naked and broke. I also used a little hoodoo to make one of them think I was pulling his skin off. Like Candy said, sometimes I get mad and don’t think. Anyway, the kid got a little bit of revenge. Turns out, he was the nephew of Nasrudin Hodja, grand CEO of all the Cold Cases on the planet. That’s why I ended up with a hit out on me. Saragossa Blackburn calmed Hodja down, but I never formally made up with the nephew. I suppose now’s as good a time as any.

  I head over to their table near, but not in, one of the roped-­off VIP areas. I don’t want to surprise the nephew and make him bolt. I get into his line of sight so he sees me coming. He starts to get up and his friends look around. I talk fast.

  “Relax, boys. I’m not here looking for trouble. I just want to talk. I might even be able to do you a favor.”

  “We don’t want any favors from you,” says the nephew.

  “Sure you do. You can’t be moving many souls these days, not with ­people refusing to die. Inventory must be stacking up. I’m trying to change that. Come on, admit it. You love dead ­people. That’s all I’m looking to do. Help ­people die again.”

  “What do you think we have to do with that?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I’m here. Mind if I join you?”

  I don’t wait for anyone to answer. I pull up an ice chair and sit down. Even through the parka my ass starts freezing.

  “So,” I say. “What have you heard? What do you know? Any ideas who’s fucking with the dead? You have to have some theories.”

  The nephew pours himself a glass of champagne I’ve never heard of. I’m guessing that puts it out of my price range.

  He says, “Isn’t it obvious? It’s an attack on us. On our business. Hell, our whole way of life.”

  “You think tens of thousands of ­people aren’t dying just to spite you?”

  “Think about it. When ­people aren’t afraid of dying, they don’t need new souls. Meanwhile, idiots come to us wanting to sell, but what are we going to do with the merchandise? We have souls going bad on the shelves.”

  “Souls have an expiration date?”

  “Everything has an expiration date.”

  “What happens to a soul when it gets moldy?”

  “I couldn’t care less. All I know is it costs us money.”

  “You think that’s what this is all about? Money?”

  “What else?”

  “Revenge, maybe,” says one of the nephew’s idiot friends. He’s a creepy kid with a million-­dollar pompadour and a little John Waters pencil-­thin mustache. What works on an eccentric movie director just makes the kid look like an Arkansas pedophile.

  I say, “What kind of revenge?,” reach across the table, and take the kid’s champagne.

  “What I mean is you. Some of us thought you were using your angel bullshit to get back at us for . . . you know.”

  “Trying to shoot me and almost killing a friend of mine?”

  “Yeah.”

  The champagne is good, but, oops, what a clod I am. I splash some on the table and set the glass on top of it.

  “Don’t be stupid. If I was looking for revenge, I wouldn’t involve thousands of innocent morons. Plus, I’d have cut all your throats by now.”

  “Don’t threaten us,” says the nephew. “My uncle would still like your balls on his wall.”

  “Let him know that I’d be happy to come by and tea-­bag any furniture he wants, but that’s a little off topic. Let’s all concentrate on the real question. What’s going on and who’s doing it?”

  The nephew opens and closes his fingers around the champagne glass.

  “I don’t believe you. You come in here claiming to want to fix things. So know what? Fuck you. The only one who’s offered any real help is Tamerlan Radescu.”

  “Radescu’s been around? What did he want?”

  “Like I said. To help.”

  “The bastard,” mutters the pompadour.

  “Shut up,” says the nephew.

  “Why’s he a bastard?” I say.

  No one says anything.

  “Boys, I have nowhere to be, so if you want to get rid of me, tell me something.”

  “What Eddie means is Tamerlan drives a hard bargain,” the nephew says. “He wants a piece of our business.”

  “A big piece,” says the pompadour.

  The nephew throws the last of his champagne at the kid.

  “Don’t go telling this fucker our business.”

  “Let me get this straight. Tamerlan Radescu told you he knows what’s going on and can maybe make ­people start dying again?”

  The pompadour uses a thumbnail to scrape at a flaw in the ice on the edge of the table. The nephew shakes his head back and forth like he can’t believe this is his life. I can see that he’s had about enough. Scared or not, he’s close to making a scene to get security over here.

  “One last question. Did Tamerlan say anything about the Angel of Death?”

  The nephew says, “He said the last thing he wants is what’s going on. Both of our businesses rely on complete death. These loafers in comas are hitting business hard.”

  The nephew’s eyes go hard. Time to stop pressing my luck. I get up. The pompadour reaches to retrieve his glass, but it’s frozen solid to the table where I spilled the champagne.

