“You’re not getting it.”
“I don’t need it right now,” I say. “These gangsters keep bribing me not to kill them. I should have started shaking these people down a long time ago.”
“If you don’t want money, why are you asking about it?”
“Just sort of an inventory of assets.”
He turns around in his swivel chair and drops the beer can onto the top of an overflowing trash can.
“Shit. We’re not getting the boot, are we?”
“The hotel isn’t happy having a pig head on the porch swing, but no one has said anything. Yet.”
He turns back to his laptop. Slaps the keys hard and the photos disappear.
“Why couldn’t you be a nice, boring thief like Vidocq? No one ever bothers him.”
“He doesn’t steal that much anymore. And he’s good at it. I’m good at breaking things. The difference is that people don’t always notice when their diamonds go missing, but they know when their legs bend the wrong way.”
“Think about my offer. Make some honest money. You can probably do with some more friends Downtown.”
“You might be right about that part.”
On TV, a reporter is trying to interview a cop, but everyone behind them is pushing up their noses into pig snouts and grunting.
“One more thing. If you ever spot Medea Bava Downtown, let me know. She’s supposed to be hiding with Deumos, but I don’t trust the vindictive hag.”
“She’s the Inquisition. Even the milk on her cereal comes from angry cows.”
“Just let me know if you see her. And stay out of my phone.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t see any of those private pictures Candy sent you.”
“Fuck you.”
THE HOUSE PHONE rings.
“Hello, Mr. Macheath?”
“Yes.”
“An envelope arrived for you. Should I send it up?”
“You mean an envelope envelope? I don’t want any packages.”
“No, sir. It’s just an envelope.”
“Okay. Send it up.”
I go out the grandfather clock and wait for the bellhop. He comes up in the elevator and gives me the note. I hand him a table lamp.
“My girlfriend has all the money and she’s asleep, but I think this lamp is Tiffany, so Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” he says like this happens to him all the time.
I wait until he’s in the elevator before going back through the clock.
In the penthouse, I tear open the envelope. It’s heavy cream-colored paper and lined with thin gold foil. Very pricey. Inside, there’s a note containing three words:
Stop it.
Blackburn
Add him to the list of people who might have put up the nithing pole, though it’s not really his style. That means my game has gotten under the skin of at least two people. That just leaves four million to go.
I GET AN unexpected phone call and head for Bamboo House of Dolls. Go inside for a drink and wait. I drop Declan Garrett’s name a few times. Let people know I’m looking for him. What the hell? It’s worth a shot. Allegra shows up a few minutes later in a jean jacket over her scrubs, looking like she came straight from the clinic. I’m going to need a smoke for this. I head outside and she follows me.
We get to the end of the building by the alley. I light up and Allegra leans against the wall, arms and legs crossed. She’s nervous. So am I. We haven’t been alone together in months. Not since she found out I’d been playing Lucifer.
She says, “Thanks for meeting me.”
“No problem. So, what are we here for? Sorry if I’m blunt, but if you’re going to yell at me and call me evil, maybe you can get started? I hear there’s liquor inside.”
“If I just wanted to yell, I could’ve done that on the phone.”
She gives me a weak smile to say she’s joking, but I don’t smile back.
“I’m just trying to understand,” she says.
“Instead of telling me you have questions, why don’t you ask them?”
“Okay. You were really Lucifer? Tell me about it. What is Hell like?”
“Neither is what you think. Hell is a place like any other. I was mostly in the capital, Pandemonium. It’s a city just like this. Hellions live and work there. There are markets, bars, and restaurants. There are cops and armies. Even a church. The place is on its last legs. The new Lucifer is trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, but I don’t think he’ll make it.”
Allegra crosses her arms tighter against her chest.
“What about being Lucifer?”
“You think he’s all about mustache-twirling evil and temptation? Here’s the truth. He’s mostly a pencil pusher. You think Hell runs on its own? Being Lucifer is more like the universe’s shittiest middle-management job. I spent most of my time in meetings with assholes or hiding from meetings with assholes.”
“Lucifer takes people’s souls.”
I take a drag off the Malediction.
“Most people heading for Hell don’t need his help. Most of the rest are idiots who sold their souls for fame, money, whatever. Anyway, the first Lucifer gave it all up. He’s back in Heaven these days. In the loving arms of your precious Lord.”
“That means there’s another Lucifer, right? What’s he like?”
“He’s nicer than me or Samael. But he’s screwed up. I wasn’t any good at the Devil business and he’s probably only marginally better. But he’ll try harder to make Hell a better place for everyone stuck down there.”
“Who is he?”
I shake my head. Blow out some smoke.
“I can’t tell you that. It’s too complicated. But I’ll tell you this: right now the Devil isn’t the problem. It’s God. He’s not exactly growing old gracefully.”
She looks down the street like she’s trying to get her bearings, then back at me.
“It’s so strange to talk about the universe like Hell is just another little town over the hill. And the good people aren’t that good and the bad ones aren’t that bad.”
