King Bullet

by Richard Kadrey

  Janet comes back a few seconds later with something about the size of a tube of lipstick.

  They say, “Move the bandage.”

  I drop my hand with the bandage to my side.

  “What is that?” I say.

  “Stop talking and hold your face still. I don’t want to have to do this twice.”

  They pinch my cheek hard enough that it hurts.

  “Excuse me, but ow.”

  “Be quiet, baby. This is all your fault.”

  They put something over the bullet hole. It stings a little and now that part of my face feels stiff.

  Janet says, “There. That will close the wound long enough to get you some proper care.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Stop moving your face around. For your information, I superglued the damn wound closed. My uncle used to do it when one of my redneck cousins got hurt deer hunting. If you don’t move around too much it will hold for a while.”

  I talk through gritted teeth, trying not to move my face.

  “How long do I have to sit like this?”

  “Not too long. It sets pretty quickly.”

  “So. Redneck cousins.”

  “Yep. Piles of them.”

  “But you were never a country mouse.”

  “Nope. A city mouse all the way.”

  “Lucky me.”

  Janet smiles.

  “Damn right, lucky you.” They take my face in their hands and inspect the bullet hole. “I guess that’s a new scar for the collection.”

  “I just get prettier and prettier.”

  “I think so.”

  They lean down and give me a peck on the lips.

  I say, “That’s it?”

  “Until you get that hole in your face fixed.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I pull their mail from my coat pocket.

  “Here. You missed this.”

  Janet glances at it and tosses it on a table.

  “Thanks. I guess I rushed inside when I got home.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “Nothing to me. One of my neighbors was shot last night right out front.”

  The stains on the front steps.

  “A woman downstairs said that they didn’t even rob him. Just shot him and danced before someone called the cops.”

  I take Janet’s hand.

  “You’re lucky you live near the college. LAPD doesn’t even bother with Hollywood anymore.”

  “Lucky me. Woo-hoo.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know. I’m just tired of being scared all the time.”

  “I saw the tags outside. More than the last time I was over.”

  “There are more every day,” they say.

  “Have you seen a particular one—a skull with a target and a crown?”

  “I haven’t really been looking, but no. Why?”

  “One of them is who shot me.”

  They squeeze my hand.

  “You have to be more careful.”

  I pull Janet down onto my lap.

  “Don’t worry about me. Or yourself. I’ll take care of you. If you want, you can move in with me for a while.”

  They kiss the cheek that doesn’t have a massive hole in it and get up.

  “Thanks. But I can’t. All of my work is here. I can’t just haul my equipment across town. Your place isn’t big enough.”

  They’re right. The apartment is Frankenstein’s lab of synthesizers, wires, and computers. It might all fit it in my place, but only if I got rid of the furniture. And the shower. And Fuck Hollywood.

  I go over and put my arms around them.

  “Listen—all this shit that’s happening? It’s all typical L.A. craziness, just amped up by how the virus has fucked the city and the cops pretty much taking a powder. Hell, some of what’s happening might be LAPD itself. They’re screaming for more money and they love chaos. It makes them look good when they fix anything. Like someone starting a fire and then putting it out. Instant heroes.”

  “You really think so?” Janet says. “I mean, I see gang signs everywhere. All over school. Ambulances. Even city hall and cop cars too.”

  “There’s your answer.”

  Their eyebrow goes up in a question.

  “Camouflage. Cops tag their own cars and scare everyone. After that, they can get away with anything they want.”

  They shake their head sadly and go into the kitchen to wipe the spilled tea off the counter.

  “You’re taking all of this really well. You got shot. Someone gets murdered outside. There are rats and flies everywhere and you sit there telling me it’s all an illusion.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s all real. It’s just that in this town it’s old news.”

  “Not for me it isn’t. I’m scared.”

