Dead Things (4 page)

Top down, wind in my hair. I can almost forget about my dead sister. Lucy was what the circles my family moved in called “special”. Not Jerry’s Kids special, though you wouldn’t know it the way they talked.

The magic set’s a bigoted lot. Race, wealth, family, none of that matters. It’s whether you can read next week in a pig’s entrails, curse a man with a piece of string, call down the moon.

Lucy could barely manipulate a coin toss. That puts her ahead of most people with talent, but still at the bottom tier.

I wouldn’t say she was a disappointment to our parents, but she was the black sheep. Mom and Dad had power to spare. Some of it got to me. Almost none of it went to Lucy. She practiced relentlessly. Kept telling me one of these days she’d get that coin toss down pat and show me. She never did.

I pull over for some dinner in Riverside. From here on in, the freeway’s a parking lot. All I can do is wait it out.

Growing up near-normal around magic types is tough. Lucy was the problem child we couldn’t talk about. Not because we were embarrassed by her, but because she was too weak to defend herself. We did a good job hiding her. Most people didn’t even know I had a sister. Magic and money helps hide a lot of sins.

The traffic clears up to a sea rather than a tsunami and I down more Red Bulls. Should last me until I can find a place to crash in L.A.

Two hours and I can’t go any farther. The caffeine and guarana are useless. My eyes are blurring and I’m driving the Caddy by Braille. Should have gotten hold of some cocaine. A couple lines right about now and I could drive this thing to Hawaii.

Instead I pull over onto a side street in Pomona, tell myself it’s just a nap. Few more hours and I’ll be on my way.

Seven hours later, I wake from a dream of my parents on fire, screaming in our house as they burn, Lucy running in after them.

I stopped her that night, saved her when I couldn’t save them. But in the dream I’m too late, and she burns with them.

Chapter 4

The motel is full of ghosts. This is, oddly enough, a good thing.

A lot of the time they can be annoyances. Visual clutter and background noise. But they can also be camouflage. Ever since Alex called me, I’ve been wondering if my redirection spells are holding up. Magically speaking, a crowd of ghosts is just as good a hiding place as a crowd of live people. The harder it is to see me, the better.

“Forty bucks a night, whether you use the whole night or not.”

The woman behind the counter is wearing a pink babydoll three sizes and twenty years too small for her. Bad dye job, painted-on eyebrows. A half-smoked Marlboro hangs from her lip.

I hand her a couple hundreds. “I’ll be here a few days.”

She snatches the bills from my hand. “Few days, huh?”

“More or less.”

She hands me a key. “Number eight. In the back.”

The room is pretty much what I expected. A hole. It could use a good bug bombing, but the sheets are relatively clean. Not like I’m going to spend much time here.

I draw some half-assed charms on the walls to keep the ghosts and gangbangers out. Spend the next hour pacing, wondering what I’m going to do now that I’m here. Don’t want to hit Alex’s place just yet. Need to get a feel for the city. It’s been such a long time, I’m a stranger here.

I take a shower, put new bandages on my cuts. They’re scabbing over and the rib isn’t giving me as much trouble, but I still feel like I’ve gone a round with Tyson. I stare into the mirror, try to see how I’ve changed, try to remember what I used to look like. Hair’s shorter, I’ve lost weight. The rings around my eyes are probably darker.

Let’s face it, I look like shit.

I’m not in the desert anymore. Jeans and boots get replaced with a suit and tie. Almost convinced myself I’m out here on business. That if I treat this like any other job I won’t let sentimentality get in my way.

I’m here to find out who killed Lucy. And return the favor. That’s all. In, out.

Yeah, right.

I blow that idea in the first hour of cruising around. Things are gone that should have stayed, things have stayed that should have been demolished. The Farmer’s Market on Fairfax is a giant outdoor shopping mall. Hollywood Boulevard’s full of hipsters. Some asshole tore down The Ambassador. Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?

L.A. pisses on its history. Tears it down or spackles it into something different. Always changing, always trying to be something new. Always failing. An ugly town to grow old in.

I finally bite the bullet. Time to see if things are so far gone I just can’t be here. There are some memories it’s better to leave buried than to have destroyed when you try to bring them back.

Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles on Gower. Need to know if it’s as good as I remember.

It isn’t.

—

Alex’s bar is in K-Town between Western and Normandie. Brownstones with barred windows and high-rise banks. Shop signs in Hangeul as much as English and it’s a good bet a third of the people walking these streets barely speak the latter.

Stuck on a corner next to a place that sells t-shirts and pleather bags, the bar doesn’t stick out. Black stucco exterior, awning-covered door. No name, just an address.

My first clue that this is more than a bar is when I step up to the door and feel the warning buzz of magic on my skin. The charms are written in brass designs inlaid in the door and the doorjamb, each a subtle message; don’t cause trouble, buy a lot of beer, tip your waitress.

When I left, Alex was doing small cons, using his talents to give him an edge. Never had much power, most people with talent don’t, but he had enough to get himself into trouble more often than not.

A guy built like a side of beef is hanging out in the foyer on a barstool. “Hey,” he says with a voice somewhere between a bear and a landslide.

“Looking for Alex Kim.”

“You Carter?”

“Eric Carter, yeah.”

He pulls the inner curtain aside to let me through. “Ask at the bar. Somebody’ll get him.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Past the curtain the bar’s got a mellow vibe. Pretty standard place, but larger, nicer. Less ‘bar’ and more ‘nightclub.’ Something about the layout’s bugging me, though I can’t put my finger on what.

