The Perdition Score (8 page)

“I'd say this whole thing is pretty much a bust. How 'bout you, Willem? Picking up any supervillain vibes from this bunch?”

“That's not what I'm here for.”

“What are you here for?”

“To operate the equipment and to keep an eye on you.”

“I have been falling asleep at meetings recently. Do you ever have sleeping problems, Willem? I do. Nightmares and migraines. I found a cure, but I'm not sure it's healthy. Not a keeper. What do you do to relax, Willem?”

He takes his hands from the console and wraps them together like he's praying or wants to keep from punching me.

“Stop saying my name all the time.”

“Have I been? How rude. Say, Abbot said we could have stuff sent down here. What do you say to a couple of aperitifs?”

He shakes his head.

“Coffee is all you're allowed.”

“Ouch. Of everything you've said tonight, that's the most hurtful.”

Willem turns to face me. It's the first time since we shook hands a couple of hours ago. A giveaway that this won't be a lasting romance.

He says, “The augur sees something in you, so I've been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. But you come in here with these games and attitude, and worst of all, this Hell bullshit. Is that supposed to scare me? Am I supposed to be impressed with your lies or, more likely, your delusions?”

“I know some card tricks too.”

“See? That's what I'm talking about. You have nothing to say. Nothing to contribute except noise. If it was up to me, you wouldn't just be barred from this boat. I'd keep you out of the whole marina.”

“Luckily, it's not up to you, so we get to spend this quality time together.”

He turns back to the console.

“Just be quiet and try to do at least a little piece of your job.”

I watch the screen for a few minutes. The guests mingle. Abbot presses the flesh. Spends a few minutes with Tuatha Fortune, the wife of the previous augur. Waiters bring in drinks and food and take out the remains. The most exciting thing that happens is when a waiter runs out of shrimp puffs and Charlie Anpu, the graying, liquored-up patriarch of a heavyweight Sub Rosa family, gets bent out of shape about it. Like the poor-slob waiter is supposed to bend over and shoot seafood out of his ass. What a creep. My hoodoo is good enough that I could probably do it, but I hate to show off at parties.

I pull out my phone and check the time. More than two hours down here in Glitter Gulch. The best night of my life.

“So, Willem. How long were you a cop?”

“I told you to stop saying my name.”

“It's a simple question. How long were you on the job?”

He shakes his head.

“You don't get to ask about my personal life.”

I point to one of the screens. The augur laughs at a billionaire's dirty limerick or maybe the guy does a mean Ed Sullivan impression. Anyway, the laugh looks real, but I can see Abbot's eyes and he's dying inside. That makes two of us.

“Abbot seems to be having a good time.”

“He's doing his job. And he's not the one you're supposed to be watching.”

“I'm watching plenty. But I can't hear a thing with you talking all the time.”

He freezes for a minute, but doesn't say anything.

I take it back. I don't want to machine-gun the party. I want to find the fault line that will drop California into the ocean and toss a nuke down there. No one on this boat, me included, will benefit the human race by living one more day. Let's just blow the whole shebang into the Pacific and give Nevada a shot at some prime beachfront property.

I look at other monitors. Waiters go in and out of the kitchen. Security patrols the walkway to the boat. A seagull swoops low and shits on the deck. Lucky bird.

“Did you know Audsley Ishii?”

Willem nods. “Ishii is a good man.”

“And you don't like me because I got him fired.”

“I don't like you because of who and what you are.”

I swing my chair around to face him.

“Enlighten me, Willem. What am I?”

He turns to me.

“You're nothing but a loudmouth hustler. You have the skills to watch the room? Bullshit. You're some hotshot killer? Bullshit. You've been to Hell? That's the biggest bullshit of all. But it's a nice line to the right people. The kind of unhinged street trash you spend your time with.”

I check the time on my phone again. I swear time has stopped completely.

“Ishii wants to kill me. Did you know that?”

“Good luck to him, I say,” Willem says.

“But I work for Abbot.”

