The Perdition Score (16 page)

“She's wondering if it's cheaper to buy two caskets or one big one.”

“I think you're right.”

“Should I do something? Drag Vidocq outside by his baguette?”

She sighs.

“It's too late for that. The damage is done. None of them will be getting much sleep tonight, I think.”

“If he doesn't keep his hands off Marie Antoinette, he might never get to sleep again.”

Carlos gives me an Aqua Regia and a shot of whiskey for Allegra, but Brigitte gulps it down, so I order another.

“I feel so guilty,” she says.

“Relax. Everyone has exes. They'll work it out.”

“Allegra said that Eugène killed a man. Do you know if it's true?”

“A long time ago, he told me he killed someone over a woman. I'm guessing this is her.”

Brigitte stares.

“It's all so impossible. How can something like this happen?”

Now it's my turn to gulp my drink.

“The of-all-the-gin-joints-in-all-the-world part? It can't. Someone set this up.”

“Who?” she says.

I shrug.

“I got mugged by an angel the other night. It's been a weird week.”

“But why Liliane?”

“I hate to say it, but this might be more about me than them. Wormwood has been playing a lot of games with me lately.”

Brigitte pats me on the arm.

“Dear Jimmy, you know I love you, but not everything in Los Angeles revolves around you.”

I look over at the three of them. Right this minute, Vidocq, Allegra, and Liliane look pretty far from me and my stupid obsessions.

“Maybe you're right. I'm seeing conspiracies in my cornflakes. But you have to admit, this is fucking strange.”

“Maybe it was inevitable. Whatever impulse drew Eugène to Los Angeles, could it have drawn the only other immortal possibly in the world?”

“If you're not coming to L.A. to get famous, this is an easy place to blend in, no matter how weird your past.”

“And we do all have pasts here,” she says.

“We've been through a couple of things.”

“Come. Let's get Allegra her drink.”

I hand Brigitte the shot glass.

“You should give it to her. I don't think she wants favors from a guy right now.”

We go back through the crowd to our friends' international psychodrama. Vidocq and Liliane alternate between English and French. It doesn't take a genius to see that Allegra doesn't appreciate the parts of the conversation she can't understand.

Brigitte hands her the drink.

“Thank you,” she says, and drinks half, looking like she might be saving the other half to throw at someone.

After a few more brutally uncomfortable minutes, Brigitte tells Allegra that she's leaving. Candy tells her the same thing. She's not stupid. I'm sorry to abandon Allegra, but there's no way we're staying alone with this situation.

Outside, we say good-bye to Brigitte and head home.

Neither of us says anything. As Candy and I walk, I wonder what's a stranger life, fighting monsters or trying to figure
out how people work? One is a lot more dangerous than the other and it sure as hell isn't monsters.

A
FTER YESTERDAY
'
S DRINKING
,
I don't wake up until the crack of whatever-the-hell o'clock. All I know is that I hear people downstairs and
Apocalypse Now
cranked up loud. It's our special alternate-universe version with Harvey Keitel instead of Martin Sheen. It's crack to our kind of customers.

I check my phone and find a message from Abbot. I don't bother listening to it, just sit on the sofa with coffee and call him back.

“Stark. Did you get my message?”

“Yes. But I didn't listen. What was it?”

“Why do you have voice mail if you don't use it?”

“I don't like talking to machines and I figure that if it's important people will call me back.”

“That's actually a more rational explanation than I expected.”

“I'm full of surprises. I once ate a salad.”

“That's more the answer I was expecting. What I called you about was Nick.”

“What about him?”

“He's all right. From all reports, he's back at home with his mother.”

I take out a Malediction. Stick it behind my ear for later.

“Did you find out why Burgess had him in the first place?”

“It was a family situation that got out of hand. Apparently, the father was making demands and everyone thought it would be better if Nick spent some time away from home.”

“That's very tidy. Do you believe any of it?”

“As far as I can trust my source—which I do—yes.”

“I don't know. Burgess doesn't do anything without an angle.”

