Killing Pretty

by Richard Kadrey

  I start back upstairs.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Someone’s just looking for a fight is all. Stay here with Kasabian and open the store. Act normal.”

  “I don’t know what acting normal means,” says Vincent.

  I stop on the stairs.

  “None of us do, so just keeping doing whatever it is you do.”

  “Maria called,” says Vincent. “She asked if you’d found Dash.”

  “Fuck Maria’s ghost. Unless he went to Harvard Law School he can fucking hang until we get this shit sorted.”

  “I’ll just tell her that you’re still looking.”

  “You do that.”

  Upstairs, Candy is already half dressed. She stops when I come in.

  “Things are going to be okay, right? We’re going to work this out?”

  “We’re going to be fine,” I say. “But this is what happens when I try to be reasonable. I should be out shooting ­people right now. And you should be next to me tearing up the ­people I don’t shoot.”

  She comes over and puts her arms around my neck.

  “Let’s try things this way first, okay? If they don’t work out, there’s always time to run amok.”

  “I’m glad you see it my way. You sure you don’t want to tell me where the White Light Legion hangs out?”

  Candy gives me a peck on the lips, then goes back to putting on her clothes.

  “Reasonable now. Decapitation later. That’s the deal,” she says.

  “I love it when you talk dirty.”

  WHEN WE GET to the office, Julie isn’t exactly surprised to see us or the letter. She reads over ours, takes an envelope out of a drawer, and drops an almost identical letter on the desk.

  “It came yesterday,” she says. “Someone has it in for us. In a way, this is good news.”

  “Exactly how is getting evicted good news?” I say.

  “Because it means we’re making someone nervous and that only happens when you’re getting near the truth. We’re close to a breakthrough. I guarantee you, we’ll know why someone wanted to bind Vincent in a few days.”

  “In the meantime, what do we do about these?” says Candy, holding up the letters.

  “Sit tight. I’ll have some lawyers in the Vigil’s legal unit look them over. There’s always something to be done.”

  I sit down.

  “Are you sure? I mean these letters are obviously bullshit. No one is running the freeway through your place or ours. That means these aren’t legit and that means whoever sent them might not be in the mood to be reasoned with.”

  “It’s still a legal proceeding,” Julie says. “Let me handle things.”

  I get up and go to her coffeemaker, pour three cups.

  “You’re the adult in the room. But if legal doesn’t work, I’m going to throw a big, bloody tantrum.”

  I bring the cups to the desk. Julie takes one and says, “If legal doesn’t work, I might join you.”

  Someone presses the buzzer on the street. Julie checks the little security cam over the door on her laptop and presses a button to unlock the door. A few seconds later, Brigitte comes into the office. She’s wearing a smart, navy-­blue dress with a longer skirt than usual. Conservative business wear for a meeting with the boss. She sets her bag on Julie’s desk. There are no more chairs, so she perches gracefully on the edge of the desk like a femme fatale in an old gangster movie.

  “Thanks for coming in,” says Julie.

  “It’s lovely to see you all. How was your walk in the woods?”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Hot,” I say. “I almost got stung by a bee.”

  “You poor dear,” Brigitte says. “How did ever you survive?”

  “It was touch and go for a while,” says Candy. “But we poured him into a cold martini and managed to revive him.”

  “And they all lived happily ever after,” says Brigitte.

  Julie coughs.

  “If you three are done.”

  “Of course,” says Brigitte.

  “How did it go out there? How many of Tamerlan’s ­people did you get to?”

  “Six in all. It was interesting interacting with real ­people in real places who had no idea they were in my little play.”

  I say, “Did anyone give you any trouble?”

  She raises a hand to say no. “I was much too charming and needy for that.”

  “What did you tell them?” says Julie.

  “That I needed to speak to my poor dead mother and get some advice from her.”

  “How did they respond?”

  “The first two told me to go to an ordinary medium. The rest were all too happy to take my money.”

  “Did you convince the others to help you?” I say.

  “Of course. I told them that my mother was a bitch, but she knew the whereabouts of a small family fortune. I told them I’d give them a cut if they could contact her spirit and extract the information.”

  “Is any of that true?” says Candy.

  “Not a word. My mother is a lovely woman, living happily in Prague.”

  “What did you find out from Tamerlan’s ­people?” says Julie.

  “That a smile makes an impression, but a gun and a smile makes even more. I also learned this: that the necromancers who work through Tamerlan’s franchises are more afraid of him than a pistol.”

  Julie shakes her head, sips her coffee.

  “You ­people and your guns.”

  “You learn a lot about someone when you show them a gun,” I say. “Like that the ones who still won’t talk are worried about something worse than dying.”

  Brigitte says, “That’s what Tamerlan’s ­people are like. Every one is afraid of him.”

  “Did you find out why?” says Julie.

  “On the surface, Tamerlan appears to be a simple—­though ruthless—­businessman, but there is something else. His lackeys are afraid of him, but none will say why.”

  “Did you learn anything useful about his business dealings?”

  “He is obsessive when it comes to money. He is bleeding dry the necromancers that work through him. He demands not only money, but favors, though I don’t know what kind.”