  “Thanks, boys. Come around the Bamboo House sometime. I’ll buy you all milk shakes.”

  “Don’t think just ’cause we talked to you we believe you, Stark,” says the nephew. “We know you’re part of this, and when we get proof, my uncle is going to the Augur and he’ll put a hit out on you himself.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a woman sit up straight, like she’s startled. I turn and find Tykho, head of L.A.’s more powerful vampire gang, having drinks with a cluster of business creeps in one of the VIP areas. She smiles and nods when she sees me. She’s the only one in the club not wearing a parka. Being a shroud eater has its advantages.

  I turn back to the boys.

  “You don’t know where I could get some brass knuckles, do you?”

  “Get out,” says the nephew.

  I head for the front door, tossing the parka a
nd ten dollars to a coat-­check girl on the way out.

  “Thanks for the loan,” I say.

  She looks at me funny, but doesn’t say anything. Just pockets the money. Smart kid. One day she’ll be a millionaire.

  When I get back to the car I almost call Julie, then think twice about it on the off chance she asks me how I got into the club. Instead, I’ll write down the meeting when I get home. I figure I can remember the important parts because they were so few and far between. From what the nephew and the pompadour said, it sounds like Tamerlan might be flat-­out blackmailing the Cold Cases. I wonder who else he’s muscling? And how did he get a line on Death? What’s changed that he has that kind of power? I can’t wait to hear what Brigitte comes up with.

  I START THE Crown Vic and head south on the 101. Get off in Little Tokyo, pick up a few things from a bakery, then swing the car west to Beverly Hills. I leave it in a lot on Wilshire and head up Rodeo Drive on foot.

  I hate this place. You can’t get a cup of coffee unless it has a backstory and a pedigree so the café can charge you as much for the cup as a normal human pays for dinner. Women drive by in cute little sports cars with more power under the hood than a Saturn V, but the speedometer will never top twenty because then they might not be seen and admired. Men window-­shop in silk jackets made by indentured servants in countries they’ve never heard of while their sons all imagine they’re Tupac because they bought their thousand-­dollar designer jeans a ­couple of sizes too big.

  Up near Santa Monica Boulevard is my destination: the Lollipop Dolls boutique. The Dolls are a strange kind of girl gang, a coven of middle-­aged women who’ve used their hoodoo to remake themselves into prepubescent anime girls. When they’re together, they look like someone left the Sailor Moon cloning machine on all night. They used to be run by Cherry Moon. She was in my old magic circle and was one of the ­people I came back from Hell to kill, but someone got to her first. Cherry was neurotic before she died, and being a ghost hasn’t improved that.

  The Lollipop Dolls store is every bit as pricy as the nearby Prada and Gucci shops. They just cater to a different clientele—­ones who can afford couture gothic Lolita tutus that costs as much as a blimp, or a custom hand-­stitched Hello Kitty wearing a real diamond collar. And that stuff isn’t even in the case with the really expensive merch, the one where everything looks vaguely blue because it’s behind bulletproof glass.

  I only spot two Lollipops when I go in the store, Kitty Chan and Noriko. Neither one of them looks older than sixteen. How did they even get a business license for this place?

  Kitty sees me first. Stops by a display of plastic Godzillas taller than me and probably with better manners.

  She calls to Noriko.

  “Look what just crawled in.”

  Noriko rolls her eyes extravagantly and goes behind the counter, making a big show of stacking bags and arranging pens, taking great pains to ignore me.

  Kitty says, “What do you want, Stark? You’re on the wrong end of town. There aren’t any Kmarts out here.”

  “Nice to see you too, Kitty. The plastic surgery turned out nice. I can hardly see the crow’s-­feet from over here.”

  Noriko slams the drawer of the cash register shut.

  “I’m only asking one more time, then I’m calling the cops and telling them a vagrant came in and exposed himself to us poor working girls. What do you want?”

  “I’m here to talk to Cherry.”

  “What makes you think Cherry wants to talk to you?” says Noriko.

  I look over at her.

  “She’s a big girl. Why don’t we let her decide for herself?”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s busy,” says Kitty.

  “And I’m pretty sure if she knew I came all this way and put up with you two, she’d at least want to tell me to go away herself.”

  Kitty walks to Noriko. They whisper back and forth for a minute, glancing at me every now and then.

  “Okay,” says Kitty. “She’s in the back. The room behind the office.”

  “Thanks.”

  I start back when Noriko yells, “Hey!”

  I stop by a pile of stuffed unicorns that are really plush cell phones. She points to a credit-­card slide.

  “This is a place of business, you know. Gas, grass, or ass. Nobody rides for free. Buy something or get out.”

