God, I’m pathetic.
I need some food and some coffee. I stare at what’s on the counter, but none of it looks worth a damn. And the coffeemaker turned itself off, so the sludge at the bottom of the pot is cold. I’m as twitchy as a chicken on a hot plate. I need to get out of here and someplace safe for a while. But I’m not ready for really heavy drinking yet. That leaves one choice.
I step through a shadow and come out in the parking lot by Donut Universe.
I spot Janet through the window. She’s in the last booth along the front of the place, drinking coffee and reading a magazine. I go over and rap on the window with a knuckle; she looks up and smiles when she sees me. Uses the magazine to wave me in. I go inside and straight back to her booth.
It’s after lunch, so the place isn’t crowded. A business type in a suit, tie loose, yammering into his phone. A table of teenyboppers cutting school to load up on sugar. An old guy nodding off in a sunny booth near the back, his coffee and donut untouched.
Janet slides out of the booth when I get there and pecks me on the cheek before pulling me into the booth so I’m sitting across from her. Pecking me on the cheek is a regular thing now. We’ve had coffee a few times and dinner at a sushi place nearby. After dinner, she kissed me hard in the parking lot and I let her. I still feel guilty about it and haven’t mentioned it to Candy. And I feel bad about Janet too. So far, I’ve been able to make excuses not to go back to her place or let her come to mine. How much longer can I do that without feeling like a heel? I already feel like an idiot.
“This is a nice surprise,” she says. “You want some coffee or a fritter?”
I hold up a hand. “Nothing, thanks. I’ve had it with food for the moment.”
She furrows her brow.
“You okay?”
The teenyboppers laugh and I glance over at them. All they need for a party is each other and some shoplifted beer. It must be nice.
I say, “I agreed to something stupid.”
“What?”
“It looks like I’m finally having that movie night at my place tomorrow. Unless I burn it down to get out of it.”
She perks up at that.
“Great. What time should I get there?”
It didn’t really occur to me that I’d stopped by to invite her until I sat down. Sometimes my brain plays tricks on me like that. One half gets ahead of the other and suddenly I’m in a donut place asking a pretty girl to a party I wasn’t sure I wanted to have a minute ago.
“I was thinking around eight.”
She gives me a lopsided grin. “Eight is perfect. Should I show up naked or will there be other people?”
It takes me a second to make sure I heard that right.
“There will be other people.”
She sighs.
“Oh well. Clothes it is then. Do you need any donuts? Because I can bring about a million.”
I shake my head, feeling things getting complicated and wondering if I should burn the house tonight or tomorrow.
“I’m fine on food. In fact, I just picked up some snacks.”
“Really? What?”
“You know. An assortment.”
“Like what, specifically?”
“Tarragon.”
She looks at me.
“Stark, have you ever even been to a party?”
The old man in the corner stirs in his half sleep and I long to be over there with him. Nodding off without a care in the world.
“I freaked out, okay?” I say. “There was a sausage guy and a security guard and soup. All this goddamn soup. I couldn’t take it, so I grabbed some things and left.”
Janet looks out the window with a hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh. She tries to hide it and now I feel worse than before.
When Janet is done finding me hilarious she says, “Would you mind if I brought a couple of things? I mean, it’s my first time at your place. You’re supposed to bring a gift.”
“Really?”
I think about all of my first times going into places since getting back from Downtown. I guess most of them had to do with chasing creeps or asking people hard questions, so, technically, not killing everyone when I walked into a new place was sort of a gift. That makes me feel better.
I say, “Bring something if you want, but I’ve got it covered. I’m going to find somebody to cook a turkey, so we’ll have warm food.”
“A turkey?” she says. “Like Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah. Everybody likes turkey.”
Janet takes a sip of her coffee.
“Huh. Anyway, it will be nice to finally see your place.”
“It’s not really mine. I’m just kind of squatting.”
“But you sleep there, right? You have stuff and no one is throwing you out any time soon.”