  “So, he’s shaking his franchisees down.”

  “Not exactly. He never touches the money himself. According to the ­people I interviewed, he seems to have no connection to payments. They all go through a company called Wormwood.”

  Julie, Candy, and I look at each other.

  “Did I say something interesting?” says Brigitte.

  “We heard the name yesterday,” Julie says. “Did they say what Wormwood is or how to find them?”

  “Or him or her,” says Candy. “It could be a person.”

  “Good point.”

  Brigitte shakes her head, picks up my coffee.

  “Is this yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I?”

  “Of course.”

  She takes a sip and sets down the cup.

  “What was most interesting,” she says, “is that even when I became quite physically insistent that they tell me about the money, no one would. They are all quite afraid of both Wormwood and Tamerlan.”

  Julie writes something down on a pad.

  “I’ll do some research on Wormwood. If they’re operating in California, they must at least have a business license.”

  “I can help with that,” says Candy.

  “Thank you.”

  Brigitte says, “By the way, I showed each of them the photo you sent me of the brand on your guest’s arm.”

  “And?”

  “No one was able to identify it. Some seemed quite certain they could, and consulted various grimoires and books of arcana. It was all futile.”

  “A
re any of those Dead Heads going to remember your face?” I say.

  “The ones not staring at my chest.”

  “I mean will they be able to identify you if Tamerlan or someone asks?”

  “They might know my face, but not my name. And I wore gloves, so there will be no fingerprints or any aetheric residue they can use to find me.”

  “You’re the best,” says Candy.

  Brigitte winks at her.

  I look at Julie.

  “Any chance I could get Vincent’s knife back?”

  Julie frowns.

  “Why?”

  “It’s not a very good reason.”

  “Then why should I give it to you?”

  “Because maybe it will look different after our trip to Murphy Ranch.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Also, I had a funny dream about it.”

  “He has these dreams sometimes,” says Candy. “Sometimes they mean he should have taken an aspirin before bed, but sometimes they mean something.”

  Julie goes to a file cabinet, takes out a key, and unlocks it. From the bottom drawer, she removes the knife and brings it back to the desk. I pick it up, turn it over in my hands.

  “Well?” she says. “Any vibrations from the spirit realm?”

  “Not yet. Can I keep it for a ­couple of days?”

  Julie sighs.

  “Just be careful with it. Besides Vincent’s clothes, it’s our only piece of physical evidence.”

  “What did the Vigil techs tell you about it?” says Candy.

  Julie picks up her coffee cup, sets it down again in a gesture of exasperation.

  “Nothing. No one would touch it. They know I’m working with Stark on the case and that makes it too hot for them to handle.”

  “You always make an impression, Jimmy,” says Brigitte.

  “That’s what my mom said.”

  I put the knife in my coat pocket.

  “I have a question about Tamerlan,” I say. “If he’s involved with this Wormwood thing, doesn’t it make sense that I was right and he’s working with the White Light Legion? It makes sense. He’s the brains and they’re the muscle. The enforcers.”

  Julie says, “Then why wasn’t he at the ceremony at Murphy Ranch? From what Varg said, it sounds like the woman, Sigrun, could have been performing the ritual.”

  “And he specifically said he didn’t see anyone who looked like Tamerlan at the ceremony,” says Candy.

  “He’s deeper in this thing than we know yet, I’m sure of it. And he’s part of what happened on Wonderland Avenue. What if those ­people owed him money, or owed Wormwood, and he sent his thugs to get them? Maybe it doesn’t relate directly to this case, but it’s something we could use as pressure against him to get some answers.”

  Brigitte takes a piece of paper from her purse and sets it on the desk.

  “One of the gentlemen I chatted with was good enough to give me Tamerlan’s contact information.”

  Julie snatches the paper off the desk before I can get near it. Too late, though. I already saw the address. She puts the paper in a drawer.

  “I have an assignment for you, Stark,” she says. “Starting tomorrow, I want you to shadow each of Brigitte’s necromancer contacts. Maybe one of them will reveal something without meaning to.”

  “Stake out six ­people? How am I supposed to do that?”

  “One at a time,” she says.

  I sit back in my chair.

  “This is just busywork, while you and Candy do the big-­brain stuff.”

  “We need to keep you from playing in traffic,” says Candy.

  “Or getting stung by a bee,” says Brigitte.

  “You know, you two should do a ventriloquist act. You can take turns being the dummy.”

  Julie says, “It’s only busywork if that’s what you make it. Real investigative work isn’t always exciting, but seeing ­people at unguarded moments can be key to finding out what they’re really up to.”

  “I suppose you want reports on everyone. Write down everything I see.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “What if all I see is the idiots reading palms and going to McDonald’s for Shamrock Shakes?”

  “Then write that down. The smallest thing might be helpful as the case progresses.”

  “If I’m right and Tamerlan is at the center of this, you owe me a drink,” I say.

  Julie considers it.

  “All right. And if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not. But if I am, you get free rentals at Max Overdrive.”

  “I’m not really a movie person. I’m more of an ESPN person.”

