Текст книги "Kill City Blues"

Автор книги: Richard Kadrey

Соавторы: Richard Kadrey,Richard Kadrey
сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

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.

“What’s the story with your clone called Trevor Moseley? He runs through every religion there is and ends up hanging out with Angra Om Ya nutcases?”

“My little Trevors, Fredericks, Pauls, Williams, and the others have insinuated themselves in various groups around the world. Groups that possess or might come to possess things I want.”

I knew it.

“You want the 8 Ball.”

“The Qomrama. Yes. Trevor was going to buy it from them or, if need be, take it. Then he . . . that is, I found that they didn’t have it. In fact, like me they were looking for it, and all signs pointed to you having it.”

“But I don’t.”

“Much to my dismay.”

Quay makes an exaggerated sad face.

“Were you doing business with Declan Garrett? You should be more careful. He tried to blow you up.”

Quay waves a dismissive hand.

“I would never do business with Declan. He’s a crook. Anyway, I knew he didn’t have it.”

“How?”

“Because he offered it to me at a good price. He would never have done that if he’d had it.”

Quay leans on the cane and the arm of the sofa and slowly pushes himself to his feet. I almost want to help the old creep, but I have a feeling if I moved an inch, I’d have a bunch of cracked vertebrae courtesy of the two meat mountains in the corners.

Quay makes it over to his desk. There’s a bottle of brown booze on the far end.

“Have a drink with me, Stark.”

“I’m not thirsty.”

“I don’t care if you’re thirsty. We’re going to do business and business is done over drinks.”

“You don’t have any Aqua Regia, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then Jack Daniel’s.”

He laughs.

“Of course that’s what you drink.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s what you drank as a young man, but because of your unique circumstance, you never had the chance to grow out of it.”

“I guess you could call Hell a unique circumstance. But like everything, it gets boring. I mean you can only be terrified for so long, right?”

He pours himself a drink in a heavy crystal tumbler.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m never scared. My obscene wealth insulates me from that kind of thing.”

“Is that why I’ve never heard of you?”

He sips his drink.

“Some people use their money to get on the Forbes list of richest people. Others use it to stay off.”

“It must be fun having options like that.”

“It is,” and he gives me a smile that makes him look twenty years younger. “Get Mr. Stark his Jack Daniel’s.”

One of the Titans steps away from the wall and leaves the room.

I say, “Do you know what the 8 Ball is?”

“I don’t care what its function is. It’s an ancient object of great beauty and that’s all I care about. I have the largest collection of so-called death and apocalyptic religious artifacts in the world. This isn’t just morbid curiosity. It’s a public service since changing government alliances and rival religious sects would have destroyed many of these objects. From time to time I’ve even opened my collection to museums and academics. Perhaps your friend Father Traven would like to have a look around? I’m sure he’d find my collection interesting. He’d have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, of course.”

“It’s a weapon.”

Quay swirls the liquor in the glass.

“And it’s magic, and to you Sub Rosa anything magic is beyond us mere mortals to comprehend. Well, son, I’ve seen magic. Hell, I live in magic and I’m just not that impressed.”

I get tired of standing and sit down on the sofa. I wanted to see what this much money looked like, but now I’m annoyed by the mansion and Quay’s absolute certainty in his bulletproof life.

“But you can see how I might be reluctant to sell a weapon to a stranger.”

He sets down his drink and thinks.

“Just because a collector buys, say, an antique Gatling gun, does that mean he intends to rob a bank? Of course not. He admires the object for itself.”

“And yet.”

“You said you didn’t have it.”

“It means if I do, it’s not for sale.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry not to get paid the fortune you were going to offer me, but there we are.”

“I’m starting to think that perhaps you do have it.”

I lean forward.

“By the way, what you said about not being afraid? It’s bullshit. I can read people. You’re lousy with fear. You’re like Hitler in his bunker just waiting for the commies to storm Berlin and kill him dead. And all those Trevors or whatever you call them, you didn’t make them just to collect death art for fun. You’re looking for a way out. You don’t want to die.”

He leans back in his chair.

“What man isn’t looking for a way out from death? However, I assure you I’m not going to die. But the art is nothing more than appreciation for the forms. A bit morbid to most people, I suppose, but we can’t deny our true natures, can we, Sandman Slim?”

