“Again, I didn’t hear ‘sir’ at the end of the sentence when addressing me.”
Crooked Nose sits up straighter but not because he’s obeying the rules. It’s sheer tension. This is how barroom brawls start.
“Who the fuck is that with you, sir? He doesn’t look like any officer I’ve seen. Sir.”
“Don’t worry about him. I’m the one who can assign you to even worse duty than this.”
“Worse than this?” says the guy by the oven.
“Do you enjoy the smell of rotten and congealed blood, soldier? Would you like to spend a few years patrolling the Styx?”
Crooked Nose raises his hand like he’s in first grade. He’s having a good time with us.
“Excuse me, sir. What general do you serve under?”
“Are you interrogating me, soldier?”
“It’s a simple question, sir. Under whose authority are you here? Who the fuck would send an officer out here to the middle of nowhere in dress shoes and no heavy coat? Sir.”
I can see where this is going. I lean in and whisper to the captain.
“Keep them talking,” I say, and go outside.
I find a good shadow behind the closer of the snowcats and slip back inside.
I come out by the stove, so I slit that Hellion’s throat before he can throw the hot cup of sludge on the captain. Let his body fall. Then step back into the same shadow. Outside, I can hear shouting over the sound of the wind. I go back in through another shadow and arrive with the SIG in my hand. I put bullets into the heads of the two guards closest to the captain. Crooked Nose stands and watches me disappear.
This time when I come in, I do it under the table where he was sitting. I spring up from underneath, using the table as a battering ram and cracking his head against the wall. One of the other two guards gets off a lucky shot and knocks the SIG from my hand. I grab Candy’s knife and throw it, hitting him square in the left eye. He falls into the last guard still on his feet. The stunned guard steps back, letting the dead one slide to the floor. I pick up the SIG and aim it at him. Retrieve the knife from his dead friend’s eye and wipe the black muck off on the soldier’s leg. When I look around for the captain, I notice the door is open and he’s gone, daddy, gone. Have fun trotting home for days through a blizzard.
I put my gun to the soldier’s head.
“Guess it’s just you and me, sweetheart. That okay with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m not an officer, so don’t sir me. But you are going to obey that other officer’s order, aren’t you?”
His eyes scan the room, lingering on his dead and dying pals.
“Sure. Whatever you want. The new arrivals are easy to find.”
He takes a set of keys from the wall and picks up a heavy coat. He points to the soldier I got in the eye.
“It’s cold outside. You might want a coat.”
“Don’t worry about me. Just go.”
Twenty yards down a road rutted with snowcat tread marks there are heavy iron double gates. Like something you might see outside of an asylum in an old B movie. Icicles hang from the fence, as thick as a man’s leg and twice as long. The old lock on the gate is as big as a pumpkin. The guard has to bang it against the metal a few times to break the ice off before he can insert the key.
“The new ones always stay by the gate. High up here on the hill. The wind isn’t as bad in the valley, but they always stay up here at first. Some ice over and never make it down.”
I see what he means. Down in the valley, millions of dots mill around. Damned souls. Some huddle together in the waste like penguins in a snowstorm, guarding their brood. Down the nearby hillside are the frozen souls of the ones who never made it as far as the valley floor. Among those pathetic forms are men and women, some in suits, some in jeans and T-shirts, others in rags or stark naked, standing or sitting on the hill. The wind picks up. The temperature drops and it’s hard to see anything. I’m sorry now that I didn’t take the dead soldier’s coat.
“Traven. Father Traven,” I shout. But the wind is loud enough that I’m not sure how far my voice carries.
I grab the guard.
“You shout too. Go that way and shout. The soul’s name is ‘Traven.’ ”
The soldier wanders off looking as lost as the damned and yelling, “Raven. Raven.”
I get out the SIG and fire a couple of shots.
“Traven. Father Traven. Up here.”
The wind keeps blowing. Visibility is shit. If Traven was standing right in front of me in a prom dress, I don’t know if I’d notice him.
