I pop some PTSD pills.
I have to make another call, but I smoke a Malediction instead. Giving myself a few minutes to calm down. When I finish and toss the butt out the window, I dial Janet’s number. Brigitte answers.
“Hello, Jimmy. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Is everything all right over there?”
“Everything is fine. I’m just staying with Janet for a few days. We’re practicing for my Immigration interview.”
“That’s great. Good luck. But why are you answering their phone?”
When she speaks, she does so quietly.
“Jimmy, I’m afraid that Janet doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
That stomach-tightening feeling again.
“Did they say why?”
“No. I’m sure things will be fine. They just need a little time and quiet right now.”
“Is this a brush-off? Is ‘time and quiet’ a way of saying they don’t want to see me again?”
“No. It’s nothing like that,” says Brigitte, so calmly and reasonably that I don’t believe a word of it. “They’re just exhausted after what happened the other night.”
“The suicide or me?”
“They didn’t say. Does it matter?”
I want to say something, but my throat is dry and I’ve run out of words.
Brigitte breaks the silence.
“Janet loves you. Don’t doubt that. Just give them some time. I’ll be here to make sure they’re taken care of.”
“Do you have your gun with you?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Take care of them for me.”
“I will.”
“And take care of yourself. If either of you need me—”
“I understand. But I should go. Goodbye for now, Jimmy.”
“Tell them I— Dammit.”
This time, I’m the one talking when the phone clicks off.
I sit there on the bed feeling foolish and angry and completely confused by the world. After the craziness last night, I thought that today I might get a day off from the shitstorm. But, if anything, the situation is even worse.
At least I have that pile of movies from Max Overdrive. If Fuck Hollywood moves out, I get the feeling I’ll be spending a lot of time alone for a while.
Later in the afternoon, the healing hoodoo has worked and my head remains blissfully unexploded, so I head over to Bamboo House of Dolls. Just before I leave, I remember to put my mask on.
Fuck Hollywood is already inside with Carlos and there’s a line of early birds forming outside. Some of them aren’t wearing masks. They’re happily smoking and talking. After all these weeks they don’t give a fuck anymore and I can’t blame them. I feel the same way. Of course, half of them will be coughing up their lungs by the weekend, but they’ll have a good time tonight. Or, rather, a good time somewhere else. There’s no way I’m letting them into the bar.
It’s a quiet afternoon checking IDs, chatting up the regulars, and posing for the occasional always-annoying selfie. But things are easy and smooth and no one tries to cut the line. How well behaved we’ve trained our customers to be. I guess when you see enough murders while sipping a piña colada you learn to listen.
Things go on like that beyond sundown and into the evening. Right after I let Kasabian in, a couple of people down the line start coughing. The crowd parts around them, trying to get some distance.
I say, “Coughers can go home. No coughers inside.”
One of them steps out of line. A young sharp-dressed guy. Frat boy. Tech bro. Maybe just a general nuisance with money. He says, “It’s just allergies.”
“Go home, take a pill, and try again tomorrow. You’re not getting in tonight.”
The nuisance heads my way, followed by three friends.
When he gets to me, he pulls his mask down to talk.
I reach out and pull the mask back up on his face. That doesn’t help the situation, but I don’t need him spewing all over the rest of the crowd.
He snatches the mask off completely and says, “We came all the way up from Santa Ana to see this shithole and we’re not leaving without having a drink.”
“Santa Ana? Why don’t you go back down south and sneak a pint in Disneyland? That’ll make you feel edgy too, Beaver Cleaver.”
The crowd laughs, but Beaver doesn’t. He looks like he wants to take a swing at me. And why not? He has three friends backing him up. One of them is skinny, with ropey muscles on his arms. That guy is stronger than he looks in his flashy clothes. His dark eyes look a little funny. Is he high or is he a little crazy? I look back at Beaver. His eyes are fine. His heartbeat is up a little. From fear or excitement? Normally I can tell from his sweat smell, but he’s got on so much cologne I can’t get a reading. It can’t be on purpose, can it?