  I shut up for a minute and try to think about things from Janet’s point of view. Hell, any normal person’s point of view. Maybe the filth, the bugs, and the drive-bys don’t bother me because I spent all those years in Hell. It’s chaos there 24/7. I’m too used to crazies and bodies in the streets. Civilians aren’t like that. Most of them have only seen a riot on TV. They’ve never felt or smelled raw animal fear. Now L.A. is a suburb of Hell and I keep expecting people to just roll with it. I need to change my thinking if I’m going to take care of myself and my friends.

  I follow Janet into the kitchen.

  “Come and stay at my place. Just for a couple of days. Me and Fuck Hollywood will feed you all the pizza you can eat.”

  They take my hand and kiss my ragged knuckles.

  “I have to work. The Luis Buñuel festival is this weekend. I’m scoring L’Age D’or for an online concert.”

  “Okay. Then why don’t I stay here?”

  They think about it for a few seconds.

  “That might be nice.”

  “I can do some hoodoo to keep the apartment and the building safe.”

  “That would be nice.”

  “Can I have a better kiss now?”

  They come over and plant a very nice kiss on my lips. Then pull me into the bedroom, where we don’t break any furniture, but we do pretty good. Afterward, they put on more of the damn superglue so I’m not allowed to talk for a while.

  Still, through gritted teeth, I say, “What’s happening with Brigitte?”

  Before the epidemic, Janet married Brigitte so she could stay in the country. The two have been dealing with Immigration ever since. They even lived together in Janet’s cramped apartment for a couple of weeks to get used to how they’d interact as a couple. They’re completely prepared for an Immigration interview whenever it happens.

  “Absolutely nothing. We might have a Skype meeting with an official in a couple of weeks, but they’ve had to reschedule twice. They keep losing people too.”

  “Fuckers. Brigitte should have her green card by now.”

  “I agree.”

  “How’s she taking it?”

  Janet rests their head on their hands.

  “All right. Frustrated. Scared sometimes. But mostly all right.”

  “Let me know the moment you hear anything.”

  “Of course. Hey, you want to hear some of the music I wrote for the show this weekend?”

  I look at the clock.

  “I do, but I’m late for Bamboo House of Dolls. Play it for me when I get back?”

  “Of course.”

  They put a fresh bandage on my face and I kiss them one more time.

  “See you tonight.”

  I get to Bamboo House around three, a little before it opens for the afternoon crowd. Charlotte and a crazy ex-pat Brit in a top hat who calls himself Babadook are out front flanking the door. They’re hired muscle Carlos called in a few weeks ago to keep the crazies and the no-mask crowd outside. Between them they have enough meat to build a Brahma bull, but, like a lot of giants with nothing to prove to anyone, they’re sweet as apple pie. Charlotte, an aspiring MMA fighter, gi
ves me a little finger wave when she sees me. Babadook puts out his grizzly bear–size hand to shake. Before he lets go, he pulls me in a little bit.

  “Oi. You got any of those funny cigarettes of yours? The ones that smell like a yak’s ass combusting?”

  I take out a couple of Maledictions. He’s the only civilian I’ve ever met who likes them as much as I do. I’ve never told him where they come from because he’d probably want to meet Samael or go to Hell with me on a shopping spree.

  He accepts the cigarettes and says, “Cheers, mate.” Then, “What’s up with your face? I mean you’re an ugly bloke, but today you’re top-drawer hideous.”

  Charlotte rolls her eyes.

  “Jesus, Babadook. He doesn’t look that bad.”

  “Are you kidding? My dog died when he saw Freddy Krueger and he isn’t half as homely as this geezer.”

  Charlotte and I can’t help but laugh. Babadook is always like this. I don’t know if he used to be a bouncer or a street hawker, but he could talk the stripes off a zebra, then hug it if it cried.

  “It’s okay, Charlotte,” I say. “To answer your question, Babadook, I had a disagreement with a bullet.”

  They both perk up at that.

  Charlotte says, “Really? Can I see?”

  “Yeah. Give us a peek, Elephant Man.”

  “Maybe later. I have to get inside.”

  Charlotte claps me on the back as Babadook tugs up one side of his surgical mask and lights a Malediction.