His heart and breathing don’t change. He’s a really good liar if he’s telling the truth. He really thinks he has death beat and he’s just a compulsive collector. I don’t know if that’s better or worse. Is it worse to want the 8 Ball because you think it has the magic to make you immortal or because you want to put it on a shelf with your bowling trophies?

“Let me say it one more time and for the record. I don’t have the Qomrama.”

Quay sighs. Picks up a pen and doodles on a pad for a few seconds.

“I’m afraid I believe you. Were you another sort of man, I’d have Sean over there in the corner hurt you or hurt one of your friends until I was entirely convinced.”

“Lucky for you you have an open mind. You touch my friends and I’ll kill you.”

“Naturally. As I was saying, I know it’s pointless to threaten you, and anyway, I don’t want us to be enemies. Do you know who has the Qomrama?”

“I know who had it.”

“That’s better than nothing. Let’s leave things like this. If and when you recover the object, promise me you won’t sell it to anybody else and we can part on amiable terms.”

“I don’t want to sell it to anyone.”

“Excellent. We can work from there.”

“Stay away from my friends.”

Quay stands, but faster this time. He’s excited to be just a little closer to the 8 Ball.

“If you do your best to find the device, I’ll do my best to remain patient. We’re done now. I’ll have someone drive you home.”

“You know where I live?”

“At the Chateau Marmont, of course. Lovely place. I fucked many a charming starlet there back in my prime.”

“Thanks for sharing. The driver can drop me off where I got picked up.”

“If that’s what you want.”

A flunky comes in with my drink and a piece of paper. He hands it to Quay, who scans it.

“Just set the drink down, Jeffery. Mr. Stark is leaving.”

Quay stares at the paper for a few more seconds. I don’t like it.

Finally he says, “You’re probably wondering who that was shooting at you a few minutes ago.”

“You have your cars monitored?”

He raises his eyes to mine.

“Naturally. How else would I have the license plate of the car that shot at you? The car was allegedly stolen from a used-car lot near LAX.”

“Allegedly?”

“Before that, it was a rental car in the City Runaway fleet. City Runaway is owned by a small company in San Francisco which itself is owned by a much larger transportation conglomerate in Zurich, mostly investing in air and sea transport companies.”

“Thanks. I’ll call my broker.”

“A principal shareholder in their sea freight division is Nasrudin Hodja.”

Oh, shit.

“The Cold Case kingpin?”

The way Quay laughs I know that it is. He folds the piece of paper and hands it back to the flunky who brought it.

“A bit of trivia that might interest you is that Zurich is also the birthplace of our own illustrious Saragossa Blackburn, though he likes to play down his international origins.”

“Is he part of the company too?”

“Not that I know of.”

“And you would know if he was.”

“Oh yes. Good-bye, Mr. Stark.”

I’m walking out with one of Quay’s Titans when he says, “Of course, there are things that get by even me. Even I don’t know everyone Saragossa knows.”

I turn around.

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

Quay smiles.

“Have a nice evening at the Chateau. If you haven’t tried the duck, do. It’s to die for.”

The Titan drives me back to Bamboo House of Dolls in a Mercedes SUV. He turns a classical station on the radio loud so he has an excuse not to talk to me. I go inside the bar and get very drunk. A Lyph in a Hollywood Walk of Fame T-shirt asks for an autograph. I’m too tired to refuse.

So Nasrudin Hodja wants me dead. Get in line, pal. But was Quay telling the truth about the car? He strikes me as a guy who’s always playing six angles at once. He could just as easily be trying to provoke me into killing Hodja. I wonder if that’s what Blackburn was doing when he sent me to Brendan Garrett. I think I get the money clip now. The symbol on the clip. It’s not the Golden Vigil. It was Aelita’s personal spin on the design. The design she made all of Blackburn’s bodyguards wear when she worked for him. That means Brendan Garrett probably worked for Blackburn at some point. He would have sent some of his people over to clean Brendan’s clock, but then big dumb me walks in and practically begs him to send me. He probably figured that Brendan would pull a gun and I’d have to kill him. He read Brendan’s tea leaves and saw that he was going to die and wanted to speed it along. I can understand him wanting me to do his dirty work for him, but did he know about the bomb in the case? Was he so pissed that I turned him down that he hoped to get rid of two disloyal assholes at one time? If he did I’m in trouble. If he didn’t it’s good news for me. It means that since I’m part angel, he can’t read my future, at least not clearly. That might come in handy sometime.

