Sandman Slim with Bonus Content (16 page)

“I’m in,” I say.

“Good boy,” says Vidocq. “I’m in, too.”

“Me, too,” says Allegra.

“Forget it. No amateurs on this bus. Only criminals.”

Allegra starts to say something, but Vidocq cuts her off.

“He’s right, even if he’s rude about it. What we’re doing is criminal and dangerous. This isn’t the time or place for you to learn about such things.”

“Fine,” she says. “Have a boys’ night out. I hope you and your dicks will be very happy together.”

I look over at Muninn and he has two tuxedos on hangers.

“Gentlemen’s disguises for a gentleman’s club.”

WE STEP FROM
the room and into Avila without anyone noticing, which is something I’ve always wondered about. How can you see two guys dressed like ushers at Liberace’s funeral walk out of a wall and not react? My guess is that no one sees us or remembers us. The room or the key or some combination must temporarily blind or switch off the memories of anyone nearby. Otherwise how could I have sent so many of Hell’s A-team killers down to Tartarus, the special Hell for the double dead.

Avila is a palace designed by Martians. A rip-off of a rip-off of a rip-off of a Victorian men’s club that some set designer saw in a Sherlock Holmes movie when he or she was six. Still, the scale of the place is impressive. They must have cut down half the Amazon rain forest to get the dark wood for the bar. The Rolexes in this one room could pay off the national debt.

The place is full of sloppy, well-dressed drunks laughing and screaming in a dozen languages. Happy hour at the United Nations of Money. Half-naked and just plain naked hostesses serve drinks and tapas and hold out silver trays piled high with white powder, syringes, and glass pipes, whatever the partiers want. Perfect. Who needs magic to sneak around when you’ve got Caligula’s bachelor party going on down the hall?

Vidocq’s thief instincts are cranked up to eleven and he finds the office in the time it takes me to stop looking at the girls. He’s no fun at all when he’s in business mode. He pushes me into the office ahead of him and closes the door.

After all the rumpus-room fun, the office is kind of a letdown. It could be the office of a bank president or a Beverly Hills real-estate tycoon. There are lots of awards on bookshelves. Lots of celebrities smiling down from the walls. Some of their eyes are so glazed it looks like you could go ice skating on them. Over where Vidocq is working on the safe is an oak desk the size of a Porsche and probably more expensive.

“How’s it going over there?” I ask.

Vidocq is rattling little bottles together as he pulls potions from the pockets of his tux.

“It’s as I thought,” he says. “The safe is ordinary, but it’s protected by a number of protective spells.”

“Want me to help? I’m good at breaking things.”

“Be quiet. I have to understand exactly what’s at work here and eliminate the spells one by one and in the proper order.”

I’m already bored and annoyed by Avila. It’s not that I have anything against bad behavior. I’m all for it. But this incestuous, backslapping, heavy-money-party cabal scene is everything I hate about L.A. in particular and human beings in general.

Those pricks down the hall, flying high above it all on this hillside, they’re the kind of people whose faces end up on money or a new library so that kids will have a new place to hang out while realizing that no one ever taught them how to read. Their wealth doesn’t insulate them from the world. It creates it. Their bank statements read like Genesis. Let there be light and let a thousand investment banks bloom. They shit cancer, and when they belch in a bowl valley like L.A., the air turns so thick and poisonous that you can cut it up like bread and serve it for lunch at McDonald’s. A Suicide Sandwich Happy Meal.

There must be a hundred of them just ten steps away. I wonder how many I could kill before the cops got here.

Vidocq is mumbling over his vials and potions across the room. I drop down into the desk chair and look through the pile of envelopes in front of me. Aside from a few charity begging letters, suck-up notes from politicians, and more bullshit awards, the rest is just bills and ads. What do you know? Even the gods get junk mail.

I toss the pile back on the desk and pick up a photo in a silver frame. From TV, I recognize one guy as the current mayor of L.A. and the other as a guy who was almost elected president. There’s a woman standing to one side and the governor is handing her yet another award. All three beam from the picture, showing their teeth. A pack of happy wolves.