“I have a few things. And no, I don’t think so.”
She raises and lowers her shoulders.
“Then it’s your place.”
I like the sound of that. My place.
“Then I’ll see you at my place.”
She checks her watch.
“I have to get back to work.”
I slide out of the booth.
“Sure. Don’t let me keep you.”
Janet stands and gives me another peck, this time on the lips. She uses her thumb to wipe off the lipstick.
“See you tomorrow, Stark. I’m really looking forward to that turkey.”
I go outside into the afternoon sun, feeling a lot better than I did leaving the grocery store.
But I’m having second thoughts about the bird.
I walk back to Las Palmas. Tom Hardy and the bike are gone. All that’s left of our time together is some scrape marks on the street and a small pool of gas. I must have cracked his tank. Good.
I don’t go into Max Overdrive but cut into the alley next to it. Behind the dumpster is something wrapped in a dirty tarp, with stones holding the edges down. I kick the stones away on one side and toss back the tarp. And get my first look at the Hellion Hog in—how long? Well over a year. I would have loved to have it when I was back Downtown, traveling with the Magistrate and the Havoc. It would have burned all those chop-shop bikes and Frankensteined hot rods to the ground. Nothing can catch me on the Hog. I picked it up when I was playing Lucifer and running Hell. One hundred days of weirdness I never want to repeat in this life or any other.
The bike isn’t the kind of thing you pick up at your local dealership, or any custom shop on this plane of existence. The handlebars are wide, swept back, and pointed, like they’re part of an aerodynamic longhorn. When you kick the Hog up high the engine burns cherry red. There isn’t a speedometer because, as far as I know, you can’t top it out. I was never able to, and I pushed it until Hell’s asphalt bubbled and melted behind us. The point is, the bike is a motherfucker. Or it was.
Right now, it looks pretty sad. It’s covered in streaks of dirt where humidity or maybe rain splashed up under the tarp and ran down the sides, leaving dried-up rivers of dirt and dust on the seat and body. There are cobwebs between the spokes on the wheels. Dead leaves and the shriveled carcass of a rat by the back tire. I brush some dust off the seat, swing a leg over, and sit down. Ugly as the Hog is, it still feels good. Like it’s been waiting for me. Vibrating. Waiting to tear up the road again.
We’ll see.
Someone—probably Candy—thoughtfully put a lock on the front tire. Even dead, she was always thinking of me. I can’t stand the idea of going back into the store to ask for the key, so I take out the black blade and slice the thing off in one clean motion. Then I just sit there for a minute, getting a feel for the bike again. Also trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing. I’m too restless to go home and face the tarragon, but I can’t think of anywhere I want to go either.
The Hellion Hog doesn’t have a key because no one can ride it but me. I get a grip on the handlebars and kick the bike to life.
The sound is more like an explosion than an engine starting
. The Hog stutters a few times, blowing out grit and whatever little bugs or hobos were unfortunate enough to nest in the pipes. I rev the engine a few times until the sound dies down to a steady jet-engine growl. With it still running, I climb off and shove the dumpster against the alley wall. Then I roll the bike around it so the front wheel is aimed at the empty street. I should have bought sunglasses while I was at the grocery. The sun coming off the water is going to be murder on my eyes, but it’s a small price to pay to feel something like myself again.
I kick up the stand, shift into gear, and hit the gas. Come out of the alley like a torpedo heading west to nuke Venice Beach. The Hog rattles my bones and teeth. Shatters my eardrums. My heart is going about two hundred beats a minute and I can’t quite catch my breath.
It’s the best feeling in the world.
The Hog is massive, but I don’t care right now. I lane-split through Hollywood traffic, scraping car doors and knocking off side mirrors—a jerk move, but I’m still upset about my shopping fiasco.
