Текст книги "Kill City Blues"

Автор книги: Richard Kadrey

Соавторы: Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Rose stands aside and Candy and Brigitte walk in like they already own the place. Old Atticus looks like he’s about to hand it over to them.

“Would either of you ladies care for some coffee? If you’d like something stronger, I keep whiskey in the apartment. If you’d like wine I can have some sent up.”

He speaks in a deliberate flat drawl. Not southern. Maybe Okie. I had some cousins from Oklahoma. All I remember about them was that they pronounced theater with a long a.

“No thank you. You have a lovely workshop,” says Brigitte.

That’s an understatement. It’s a little slice of Heaven compared to Manimal Mike’s jerry-rigged setup. The space is clean and stocked with every tool in this world and probably a couple of others. There’s enough room for several people to work at once. Rose must have assistants because there are at least a dozen animal familiars around the room, some fully built and others just steel and gear frames.

“Thank you,” he says. “May I give you ladies a tour?”

Just like I thought. Atticus, a professional recluse, can’t help but want to show off his toys. He brings them over to a table where a half-constructed tabby cat lies curled up near unsewn swatches of fur.

Watching them like this isn’t fun. It brings bad old feelings. This is how my hits in Hell used to go. I’d come through a shadow into someone’s home and wait, sometimes hours, for them to get relaxed or distracted, and then quickly, quietly, I’d cut their throats with the black blade. Things only got messy if they had a bodyguard or a hapless, soon-to-be-dead friend strolled into the slaughter scene. No one ever got away. I was a slave and a killer and I was good at it. I don’t want to be any of those things today, so I stay put and take deep breaths, letting the memories fade away.

Speaking of people who need to crank things down a notch, Rose’s heart is doing its own tap dance. Brigitte got good information. This boy likes wide-open spaces. Even with two not-very-large women in the room, he’s uncomfortable.

“Thank you for seeing us so quickly,” Brigitte says to Rose.

“Of course. Any friends of Saragossa are welcome.”

“What’s this?” says Candy. She’s across the workroom on her own, lost in Rose’s mechanical zoo. Nearby is what looks like a wild dog with broad stripes down its back.

“That’s a Tasmanian tiger, young lady. They’re extinct. If you want one I’m the only Tick-Tock Man in the world who can give you an exact copy of an original, capturing both its spirit and its wild soul.”

“It looks expensive.”

“Very expensive,” says Rose.

Candy looks at Brigitte.

“Mom, can I have one if I’m good?”

Brigitte laughs.

“Maybe for your birthday, dear.”

Candy strokes the tiger’s ears.

Rose’s breathing and heart spike like someone rigged his scrotum to a 220 line.

“Please don’t touch that,” he says, and crosses the room in a few strides to where Candy is standing. She backs off and goes back to Brigitte while Rose combs the tiger’s fur back the way it was.

“Do you ever make anything besides animals?” says Candy.

She’s setting him up for me to knock down. Rose isn’t relaxed enough to attack, but he’s plenty distracted. I take off my glove and put it in my pocket.

“Like what?” says Rose.

I walk into his workspace balancing the 8 Ball on my Kissi hand.

“Something like this.”

I toss the ball at Rose. He catches it. Clutches it to his chest like a life preserver.

“How did you get in here? Get out before I call hotel security.”

I look at the girls.

“You know, people used to have pride. They’d keep a baseball bat by the door and hit you themselves. Now everyone has hired goons. What happened to the American can-do spirit?”

Candy and Brigitte snigger. Rose doesn’t move. He’s looking at my funny hand. I go to the hotel phone on the wall. Pull it out of the wall and crush it like a soda can in my trash-compactor fingers.

“Sweet Jesus,” whispers Rose.

I can read Rose like the Sunday funnies. He’s on the edge of panic. There are way too many people in here, but he’s conflicted. Who does he ask to go? The pretty ladies or the crazy man with the mechanical meat hook? He’s afraid of me but he’ll weep bitter tears every night if he passes up the chance to get a better look at my Kissi arm.

