I blast a few rounds through the windshield—but only on the passenger side. I have a feeling whoever was interrogating me isn’t the chauffeur type. Closing on the Mercedes, I spray more rounds into the side windows, keeping the driver off balance until I can get there.
I’m at the driver’s door when the rifle goes dry. I ditch it and smash the window with the butt of the pistol. There’s a woman inside with her hand in her coat.
I put my gun to her head.
“Take out your hand slowly and put them both on the steering wheel.”
She does what I say. She has short blond hair and even sitting down, I can tell she’s built long, just like my interrogator. Plus my briefcase is sitting on the seat next to her.
I say, “Pop the trunk and get out of the car. Slow and easy.”
I hear the trunk unlock and pull the door open for her. She gets out and looks me over.
“I don’t suppose any of my men are still alive?” she says.
“We can go look. They’re just down the road. Pieces of them, anyway.”
“I’ll pass.”
When I frisk her I find a very nice Glock 17 in her jacket and a punch dagger in her pocket. I keep the pistol and knife and toss her phone into the weeds. She smiles at me.
“You had a perfect opportunity to cop a feel and you didn’t do it. What a gentleman.”
“If I put a couple of rounds through your knees would it change your opinion?”
“See?” she says. “You asked before doing it. You weren’t an altar boy, but I bet you were a Boy Scout.”
“Troop Six-Six-Six in Hell. You should have seen our jamborees.”
She nods toward the trunk.
“I’m supposed to get in there?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I guess a bribe isn’t in the cards.”
“Unless you have a pair of men’s shoes not full of blood, there’s nothing you have that interests me.”
She starts for the rear of the car. As she steps into the trunk she says, “You ruined your nice suit.”
“I’m hard on clothes.”
“You’re a fall. A little red looks good on you.”
I look up and down the road.
“Where the hell are we?”
“City of Industry.”
“That’s a long drive back.”
“If you say so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Marcella.”
“Is that your real name?”
“No, but it’s the name I always wanted.”
“Good. People should die with their true names.”
I close the trunk and get behind the wheel. Marcella’s balaclava is on the passenger seat next to the briefcase. I use it to wipe some of the blood off my face. Sure, I could take her back to Sandoval’s through a shadow, but I really want to drive this Mercedes. And I really want her to bounce around the trunk while I do it. I start the car and jam it into gear. We take the corner on two wheels and Marcella makes a satisfying thump in the back.
IT’S NINETY MINUTES back to Sandoval’s mansion. The car gets some funny looks when traffic slows, but mostly it’s smiles and waves. I’m in Hollywood camouflage, hiding in plain sight. Most people think I’m a stunt driver heading home from a movie set in my prop car. The rest think the bullet holes are decorations. Gangster chic. When anyone checks me out, I give them a cool-guy nod and a thumbs-up. I’ll end up on a lot of people’s Instagram accounts tonight.
The Mercedes is on its last legs when I get to Sandoval’s, barely creaking up the hill. I punch the intercom beside the gate and tell them who I am. Even wave at the camera so they can see my face.
A voice crackles from the speaker: “Where’s the limousine?”
“In a police impound by now. Don’t ask about Philip. He’s not coming back.”
There’s a moment of silence, then the gates swing open. The last fifty yards up to the circular drive are dicey. The car finally commits seppuku halfway around the circle. Steam geysers from the radiator. Darker things leak from below. I’m not much better. Sandoval, Sinclair, and the roaches huddle at the front door, and when I walk over I leave a trail of red footprints. Eva takes a step back when she gets a good look at me.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Is that blood?”
“On me? Yes.”
“On my driveway.”
“Yeah. Plus a little oil and gasoline probably.”
She points at the Mercedes.
“You can’t leave that there.”
I wipe my bloody hands on my suit. It doesn’t help much.
“I’m not your valet. You want it moved, get one of your roaches to do it.”
I go back to the car, pop the trunk, and pull Marcella out. She’s sweaty but in decent shape, all things considered. However, she’s dizzy enough that I have to hold her arm like we’re on a prom date as I walk her over to the welcoming committee.
“Who the hell is that?” says Sandoval.
“This is Marcella. Say hello, Marcella.”
She spits on the ground.
Sinclair says, “Is she with the faction?”
“No. She’s my fiancée. I thought I’d bring her home to meet the family.”
When she gets her balance back, she pulls away from me.
“Give them my message,” she says. “You said you would if I let you live.”
“You’re right. I did say that.”
I look at Sandoval and Sinclair.
“Dies Irae.”
Marcella laughs. “Boy Scout.”
“Hush.”
“Dies Irae? What is that?” says Sandoval.
“I’m told it’s ‘Day of Wrath.’”
Marcella takes a step toward them. I grab her arm again.
She says, “Your judgment is coming and it will be harsh if you don’t repent and come to us willingly.”
“You’re insane. We’ll kill you all,” says Sinclair.
“To live, you will walk away from your operations. All of them.”
“This is ridiculous,” says Sandoval. She looks at me. “Why did you bring her here?”