AND HERE I was under the impression we had a truce.

That’s what I think when I come out of Donut Universe with a bagful of greasy death. My last trip to the Universe was interrupted by gunfire. This one is topped off by vampires waiting for me in the parking lot.

I guess the lesson tonight is to never trust a bloodsucker. Still, it’s disappointing. We’ve stayed out of one another’s way for months, and now suddenly we’re in West Side Story. I set the donuts in the bed of a pickup truck and consider my options, which doesn’t take long. I’m surrounded. It’s all of them against me, and nowhere to run. Fight or die. And here I was thinking that no one could shovel more bullshit into a day like this.

There’s four of them. Two male and two female. They form a loose circle around me and walk in a slow spiral, tightening the circle with each step. Trying to psych me out. It might work too if two of the bloodsuckers weren’t so nervous. An older woman and a boy with acne scars. It’s obvious they’re new to the vampire game. They probably tagged along to get some street experience.

One of them moves with predatory calm. He’s the leader. He has a young face, with his hair frizzed out in a white-boy ’fro. He’s wearing a red military jacket with shiny satin pants and pointy boots. The kid’s got a serious Jimi Hendrix complex. One of the women is decked in expensive custom-tailored Goth gear. The older woman and the acne kid are strictly thrift store. Note to self: the Goth girl has sharp steel tips on the toes of her boots.

I’m waiting for the gang to make a move and they’re waiting for me. Weird. They should be all over me by now. I’m not going to give them any satisfaction by throwing the first punch. As long as the donuts are safe, I can take my time.

The older woman comes at me first, hands up like claws, hissing like she’s watched too many late-night monster movies. I sidestep and kick her in the ass as she goes by, sending her sprawling into a Prius. The alarm goes off, which is really annoying because it covers up the sound of feet coming up behind me.

Goth girl comes at me next. Like I thought, she’s more experienced than the kid and the other woman. Her nails are sharpened, so she does the claw thing too, but comes at me low and fast, aiming for my gut. Trying to disembowel me like a cat. When I move to block her, she tags me in the thigh with one of her pointy boots. It hurts like a son of a bitch. I think she drew blood. Dumb of me to let her do it.

The acned kid is next. He leaps in the air and comes down like a fucking banshee, his heavy work boots aimed at my face. The circle is tight enough now that I can’t easily sidestep him. I have to slip him at the last minute, let his feet sail by but catch some of his weight on my chest, throwing me onto my back. He tries to jump me again and I catch him with my boots and flip him over, right into Goth girl. I wait for Hendrix to make his move, but he just gives me a white-fang smile.

When he’s just out of my peripheral vision, he tries to jump me. Like the Goth girl, he’s more experienced. I throw a back kick and he spins around it with incredible vampire speed. But I’m fast too. When I see him spin, I duck and put my shoulder into him, right about in balls territory.

This is the weirdest gang fight I’ve ever been in. I think they’re playing with me. Instead of rushing me all at once, they’re coming in one at a time like we’re in an old Shaw Brothers movie. Maybe this is someone’s idea of a good time, but it’s not mine.

The older woman rushes me again. I imitate her boss and spin out of the way. Normally, this is something I never do. Don’t turn your back on the enemy. But some rules are made to be broken. The spin covers my hand going into my coat for the na’at. It shoots it out like a qiang spear, and she’s moving so fast she steps right into it. The blade splits her face open. She screams as her lower jaw wobbles in the breeze, hanging on by a few strands of gray meat.

Maybe the woman is the acne kid’s aunt or something. He comes at me in a blind fury. Perfect. Dumb. His gives me the chance to do something I haven’t done in months. I put the butt of the na’at into his chest, just hard enough to stun him for a second. When I step behind him, I stab the na’at so the tip goes all the way through his back and comes out between his ribs. When I twist the grip, the end opens in three backward-facing hooks. I lean my weight into it and snap the na’at back as hard as I can. The kid is still pawing himself as I rip out his spine, a trick Brigitte taught me back when we were hunting zombies. The kid has just enough time to reach back and touch his bare vertebrae before his torso collapses and he falls to ashes, kicking up a spray of fine powder. I cough up a lungful of the toothy bastard.