A figure comes trudging up the hill. It’s tall and haggard, with its coat wrapped tight around it. I start down toward it. His face is still pale and blotched with the same broken blood vessels from when he died.
“Who are you? What do you want?” he yells.
I push down the hoodie and kill the glamour. His eyes narrow.
“Stark? Is that you?”
He touches my shoulders, my face, still trying to figure out if I’m real.
“Ready to get out of here, Father?”
“To where?”
Oh. Right.
“I hadn’t really thought that part through. Why don’t we get out of the wind and we’ll figure it out.”
“I’d like that.”
We start up the hill. Stupid me. I’m so happy to see Traven that I forgot about the guard. He comes charging out of the blizzard with a knife in his hand. Slashes my left arm, my Kissi arm, which means he only manages to ruin yet another one of my coats. I take out the SIG and shoot him in the legs. That gets the attention of all the mobile souls on the hillside. They look around at us. Some start up the hill. When I take Traven out the gates, I leave them open. The guard crawls after us. He’s yelling something but I can’t hear him over the sound of the wind. Besides, he’s surrounded by freezing, damned souls. I don’t think he’ll be shouting much longer. I throw the keys into a snowdrift.
I take Traven into the Quonset hut. He stops for a minute by the door when he sees the dead guards.
“All this death just to save me? Why?”
“Because I’m Sandman Slim. A monster and damned and those are the kind of choices I make.”
Traven goes to the oven and warms himself.
“I pulled you out of that hole because I like you, but I don’t want your gratitude. I did it because sending you here was as much a sin as anything you ever swallowed on earth. And saving you is a message to the people who make the rules.”
“And what is that message?”
“Don’t be such assholes.”
That makes him laugh a little. It’s good to see his face in anything but a frown or lined in deep thought. This isn’t a guy who’s had a lot of fun in his life. I think this last month with Brigitte might have been his best days. I suppose there are worse times to die. But it was still too soon for him.
I take a coat from the soldier I stabbed and wrap it around Traven.
“There’s only one place I can take you right now. The Room of Thirteen Doors. No one can touch you there. That includes Lucifer and God. I’ll figure out what to do after you’re safe.”
“Can I see Brigitte?”
“No.” It’s a hard thing to say. “You’re dead and you’re not coming back. Let her grieve and deal with it.”
“You’re right. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t sweat it, Father. It takes a while to figure out the rules of being dead.”
“You died and came back to life.”
“I’m not human.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“Thanks.”
I look out the window. The wind has died down.
“Listen. When I get you in the Room, I’ll bring you some of your books. Maybe pens and paper, if you want. Not regular stuff. Like necromantic school supplies. Stuff to occupy yourself until I figure out the next move. I already put the 8 Ball there. Think of it this way. You’re not some poor schmuck
stuck in a room. You’re what’s-his-name. The knight who guarded the Holy Grail.”
“Arthur was supposed to have guarded it in some legends. The descendants of Joseph of Arimathea in others. There’s the story of Parsifal. Also stories about the Templars.”
“Damn. You do know some trivia. No. I mean the three knights who guarded it.”
Traven looks at me.
“I think you might be thinking of a movie.”
“Probably.”
Warmer now, he puts the guard’s coat on over his jacket.
“Thank you. I don’t know what else to say.”
“I’m sorry I dragged you into Kill City.”
“I’m not. I’ve looked into God’s face and I’ve tasted the worst of his wrath. After that, I suppose I’m prepared for a room, a grail, or whatever else might come.”
“Stay here and keep warm. I’m going to check on that hellhound outside. And maybe something else.”
I take a gun from one of the dead soldiers and give it to Traven.
“If anyone but me comes through the door, don’t ask questions. Shoot. You’re in Hell, Father. Don’t worry that you might shoot any schoolmarms.”
“I’ll think about it,” he says, and puts the gun in his pocket.