“I know.”

“Which means you sort of work for me. I mean, as part of security it's your job to fall on a grenade for anyone on the council.”

“I know.”

“That means me.”

“Unfortunately.”

I lean back.

“Still like your job?”

“I like my job fine. I just want you to stop talking.”

“You got it, pal.”

We watch the party for a while. The monitors hurt my eyes. I'm afraid they're going to give me another Trotsky headache.

“Audsley was a friend of mine,” says Willem.

“You need better friends.”

“It really would be a black mark on the whole security team's record if he was to kill you.”

Abbot looks up into one of the cameras and twirls his finger a little, saying it's almost time to wrap things up.

Willem zooms in on him.

“The thing to remember about security is we're only human. We have good days and bad. If Audsley was to show up . . .” Willem shrugs. “It could be one of our bad days.”

He grins at me and I grin back, but his smile is bigger because I know he means every word of it. Some people just can't take a joke.

A
S THE GUESTS
straggle out, Abbot comes into the surveillance room.

“What do you think?” he says. “Did you see or hear anything?”

I shrug.

“It was all manicures and shrimp puffs down here. Did you pick up anything, Willem?”

“I'm not the Wormwood expert,” he says.

“Still, did you notice anything unusual?” says Abbot.

“No, sir.”

“Me neither.”

I pick a thread off my coat.

“I think you owe me cake, boss.”

“No,” he says. “Charles Anpu. Did you see him?”

“He tried to strangle a waiter, so yeah.”

“At council meetings, he's been pushing us to contribute to Regis International. There's a good chance they're connected to Wormwood, which means that he might be connected too.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“I can't say.”

“I didn't know the augur had confidential informants.”

“Then you don't know much about politics.”

“No. I guess I don't.”

He leans on the edge of the console.

“Then trust me. I know people who know people and they seldom steer me wrong.”

“Okay. Say you're right. Why don't you just have Willem and his boy band grab him?”

Abbot shakes his head.

“It doesn't work like that. Even for the augur, making accusations against a family without solid proof would be dangerous. It could start a civil war.”

That sounds about right for the Sub Rosa clans. They're like the Hatfields and McCoys, but with helipads on the roof.

I look up at Abbot.

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Go. Follow them. Sneak into the Anpu estate and see what you can find out.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Abbot holds up his hands, frustrated.

“I know you have powers. You can walk through walls and shadows.”

Willem does his snort laugh.

“Not anymore,” I tell him. “I lost that trick when I saved the world a few months back. Remember when I did that, Willem?”

He plays with his console, ignoring me.

“All right. But you can tail someone. I know
that,
” Abbot says.

“Your security can't even handle that?”

“I can't be seen to be directly involved.”

I take out a Malediction.

“This is my punishment for falling asleep at meetings, isn't it?”

“You're not allowed to smoke in here,” says Willem.

“Don't worry. I'm leaving.”

I look at the monitors. Get up. The boat looks pretty deserted.

“They've got a head start. You have any idea where they're headed?”

“Musso and Frank's,” Abbot says. “Get there and stay on them. Follow them wherever they go. If you can't get into their home, well, we'll figure something else out.”

“What kind of car am I looking for?”

“A silver Rolls-Royce Phantom.”

“Lucky Charlie.”

I hold out my hand to Willem.

“It's been a little bit of Heaven spending these hours with you. Tell Audsley hello from me.”

Willem shakes my hand and says, “I'll give him your regards.”

“Now, Stark,” says Abbot. “Time to earn your money.”

We go upstairs together. The sea air is crisp when we get on deck. I take a deep breath.

“There are worse places to tail someone than Musso and Frank's. I could use a martini.”

“Not a chance,” says Abbot. “Stay outside and watch from there. Inside, you're a bit . . .”

“Noticeable.”

“Exactly.”

I head for the walkway leading to the pier.

I call over my shoulder, “You still owe me cake.”

“Go,” shouts Abbot. “Now.”

