Sandman Slim with Bonus Content (36 page)

More girls smile at me going into Bamboo House than have smiled at me in my entire life. There must be a scar-fetish convention in town.

An older guy in a purple velvet Edwardian jacket holds the door for me when I go inside. Scratch the scar convention. We’ve been invaded by Renn Faire rejects on acid. I stand for a minute in the alcove. Let my eyes adjust to the dim inside.

The place goes dead silent. Carlos even kills the music. My balls shrink up inside my body and my hand sneaks back for my knife. I open my eyes and about a hundred schizophrenics start applauding. In a minute, they’re all chanting “Sandman! Sandman!” There’s a banner over the bar. In silver glitter it says
DING DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD
. There’s a framed picture of Mason with a black wreath around it on the bar. Someone’s drawn a mustache and devil horns on him in Magic Marker.

People rush forward and start shaking my hand. Patting me on the back. Women kiss me. Guys with funny accents kiss me, too. Some are dressed like ordinary businessmen and women, students, hipsters, and adolescent neopunks. Others look like they’re on a weekend pass from an asylum in Oz.

Holy shit. The Sub Rosa have taken over my bar.

Word must have gotten around about my cage match with Mason and the Kissi.

Fuck me. I’m a rock star. And all I really wanted was a burrito.

I belly up to the bar and Carlos beams at me.

“Your friends are a blast!” he yells over the din. “Why didn’t you bring them in before?”

“I didn’t know they were my friends.”

He keeps smiling. He can’t hear a word I say. He motions me to get closer so he can whisper something to me. I get right up to him and he says, “Some of these people, no shit, can do magic.”

“Can you magic me some rice and beans? I’m hungry enough to eat Orange County.”

Two minutes later, Carlos brings me enough food to feed the Pacific Rim. I hold up my tumbler full of Jack and Carlos and I toast each other. He looks extremely happy. The Sub Rosa might be a bunch of lunatics, show-offs, and bureaucrats, but they’re a big part of the underground economy that keeps California afloat. And they’re not shy about splashing around cash. If the Bamboo House of Dolls stays Sub Rosa central, Carlos will have enough money to retire by Friday.

I try to eat, but people keep coming up and introducing themselves. If I need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. About fifty different women slip me their phone numbers. So do at least that many guys. I don’t remember anyone’s name. It’s one big lovefest blur, and as nice as these people are being, it’s really getting to me. I pretend that I’m going out for a smoke, but what I really need is a shadow to disappear into.

On the other hand, I really need a smoke, too.

I light up by the side of the bar. A woman walks over to me. She’s dressed like Stevie Nicks in her how-fast-can-I-burn-out-my-nose-with-coke period. When she gets closer, she becomes really interesting. She has the whitest skin I’ve ever seen. And there’s something strange about her face: it moves whether she talks or not. Her face is like the phases of the moon, going from a gorgeous bride-to-be to an old woman with a face like shattered granite.

“Are you having fun inside?” she asks.

I shrug.

“It’s nice, but it’s a little much. I’m going to finish this and sneak off.”

“I’m glad I caught you then. I’m Medea Bava. Did you get the package I left with your friend Vidocq?”

Feathers. Wolf teeth. Blood.

“I got it. And it was after Christmas, but you still cared enough to get me something.”

The young woman’s and the old woman’s faces turn serious.

“You might be a hero to those fools inside, but you’re not to me. To me, you’re a dangerous man. A criminal for sure. Possibly a wild dog that needs to be put down.”

“You’re from the Inquisition, aren’t you?”

She laughs.

“My boy, I
am
the Inquisition. And from this moment onward, I will be watching every move you make.”

“Isn’t that a song by the Police?”

“That’s exactly the kind of thing that will get you another package. Only this one will be a bit more, let’s say, lively.”

“Lady, I’ve seen Hell and I’ve seen Hollywood and I have a pretty good idea what Heaven looks like. So, take your threats and shove ’em straight up your deviated septum. For me to worry about your finger wagging, I’d have to give a damn about something, and I’ve pretty much reached my limit there. Anytime you want to get all junkyard dog, give me a call. You might kill me, but trust me, you’re going to have a limp and that face of yours isn’t going to move so easily anymore.”