Silly me. He’ll never use it. He’s still a priest. Sentimental.
I go out and worry about him for the hour I’m gone.
WHEN I GET back, Traven, the crazy bastard, has practically opened a soup kitchen in the Quonset hut. A hundred damned souls who’ve wandered up from the valley huddle inside trying to work the feeling back into their dead limbs.
“Can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”
“Old habits die hard,” says Traven. “Wait. I think I just made a joke. My first joke as a dead man.”
“Congratulations. I’ll send you roses and a rubber chicken. It’s time to go.”
I pull him outside. As we go, he gives his heavy coat to a woman in rags afraid to go into the warm building. She stares at him and kisses his hand.
“Move it, Gandhi.”
He gives her a smile and comes over to me.
“Can’t we take some of them back with us? How big is the Room?”
“Sure, Father. Which of them gets rescued and who has to stay in Hell forever? You choose.”
“I see the dilemma.”
“Lucifer, the first Lucifer, always told me my problem was that I didn’t think big. Well, I’m trying to now. And stashing a few souls in the pantry isn’t the way to do it.”
“I trust you.”
“That makes one of us.”
I strap the dead hellhound to the front of the bike and put Father Traven on the back.
“This won’t be a long trip, but it might be a little weird. You can close your eyes if you want to.”
“You just pulled me out of damnation. I think I can stand whatever it is you’re going to show me.”
“Strap in, preacher.”
I gun the bike and aim at the shadow of one of the guard towers. Traven tries to be cool, but I feel him tense against me and hear him, I can’t fucking believe it, saying a Hail Mary as we pick up speed.
I hit the brakes when we’re halfway into the Room and we slide the rest of the way in, leaving a nice line of rubber across the floor.
He gets off the bike and looks around in wonder.
“We’re at the center of the universe.”
“Yep.”
“Where nothing can go in or out without your say-so.”
“Pretty much.”
“How does it work?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. It works and that’s good enough for me.”
“That’s called faith, son.”
“That’s called not looking a gift horse up the nose. I’ll be back soon with some books. Don’t worry. I’ll let Vidocq pick them out.”
“One thing,” he says as I angle the bike to take it back to L.A.
“Yes?”
“Can you tell Brigitte that I asked about her?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I’m lying.
I COME OUT of the Room, as usual, by the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. I always get the copper jitters when I’m on the bike in L.A., and now I have a dead hellhound strapped across the handlebars. The only way I can attract more attention is if I was towing a Spanish galleon full of half-naked cheerleaders with flare guns. On the other hand, this is L.A. and I can just as easily be another moneyed airhead who scored a big movie prop on eBay. Why not? Ask nice and maybe I’ll trade you Gilligan’s hat for the bones of the Partridge Family’s dog.
I head up Gower Street and across Hollywood Boulevard to Bamboo House of Dolls. I think about parking the bike in the alley next to the bar, but I leave it in a space out front instead. Let the rubes get a look at a genuine hellhound. It’s not like this crowd hasn’t seen its share of funny beasts before. A few people call my name as I go inside, but it’s not a chitchat kind of night and I don’t need strangers buying me drinks in a bar where I already drink for free.
Carlos gives me a funny look when I come in.
“Is that ice in your hair?”
“Probably.”
I run my fingers through it a few times.
“Better?”
“Better. You been sticking your head in hotel ice machines again? I warned you about that.”
He gets a bottle from under the bar and pours me a shot of Aqua Regia.
“I can’t stay long,” I say. “Tonight’s a work night. Are there any Cold Cases around?”
“Again? Are you still on them?”
“Don’t send them any love notes yet. They’re the ones that shot up the front of your bar the other day.”
He slams down the bottle.
“Those dog-dick pendejo motherfuckers.”
I swallow the Aqua Regia.
“I’m sorry that I can’t help you with that one, though. I have to make nice with them tonight.”