I wave and head to the parking lot. Slide into the Catalina and sit there for a minute. Charlie might have a head start on me, but if he's going into Hollywood he's going to get stuck in the same traffic I am. That's going to cut his lead pretty thin. Assuming he took the freeway, if I take surface streets, I might just beat him to Musso's.

I point the Catalina inland, away from Abbot, Willem, and all their upper-crust intrigue. They'll be talking about me for a while. Abbot getting an employee report from his guard dog. I know what Willem's going to say, but I wish I could hear Abbot. The guy hasn't done me wrong yet, but sending me after the Anpu family alone, I can't help wondering if I'm being set up for something.

T
HE
M
USSO &
F
RANK
Grill is legendary even by Hollywood standards. It opened in 1919 and has hosted more movie stars, literary types, producers, directors, and starry-eyed wannabes than all the movie studios that have ever existed. Back in the day, Charlie Chaplain and Rudolph Valentino raced horses down Hollywood Boulevard to the grill to see who had to pay. Rita Hayworth, Bogey, and Bacall drank there. Orson Welles wrote there in his favorite booth. Dashiell Hammett, William Faulkner, and Raymond Chandler might have scribbled something, but mostly came to get wrecked. Musso & Frank's has always been big with star-struck Sub Rosas too. For the classier families and the hicks
with money, it's their Bamboo House of Dolls, but without the jukebox.

Parking on Hollywood Boulevard is ridiculous almost any night, but it's deadly on the weekends. I dump the Catalina in a white zone across the street and pray the LAPD is too busy chasing jaywalkers to tow it.

Musso's has a parking lot around the back, which is great if you're eating there, but not so great if you want to look for a particular car. If this was any other place in town, I might be able to blend in with the crowd and wander into the back. But being called a con twice in just a couple of days is a reminder that I don't look like most people and would stand out like a pink unicorn if I tried to get back there. Of course, I could always cause a distraction. Use hoodoo to blow something up. But this doesn't seem like that kind of assignment. I light a Malediction and wander by the front of the restaurant a couple of times, hoping I'll get lucky and catch Charlie waiting for a table. But I don't usually get lucky.

Sure enough, I can't see anything but tourists.

With nothing better to do, I go across the street and wait between an army-surplus store and a tattoo parlor, hoping to catch Charlie going into the restaurant or heading home. I check the time and settle in for a tedious wait. No matter how long Charlie sits in his backroom booth swilling martinis, I'd rather be out with the hustlers and tourists on Hollywood Boulevard than stuck watching
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
in Willem's man cave.

I smoke a Malediction, then another. Down some Aqua Regia from my flask and start on my third cigarette when who comes staggering out of Musso's but the birthday boy
himself. Which is a little surprising. No one goes in there to have just one drink. Unless Charlie teleported here, he can't have been inside very long. Why the hell go to all the trouble of navigating Hollywood on a weekend night just to pop into Musso's if he wasn't going to stay?

Charlie misses a step and staggers against a blonde young enough to be his daughter, but expensive-looking enough to probably be his mistress. When he stumbles, he drops something. Jean Harlow leans him against the restaurant's front wall and goes to retrieve whatever he lost.

That's when I start running. And it's when I stop because of the bus that almost turns me into a human speed bump. But the pause actually works in my favor. When I get onto the sidewalk, Harlow is leading Charlie toward the parking lot and I get a good look at what she's holding. It's a box.

It's just like the one Karael gave me.

Charlie fucking Anpu didn't stop by for a martini. He came here to pick up some black milk. For what? Is he going to do the bacon trick for Jean?

While they head around the side of the restaurant for the parking lot, I run back to the Catalina. White zones are supposed to be for passenger loading and unloading, mostly during certain hours. Me, I chose one that's the twenty-four-hour variety. It doesn't matter. There's a ticket on the windshield when I reach the car. I snatch it off and cram it in my pocket, gun the car, and pull the most idiotic, dangerous, and unsubtle U-turn since Junior Johnson was still a stone-cold rumrunner.