  I look around, grab a Hello Kitty hand mirror from a pile in the kids’ department and head for the back of the store.

  “You going to pay for that, sport?” says Kitty.

  “I’ll pay on the way out if Cherry talks to me.”

  In the back is a pretty ordinary-­looking business office. There are a few too many polka dots and a peppermint-­striped desk, but the place looks functional. I go through a door in the back.

  I don’t know what the hell this new room is for. Actually, I have a pretty good idea, which means I don’t want to sit on anything or touch the bedspread.

  The place is decked out like a girl’s bedroom decorated by a cartoon princess. Pinks and lace everywhere. White furniture and a makeup table. Big posters of Idoru bands on the walls. Anime-­character pillows stacked on a frilly canopied bed. The big Ultraman video monitor on the wall has octopus hentai playing on a loop.

  Cherry Moon’s dream home.

  The last time I saw Cherry was in the Tenebrae. Now that I can’t go there and I can’t depend on her coming to me, I’ll have to try Maria’s trick. I set the Hello Kitty mirror on the makeup table and whisper some off-­the-­cuff ghost-­conjuring hoodoo. I’ve always been good at improvising spells, but this one might be a bust. Nothing appears in the mirror. I open the bag I picked up from the bakery and lay out some mochi and a bun filled with sweet red bean paste. A few seconds later, Cherry’s face drifts into focus in the mirror. She looks over the edge and crinkles her nose.

  “Why did you bring that garbage?” she says.

  “They’re Japanese desserts. I thought you’d be clicking your ruby slippers and wishing you were home when you saw them.”

  She shakes her head.

  “I hate that stuff. If you want to talk to me in the future, bring ice cream or pie.”

  “Cherry, right?”

  “Who’s my smart boy?”

  Cherry hasn’t changed. She looks around twelve, but she’s really in her midthirties. She wears a schoolgirl uniform and pigtails. Seeing her face in the mirror reminds me of Maria’s lost ghost, Dash. Some ghosts don’t like the limelight and some can’t get enough. Cherry, for instance. I glance at the TV when something makes a weird squishing sound, wish I hadn’t, and look back at the mirror. Cherry is gone.

  Over to my right someone says, “Where did you learn the mirror trick?”

  I turn.

  “A witch named Maria. When did you learn to manifest yourself?”

  She tosses her head, making her pigtails bounce.

  “Like it? I thought if I was going to be a real ghost, I might as well be able to haunt the store properly.” Cherry nods at the mirror. “If your friend has to use that trick, she must know some shy spooks.”

  “The one I’ve met seems a bit reserved.”

  “Well, I’m not, so put that silly thing away.”

  I set the mirror on the table and put the pastries back in the bag. When I start to drop it in the trash, Cherry says, “Leave it for the girls. Kitty has a gentleman caller who’ll grunt like a pig and eat it off her ass. It’s hysterical. You should stick around.”

  I tap my wrist.

  “I’m a working man these days. I have a schedule and a boss and everything, but thanks.”

  Cherry presses her fingertips to her chest in mock horror.

  “How the mighty have fallen.”

  “We can both probably say that.”

  “Touché. Now, why are you here, Jimmy?”

&n
bsp; “Now that no one is dying anymore, I’m trying to find out what’s going on with ­people who are already dead. Has anything changed for you? Is there anything new in the Tenebrae?”

  “New? Nothing. Oh, unless you mean the humongous black twister that’s blowing all over the desert on the outskirts of town. Aside from that, it’s a mellow scene. How are you doing?”

  “Swell as always. What does the twister look like?”

  “Like something out of the Bible. Wrathful God stuff, you know? It’s a tower of swirling black as far up as you can see, and every now and then there’s sort of a guy’s face.”

  “Can you tell me what he looks like?”

  “He doesn’t stick around long. I guess he’s a WASPy-­looking white guy. Sometimes he talks. Sometimes he screams. Maybe being a big tower of farts and lightning isn’t as much fun as it looks. What do I know?”

  “He talks? What does he say?”

  “That he’s Death. The true Death comes to us at last. Hallelujah.”

  I pick up a tube of lipstick off the makeup table and open it. There’s a knife inside. I put it back where it was.

  “I can guarantee you that’s not Death. The real Death stubbed his toe and is staying with me right now.”

  Cherry gives me a crooked grin.

  “You scared Chihiro off already? That was fast.”

  “She’s still there, don’t worry. By the way, thanks for helping outfit her. I owe you.”

  “We Japanese girls have to stick together in this big cruel world,” she says. “Tell me, when did you turn into such a rice queen?”