I use it to take back the 8 Ball. Wave it in front of him.

“Focus. Where did you see the real 8 Ball? Who did you make the fake one for?”

Candy and Brigitte stroll around the room playing with Rose’s tools. Running their hands over his animals’ fur and feathers.

“The sooner you answer, the sooner we’ll be gone,” I say.

He glances at the 8 Ball and shakes his head.

“I’ve never seen that thing before in my life.”

“It has your mark on it.”

“Then it’s a damn fake.”

Candy tosses Brigitte a wriggling koi. She catches it, laughing as it tries to squirm out of her hands.

“If you think we’re being unreasonable, think about it from my point of view. Not only did I lose the real 8 Ball, but your goddamn fake almost got me killed. Right now we’re going to play volleyball with every kitty cat and titmouse in here until you fess up and tell me who has the real ball.”

“I don’t know.”

“Who wanted the fake one?”

“It’s all lies.”

I stop for a minute. Is there a chance I’m torturing the wrong guy? I’m good at reading people, but Rose’s heart rate and breathing are off the chart. His pupils are the size of baked hams. But I’m still not convinced he’s all that innocent.

“Please. You people have to leave.”

Reset and try another approach. I pull up my sleeve and show him my whole Kissi arm. Rose’s vitals slow. He’s back in his own zone. He’d love nothing more than to dismantle me piece by piece.

“I’ll let you look at it if you want. Examine the hell out of it and see how it works. Just tell me about the Qomrama.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There it is. The microtremor in his lips when I said the 8 Ball’s name.

“You’re lying. Who was the fake one supposed to kill? Garrett? Or the buyer? Who was the buyer?”

Candy has a diamondback curling around her arm. It looks delicate and pricey.

“Declan Garrett,” says Rose.

The idiot from Donut Universe. Good.

“And who showed you the real Qomrama?”

“I never saw it. Just pictures. And diagrams in books they gave me.”

Shit. Rose is telling the truth. I can feel it. He never saw the real 8 Ball. Maybe whoever commissioned the fake one might never have seen it either. Just knew about it in an old book and had Atticus run him off a mobster clone. If that’s true, then chasing Moseley, getting shot, and almost getting blown to refried beans was for nothing. Still, there might be something to salvage.

“Who hired you to make the copy?”

Rose can’t take it anymore. There’s too many of us. We’re too loud. I might kill him with my creepy hand and Candy and Brigitte might fuck up his life’s work. He turns away. I think for a second that he might be crying. But he’s not. When he turns back he’s fished a small box, like a cable remote, from his pocket. He punches in a code with his thumb. A second later Candy slams into one of the worktables as someone blurs by her, heading for me. I step aside at the last second and let Kid Flash fly by. When he turns, color me surprised.

It’s Trevor Moseley. Upright, clean, and completely uncrushed by a number 2 bus.

Moseley comes at me like a flat-footed tornado. All fury and power but not really knowing what to do with it. I slip his first couple of punches, then give him a quick pop in the kidneys. The asshole doesn’t even react. He was doped when we danced our first waltz and I guess he still is.

I go down low, giving him a good target. Moseley takes the bait, and when he throws a kick at my head, I grab his leg and plant a boot into his balls.

I don’t know what Moseley is on, but I want some of it. I’ve still got hold of his leg when he springs off the other and slams me on the side of the head with his foot. The world spins and I flop down flat on my ass. Moseley grabs something bright and sharp from a worktable and comes at me. I pull the na’at from under my coat, swing it like a whip so it wraps around his arm. Flick the grip so the na’at goes rigid, then twist it to break his arm. It works. A little too well. His arm snaps clean off, spewing blood, hydraulic fluid, gears, and cams all over the floor.

I retract the na’at and whip it again, this time at his head. Half of his face comes off, revealing polished wood and carved bone underneath. The fucker is one of Rose’s automatons.