At a light, a guy pulls up next to me and points a pistol in my direction. A little pocket nine-millimeter. Adorable. He road rages at me like a jabbering gorilla. From what I can make out, he doesn’t like my driving skills. Of course, he has a point, but he also has a gun, which makes me apologizing out of the question. Anyway, I’m faster than him. When he pauses to take a breath, I snatch the pistol out of his hand and drop it in my coat pocket.
When something like that happens, most sensible people back off and live to scream another day. Not this guy. He wants his gun back and steps out of the car to get it. But the dummy keeps one hand on the driver’s-side door. So, when I kick it closed, his fingers get stuck between the edge of the door and the car body. The light changes and I leave him there with mangled purple fingers and a life lesson I can’t quite figure out. But it will come to me.
To sum up, I got run out of a grocery store by Barney Fife, and I’ve had a knife and a gun pulled on me. Allegra would say it isn’t healthy, but instead of putting me in a worse mood than this morning, today it’s the opposite. I’m back on the Hog; I managed not to get shot, stabbed, or arrested; and I have no idea where I’m going. Just like old times.
I finally decide to head west, toward the ocean. That’ll clear my head. I like the ocean. I don’t get there much, but I like the noise and the waves. I just hate beaches. All those merrily colored coolers and people baking on towels. Zinc oxide on their noses and sand up their asses. College dudes in too fuck to drunk T-shirts and tan girls with bright bikini lines showing off the few inches of skin that aren’t going to get cancer when they turn forty.
I blast up the 101 to the Ventura Freeway and all the way west to Las Virgenes Road, where I head south toward Malibu—land of blue skies, surfers, billionaire beach bunnies, showbiz has-beens, and dope dealer up-and-comers. Plus, the home of my favorite ghoul: Teddy Osterberg.
When I call Teddy a ghoul I don’t mean he’s a creep or anything. He’s a real ghoul—he eats people. Mostly the dead. At one point he was going to eat me, but now he’s dead, so fuck him and all his dirty little secrets.
Lucky for me and the local rich-kid wannabe gangbangers, no one in the Osterberg family wants anything to do with Teddy’s broken-down house or his graveyard collection. I forgot to mention that. Teddy collected graveyards. Brought them in from all over the world, set them up on his estate like trophies. At night, he’d dig up a body and have a feast. Sure, Teddy’s place is in the heart of Malibu, but what Realtor is going to touch a place with this kind of history? And what are they going to do with all the bodies in all the graveyards? There are over a hundred corpses out here. Do you dig them up or pull a Poltergeist and just pretend you did? No, no one is touching Teddy’s playground for a good long time. Which makes it the perfect little getaway for me when I need to clear my head.
The only sounds are the roar of the waves across the road and the low thrum of power lines at the top of the hill where Teddy’s house stands. The low buzz and occasional crackle are oddly soothing. Like ghost whispers or electric blood pumping through miles-long veins. The sounds are another reason I like it here.
There’s a large oak tree up the hill, so I take the short walk to get under its shade. The tree is surrounded by a circle of old tombstones. English. Each one two hundred years old or more. The markers are all jammed together like sliced bread. Someone didn’t want them, but they didn’t want to throw them away either. I don’t know what the hell to make of them.
I’m still thinking about it when a shadow comes up behind me and a familiar voice says, “Shopping for yourself or a friend?”
I turn around to Samael and say, “Just admiring the view.”
He comes closer to the headstones.
“I know a few of these names. Old-timers. But no judgment. Everyone ends up in Hell these days, so what does it really matter?”
“I didn’t dream about Heaven when I was Downtown. I dreamed about L.A., but there were some days I’d have settled for the pearly gates.”
“Funny. In all the time we’ve known each other you never said that before.”
I look around at the other graves.
“I guess with Heaven closed to mortals, it’s been on my mind. Poor slobs living so-called good lives, praying for Heaven and ending up eyeball-deep in shit with all the other losers.”
“It sounds like you actually feel sorry for the righteous.”
“Fuck the righteous. I just don’t like con jobs. You angels built Heaven and Hell, but you don’t want kids playing on your lawns, so you locked everybody out.”