She keeps looking at me. No reaction. Nothing. Just her stare shifting through the phases of the moon.

“Have a nice party, young man.”

“Leave a light on. Maybe I won’t wait for you to come after me.”

That makes her laugh. A high titter, like crystal wine-glasses tinkling together.

That’s enough fun for one night. I throw my cigarette into the gutter and look around for a comfy shadow.

“Littering is a crime, even in L.A.”

I’ll be hearing that drawl in my dreams for the next hundred years.

“U.S. Marshal Wells. Come to party with the pixies?”

“Don’t be obscene,” he says. “I can smell the crazy on these people from here.”

“Don’t knock it. You might get lucky. Some of them inside are going to love a man in uniform.”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t like wasting my time talking to people too crazy or stupid or addled to understand what I’m saying.”

“Then maybe what you were going to say, it’s not worth saying.”

“No. It is. You did a good thing the other night. I don’t know that we could have stopped the ceremony without you.”

“And Candy.”

“Yes, your sidekick monster. So, are you Batman and Robin now?”

“I think that was our first and last date.”

“Too bad. You might have been good assets.”

“I’ll tell her we have Homeland Security’s blessing. And you can hire us, if you want. I’m sure for the right price, I can get her out of retirement.”

“Aelita told me about your business proposition. I’ll never understand people like you. You respect nothing. You value nothing. But you went out of your way to take on the biggest evil this city has seen in a good long while.”

“I value plenty. Probably just not things you’d care about.”

“You might just be surprised.”

He looks away. His heartbeat is up. He’s hiding something.

“It’s okay to be in love with an angel. Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first.”

He nods, but he still won’t look at me. There’s a package under his arm. He holds it out for me.

“I thought you might want this. We found it when we were searching Avila. There was a whole room of similar items. It’s your girlfriend’s ashes.”

And there goes L.A., dropping down fifty thousand feet right under me. Swallowed up by the San Andreas fault. My head swims, but I don’t want him to see that. I start to say thank you, but nothing comes out.

“Don’t say anything. It’s okay even for an asshole to get choked up. Trust me. You wouldn’t be the first.”

He walks away and gets into one of his blacked-out vans. I step into the first shadow I can find.

I WANT TO
steal a car. Something big. Something ugly. A Hummer or a director’s decked-out Land Rover. Reinforced suspension, emergency winch, and self-sealing tires, like he thinks he can four-wheel his way out of the Apocalypse. I want to steal something bright and shiny and stupid and expensive, set it on fire, climb into the driver’s seat, and pile-drive it into the ocean at a hundred and twenty. Feel the windshield cave. The crack as the safety glass pops out, hits me in the face, and snaps my neck. I want to feel the cold black water swallow me up and spit me out on the sandy bottom of the world. Just blind crabs and bone-white starfish down here. I don’t want death. I know what’s waiting for me when I die, and Hell is too bright. Too loud. I want oblivion. I want to not exist. I want to feel something that’s not pain.

I want Alice.

But Alice wouldn’t want me to disappear. She didn’t like me stealing or breaking other people’s things, so I won’t do any of that tonight.

See? Even dead she makes me a better whatever-the-hell it is I am. A less stupid person. A more considerate monster.

I step out of a shadow and onto Venice Beach. Alice is under my arm in a brown plastic box. There are bonfires fifty yards down the sand. A boom box pumps out something that, at this distance, is just beats and the buzz of overloaded speakers. People cop drugs on the street behind me. Couples grope and sweat in the dark.

I knew a drug dealer from Marin County. A hippie, but the kind who slept with a .45 under his pillow. When he got into organic pot farming, he stopped using the toilet. He’d shit on a black plastic tarp behind his house, staked out in the sun, so his droppings would dry out and he could use them to fertilize his plants. He told me that he got the idea from a friend who made sun dried tomatoes.

He did the fertilizer experiment for a year. Collected each dried-out nugget after a month in the sun. He told me that at the end of that year, everything he dropped on the tarp fit inside one shoe box.