  “Oh no,” she tells him. “Change places with me. If you’re going to smoke those things, you’re going to stand downwind.”

  He bows and they switch.

  “Always happy to accommodate a lady.”

  I head inside while Charlotte, an ex-smoker, goes into great detail about what Babadook is doing to his lungs.

  These days, I work part-time at Bamboo House with Carlos. Sometimes I do little jobs for Thomas Abbot, the head of all Sub Rosa business in California. But he hasn’t given me many jobs since the thing with a rogue angel named Zadkiel. I tried not to kill her, but she tried even harder to kill me, so I didn’t have any choice. Before she died, she said, “I’ve done something awful.” I sometimes wonder if the virus is her gift to the city. Anyway, until something big comes up, I’m slinging drinks with Carlos. Sometimes playing bouncer. The epidemic hit Bamboo House hard, so mostly I’m there to bring in customers. Hell, sometimes I’ll even take selfies with people who aren’t too obnoxious about it.

  Fuck Hollywood, with her Mohawk plastered straight up, is busing the few occupied tables. When she looks up, I say, “Is tonight the night?”

  “A hundred percent,” she says.

  The plan is that after we close up tonight, we’re murdering her ex’s skateboard, her last connection to Buzzard. It will be good for her. A ritual death. Cut him out of her life completely.

  The bar is about a quarter full with Lurkers and civilians. We could fill the place twice over, but social distancing and all that garbage. Mostly, people come in for to-go drinks. The rest sip their cocktails and beers under their masks through straws. No one is sure any of this is legal, but the cops are too busy causing trouble to bother with a few wayward martinis.

  A pretty woman in black lipstick and big round sunglasses to match comes up to the bar. Trickster tattoos cover her toned arms.

  “Yuzu-sansho sour, please,” she says to me.

  “I don’t know what any of those words mean.”

  Carlos says, “I’ve got it, you savage.”

  Carlos does the cocktails. I mostly pour beer and shots.

  With the shades, the woman looks like a starlet trying not to be recognized. When Carlos gives her the drink, she flashes a million-dollar smile and slides the cash across the bar to me.

  “Keep it,” she says.

  Her phone number is on a small piece of paper under the bills. I smile, wad it up, and throw it in the trash with all the others. It’s nice to be well thought of by someone, but life is complicated enough right now.

  I keep the tip, though.

  Things continue on in their ordinary way for most of the night. Me and Carlos deal with drinks and Fuck Hollywood takes care of any food orders. Everybody is masked and so well behaved it could be Sunday school.

  The place gets about half-full when the evening crowd shows up. Half-full is all Carlos will let in these days. Really, for a day that started with getting shot in the face, it’s turned into something pleasant. And I get to hear Janet’s music later.

  It’s somewhere around nine when something happens outside. The whole bar hears it. Screams. A couple of gunshots. Then people burst through the door and rush inside, getting as far from the front of the place as possible. Fuck Hollywood is young and wild enough to think she’s bulletproof. She runs to the door to see what’s going on.

  When she doesn’t come back, I feel for the black blade in my boot and pull the Colt from my waistband at the back. I have the gun out when a couple of L.A.’s finest come in wearing surgical masks. The first cop is dragging Fuck Hollywood with him by the hair.

  But there’s something wrong with the cops. Their uniforms don’t fit right. They’re torn and spotted with dried blood around what look like bullet holes. And then there’s the fact that the second cop is carrying two severed heads—Charlotte and Babadook—over to the bar, where she drops them. The cop pulls down the surgical mask and surveys the room. The cop is a woman—teeth stained black and with large, ugly hooks through both cheeks. The wounds look recent, and infected. It’s obvious she’s a Shoggot, which explains the ill-fitting uniforms. She and the other creep stole them from some cops they killed. Smart. Even these days, people open their doors for cops. Her name tag reads “Despentes.”

  I look at Fuck Hollywood. The other cop still has her by the hair.

  “You okay?”

  “I think so. I don’t know.”