  “I used to run Hell and now I’m working for a jock.”

  “I used to be a U.S. marshal and now I’m working with a felon.”

  Candy raises a ­couple of fingers and says, “Two felons.”

  “Two felons.”

  Julie looks at Brigitte.

  “I don’t suppose you’re a felon too?”

  “No. Merely an ex-­pornographer.”

  Julie looks into the distance and sips her coffee.

  “It could be worse,” I say.

  “How?”

  I think for a minute.

  “Actually, I’m not sure. But I’ll think of something and put it in my report.”

  “I can’t wait to read it.”

  “I can’t wait to make it up.”

  STARTING TOMORROW I’LL be a potted plant. Humpty-­Dumpty sitting in a car, making notes, eating donuts, watching my gut get big, and wanting to blow my brains out. But until then, no one told me what to do.

  I leave Candy at home, happily pecking away at the laptop. This is the first time I haven’t missed her since we started this case and she decided she liked data better than kicking in doors. She doesn’t need to go where I’m going. It’s not the worst place in L.A. It just smells the worst.

  I drive out to Echo Park and leave the Crown Vic by the arboretum in Elysian Park, a sprawling patch of green near the 5 Freeway. On the east side of the park, just about under the freeway, is a greasy-­spoon diner called Lupe’s. Supposedly Lupe Vélez used to eat there in the thirties, back when it was a chic spot for movie stars to slum. They say she ate her last meal here just before she took eighty Seconal and lay down for one last long nap.

  Next to Lupe’s is an auto wrecking yard with no name I’ve ever been able to find. Out front is a hand-­painted sign that says WRECKERS, and that’s it. No hours. No phone number or address. Above the razor-­wire-­topped fences you can see piles of dead, rusting car bodies. Through the fence are wooden bins full of greasy axles, dusty brake drums, carburetors, and a hundred other parts. Everything you’d need to fix or assemble a car. But I’ve never seen anyone inside, and don’t know anyone who’s seen a sign of life from the place. No one even knows how long it’s been there. As far as anyone can remember, it’s always been in this spot, even when they were originally building the freeway. But I’m not here for Lupe’s or Wreckers. I’m here for what lies between them.

  Piss Alley.

  It’s exactly as fragrant as its name, but the smell doesn’t seep into the street or bother the diners at Lupe’s. You have to go into Piss Alley to get a hit of the pure product, and, man, what a product it is. It’s like all the toilets in L.A. take a detour through the alley on the way to Piss Heaven. It smells like ammonia and rotten meat. It doesn’t matter how many times you go into Piss Alley, it’s always a shock. Your eyes water, your nose runs, and your stomach says, “You weren’t planning on ever eating again, were you?”

  I hold my breath and take a step between Lupe’s and Wreckers. I’m nauseous for a second. This is why ­people used to think that smells—­miasmas—­caused disease. If smells could kill, Piss Alley would make a nuke seem like a car backfire on the
Fourth of July. There’s only one reason Piss Alley is allowed to exist and why morons like me come here.

  It grants wishes.

  The way I look at it is this: I can’t shadow-­walk anymore, but I need to go places, get past doors, guards, and alarms. Even Mustang Sally, the highway sylph who knows every road, turn, and shortcut on the continent, can’t help me with that. I need something more direct and desperate. I need Piss Alley.

  Asking for a wish is easy. Getting it granted isn’t. The Alley has to be in the right mood and you have to ask the right way. But the basic process is easy.

  The walls of Piss Alley are covered with scrawls in paint, chalk, pencil, even blood. You just write your wish on the wall and hope for the best. Of course, just like the rest of the world, a bribe helps. There’s a ’32 black Duesenberg halfway down the alley. The front end is crushed like it was in a head-­on collision, but the passenger compartment and rear are still somewhat intact. The trunk lock is long gone. It’s held closed by a loop of rusting wire. I twist it and get the trunk open.

  If anything, the trunk smells worse than the alley. A swarm of flies rushes by my head, taking a break from feasting on old food offerings and the animals that dined on them and died in the trunk. I set a bottle of Aqua Regia in a clear spot by a tire well and wire the trunk closed again. Then I start on the wall.

  There isn’t a clear inch on the bricks to ask for a new favor. No problem. I get out the black blade and carve my message over the old ones.

  I want to Shadow-­Walk.

  There’s a present on the altar.

  I saved the world. You fucking owe me.

  Not exactly Walt Whitman, but I think Piss Alley will get the gist. There’s nothing to do now but wait and see if it wants what I’m selling.

  I go back to the car at the arboretum and drive back home with the windows open, letting my bruised sinuses fill with healing L.A. smog. I stop by Donut Universe to pick up a bag of greasy death. Every time I come here, I think about Cindil. She worked at the place until she was murdered. I rescued her from Hell and I need to give her a call. Adjusting to life back on Earth can be a little . . . well, look at me.

  Back at Max Overdrive, I give Candy first crack at the donuts. I take an apple fritter, and Kasabian and Vincent descend on the rest like cruise missiles. They’re watching a weird version of Spider-­Man I’ve never seen before.