There’s a soft explosion behind me, like a giant snake coughing. I turn and there’s another Moseley on the floor with a big hole in his chest. He’s oozing goo and machine parts. Across the room Brigitte has her gun out and in ready position. I nod a quick thanks for covering my back.

The other Moseley grabs me from behind. I spin and plant an elbow full force on the side of his head. And the head comes off, rolling like the world’s most surprised bowling ball, coming to a rest at Rose’s feet. At least I know why Moseley wasn’t afraid to step in front of the bus. With all the spare Moseleys around to take his place, why not?

“You’re a talented prick,” I say to Rose. “Why hire help when you can build your own? Is the real Moseley still around or did you kill him after you copied him?”

A smile creeps across Rose’s face like a tarantula.

“Oh, he’s alive, but you’re so dumb I doubt you’ll live long enough to meet him.”

“Did you tell him to shoot me at Donut Universe?”

“I don’t ask clients what they do with my creations after I deliver them.”

“I forget. What was the client’s name?” says Candy.

“I forget too,” says Rose, thumbing another code into the remote. “Of course, I have confidentiality agreements with all my clients, but now that you know this secret part of my work, none of you can leave.”

He presses a button on the remote. Closes and locks the apartment door.

Machines kick into life around us. Saws. Drills. Lathes. Growls, hisses, and birdcalls float on top of the machine rumble. Rose has activated all of the equipment and every one of his mechanical familiars.

Candy is the first of us to attack. She goes full Jade—nails curved into claws, a mouthful of white shark teeth, and eyes like red slits in black ice—and leaps on top of a jaguar. Digs her teeth into the nape of its neck. Rakes her claws down its side. It makes a grinding, ripping sound.

Brigitte blows apart a cobra as it leaps for her and an eagle as it dives, talons out and aimed at her eyes.

Something slams me down on the first Moseley’s busted carcass. Then it roars in my face like a drunken 747.

A fucking grizzly bear. It rears back, but before it can drop down and crush me, I roll out of the way, pulling the Colt .45 from under my coat.

On its hind legs, the bear is ten feet tall and half a ton. I wait until it comes down for me. When it opens its big wet mouth, I aim inside and put two slugs through its upper palate. The top of its head pops off like a toaster full of clock parts and it falls.

I look around for Candy and Brigitte, but a flock of birds—crows, starlings, and buzzards—flies around the room at jet speed, screeching and pecking at everything, including us. The air is a gray blur. I’m blind and deaf in the noise and I can’t see what might be creeping up on me.

I yell, “Hit the deck,” as loud as I can and bark some Hellion hoodoo.

The ceiling sizzles with flames. The fire licks down the wall like liquid. I get down on my knees and spin the na’at in circles over my head. It won’t stop the fire, but it gives me something to concentrate on as I try to control the flames so they burn the familiars but don’t get low enough to cook us.

It gets hard to breathe. The flames are burning off all the oxygen in the room. I bark more hoodoo and the fire dwindles to glowing ghost wisps.

“It’s okay,” I say.

Candy and Brigitte get up from the floor. I was expecting the hotel sprinklers to go off until I see that they’re melted and fused to the ceiling.

Except for us, the room is a charred pile of splinters and crispy critters. I look at Brigitte and nod at the apartment door.

“You wanted to kick a door in.”

She smiles and blows the lock off with her pistol. Kicks the door open, throws herself forward, and rolls upright, her gun out. It’s nice when those reflexes kick back in. Not that they’re going to do us much good. The door to the hall is open. I close it and kick a rug against the crack at the bottom so the smoke from the workroom doesn’t set off the hall fire alarm.

Rose is long gone. My guess is he won’t be coming back. Keeping wild animals and bloody cyborgs in a room charred like a bad night in Dresden might violate the terms of his lease.

Candy is back to human again.

“You all right?” she says.

“Fine. You?”

“Coolio.”

“Brigitte. How are you doing?”