“She asked me questions at the end of a cattle prod. Now I’m going to return the favor.”
“No, he’s not,” Marcella says. “He talks tough, but he’s adorable.”
Sandoval touches Sinclair on the arm.
“That’s wonderful. She has no idea who he really is. Take off that silly face, Stark, and show her.”
Marcella stares at me as I let the glamour fade.
“Hi. My name is James Stark.”
“Better known as Sandman Slim,” says Sinclair.
Sandoval says, “Bitch.”
Marcella looks from me to them.
Then she laughs, shaking her head.
“You’re as adorable as him. But Sandman Slim is dead. Everyone knows it.”
“Was,” says Sinclair. “We brought him back.”
Sandoval says, “That’s what we can do. So you can keep your threats and Day of Wrath nonsense to yourself.”
Marcella shakes her head again, not laughing this time, but still not believing.
“You’ve told so many lies you don’t know when you’re doing it anymore.”
“Make her believe, Stark.”
“That’s the idea.”
I take the blindfold from around my neck and put it over her eyes.
“Don’t mind the blood,” I tell her. “None of it is mine.”
“Where are you taking her?” says Sinclair.
“Where we can have a heart-to-heart in private.”
Sandoval points to my shoes.
“You can’t go through the house like that.”
“Watch me.”
I take Marcella’s arm and lead her inside, grinding my bloody heels into the carpet all the way downstairs to the bowling alley.
WHEN WE’RE INSIDE I turn on the lights and take her blindfold off. Marcella looks around.
“You’ve got to be kidding me
. This is your torture chamber?”
“Like it? It belonged to Eva’s granddad. She lets me use it on the weekends.”
“It’s not the weekend yet.”
“This is a special occasion.”
I grab a folding chair from the back of the room, pull Marcella to the end of a bowling lane, and push her into it.
“Won’t it be hard for me to take my turn from down here?”
“I doubt you’ll live long enough for it to be an issue.”
“Come on, Boy Scout. We both know you’re not going to—”
I pull her gun from my pocket and fire at her head, close enough that she has to duck.
She says, “You missed.”
She looks cool, but I can hear her heart going like a jackhammer.
“You sure? Maybe you’re right—I haven’t done much shooting in the last year. I’m still getting the hang of it.”
“Because you’ve been dead, Mr. Sandman Slim?”
“You still don’t believe? You saw me change my face upstairs.”
She leans back in the chair and crosses her legs.
“Just because you’re Sub Rosa doesn’t make you Sandman Slim. You and the fools upstairs, you don’t scare me. This is Hollywood. Any good makeup artist could give you those scars.”
“Hey, I earned these scars.”
Marcella sighs. “When does the torture start? Or is this it?”
I fire a few more rounds, this time at her head and her feet. She has to curl up into a fetal position on the chair to not get hit.
I say, “Tell me about the faction.”
“No. Tell me about Hell, Sandman Slim.”
One of her chair legs explodes when I shoot it. She goes down on her side. It knocks the wind out of her.
I grab another folding chair and slide it down the lane to her. She opens it and sits down.
She says, “I think the woman upstairs is going to be mad if you keep shooting her furniture.”
“After what I did to your men, you really don’t think I’ll hurt you?”
“I think you’re a killer. I think you’re vicious and an animal when cornered. But, no, you’re not going to hurt me. It’s not something you do or you would be doing it already instead of playing William Tell.”
“I’m not Sandman Slim. I’m not a torturer. Damn. I don’t impress you at all.”
“Not much.”
I put the gun in my waistband and walk quickly down the lane. She tries not to react, but her shoulders stiffen when I get close.
“If I proved to you that I was Sandman Slim, would you talk?”
“But you’re not, so what does it matter?”
“But if I did?”
“Not even then, Boy Scout.”
“Let’s test that.”
I yank her to her feet and pull her into a shadow at the end of the alley.
When we’re in, I push her ahead of me into the streets of Pandemonium.
The smell hits her first. It’s what gets most new arrivals. Sulfur. Burning blood and shit. The sour fear sweat of a billion losers. I don’t like being here. I sure didn’t plan on it and now that I’ve done it, I wonder if it’s a huge mistake. But there’s one thing I have going for me. I’m used to this misery. Marcella isn’t, and so far, she’s not handling it well. She’s a few feet ahead of me, on her knees, puking into a ditch full of burned vehicles and charred Hellion bones. I sit down on the collapsed wall of a deserted building.
When she’s done, she takes off her jacket, uses it to wipe her mouth, and throws it into the ditch. She tries to stand, but her legs are too shaky.
“How are you doing this?” she says.
“Doing what?”
“The special effects. They’re good. Did you get Disney to build it?” She staggers to her feet and sweeps her arm at the ruins. “Mr. Stark’s Wild Ride, right next to the Matterhorn and the spinning Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”
I’m actually impressed at her bullheadedness.
“You don’t believe this is Hell.”
“Not for a second,” she says.
“How do you imagine Hell?”
“Two more minutes with you.”
“What would it take to convince you this really is the bad place?”