“Whoa,” yells Jimi Hendrix. He raises his hands, the bottom one straight up and the other across the top like a T.

“Time out, man. Time out. What the fuck did you do to Phil?”

“I killed his dumb dead ass.”

“Why?”

“Golly, Mr. Rogers. A bunch of bloodsuckers kick and punch a guy long enough he starts to think he’s being attacked.”

“You are such an asshole. We were just fooling around.”

The Goth girl holds a lace-gloved hand close to her mouth. She says, “We’re in trouble, man.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” says Hendrix.

“You kids want to clue me in on what just happened?”

Hendrix puts his hands on his head and does an exasperated three-sixty turn.

“Fuck. We were supposed to deliver a message and just thought we’d have some fun first.”

“And I spoiled things. Sorry. What’s the message?”

“Nnnhhnn,” says the older woman, trying to talk while holding her broken jaw in place.

“The message?”

Hendrix looks at me like he’s bouncing back and forth between totally panicked and numb.

“Tykho wants to see you at the club tomorrow night.”

Tykho is the new boss of the Dark Eternal. I heard a freelance Bela hunter staked Jaime Cortázar, the old boss. Too bad. He once gave me an attaché case full of hundred-dollar bills. I gave him free movie rentals at Max Overdrive. But Tykho’s okay. Smart too. Like Cortázar, she once assured me that “Dark Eternal” sounds a lot scarier in Latin.

“If Tykho is summoning me to demand to buy the 8 Ball, she can kiss my ass and your ass, and she can dig up Gary Cooper and kiss his ass too.”

“She didn’t say anything about wanting to buy anything. It sounded more like she has something for you.”

Interesting. Vampires aren’t the giving type.

“Okay. What time?”

“Midnight.”

“Seriously? A vampire queen wants to meet me at midnight?”

Hendrix shrugs.

“She likes to watch Leno.”

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

“ ‘Fine. I’ll be there,’ ” says the Goth girl in a high, mocking, nasal voice. She shakes her head while she talks. “I’m not telling Tykho about this. She told you to give the creep the message. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

“Are we done?”

Hendrix shoots me the finger.

I nod to the ashes.

“Good night, Phil.”

I get the bag of donuts from the pickup truck and head to the Chateau. A crowd is watching us through Donut Universe’s recently repaired front window.

From behind me the older woman says, “Nnnhhhnnn.”

“What did she say?”

“She said fuck you sideways, asshole,” yells Hendrix.

LATER, KASABIAN IS back tapping on the computer, watching Hell through his peeper like it’s an old rerun of I Love Lucy. Candy is curled up next to me on the sofa. Too many donuts and too much wine have put her in a food coma. I want to get drunk, so I don’t. I drink black coffee and light up another Malediction.

What am I doing agreeing to go for cigars and brandy with a hundred vampires on their turf? What the hell kind of life is this? Is this what I came back from Hell for? Is the marginal existence I’ve carved out for myself going to get Candy and the others killed the way it got Alice killed?

I keep thinking that if I try to act more like a person, I’ll be less of a monster, but at night most of my dreams are about the arena and being Lucifer. Instead of running around asking questions, I’d rather be cutting off heads. But I won’t. Not even Nasrudin Hodja’s. Pick and choose your fights, that’s what Wild Bill said, and I know in my heart of hearts he’s right. A war with the Cold Cases would take over my life, and what would I get from it? A pile of skulls and a bit of idiot glee. That’s not enough anymore. The moment I admitted that I was connected to the people around me and this world, that life was over. Still, I feel like I could go off at any minute. I’m not sure which is the real me anymore. The reasonable guy who can sit in a bar without hitting anyone or the guy giving idiots compound fractures because no one will cough up the 8 Ball.

Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong. Maybe reasonable guy makes monster guy stronger. People used to run when they saw me coming because they knew I was there to break things. Now no one’s sure what I’m going to do and that’s its own kind of power.

But how does any of that get me out of this situation? I still have to find the 8 Ball and deal with Aelita or she’s going to deal with me. The only good news is that with the 8 Ball out of her hands she can’t run around killing off the God brothers. They might be the only things in the universe that can stand up to the Angra Om Ya. I’m not looking forward to going at Aelita one-on-one. She’s beaten me more than I’ve beaten her. Hell, she already killed me once. It was only one of Vidocq’s potions that brought me back before my soul wandered off to Hell or Fresno.