“Lovely,” she says. “I haven’t had this much fun in months.”

Her necklace is broken, dripping pearls onto the floor. Her face and arms are scratched and bleeding, covered in soot. But she smiles like it’s New Year’s Eve.

“Thank you for bringing me along, Jimmy.”

“Thank you for saving my ass back there.”

“That was fun,” says Candy. “Do we get to trash this place too?”

“No. The workshop won’t do us any good, so look around here for anything like customer records or names or phone numbers. Any papers that look important.”

After half an hour no one comes up with a single useful thing. Brigitte steals a mechanical parakeet in the bedroom and names it Szamanka. Candy thumbs through a big leather-bound book.

“I think this is the book Atticus was talking about,” she says. “It has all kinds of drawings of the 8 Ball.”

She hands it to me.

I was expecting a moldy, crumbling relic. But the book doesn’t look more than a few years old. I put it under my arm and say, “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take this to Father Traven.”

“I can take it to Liam, if you like,” says Brigitte. “I’ll be seeing him tonight.”

I look at Candy. She moves her head microscopically. A secret nod. So that’s who Brigitte is seeing. Two nice Catholic kids. A killer and an excommunicated priest. Sounds like a match made in Heaven.

“You should come and see him soon,” Brigitte says. “The weight of things is hard on him. I think he drinks too much these days.”

“How about tomorrow?” says Candy. “Perfect. He’ll be happy to see you.”

“I didn’t just get eaten by a bear,” I say. “I’ll be happy to see anyone.”

MAYBE HAPPY ISN’T the right word. Maybe relieved is better. There isn’t a lot to be happy about. Yeah, it was fun busting up the Tick-Tock Man’s place, but now I’m back to square one. All my leads are blown up, burned down, run off, or dead, or as dead as a windup toy can be. Declan Garrett is still around, but he was trying to buy the 8 Ball from two different sources, so it’s pretty clear he doesn’t have it. I haven’t even heard anything useful about Aelita or Medea. I think all I’ve really accomplished in the last month is making Mr. Muninn really depressed. I’m nowhere. More wasted time. Why am I doing this? I’m ridiculous. No one cares. Most people don’t even believe the Angra exist much less are coming back. Hell, I’m starting to wonder myself. Am I playing this game because I’ve run out of legitimate things to kill? No. I saw Lamia and I know she was real, so the Angra are real. Still, maybe it’s time to just walk away and let things work themselves out. We die or we don’t. I’ve been there before. Will I have time to shout one last “I told you so” when the Angra burn the world? That’s a hell of a last request. Maybe I should have given Candy her Christmas present after all. I need a drink.

WE DECIDE TO meet at Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s a holy place. My second home. The best bar in L.A. A punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy & The Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees around the liquor bottles. Coconut bowls for peanuts. Martin Denny and Les Baxter on the jukebox. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. I met him my first day back from Hell. Helped him out with a skinhead problem and now I drink for free. Ain’t life grand?

“Sir Galahad returns,” he says when he sees me. “How’s the saving-the-world biz?”

“Slow. But it’s a growth industry. I expect a lot of investors when Godzilla takes a shit on Disneyland.”

“Hold a place for me in the lifeboat. I’ll bring my cocktail mixer and we can toast El Apocalipsis with Manhattans.”

“Sounds yummy,” says Candy.

“How are you doing, ma’am?” he says.

“Great. I’ll be spectacular with a beer in me.”

“You got it,” says Carlos. “Aqua Regia for you?”

I shake my head.

“Black coffee. I’ll be setting a saintly example tonight.”

“Better you than me,” says Carlos. “Hey. Put that back.”

There’s a skinny blond guy in a red Pendleton shirt trying to palm the cash the drunk next to him left sitting on the bar.

I reach for the guy, but before I touch him he screams. His hands have shrunk to doll size.

I don’t see any witches or Coyote tricksters around. Carlos is holding a crushed paper cup in his hand. Holy water, amber, and spots of what look like red mercury wormwood drip from between his fingers. Fucking Carlos just used hoodoo on someone.