Samael raises a finger.
“I’m not on the side that wants to exclude mortals from Heaven. I’m fighting that faction and you know it.”
“Sorry. I’m just in a mood.”
“Because you lost your lady love?”
I walk across the unkempt lawn and Samael strolls with me.
“That’s not it. Or it’s just a part of it. When you got kicked out of Heaven, didn’t you feel at least a little lost? I know it’s not your style to admit feeling weak, but it’s just you and me here. Didn’t you ever have a moment where you weren’t sure where you belonged?”
He takes a gold lighter and a pack of Maledictions from his jacket. Holds out one to me, lights it, then lights his own. I’m hoping he’ll offer me the pack, but he doesn’t. Maybe my question bothered him.
“No,” he says. “Not back then. Never during our exile from Heaven. We knew—I knew—that demanding free will for angels was a just cause. Father didn’t agree, so he showed us the door. He was like that back then. Look at poor Adam and Eve. One mistake and out you go. But he’s changed. You know that more than just about anyone. You’ve seen it happen.”
I puff the Malediction and let its tasty poison fill my lungs.
“How is Mr. Muninn these days?”
“The war has taken its toll on him, as it’s taken a toll on us all.”
“Still a stalemate then. Heaven is locked. A no-mortal-soul zone.”
“The fighting is a stalemate, but Father keeps talking. It’s frustrating, but he’s ever the negotiator. Ever the optimist.”
“So, nothing has changed. The war is going to go on forever.”
“Foreverish, maybe.”
We stop by a cemetery full of graceful tombs and decorated sculptures. It looks Buddhist. Kids have left offerings of beers and Twinkies nearby. I’m sure they think they’re being ironic, but I bet whatever spirits might haunt this forgotten place are grateful for whatever offerings they get.
Samael continues. “But no war truly lasts forever, even this one. The solution, like many things in life, is figuring out the right angle to approach from.”
“It sounds like you’re planning to trick Heaven away from the rebels.”
At one grave, Samael lights a stick of incense he seemingly pulled from the air and stabs the end into a stone cup filled with sand.
“Nice trick,” I say. “Is that how you’re goin
g to do the grift? Sleight of hand?”
He gives the grave a little bow and now I know he’s showing off.
He says, “Would that be so bad?”
“How would you do it?”
“Who said anything about me?”
I look at him.
“Come on, man.”
He starts to walk away.
“Well, if you’re not interested . . .”
“I didn’t say that. Let’s hear your plan. Also, I’m going to need some incentive.”
He comes back.
“Like what?”
I point my cigarette at him.
“First off, that pack of Maledictions in your pocket.”
“Is that all?” he says, not making a move to give me the pack.
“No, but it’s a start.”
He takes out the pack and tosses it to me. I put it in my pocket and feel the pistol I took from my road rage pal. Having the damn thing annoys me, but I’ll deal with it later.
“Okay,” I tell him. “Let’s hear your plan.”
“There is no plan,” he says. “Just a few scattered thoughts.”
“Now you’re being coy. You always have a plan.”
He starts walking again.
“Have you ever heard of an angel named Zadkiel?”
“Nope.”
“The angel of mercy, benevolence, and forgiveness?”
“Sounds like a lot of laughs, though. What’s their story?”
“A millennium ago, give or take, Father gave her the keys to eternity. Dubbed her the Opener of the Ways. She can do something even Father can’t do at the moment.”
I look at him.
“Open the gates of Heaven?”
“Conceivably. Honestly, I didn’t know her that well. She was always more of Father’s crowd. Always fluttering about Earth. A bit of a shirker, which was the one thing I liked about her.”
“What was she shirking?”
“When I said she was the Opener of the Ways, that was a bit misleading. Her main job was keeping doors closed so that things didn’t bump into each other. Heaven, Hell, and Earth for example. But she also held apart different dimensions and realities. For a long time, she held the Kissi at bay.”
Ballistic Kiss Page 3