I look back at Crazy Eyes and the two other guys. They’re all ready for a fight. Ready to bum-rush me when Beaver gives the word. Which makes me wonder something bad. The trouble we had with the Shoggots the other night? What if this is round two and these boys are the pretty ones without scars that Abbot talked about? There’s no way I’m going to let them make the first move.
I shove Beaver back into two of his friends, grab the na’at, and form it into a whip. Snag Crazy Eyes around the neck and pull him to me. There’s one good thing. He’s capable of being surprised. His heartbeat jumps to around a thousand a minute. That’s good. A fear response. But his eyes are crazier than ever. I tighten the na’at around his throat a little and say, “Tell the King and his toadies they’re not welcome here.”
Beaver yells, “What are you doing? Are you nuts? Let go of him.” But he’s all talk. He doesn’t move an inch away from his other friends. That’s another good sign. Shoggots might be murderous, brain-eating piss weasels, but they’re not cowards. Maybe I read these boys wrong.
Still, though.
Crazy Eyes is starting to look a little frantic. Not breathing will do that to you.
“Please,” he squeaks at me.
“What’s your name?”
“Ronald.”
“Show me your ID.”
He fumbles in his jacket for a few seconds. I keep a good eye on him. The moment I think he’s going for a weapon, I can use the na’at to snap his neck. But he gives me his wallet and I don’t have to kill him. I flip it open to his driver’s license.
“What’s your last name, Ronald?”
“Topor.”
I look at Crazy Eyes hard and say, “Did the King tell you to come back and finish what started the other night?”
His weird eyes dart around like they’re trying to escape his skull. This guy is high. He’s also on the verge of tears. Next to his driver’s license is a student ID. This is no Shoggot. I loosen the na’at and put it away. Close his wallet.
“I don’t know about your friends, but you’re underage, Ronald.”
I throw his wallet down the street.
“Fetch. And don’t come back.”
Beaver picks up Ronald’s wallet and points at me.
“You’re crazy, man. I’m calling the cops.”
“Please do. I’m sure LAPD would love to meet some fresh-faced dummies like you.”
The four of them wander down the street, cursing and throwing around bags of trash. Once they’re far enough away that I’m certain they’re not coming back, I stick my head in the bar. Come back out and say, “Sorry, everyone. We can only let a few people in at a time and the place is full. You’re going to have to wait a little while for someone to leave.”
There’re a lot of disappointed noises from the crowd, but no one budges. The bar can hold more folks, but I’m sick of looking at people without masks and being jumpy about who might or might not be a Shoggot, so I go inside to cool off.
Carlos sets a drink on the bar when he sees me. I look around the room for anybody getting too close to anyone else, but it’s all good little drinkers tonight. Kasabian brought a plastic straw with him so he can keep his ma
sk on while he drinks Scotch. Carlos points to him with a pint glass.
“I was telling him about those fake cop pendejos from the other night.”
Kasabian does a theatrical shudder.
“I had to make him stop. The whole cutting-off-heads thing. It’s triggering for me, you know?”
I lean on the bar and sip my bourbon.
“It was extra triggering for Charlotte and Babadook,” I say.
Kasabian rubs his neck.
“Poor schmucks. What a lousy way to go.”
Fuck Hollywood comes by with a tray full of empties. Her hands look red and raw from scratching.
I say, “Did you get your hand cream?”
“I’ll get some on the way home.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“Cool.”
Carlos touches my arm.
“What was that song the cop sang? You know. The one who got away.”
“They sang a song?” says Kasabian. “Like a song song?”
I touch my face where Sawney Bean shot me.
“She sang it and so did the crazy in my building. I mean, it’s not much of a song. Just a line or two.”
“No way. You two are fucking with me,” Kasabian says.