“Where did you learn that?”

“Get up and get out,” Carlos tells Tiny Hands.

The money is too big for the guy to hold on to. He drops it on the floor. I think he wants to scream, but his brain has vapor-locked.

“Your hands will be okay in a couple of hours. But your head won’t be if you ever come back here,” says Carlos, grabbing up a baseball bat from under the bar.

Still staring at his mangled hands, Tiny Hands backs out the door.

“Neat trick, huh? Cutter Blade taught it to me for a bottle of Gentleman Jack. I keep the potion back here, and when someone gets untoward, I crush a cup while giving them the hairy eyeball. I’m the new brujo in town, right, motherfuckers?”

People bellied up to the bar clap and hoot. Carlos bows like it’s Las fucking Vegas.

“Why do you need that hoodoo?”

Carlos moves his head from side to side like he’s thinking.

“I can’t have you cleaning up my messes forever. And you can’t be here all the time. I decided that with all you abracadabra types around, learning a trick or two was better than taking one of those pepper-spray courses.”

“That’s not a bad idea. But be careful with that stuff. Crazy shit can happen when you learn on your own.”

“Like what?”

“Make sure you wash that stuff off your hands before you pee,” says Candy.

“I’m going to etch that on my eyeballs,” he says, handing her a beer.

“I’ll come by and teach you a couple of civilian-safe tricks after I find the 8 Ball.”

“Muchas gracias,” says Carlos, and sets a cup of coffee in front of me.

I’m impressed with the hoodoo. It’s hard for civilians to ever do real magic and harder still for them not to kill themselves doing it. But Carlos has always had balls of steel. He’s had skinheads and zombies in here and he just cleaned up the mess and started serving drinks again. When his clientele switched from regular L.A. drunks to Sub Rosas and Lurkers, he didn’t even blink. I’m not surprised he can pull off some bush magic.

Father Traven and Brigitte come in with Vidocq and Allegra. Traven looks tired. His worn soldier’s face is pale and there are dark rings around his eyes. That’s where the drinking comes from. He doesn’t sleep, so he tries to knock himself out with booze. I’ve been there. It works too. But it’ll kill you faster than the worst insomnia.

The father is another civilian who’s picked up a little hoodoo. Before he became a professional bookworm, he was a sin eater, a priest who used bread and salt to ritually consume the sins of the dead. When he started working with us, he learned to use those sins as a weapon. He calls it the Via Dolorosa. It’s like a horrible kiss when he puts his mouth over yours and spits enough sins down your gullet to book you a seat in the deepest, darkest pit in Hell.

Candy gives my arm a squeeze and goes over to the happy couples. Like we agreed, she leads Vidocq, Allegra, and Brigitte away and aims Traven at me.

“Good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

“Sorry. I got so twisted around looking for the Qomrama that I stopped talking to practically everyone. Especially when I came up with nothing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, but I almost got lucky. A guy offered me a million dollars for it a couple of days ago.”

“He thought you had it?”

“How’s that for a kick in the head? And there are other assholes out there who think the same thing. Whoever really has it must be laughing his ass off.”

Traven gestures to Carlos.

“Evening. Could I get a gin and tonic, please?”

“He’ll have coffee. Just like me.”

I pick up my cup and take a drink.

Traven raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve been talking to Brigitte.”

“She’s been talking to us. She’s worried about you.”

He looks at her across the room.

“I suppose with reason. The last few weeks have been both wonderful and very difficult. I’ve never known anyone like Brigitte before. I joined the Church young. I’d never even had a serious girlfriend. I suppose I was running away from the world. Then I met Brigitte and heard about her adventures. She’s opened my eyes to a lot of things.”

“If everything is so Ozzie and Harriet, why are you turning into a lush?”

Carlos sets down the coffee. Father Traven practically drowns it in cream and sugar. I should have ordered him a milk shake.