Something fun must have just happened at the party because the crowd suddenly got loud and then died down again. I bet I could take out everyone in that room and be gone before anyone figured out what’s happening.

A little switch clicks in my brain. I pick up the framed photo and show it to Vidocq.

“Recognize anyone here?”

He shoots me a look.

“What?
Oui.
Politicians. Fuck them. Let me do my job.”

“Not them. The woman.”

He looks again. Then gets more interested.

“I know her. Is that your friend Jayne-Anne?”

“Yeah. This must be her place. She was always a crazy social climber. Avila is her gift for standing by Mason.”

“It’s a very funny coincidence that we’re here.”

“Isn’t it just?” I get up and walk around the desk.

“Where are you going?”

“To kill someone.”

Vidocq comes over to me and grabs my arm hard. Two hundred years of work has given him a strong grip.

“Don’t you dare. Be a man! Hold your temper and do the job you agreed to do. You know where she is now and you can come back for her another time.”

“You’re right. Sorry. I just lost it there for a minute.”

“Stay there and make sure no one comes in.”

“Got it.”

The second Vidocq turns his back, I’m out the door.

A few minutes ago I was feeling like an idiot in the tux, but now I’m glad Muninn insisted that Vidocq and I tart up like a couple of players. No one looks at me twice as I plow like an icebreaker through the crowd, just another horny drunk, bumping his way through the human waste, running down his rightful share of first-class drugs and free pussy.

I didn’t have much of a temper before I went Downtown. Maybe I never needed it up here. The first time I felt it was a few weeks after I got tossed into the arena. I kept winning fights. Barely, but I won. This surprised me as much as it did the crowd. Azazel was my owner by then, but he didn’t pay much attention to me. My novelty had worn off and waiting for me to get beaten to death was the only amusement I had left to offer. Every time I didn’t die it seemed to piss off the handlers Azazel had sent to keep an eye on me.

They always walked me out of the arena in chains, on my wrists, ankles, and neck. It was a joke. I could have just killed some poison-spitting sphinx thing, but I was the wild man-beast that had to be leashed. Hellion humor. Big laughs every time the chains went on.

One night, Baxux, the tallest of my three watchers, got a little frisky with my chains. He held them behind me like reins and whipped me with them like I was a four-dollar mule. There was a half-broken
na’at
embedded in the dirt floor of the arena. I don’t even remember picking it up, but I must have because all of a sudden Baxux’s belly was as open as the Holland Tunnel and his angelic guts were lying at my feet. The crowd went apeshit, which might have been the nicest thing anyone did for me the whole time I was in Hell. The roar distracted my other two attendants for long enough that I could swing the broken
na’at
hard enough to extend it to almost its full length, taking off the head of attendant number two with my first swing and one of attendant number three’s arms with the next.

The bad news was that attendant three still had three arms left and now he was pissed. He
lucha-libre
leaped on top of me, all five or six hundred pounds of him, collapsing the
na’at
to its noncombat length of about eighteen inches. Then he started pounding me with three big fists like granite jack-o’-lanterns. Every time he set me up for one of his John Wayne haymakers, he pulled his body away from me and up in the air a little, just far enough for me to smash the end of the
na’at
into the ground.

The
na’at
has a spring-loaded mechanism that extends it full length in a nanosecond. I mean, a working one does. This
na’at
was badly damaged, so it took a dozen good raps on the ground for the thing to go off. When it did, the look on number three’s face was almost worth the beating.

He stood up, which was a lucky break. I couldn’t have lifted the guy off me with a hydraulic jack and dynamite. He stood there swaying and looking down at the shaft of the
na’at
that now went into his chest and out his back.

I whipped the
na’at
’s grip around clockwise, which extended thick barbs that bent backward, getting a good grip on my opponent’s flesh. Then I pulled. I put all my weight into it and spun my body as I fell back, using the
na’at
’s razor edges like a drill to open up the wound even wider. The last big pull hit the spring lock that made the
na’at
collapse back into itself. The force knocked me flat on my back, but that was all right, because it also pulled out attendant number three’s black heart and part of his spine.

Do I even need to tell how the crowd reacted to seeing one of their own eviscerated? The cheer nearly melted my eardrums. I was Hendrix at Woodstock.