“I didn’t say that. Hell is a bad place full of backstabbing monsters that’d kill you as soon as blink. But some monsters are honorable. More honorable than some Heavenly halo jockeys.”
“What you’re saying isn’t anything that I was taught or ever dreamed of.”
“That’s how it is. In the big scheme of things we barely matter. The Devil doesn’t hate us. Neither does God, but in the end we’re just bugs on his windshield. The universe didn’t turn out the way he wanted and now he’s hanging on by his fingernails just like the rest of us.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, and closes it. I flick the butt of the Malediction into the alley.
“I’m sorry about getting so mad before,” she says. “It’s hard to take it all in.”
“Forget it. This shit is hard for anyone to understand. I don’t want to.”
“This thing you’re looking for . . .”
“The Qomrama Om Ya.”
“It’s supposed to save the world from whatever’s coming?”
“If we’re lucky.”
“So you’re back to being the guy who saved the world and killed all the zombies.”
“I never stopped being him. But mostly I’m just trying to keep all my stuff from getting blown up. Can you imagine the universe without The Searchers? I can’t.”
She stands away from the wall. Brushes dust off her sleeve.
“You’re going to need help.”
“Probably.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll help.”
“Thanks.”
What do you know? People can surprise you after all. I wonder if she’s been talking to Candy behind my back. Whatever it took, it will be nice not to feel like we’re enemies anymore. But there’s something else. Something she’s not saying. She’s tenser than before. She rubs a knuckle against her lower lip.
“I ha
ve something else I have to ask you.”
“What?”
“It’s awkward. You’re going to think I invited you here and I said I’d help just because I want something.”
“That depends on what you want.”
I tap out another cigarette and light it, waiting for her to collect her thoughts.
“Remember when we first met back at Max Overdrive? I said I wasn’t always a nice person. I had this boyfriend. He was a dealer, and when he went to jail I used his money to go to school because I didn’t want to be in that life anymore.”
“And now he’s getting out.”
She nods.
“He called me.”
She holds out two fingers to ask for my cigarette. I give it to her. I didn’t know she still smoked. She takes a tiny puff and about coughs her lungs up.
“He wants his money?”
“No. Yes. But he wants me too. Only, I love my life. I love Eugène. I can’t go back to the way things were.”
“Where is he?”
“Vacaville. He’s getting out at the end of the week. He knows my old apartment.”
“You still have that place? I thought you’d moved in with Vidocq.”
“I keep things there and we store some of his stuff.”
“The boyfriend knows the address?”
I lean against the wall and she leans next to me. We’re shoulder to shoulder, but not having to look at me makes it easier for her to talk.
“Yes. I don’t even bother locking it. Locks never stopped him before.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
She puts a hand on my arm.
“Please don’t kill him. I want him to go away, but I don’t want to feel like I bought a hit on him just so I can hide in my nice new life.”
“I’ll do my best, but some people, they just don’t listen.”
“Please.”
She sounds genuinely torn up asking me. What am I supposed to say to that?
“Okay.”
She turns and hugs me. Talking about Hell and now the admission. It’s been hard on her. I think she’s crying. She sniffles a little.
“Don’t wipe your nose on my coat.”
She laughs once.
“Eugène said you would say yes, but I wasn’t sure.”
A cream-colored Lexus has driven past us twice. Now it stops. The guy who gets out has a haircut that costs as much as an appendectomy. He’s wearing rimless glasses and a sharp but conservative blue suit. He could be an investment banker.
“Mr. Stark. Would you mind taking a ride with me?”
Allegra steps away. I shake my head.
“I’m with a friend.”
He gestures at her.
“She can come too, if you like.”
“Nice car, but we’re fine right here. I’d invite you in for a drink, but I don’t think this is your kind of place.”
The Banker smiles and comes around to our side of the car.
“This isn’t anything sinister. It’s just a meeting to talk about possible employment.”
“With who?”
“Norris Quay.”
“Who’s that?”
“The richest man in California.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Exactly.”
I turn to Allegra.
“Do you want to get in the nice man’s car? He says he has candy and a puppy.”
She shakes her head.
“I don’t think so.”
I shrug.
“You heard the lady. Not interested.”
He takes a couple of steps toward us.
“I assure you, this is for your own benefit. Afterward, if you decide you don’t want the job, you can just—”
A bullet hits the wall, then two more. I push Allegra into the alley. The Banker crouches by his car and starts duckwalking around the front.
The shots come faster. Maybe three or four guns. AKs by the sounds of them. Wild shots spray cars and the wall behind me, sending other smokers screaming back inside the bar.
I’m kneeling on the sidewalk. I try to make it into the alley, but there’s too many bullets flying. Same thing when I try to make it back into Bamboo House. The Banker is back inside the Lexus. He opens the passenger door. There’s nowhere else to go. I dive headfirst into the passenger seat.
I wait a beat, expecting the Banker to get us out of there. But he’s paralyzed, staring at the shooters in his rearview mirror. They’re aiming at the car now. Bullets tear through the trunk and rear window. I duck and grab the wheel, stomping the accelerator. I hope no one is in the street because I can’t see a damned thing.