Carlos says, “I can’t sing for shit. You sing it to him, Stark.”
“What makes you think I can sing?”
“When I sing, birds die. It’s a terrible thing. You don’t want to hear it.”
“Fine.” I take a gulp of bourbon and half-sing, half-mumble, “All I ever heard was ‘Rum-tiddley-um-tum-tay.’”
Kasabian gives me a funny look.
“Sing it again.”
“No. Now you’re fucking with me.”
“Seriously. One more time.”
“If you laugh, I’m taking your head off again.”
He looks at me.
“Triggering.”
I say, “Sorry,” and say the stupid line again.
He gets thoughtful for a minute, then he says, “I know that from somewhere. Some old English movie. It’s a music hall song. I can’t remember who sang it. Helen something? Helen Trish? No. Helen Trix.”
“Do you know the rest of it?” says Carlos.
“A bit. But I can’t sing either.”
“You don’t have to sing it,” I say. “Just say the words.”
He takes a breath and thinks.
“Rum-tiddley-um-tum-tay,
Out for the day today.
Nobody cares what people think or say.
Our little lot’s okay,
In our little tin-pot way.
Rum-tiddley-um-tum-tay.”
Fuck Hollywood heads out back with a garbage bag, gnawing on a broken fingernail.
“What the holy fuck does that mean?” says Carlos, making a face at Kasabian.
Kasabian says, “I told you. It’s a dance hall song. Everything is about being happy and what a good time everybody is having.”
“I guess it makes sense,” I say. “‘Nobody cares what people think or say’ sounds like them.”
“And the ‘our little lot’s okay’ part,” says Carlos. “They’re having a party while we’re just trying not to breathe the wrong way.”
“Do they wear masks?” Kasabian says.
I think about it for a minute.
“Yeah. The ones I’ve seen.”
“So they must be scared too.”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s camouflage. Or who dies and who doesn’t is just part of the game. The way they decorate their masks, it’s like Halloween in the psych ward.”
I leave Carlos and Kasabian talking and go back outside to let a few more people inside. Everyone waits their turn, wears their masks, and, in general, behaves themselves until closing.
After he’s locked the door, Carlos looks at the tables. They’re overflowing with glasses and beer bottles and napkins.
“Where’s Fuck Hollywood?” he says. “She’s really falling down on things tonight.”
He goes back to the kitchen and comes out shrugging. I knock on the restroom door and yell, “You in there? Are you okay?”
Kasabian says, “The last time I saw her she was taking the trash out back.”
I head outside with Carlos and Kasabian right behind me. I should have taken the trash out. If there was a Shoggot hiding out here and they hurt her, I swear I’ll use every bit of arena magic I know to make them suffer. Then drag them to Hell and throw them in Tartarus—the Hell below Hell—forever.
I find her crouched on her haunches, her head down, by the dumpster. She’s talking very quietly to herself. When I’m a few feet behind her I say, “Hey. Are you okay?”
Her head pops up when she hears me.
She says, “It’s so good.”
“What’s so good?”
That’s when I see the blood on the ground around her. I rush over and she holds up her hands. Her face and lips are covered in blood. She’s gnawed off half of her left pinkie and is working on the flesh between her index finger and thumb.
“Help me,” she whispers. Then dreamily, “It’s so good,” and bites herself again.
I grab her and pull her head back from her hand. She doesn’t resist, but she comes away with a little more flesh between her teeth. When I get my arms around her, she collapses against me.
She says, “Help me. It’s so good.”
When Carlos sees us, he curses and runs back inside for the first-aid kit. Kasabian just stands there like a stunned deer saying “Oh god,” over and over.
I spot something on the ground by Fuck Hollywood’s foot.
“Kas, get over here.”
He creeps up on us like he thinks we’re snakes. I point to something on the ground by the dumpster’s front wheel.
“Get that.”
“What is it?” he says.