  Officer Despentes looks at the 9mm in my hand and grins.

  She says, “Two Shirley Temples, darling.”

  I point the pistol right between her eyes.

  “Outside. Right now. Just you, me, and Deputy Dawg over there.”

  The cop holding Fuck Hollywood by the hair pulls down his mask.

  He’s even uglier than Miss America over here. His nose is gone. Like it was hacked off. There’s just a wet void in the middle of his face. And the face. It’s melted and waxen, like someone stuck it into a fryer for a few minutes. Still, Jason Voorhees–ugly as the guy is, Fuck Hollywood squirms around a little to get a better look at him.

  She says, “Buzzy?”

  “Miss me, baby?” says the cop.

  It’s Buzzard, the worthless skate rat. I wonder if this was his idea. He’s got the same crazy eyes as Sawney Bean. Did Fuck Hollywood leave him because he was always this crazy or is he just another brain turned to clam chowder by the virus?

  “Let her go,” I say to Buzzard.

  He yanks her hard so that when she yells, he can put the barrel of his Glock into her mouth.

  Murmurs from around the room.

  I say, “I swear to god, kid—”

  Despentes drums her fingers impatiently on Babadook’s head.

  “How about those drinks, handsome? Also, lay the gun on the bar.”

  “I wouldn’t piss in a teacup for you.”

  “Stark,” says Carlos, a warning in his voice.

  I look at Fuck Hollywood’s frantic eyes, then back to Despentes.

  “What was it you wanted?”

  “I wanted Shirley Temples. But now I’m bored.”

  “There’s the door.”

  “No,” she says, pouting. “I want to play a game.”

  “People come here to drink, not play games. I’ll make you your drinks.”

  She pulls her pistol. It’s an older one. A revolver. She points it at Carlos.

  “I want to play, or I’ll make more of these.”

  She elbows Charlotte’s head off the bar. It rolls across the room to the cr
owd, which rears back, pressing itself even harder against the back wall.

  “What kind of game?” I say.

  She swings the revolver around, points it at me for a second, pops the cylinder, and empties the bullets.

  “What happened to your face?” she says idly.

  “Which time?”

  “The new one.”

  “I got shot.”

  “Let’s see if we can even you out with one on the other side.”

  She puts one bullet in the cylinder, spins it, slaps it closed, shoves the gun in my face, and pulls the trigger.

  Nothing.

  I say, “I guess it’s not your night. Maybe you should have your drinks and leave.”

  She swings the gun over at Carlos and pulls the trigger.

  Nothing.

  “Fuck,” she screams. “This game isn’t fun. Let’s play another.”

  She opens the gun’s cylinder and puts in a second bullet. Points at Fuck Hollywood for a second. She’s quietly crying while Buzzy grins like a demented clown. Eventually, Despentes sights down at the crowd behind them.

  She pulls the trigger one more time and when nothing happens, she goes nuts, yanking the trigger again until she’s fired both bullets. One goes high and hits the edge of an old X poster. The other shatters a glass hula girl light fixture next to the starlet in sunglasses.

  “That’s more like it,” Despentes says.

  As she loads more shells into the revolver, Buzzard pulls the Glock out of Fuck Hollywood’s mouth to point at something.

  “Look,” he says, and never says anything else because I’ve thrown the black blade and it’s sticking out of his forehead like a goddamn handle on a goddamn skillet. When he crumples onto the floor Despentes fumbles and drops her bullets. But she’s fast. Before I can grab her, she dives onto the floor and grabs Buzzard’s Glock. Starts firing wild, shooting up the whole room. People hit the floor screaming. I stay put as she gets to her feet and runs out the front door.

  No one moves or says anything for what feels like a full minute. Then, as people are slowly getting up off the floor and remembering how to breathe, Despentes comes back in with a balloon on a string. Everyone hits the floor again.

  The balloon is in the shape of a 9mm bullet. She lets it go and it floats to the ceiling.

  “A present for you, sweetheart, from King Bullet. I’ll tell him all about you.”