“But what proof do you have? You're obsessed with the Burgess family because Lucius was involved with the ghost-abuse situation last year.”

“For good reason. But that's another thing that bugs me. The Golden Vigil shuts the thing down, but it never goes public. Then daddy Burgess has a heart attack and Geoff takes over the family business.”

Abbot doesn't say anything for a second.

“Are you actually accusing Geoffrey of killing his father?”

“Not necessarily. I'm just saying I think he's capable of anything.”

“Listen to me. You need to leave the Burgess family alone. I appreciate you finding Nick, but that's enough for now. I want you to come back to council meetings for a while. At least until we can think of a new course of action.”

I get up and walk the room.

“I'll do it, but I want one more night.”

“To do what?”

“Charlie Anpu. I want to follow him again.”

“In the current climate, I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Maybe you're right about Burgess and I'm out of my mind. But Anpu had one of the angel boxes. That proves he's up to some nefarious shit.”

“Nefarious isn't good enough. We have to link it back to Wormwood.”

“So, give me the night.”

“Is there any way I can trust you to do this quietly?”

“I'm quiet as a butterfly pissing in whipped cream.”

I can hear him sigh.

“See, when you talk like that it gives me pause.”

“I promise. No break-ins. No cops. No street fights or explosions.”

“One night. And you won't get near him personally.”

“He's hot lava.
No tocar
.”

“All right. But call me tonight, no matter how late.”

“It's a date.”

I hang up and go to the window for a smoke.

I hope I can keep my word to Abbot. I'll do my best. Move softly-softly. But if an angel shows up, I don't care if we're on the teacup ride at Disneyland.

I'm killing it.

O
F COURSE,
C
HARLIE
lives in a gated community all the way out in fucking Brentwood. Faux–Southern California charm meets Narnia with storm troopers on the parapets. If someone could bottle artisanal air, the residents of Brentwood wouldn't permit ordinary peasant breezes to ruffle the blades of grass on their emerald lawns.

I should have stolen at least a Lexus to come out here. It isn't easy being inconspicuous on a bike in this burg. Just as I'm about to head out to liberate luxury wheels, a silver Rolls Phantom cruises out of the gates. I recognize the license plate as Charlie's and take off after him. It's just like the other night at the Burgess place. Keep a safe distance. No lights until we're back in the land of the living.

He heads into Hollywood. I wonder if he's going back to
Musso's for another supervillain rendezvous when he turns on Highland Avenue and the only thing up that way is the Hollywood Bowl. Finally, some good news from this guy.

For a minute, I think I'm in trouble when he heads in the direction of valet parking, but like so many Scrooge McDucks, he's cheap when it comes to the small things. He leaves the Rolls across two spaces in the peons' lot. I cruise by him and the blonde from the other night like I'm looking for parking. There are a lot of suits and evening gowns in the crowd. Either it's some kind of symphony show or the blue bloods are expecting a starship to take them to the promised land and they want to look good.

I leave the bike in a space at the back of the lot. Stroll casually back to the Rolls. I get out the black blade and jam it into the driver's-side lock. The knife will open anything, even a snooty wagon like this. Naturally, I take a lot of guff from the bumpkin crowd when they see me pulling out of two spaces, but what's a guy to do? We aristocrats are used to a certain level of asshole luxury. I give them the finger and speed away before someone starts asking why a con is piloting a four-wheel Learjet.

Privacy is the first thing I need for my next move. If I can't break into Charlie's mansion, I can sure as hell spend some quality time pawing through his glove compartment or whatever kind of steamer trunk they use in a Rolls.

I drive across town to Sixth Street, back to the warehouse where Burgess's dad used to run his spook-bum fights. We're far enough from civilization that even winos don't hang around here. It's just us rats by the railroad tracks tonight.

The warehouse is still deserted. There's ragged crime-scene tape and cop
KEEP OUT
signs stapled to the doors, but I'm not going inside. I pull the Rolls around the back.