“The certainty of Hell. The coming of the Angra Om Ya. Of having nothing, then having something and knowing it will all be taken away when I disappear into the Abyss.”

“Speaking as someone who’s been to Hell and had everything taken away from him, I can say that, yeah, it sucks. But it’s not going to happen to you. “

Traven sips his coffee. Leans back a little and looks at me.

“You’re not Lucifer anymore. You can’t guarantee me anything. In fact, from what you’ve told me, the very God I offended by writing about the Angra is now Lucifer. If anything, that might merit me special punishment.”

“No wonder they kept you in the back with the books. You’re even depressing me.”

“That wasn’t my intention. But you asked why I was drinking and that’s the best I can tell you. I’m scared.”

I put my hand around the cup of coffee, feeling the hot ceramic against my skin. How do you explain to someone that you understand their fear, then convince them that it’s going to be all right? In my experience, the more you talk about what scares them, the worse it gets. There’s not much to do but ride out the fear with them and try to keep them away from liquor and razor blades.

What I wouldn’t do for a Malediction and a shot of just about anything right now.

“You need to get out more. You’ve been with your books too much. Brigitte was like a kid again when we busted up the Tick-Tock Man’s place yesterday. The next time I’m going someplace interesting, you should come along.”

Brigitte laughs at something Vidocq says. Traven smiles.

“She’s been floating on air since she came home. Yes, it would be good to do something other than poring over the same books again and again.”

“What are you looking for?”

“A way out. A way that I’ve read the signs wrong and the Angra aren’t coming.”

“Did you find it?”

“I’ve been translating older and older texts and they all say the same thing. That the universe was not created by the deity we call God. It was created by something older and far less forgiving.”

“That sounds like the Angra.”

“Yes. The thin membrane of reality that separates the Angra’s prison domain from ours is breaking down.”

“Or they’re punching their way through.”

“You know, it’s no coincidence that Lamia was the one to break through. There are twelve Angra in all. Six male and six female, but they’re the polar opposite of the Greek and Roman myths we grew up with. The females are dominant among the Angra, and Lamia is one of the strongest.”

“If they have a lot more like Lamia, we might just be fucked.”

“There’s no reason to think that they’ll all get through. Or even one complete deity. Even one would be almost impossible to defeat. We’ll have to hope that when they come, it will be in the form of something like Lamia. A larger and more dangerous fragment, but something on a scale we can comprehend.”

“This isn’t a pep talk, right? Because if it is, you’re doing it wrong.”

He looks at his coffee cup. Turns it around in his hands like he wishes there was something in there besides coffee.

“Sorry. I’m still working some of this through in my head. Talking about it helps.”

“All this theoretical stuff is interesting, but how do we fight them? And how will the Angra get free in the first place?”

“That’s the one piece of good news I have. It looks like they can’t come back all the way on their own, no matter how many cracks appear between the universes. The full Angra can only return through a summoning.”

“Great. Where’s the Golden Vigil when you need them? They could set up surveillance on every Angra cult in California.”

“It’s not that simple. We’re talking about a ritual. Something anyone with the right knowledge can do without even necessarily realizing what they’re doing.”

“So, some kids with the wrong book and a Ouija board could destroy the universe.”

“I don’t know about that exact scenario, but essentially that’s it.”

“Fucking great. So we’re still nowhere.”

“No. I believe that the Qomrama is the key. It can kill gods, but I believe it’s the key to releasing them too. We need to have it and find out if there is a way to destroy it.”

“Why don’t you work on that last bit? I’ll keep looking until someone coughs it up or I think of something better to do.”

“And you’ll bring me along on your next adventure?”

“Absolutely. Now, why don’t you go back with the others?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not sure yet. But you’ll know it when you see it.”

“Thank you for the talk. Maybe there’s a way out of this after all.”

“One more thing. Do you think the Terminator had a soul?”

“Excuse me?”