“Don’t think about it. Just get it and give it to me.”
He reaches for it, still in that scaredy-cat “Will this bite me?” way that’s beginning to piss me off.
When he reaches it, he says, “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. Just get it and hand it to me.”
Slowly, he kneels down and picks up Fuck Hollywood’s pinkie. He tries to hand it to me, but shudders like he’s going to throw up. At least he has the brains to throw the finger to me before he runs down the alley to spew up all of his expensive Scotch.
When Carlos gets back, he puts antibiotic cream on her wounds and wraps both of her fucked-up hands in layers of gauze.
“No!” yells Fuck Hollywood. “It’s so good. Let me go.” If Allegra was here she could shoot her up with a sedative. All I can do is whisper some hoodoo and knock her out. She’ll wake up with a hell of a hangover, but it will keep her down for now.
Carlos pulls out his keys.
“I’ll drive her to the hospital.”
“No. We can’t trust them anymore.”
“Then what?”
“What about Allegra’s?” says Kasabian.
“She closed. Fuck it. I’ll take her back to my place and figure out something from there. You’re coming with me,” I tell Kasabian.
He looks a little panicky.
“Why me?”
“Fuck him,” says Carlos. “I’ll go and call Ray. Maybe he can do something to help.”
“Great.”
“Then what do I do?” Kasabian says.
Carlos tosses him the keys to the bar.
“You close up.”
“How do I do it?”
“You know how to lock a fucking door, right?” shouts Carlos.
“I can do that.”
I pick up Fuck Hollywood. It feels like she weighs nothing.
“I’m sorry I can’t help more,” says Kasabian. He folds his arms over his hands. “It’s—all that blood. I just can’t.”
“I get it. You just got your body back,” I say. “Go lock up the bar and go home. Tell Candy I might call her later.”
“Why?”
“Just fucking do it,” I
shout.
He runs off as I grab Carlos and pull him into a shadow.
At my place, I carry Fuck Hollywood inside and put her in bed. Me and Carlos stand over her doing nothing like a couple of witless gargoyles.
“What the fuck happened to her?” Carlos says.
“It’s called autophagia. The virus does it. She probably got infected when goddamn Buzzard was breathing all over her the other night.”
He puts a hand on her forehead.
“What do I do? I don’t know how to help her.”
“You call Ray. He helped me when I was sick.”
“Right. Good idea.”
He gets out his phone as I dial Candy.
It takes a few rings for her to answer and her voice is unsteady with sleep.
“Stark? What’s wrong? It’s the middle of the night.”
“I’m sorry. Can you come over to my place right now?”
“What’s wrong?” she says, sounding sharper.
“Fuck Hollywood is hurt bad. But we can’t take her to the hospital because there might be crazies there. Can you come over?”
“Sure, but why me? Shouldn’t you call Allegra?”
“Because I have to go out and I need a stone killer to protect everyone in case the wrong people show up. Can you do that for me?”
“You know I can,” she says, wide awake.
“Call Allegra when you get here. See if you can get her to come over with her doctor gear. And tell her to bring her Devil’s Daisy.”
“How about you? Are you okay?”
“Not even a little.”
“I know I can’t stop you from going out, so take care of yourself.”
“I’m not the one who needs help.”
“Yes, you are,” says Candy. “I’ve heard you like this before. You’re about to explode. Whatever it is you’re doing, let me come along and help.”
“I need you here more. So does Fuck Hollywood.”
I hear her breathe for a few seconds, trying to figure out a way to stop me from going out. A moment later she says, “Okay. Go. But don’t do anything too stupid.”
“This might be the smartest stupid thing I’ve ever done.”
“That’s not comforting. Just go and come back alive.”
“I promise.”
I make sure I have the black blade and check the na’at. Pop the cylinder on the Colt to make sure it’s fully loaded. Then I whisper some hoodoo and put on a glamour so no one will recognize me.
King Bullet Page 9