I pop the glove compartment and start digging. Which yields nothing but the registration, an insurance card, a pen, and some of his lady love's makeup. I check under the seats, but they're cleaner than a surgery. Charlie might cheap out on parking, but he pays for a good cleaning service, which really pisses me off. Couldn't the scrub and vacuum crew leave me one bullet casing or the guest list for a Black Mass?

I check between the seat cushions in the front and back. The leather padding the Rolls is soft as angel food cake. For a second, I consider keeping the heap for a day or two. Candy and I could mess the interior of this thing pretty nicely. But that's not an option in this invisible man operation.

Outside, I check the spotless wheel wells for hidden keys and, again, come up with nothing. Finally, I go around to the trunk, jam the blade in the lock, and open it up.

You could move a family of four in here and have room left over for a kiddie pool. I know that the trunk is going to be pristine and, honestly, I'm just going through the motions at this point. There won't be anything in the back of this idiot's ride but the smell of soap and money. But I keep at it.

Check the sides of the trunk for hollow places where he might be smuggling out-of-state fruit. Take out the tire and shake it to see if there's anything inside but air. It's just one more disappointment. There's more padding under the wheel because, of course, we can't let the poor tire ride in less luxury than the driver. How else will you impress the tow-truck drivers and car thieves?

I pull up the floor mat and my heart does a samba. There's a compartment cut into the metal body of the car. The cuts are ragged at points and there are small gaps between the lid and the body. No car dealer did this. It's as crooked as a Capone aftermarket mod. I hook a finger in a hole on the compartment lid and pull.

Oh, Charlie, my Charlie. What have you been up to?

The first thing that grabs my jaded gaze are the piles of neatly bundled hundred-dollar bills. I pull out a few. Then a few more. The compartment is deeper than I thought at first. There must be half a million in cash back here. As hard as it is, I put the money back and move on to the other goodies. Bags and bags of pills. I recognize a few. Civilian stuff. Pharmaceutical-quality amphetamines. Vicodin. Dilaudid. Some muscle relaxants and a fistful of blue Viagra tabs. Then there are the Sub Rosa goodies. Akira. Dixie Wishbone. Even some Red Sonja, a combination of dried blood and pituitary glands. Only vampires and their flunkies use that stuff, proof Charlie has been cheating on his Sub Rosa friends with bad kids from the other side of the tracks. There's even a Glock 17 with six loaded clips. But it's what's in the secret compartment under the secret compartment that makes my night.

It's an angel box. Maybe the one he had the other night, maybe another. Who cares? I take it out, then put it back in its padded cubbyhole. If Charlie is carrying it, the car is going someplace and I don't want him to notice it's missing. Instead of stealing the whole box, I open it and take the vial of black milk. Let him explain that to whoever the box is for.

The only other thing in the compartment is a complete
mystery. It's kind of, well, dildo-shaped, but made of a dark, heavy metal. There's a thumb-size recess on the thing's blunt end. When I push it, the body of the dildo retracts, exposing a thin, sawtooth-ended tube. I relax my thumb and the thing snaps back into its original shape. Is it something new that an angel gave him? If it's important, why didn't my angel give me one? I bet if I got Charlie high enough on his Dilaudid and some Dom Pérignon, he'd come around, but Abbot doesn't want me to have that kind of fun.

I'll have to console myself with stealing it instead.

I stuff it in my pocket with the black milk and put everything else back where it was. I even wipe the dirt off the tire from where I set it on the ground. Last thing, I wipe my prints from every flat surface.

Back in the driver's seat, I give the dildo one more look-over, and it confirms my instincts. There's a maker's mark by the thumb recess. I can't read it well, but I know the look. The thing was made by a Tick Tock Man.

I start the engine and ever so gently drive the car back into the city. Park it in the lot of a twenty-four-hour Denny's on Sunset and wipe down the interior. Just as I step out of the Rolls, a couple of L.A.'s finest walk out of the Denny's to their cruiser on the other side of the lot. The only thing more conspicuous than my ugly face next to this high-end car would be my ugly face running away from it. So, I just stand there and light a Malediction, like I do it every night.