“I mean yeah, he was a robot, but he had a human body on top of all the gears. The body was even cloned from a real guy. So could someone or something like the Terminator have a soul?”

He thinks for a minute and shakes his head.

“No. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

“I was hoping to track someone down in Hell, but now I doubt he’s there. I doubt he’s anywhere.”

“You’ll have to explain that to me sometime.”

“Sure. Sometime.”

He gets up and goes and joins Brigitte with the others.

So much for tracking down Trevor Moseley in Hell and giving him the third degree. I hold up the remains of my coffee to Carlos.

“Can you make this more interesting?”

He gets a dusty bottle from under the counter and pours a shot of Aqua Regia into the cup. Just what I need to kill those last few brain cells that are getting in the way of what I think I need to do.

Carlos puts the bottle back and says, “You know, someone was asking about you yesterday.”

“Did you get a name?”

He shakes his head.

“He didn’t say. But he was dressed to the nines and the tens.”

“Did he look like someone who might produce bad TV or good porn?”

“Neither. He was right out of GQ.”

“Then he wasn’t Declan Garrett.”

“Who’s that?”

“I was eating a donut and he tried to shoot me.”

“Some people are like that. Anyway, the guy who is looking for you said he’d be back. He has a business deal for you.”

“When he gets here tell him to fuck off. I’m beginning to I think I’ve spent this whole month doing things backward.”

“Backward how?”

Carlos pours more Aqua Regia into my cup. The more I drink, the clearer it gets. I look around to make sure Traven doesn’t see me.

“I’ve been looking for a thing, but what I should have been looking for is who wants it. Think of the ultimate weapon. Think of a death ray that fits in your pocket like a phone. Who would want that? In the old days, it would be the Vigil. They had a massive hard-on for hoodoo tech. Who’s left in L.A. like that? Not the cops. If they had the 8 Ball, they’d have blown themselves up by now. Who does that leave? Gangsters. But not civilian ones. They’re dumber than cops, so they’d all be dead. It’s got to be a Sub Rosa or Lurker crew. They’re the only ones who might handle the 8 Ball without setting off World War Three.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but feel free to yammer.”

He sets out coasters and drinks for other customers.

I say, “How would you feel if I became extremely unreasonable?”

Carlos leans on the bar and speaks quietly.

“Like the old days? You’re not going to kill anybody?”

“Absolutely not.”

He stands up and takes empty glasses off the bar.

“Things have been quiet lately. Business is off. Maybe we need a little . . . what’s the French thing?”

“Grand Guignol?”

“That’s it. Some of that.”

I nod. Push the empty cup at him. The place is crowded for a weeknight. Civilian groupies huddle at the jukebox with a vampire holding hands with a blue-skinned Ludere. Some Razzers pick at a plate of deep fried tumors. Horned Lyphs, a tour group from Seattle, take snapshots in front of the old punk posters. A table of psychics quietly shares a bottle of tequila shaped like a Día de los Muertos skull.

“Who don’t you like? I mean if they all dropped down dead, who would you not miss?”

“That’s easy,” Carlos says. He sets a gimlet in front of a Mal de Mer in a tight wife beater. He’s shaved down the coral on his scalp so it looks like a mullet swept back to the shoulders and covered in skin like a cobra’s—diamond-scaled and shiny as marble. Carlos picks up an empty glass and uses it to point across the room.

“Them,” he says. “Those fucking Cold Cases.”

I turn and spot a table with four of them.

Cold Cases are soul merchants. There’s a lot of call for fresh souls in L.A. It’s an easy town to get yours smudged up. Or maybe you get dumb and desperate and sell it to Lucifer. Don’t worry. Just call your friendly neighborhood Cold Case. They have plenty of replacement souls. Most they even paid for, though there are rumors that they sometimes lift a particularly spotless soul without the owner’s permission. Everyone hates Cold Cases, but enough people need them that when one of them gets in trouble, evidence gets misplaced. Paperwork disappears. Not a one of them has ever spent a night in jail.