Half a block on, the shooting stops. I hit the brake and the Banker and I bounce off the inside of the car.
I raise my head just high enough to see the shooters’ car, a white Miata, smoke its wheels as it does a one-eighty and drives like hell away from us.
I look at the Banker. He’s resting his head on the steering wheel, breathing hard and trying to get his breath. It doesn’t help any when I pull my gun and put it to his head. I glance through the front and back windows to make sure no one is coming up on us.
Pressing my gun harder into the Banker’s temple, I say, “Did you just set me up? Create a little drama so I’d get in the car?”
He gasps and holds up his right hand. It’s covered in blood. His ring finger is gone.
“I wish we were that clever,” he says.
I put my gun away and open the passenger door.
“I’m driving. Slide over here.”
I walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat.
“You’re taking me home?”
“No. I’m going to meet the richest man in California. What’s the address?”
The Banker tells me. He takes a handkerchief from his breast jacket pocket and wraps it around his bleeding hand. There’s blood all over the steering wheel. It sticks to my palms as I drive.
“Is Norris Quay Sub Rosa?”
He shakes his head and tries to work the seat belt with his left hand. He fails miserably and gives up.
“No. He’s just a regular person.”
“I doubt that.”
How many times in my life am I going to get an invite from the richest man in California? Why does someone like that want to hire me? I might as well have a look. It’s not like I’m going back to Bamboo House right now. If someone is going take another shot at me, I’d rather it be in a car with a stranger than in the bar with people I know. Plus, I want to see Quay. Lay my eyes on a real, honest-to-goodness billionaire. Is someone like that even human? Does he sleep on a pile of vestal virgins? Does he fly to the bathroom with a jet pack? Does he sprinkle his food with gold dust and platinum the way regular people use salt and pepper? And what the hell kind of a name is Norris?
QUAY MIGHT BE a civilian, but money is the magic anyone can do. He’s bought himself a Sub Rosa mansion.
We’re at the abandoned zoo in Griffith Park. After a short walk we go through an old concrete enclosure. It’s large and heavy, like something for big cats or bears. The interior walls are covered with graffiti. Teenybopper lovers and no-talent taggers. The Banker walks to a random crack in the floor and presses several points in the concrete, like a masseur doing acupressure. The crack creaks open on hinges like a trapdoor. He looks bad. Pale and sweating, but he minds his manners. He puts out his good hand, letting the guest know that he gets to go in first. Why not? I walk into trapdoors every day.
It’s a marble staircase and for a minute I think we’re back in time to ancient Athens. Underneath the zoo is where I imagine an old Greek king living. Marble everywhere. Ionic pillars supporting high ceilings. Light and dark marble squares form checkerboard patterns on the floors in the halls. Towering statues of gods and goddesses are crammed in every nook and cranny. I won’t be surprised if Quay shows up in flowing purple robes and a laurel wreath on his head.
The Banker keeps his cool, but he’s fading fast. He leads me into
an office done up in the same Greek style, but there’s a phone, a computer, and a lot of prescription pill bottles on a carved mahogany desk. Three plasma-screen TVs are mounted on the walls, all tuned to different business channels. The picture window looks out over L.A. but not this L.A. The tallest building is maybe ten floors. It’s L.A. from a long time ago. Maybe from the thirties, when a lot of the big zoo enclosures were built.
A minute later someone comes in. It’s almost funny. I recognize him immediately. It’s Trevor Moseley, but Moseley with a good fifty more years on him. Norris Quay.
He’s slightly stooped and walks with a cane. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt, cream-colored slacks, and soft black slippers. This wouldn’t be interesting except that everything in this place screams Grecian formality and here’s Grandpa ready for an afternoon of checkers and pudding at the old folks’ home.
“Ronald, you look like death,” Norris says to the Banker. “Go see my doctor.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ronald says, clutching his bleeding hand. He still has it together enough to give me a nod before leaving.
Besides Quay, the only people in the room are two bodyguards. Massive, steroid-stinking sons of bitches. They wait in opposite corners of the room, not moving or speaking. They look rooted to each spot, like statues of Titans. But I bet they can move pretty fast when provoked.
I say, “So, how many of you are there?”
Quay hobbles to a deep blue-and-gold velvet sofa and takes his time lowering his bones onto the cushions, in no rush at all to answer me.
“You mean my simulacra? Generally no more than two or three at a time on each continent. Except Antarctica, of course. I don’t collect penguins.”
He smiles. The lines on his face remind me of the splitting roads in Pandemonium after an earthquake.
I shake my head.
“You’ve got your numbers wrong. I met three of you in just the past few days. One with Declan Garrett and two more with Atticus Rose.”
“Yes. Atticus always keeps a few extras around for when one has an accident.”
“The ones in Rose’s workshop both had accidents. I burned them.”
Quay purses his lips.
“What a waste. Never mind. I’ll have Atticus run off a few more.”
“You know where he is?”
“I know where everyone is.”
Quay crosses his long legs and picks some lint off his trousers.
Kill City Blues: A Sandman Slim Novel Page 11