But just killing my attendants isn’t what taught me that I had a temper or what gave Azazel the idea that I might have the stomach for serial murder. It’s what happened next.

I piled dead attendant one on the body of dead attendant two, climbed up both of them, and grabbed one of the torches off the arena wall. Fire in Hell isn’t like Earth fire. It’s more like Greek fire or burning magnesium. It burns long and hot and is practically impossible to put out.

While attendant number three tried to crawl away from where I’d left him, I shoved the lit torch into the hole in his chest where his heart used to be. He didn’t just have jack-o’-lantern hands anymore. His whole body lit up, burned, and burst like the Hindenburg.

I used the
na’at
to slice through the chains and made a break for the door. Not that I ever had a chance of making it. Twenty armed guards came pouring into the place. I had enough full-tilt crazy left that I killed three or four of them before the
na’at
flew apart in my hand. It was all country music after that. Those Hellion guards square-danced all over me. It was Azazel himself who broke up the party and kept the guards from killing me.

They threw me in one of the arena’s punishment cells and put a couple of guards on the door. At the time, I thought that was overkill. I was already three-quarters gone. There was no chance I was going to even try to escape. Later, I realized that the guards were there to keep other Hellions from getting in and finishing me. That cell was where I first realized that I was officially hard to kill.

I went in there bleeding and slashed, and with half my bones sticking out through the skin. Three days later, I could stand up. A day after that, I could walk. My guards didn’t like this one bit. When they thought I was asleep, they’d sneak peeks at me through a sliding panel in the cell door. There was something new in their eyes. I should have been deader than dead. But I wasn’t. They thought I was a monster. And no one bothered me until a few days later when Azazel sent a friendly little homunculus with sweet Hell fruit and Aqua Regia and a request that I join the general for dinner that night. Naturally, I said yes.

That’s the upside of a temper. The downside is that it makes you do stupid things, like not watch where you’re going.

I’m stalking through the party, trying to catch a trace of Jayne-Anne, when I walk straight into someone, knocking his drink all over his $10,000 suit. The guy gets up and starts to call me an asshole, but only gets out, “Assh—” before he chokes.

It’s Brad Pitt. Not the actor, but my favorite crackhead from the outside cemetery when I first got back.

I say, “Where you been, man? I’ve missed you.”

“Security!” he yells.

“I’ve been meaning to give this back to you.”

I pull his stun gun from my pocket and zap him in the ribs, just for old times’ sake. He goes down like a sack of lug nuts and I drop the stun gun on top of him. It won’t do much good against what I know will be here in a second.

I’m not entirely stupid. I start back for the office when security comes tearing around the corner before I can get very far. Five or six of them. Buzz-cut heads and necks as wide as manhole covers. They look as stupid in their suits as I do. But they have more guns. They all draw down on me, but don’t make a move. A woman walks around them and heads right for me. She has no idea who I am. Until she does.

“You’re dead,” she says.

“Not as dead as you’re about to be.”

Jayne-Anne backs off, yelling, “Kitty! Bennett!”

A starlet-skinny blonde in an off-the-shoulder designer
schmata
and a fop who looks like Ziggy Stardust in a purple velvet suit come around from behind the guards.

They reek of magic. It comes off them like heat ripples over desert asphalt.

So, to recap: we have five or six guns, a couple of hoodoo hipster killers, an old friend who wants me dead, a lot of drunks and naked showgirls, and me in a borrowed suit. I’d duck through a shadow, but with the crazy lighting in this place, there’s nothing dark or deep enough for me to dive through.

Even my stupidity has its limits. I turn and run.

Fire and lightning explode behind me. Burning golden sparks rain down on me like a thousand lit matches, burning through the suit and into my skin. Best of all, ducking and bouncing off the walls to keep from getting hit is making the bullets in my chest very angry. They scrape my ribs and prod my lungs. I can already feel blood in the back of my throat. I’m never going to outrun these idiots.

I drop to my hands and knees, breathing hard through the froth in my throat. Blondie and the fop stop and look at each other, a couple of good hunting dogs who just ran down the fox and are about get their reward.