I don’t know why I think of that, except that the only person I ever loved now fits into something about the same size as that dead hippie dealer’s shit box.

There’s a crescent moon out. Does that mean it’s a good night to let Alice go or a bad one? If I was better at magic than murder, I’m sure I’d know.

The water is cold and calm. Low tide. I have to walk out a good ten or twenty yards to feel the waves on my legs, boots sinking into the wet sand all the way out. I wade into the sluggish waves until I’m in waist deep.

Pop the top of Alice’s plastic sarcophagus. Her ashes are in a plastic bag, like something you’d put your lunch in. I hold out the bag so that the bottom is about an inch underwater. Pull the black knife and slit the side.

The waves lap at the bag, washing out her ashes. Alice floats on the surface of the ocean, a white cloud spreading out in all directions. When the bag is empty, I drop it and the box into the water. I wade out, following the ash cloud as it’s drawn away with the tide.

I want to follow her all the way out, over my head, and keep on going. But she wouldn’t like that, either.

I stop when the water is up to my chest and watch Alice spread out into the black Pacific. Scoop up a handful of her ashes, but they wash away when the water runs between my fingers. That damn song is stuck in my head again.

My legs are good and numb when the last of her drifts out of sight. I’m not even cold anymore, but I can’t stop shaking.

Good-bye, Alice. I know you probably don’t like the idea of me killing, but it’s all I have left to give you. And I’ve gone too far to stop now. When I’m sure about Mason, this thing is done. I’ll go back down where I belong and dream about you in Hell. Till then, sleep tight.

WHO WOULD HAVE
guessed that Kasabian had his act wired tight enough to have accident insurance? Allegra found the papers in the bottom of the safe when she was closing up the one night a week she still works at Max Overdrive.

Drop cloths, ladders, and paint cans are stacked along the edge of the staircase leading to my bedroom. The broken walls and ceiling have new drywall. In the morning (not too early; I tipped the foreman not to show up until after eleven), the crew will start plastering one end of the room and start painting the other.

I’m lying in bed after a shower, staring up at streaks of drywall tape and mud, the long white scars that hold the new ceiling panels together. I’m trying to talk myself into getting my ass out of bed and down to the Bamboo House of Dolls for some decent food.

“Knock. Knock.”

I have the Navy Colt up and cocked in a fraction of a second. Lucifer is standing in the doorway, holding a red-and-white-checkered bowling bag. I lower the Colt’s hammer and set it back down on the bedside table.

Lucifer says, “Don’t get up. This is just a social call.”

The Prince of Darkness is dressed in a tailored charcoal-gray suit that looks like it cost more than this building. He sets down the bowling bag on the bootlegging table and leans back against the door frame.

“Careful. That might not be dry,” I say.

“Thank you.” He stands up and checks his jacket for spots. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by and congratulate you on outfoxing Mason. I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Up until he was gone, neither did I.”

“It was clever how you tricked him into following you to Hell. It’s just too bad that when you locked him in, you probably gave him exactly what he wanted. You don’t really think that ritual at Avila was to let me or my kind out of Hell, do you?”

“No, it was to let him in. I didn’t figure that out until later. So, the mob didn’t rip him to shreds?”

“Of course not. Mason won’t die that easily. And now he’s free to crawl around down below, like a viper at my bosom, and conspire with my generals to overthrow me.”

“It’s going to be a lot harder for him now that he doesn’t have the Kissi to back him up.”

“Maybe.”

“You telling me that the Prince of Darkness can’t handle one lousy human? You’ve done it before.”

“Not when he’s protected by my entire general corps and the aristocracy. Things were chaotic enough before his arrival. I could gather the troops who remain loyal to me, find and kill him tomorrow, but I’d have to destroy half my kingdom to do it.”

“That’s not my problem.”

“Not yet.”

Lucifer takes out a pack of thin black silver-tipped cigarettes.

“Do you mind?” he asks.

“Damn. Are those Maledictions?”

“Right. You can’t get these up here.” He tosses me the pack. “Keep them. I have more.”