And I’d sure like to know where Medea Bava is. She wants me dead every bit as much as Aelita. I should have gone after her when I was still Lucifer. Once I burned down Tartarus, she didn’t have anywhere to run. Now she’s with Deumos and I don’t know what that means. I don’t even know if the Sub Rosa has an Inquisition anymore. If they do, maybe a new Inquisitor has it in for me. I could ask Blackburn, but what are the chances he’d tell me the truth? Medea doesn’t need any official title to come after me, and if she kills me, everyone is going to say, “He deserved it,” and go have lunch.

No, I don’t need a war with the Cold Cases. I’ve got all I can handle right now.

As vile as they were, things were so much easier in the arena. It was all pain and anger and I knew exactly what I had to do and when. I’ll never stop dreaming about it and wanting things to be that simple again. The arena is my heroin. I’ve kicked the habit, but I’ll never get completely over it.

THE DARK ETERNAL is set up in Death Rides A Horse, a posh fetish bar in West Hollywood.

The Eternal made their bones by killing off or absorbing a lot of the scattered bloodsucker street gangs, then updating and expanding their business. The Eternal has even been known to do hits or provide protection for some of the big Sub Rosa families. All very much on the down low. They make most of their money off Lurkers and vampire wannabes dealing B+. Blood Plus. It’s blood infused with every kind of up, down, and Ring Around the Rosie you can think of. Addicts come to the Eternal because their product is the best. Score cheap bathtub gin from one of the outlaw gangs in Compton or San Berdoo and you’re likely to OD. Or end up with permanent palsy. Imagine living forever shaking so much you can’t piss straight much less sink your fangs into an unwilling throat.

Outside the club there’s a line stretching all the way to the corner. I walk up to the doorman, a burly black dude with a cross tattooed on his bald scalp. It’s a common vampire joke. Crosses don’t work on them any more than flypaper.

He puts a hand in the middle of my chest and notices the bulge of the gun under my coat.

“We’re all full up tonight. Try again tomorrow,” he says with a slight Jamaican accent.

“I’m on the list.”

He smiles while looking over the crowd.

“I doubt that.”

“I’m on Tykho’s list.”

He glances at me, then back to the line.

“That’s not a joke you want to be telling, man.”

I take out my phone and hold it up so he can see the time.

“I have a midnight appointment. If I’m not in the club in two minutes, it’s your skull Tykho is going to be gnawing on tonight. Not mine.”

He thinks it over. In a second he thumbs on the radio headset he’s wearing. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece.

“What’s your name?”

“Stark.”

“Ah,” he says. “They said look for a scarred man, but damn, you’re a lot uglier than I expected.”

He speaks into the headset. “I got your man Stark here and I’m sending him in. What? Don’t worry yourself. You’ll recognize him.”

He gives me a big toothy smile, showing his fangs.

“Go right in, sir.”

I light a Malediction.

“What’s wrong with you, man? You can’t smoke inside.”

“Why? None of you breathe. It’s not like you’re going to get cancer.”

He touches his lapels.

“It makes our clothes smell bad. Bothers some of the minions.”

I don’t have to ask who the minions are. There’s a whole army of them lined up outside the club.

I drop the smoke and crush it out with my boot.

“Leave it to L.A. to turn vampires into twelve-steppers.”

I go inside the club. And am instantly rendered deaf by Totalitarian Chic doing a hard techno version of “A Fistful of Dollars” at a hundred decibels.

Years ago, Death Rides A Horse was an upscale Hollywood cowboy joint, meaning it was about as country as Lawrence Welk’s massage therapist. The DE kept the cowboy theme but added the leather-and-latex aesthetic. The dance floor alone must keep half the fetish shops in L.A. in business. A cowgirl vampire rides her bouncing-pony boy minion around the edge of the dance floor. I have no idea how either of them keeps their balance. It’s an impressive achievement. I have to give the DE credit. The self-conscious decadence is a lot easier to take than a bunch of middle-aged businessmen chewing Skoal dressed up like Hopalong Cassidy.

A blond kid good-looking enough to be a Michelangelo model crooks his finger at me. I push through the crowd over to him.

He doesn’t say a word, just loops his arm in mine and pulls me to the back of the club.