Carlos shakes his head, staring at a table by the jukebox. Martin Denny is playing, “Was It Really Love?”
“Do what you got to do. I’ve got some potions back here that’ll have them puking frogs and shitting bottle rockets.”
“Thanks for the drink. I’ll be nice as long as they are.”
“Just leave some of them for me. That’s all I ask.”
I head over in the direction of the jukebox. The Cold Case I levitated a while back sees me coming. He stands and then the rest of them follow, grabbing for their most fearsome weapon. Their phones. I hold up my hands so they know I’m not here to hurt anyone.
“Sorry to show up still alive, boys. Tell Nasrudin no hard feelings but he’s on my naughty list. But I’m not here to talk about the past. I’m here to talk business. Who here wants me off his back? The first one to raise his hand gets a free pass from here on out.”
They all raise a hand.
“I forgot to mention. You have to do something for me first.”
Hands waver. A few go down. In the end, only two stay up. I pick the guy closest to me. He looks at me like he thinks I might bite off his face at any minute, so I speak in short sentences and use small words. He seems to understand. In a few minutes we have a deal. We even shake on it. I’ll be washing that hand before I head home.
I TAKE BACK streets as far as I can before cutting over to Sunset to reach the Chateau. Lucky me, it’s late enough that there aren’t a lot of tourists around to gawk at me with a hellhound across my handlebars like demon roadkill.
I get the Hellion hog back in its space in the garage and put the cover back on. I miss it already. Who knows when I’ll get to ride it again. If the world is still around at New Year’s, maybe then. Put Candy on the back and take her down the Pacific Coast Highway. Open the throttle up a little. Maybe I’ll even get a speedometer installed and see if we can top 200 mph.
I’m in a funny mood when I get back. Kind of light-headed. Halfway between sad and still riding on the adrenaline of the last few hou
rs. I saved Traven from damnation, but only after I killed him. I accomplished everything I set out to do on the trip Downtown, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I guess nothing will be enough for a while. A dead friend stashed under floorboards. Monsters from another universe bearing down on us. A brokenhearted friend and a girlfriend who’s sick of me riding off to my doom every ten minutes. Yeah, I guess you could call the last day or so a real mixed bag. And I don’t know if things are going to get any better anytime soon. Right now, though, I just want to see Candy and get something to eat.
I have to admit that I’m tempted to take the hellhound upstairs in the elevator. Just stroll through the lobby with it on my shoulder. Mr. Macheath back from another night out on the town. But I check the impulse.
The hound is so heavy I have to dance it around to get it off the bike and onto my shoulders. No showing off this time. I find the nearest shadow and go through, coming out in the penthouse. Candy is sitting on the sofa with Kasabian, drinking beer and watching Destroy All Monsters. She looks up at me.
“Look. The ramblin’ man made it back. And he brought dinner.”
I drop the hellhound on the floor. It sounds like I shot-put a piano.
“I’m glad to see you too. I told you I’d make it back in time.”
“Is that what you said? I thought it was ‘I’m sorry I took off again like that and I’ll worship you as a goddess when I get back.’ ”
“That doesn’t sound like me. Maybe one of your other boyfriends.”
“Yeah, I have their bodies stacked on the roof. It keeps the cat burglars away.”
Kasabian comes around to check out the hound. It takes him a minute to crouch on his gimpy knee, but he makes it and runs his hands over the hound like it’s Ali Baba’s treasure. He examines his fingertips and squints.
“This is the best you could do? It looks like you pulled this thing out of a garbage dump.”
“You’re welcome to go back and get one of your own.”
“This falls deeply into the category of ‘better than nothing.’ ”
“So do you, so it’ll be a perfect fit.”
He runs his hand along the length of the hound’s spine.
“At least the legs are straight.”
“Call Manimal Mike anytime you want. He ought to be able to scavenge enough parts off the thing to fix you up, Hopalong.”
Kill City Blues: A Sandman Slim Novel Page 28