She kicks a stone away with the toe of her shoe. “You can’t. This is nothing God would make or permit.”
I walk over to her.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s all fake.”
I push her into the ditch with her puke and the Hellion dead.
“I’m going back to the bowling alley. You stay. Walk around. Explore. Enjoy yourself. I’m going to have lunch.”
I go out through a shadow and leave Marcella behind. I’ll give her five minutes. Now that I think about it, when I go back I should look around for some Maledictions. If I don’t get a real cigarette soon, I’m going to start gnawing on the roaches’ skulls.
Marcella is interesting. Altar-boy jokes. Dies Irae. God wouldn’t make or permit Hell. She talks a lot churchier than I’d expect from a Wormwood creep. But I guess it makes sense that Wormwood has some pull in the religion industry. It’s a good way to control the masses. A little fear and they’re all yours. I wish I could see inside her head so I could figure out what her Hell really looks like. Maybe it would scare her, because my Hell sure as shit doesn’t.
Should I go to Candy tonight? No. We already talked about this. Shut up.
I check the time. Four minutes. That’s long enough.
I walk back through the shadow and check the ditch. She’s not there. I look in the abandoned building. She’s not there either.
Fuck.
I yell, “Marcella.” Nothing comes back. I climb a pile of cinder blocks to get a better look around and spot a couple of bug-ugly Hellion Legionnaires at the end of the block. They’re running somewhere fast. I jump off the blocks and take off after them. Sure enough, when I get around the corner, there’s Marcella swinging a pipe at the two soldiers. A third one lies at her feet with something sharp sticking out of his chest. I’m still sore enough from the van that I don’t feel like throwing fists with Legionnaires, so I pull my gun and shoot them both in the head. Marcella jumps at the shots. Stares as they both blip out of existence.
I head over to her and when she sees me, she sags against a toppled streetlight. Her face is smeared with dirt and a little blood. Her shirt and sleeve are torn. The Hellion at her feet isn’t quite dead yet. It’s leaking black blood fast, but it’s tough. It keeps crawling after her.
“What the fuck are these things?” she screams.
“Hellions. Fallen angels.”
She looks around, starts to say something, raises and drops her hands in a gesture of futility.
“Why did you do this to me?”
“Do you believe now?”
“Why did those others disappear when you shot them?”
“It’s what angels do when they die.”
She looks at the Hellion crawling for her, then at me.
“Make this one disappear.”
“Did you stab him?”
“Yes.”
“Then you do it.”
She purses her lips and hovers over him as his hands reach out for her. The Hellion wheezes and growls low. When it drops its hands for a moment, Marcella smashes its head in with the pipe. The Hellion sags on the sidewalk and disappears. When it’s gone, she leans back on the streetlight.
When I’m close enough, I take the pipe from her hand and throw it away. I don’t want her getting any ideas.
“Do you believe yet?”
She looks up at me. Nods.
“I didn’t until I stabbed him. I felt the metal in my hand. It was real and sharp, and when I shoved it into his chest, I knew it wasn’t a trick.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
She looks around.
“How long did you spend here?”
“Eleven years, the first time.”
“And you were alive the whole time?”
/>
“Yeah. You’re one of the only other living humans to ever see the place. Congratulations.”
She flexes her fist. Her knuckles are red where she must have punched the Hellion before stabbing it. Marcella is tough. I wish she was on our side.
“Get me out of here.”
I take her hand and pull her into a shadow. We come out again in the bowling alley. She collapses on one of the lanes. I let her sit there for a while.
“You’re a torturer after all,” she says. “You sure had me fooled.”
“I wouldn’t have had to leave you there if you weren’t so full of shit.”
She looks at me from the floor.
“You can take me back there any time you want, can’t you?”
“Yes. I can.”
She shakes her head, picks up a piece of one of the pins I shot earlier, toys with it. Tosses it away.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything.”
Now I’m getting annoyed.
“Why not?”
She gestures back at the shadow we came through.
“Because now I know what will happen to me.”
“You mean damnation? If you tell me you’re afraid you’ll be damned?”
“I know I will.”
“You faction types must have some good preachers.”
She smiles, but it’s exhausted and unconvincing.
“The best.”
“Then you’re going to want to help me, Marcella.”
“Why?”
“I hate to break it to you, but you’re already going to Hell for the things you’ve done. And when you get there, I’m the one who can get you out.”
That makes her laugh.
“My my. The salvation of my eternal soul rests with Sandman Slim.”
“The world is funny that way.”
“And if I still won’t tell you?”
“I’ll put you right back in the ditch.”
She looks at me.
“I think you would.”
“Test me.”
“Okay,” she whispers. “Ask your questions.”
I hold out a hand to her.
“Get off the floor. Let’s pretend we’re people for a minute.”
I help her up and we sit on the padded seats by the scoring table.
“You ready?” I say.
“You’ll really come for me if I help you?”
“I haven’t lied to you so far. Well, except for my name. But you’re lying to me about your name, so we’re even there.”
Hollywood Dead Page 5