Couple of bars, a few stages and a dance floor. TVs in the corners, neon signs for Sapporo and Kirin on the walls. Floor’s clean, chairs are overstuffed leather. Alex has sunk a lot of money into this place.

A cute Korean waitress wanders by with a pitcher of beer for a table of three upscale banker types in slick suits and ties talking money.

She throws a glance my way. “Grab any seat you want,” she says.

“Actually, I’m here looking for Alex Kim. He here today?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll go get him.” She deposits the pitcher of beer at the table, exchanges a couple of pleasantries in Korean and heads back toward the bar in the corner where she disappears through a door.

There’s no seat in the place where I can watch all the exits so I grab one next to the corner bar where I can see the front door. I’ve had enough shit happen in bars to know you always pay attention to the exits.

The place has a weird arrangement. There’s a bar in the center of the room, five stages laid out equidistant from each other. Half the chairs look bolted to the floor. Who the hell bolts chairs to the floor in a bar?

The waitress comes out from the hallway a minute later and makes a beeline toward my table. “Hey,” she says. “Alex’ll be out in a bit.” She sticks her hand out. “I’m Tabitha.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake her hand. “Eric.” Tabitha’s a little shorter than me with a slim build, long, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, a narrow, elfin face. She’s wearing jeans, a tight, black t-shirt and a black apron.

“Alex said you’d be coming around. Can I get you something? You look like you could use a drink.”

“Been on the road,” I say. How much has Alex told his people? “Do I really look that bad?”

She laughs and shows me a smile that’s probably turned more men to jelly than I can count. “No, not bad. Not bad at all. Just a little tired, I guess.”

“It has been a rough couple of days, actually. What’s your story? You been working here long?”

“Couple years. Alex is a cool boss. And this is a good place. You? First time here? Haven’t seen you here before.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Been out of town a while. Things are different.”

“How long?”

“Since ninety-five.”

“Huh. Yeah, some stuff’s changed.”

“I’ll say. Hollywood and Highland. Jesus, who built that monstrosity?”

“What are you talking about? I like that place.”

“Really?”

“Of course he doesn’t like the place,” Alex says, coming out from behind the bar and seeing us talking. “He only likes old stuff.”

“I like to think of it as vintage.”

“I like vintage,” Tabitha says. “I have tables to get back to. See you around?”

Good question. I can’t say I won’t bolt for the door right now. “Yeah,” I say, instead. She winks at me and heads back to the Asian bankers getting hammered on Sapporo.

“Eric,” Alex says.

“Alex.” The years have been nice to him. Little older, little fatter, few more lines around the face. But he’s got that same shaggy black hair and impish smile.

I stand. Do I shake his hand? Wave? It’s been a long time. What’s the etiquette here? Before I can say anything he grabs me in a bear hug and squeezes. I make a strangled sound as my bruised rib shifts in my chest.

“Whoa,” Alex says, letting me go. “Shit, man, you okay?” He takes a good look at me. “Jesus, you look like hell.”

“No, I’m good,” I say, voice coming out as a croak. I steady myself with one hand on his shoulder, catch my breath.

“Good for a punching bag, maybe. Goddamn. I don’t remember your lip being that fat.”

“Been a long month.”

“I hear ya. Tabitha,” he says to her as she’s heading back to the bar, “Dos Equis for me and . . .” he squints, trying to pull a memory. Fails.

“The fuck are you drinking these days?”

“Whatever’s cheap. Just like always.”

He shakes his head. “I will never understand a man who has no taste. Johnnie Walker Black, splash of water,” he says to her. “We’ll be in my office.”

I follow him into the back past a kitchen and some storage rooms into a simple office that’s all function and Ikea style. Laptop, phone, cash counter. Betting he’s got a loaded pistol in one of those drawers.

Alex drops himself into a leather wingback chair that looks like it seated executives in the sixties and I settle into its clone across from him. The sun was starting to go down when I got here. I pull out the Sangamo Special, flip it open to check the time. Alex startles.

“What?”

“Sorry. Just forgot about that . . . thing.”

I slide the watch back into my pocket. “Sorry. Yeah. Safer with me than with anybody else. And it keeps good time.”

“Fuck, I would hope so. That thing creeps me the fuck out.”

I start to say something snide when I’m interrupted by a knock on the door. Tabitha comes in with our drinks.

She sets the drink on a small side table next to my chair. “You need anything, have him call me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.” I can think of a couple of things, but I keep them to myself. She shows me that same dazzling smile I got a glimpse of out in the bar and heads out the door.

“I like the help,” I say.

“Tabitha’s a treasure,” he says. “Say, where are you staying? I can get you a cheap rate at a hotel up on Western. I’ve got a deal with them to steer out-of-towners their way.”

“No, I’m good. Got a motel room on La Brea. Starlite Inn or something.”

He makes a face. “Down by the 10? You sure about that? Place looks pretty rank from the outside.”

“You should see it on the inside.”

“Then why—”

“Because it works for me. Drop it, okay?”

Hands out, placating, mock surrender. Was a time I’d have taken him up on the offer. Lived it up in a four-star. Things change. I like this better.

“No worries,” he says. “Whatever floats your boat. But if you change your mind.”

“I’ll let you know. So, how’s business doing?”

“It’s a living.”

“Pretty good one from the looks of it. Neighborhood’s kind of ghetto.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“Noticed the spells on the door,” I say. “Still bilking the normals?”

“Beats three-card monte on the bus. Eight p.m. hits and we’re hosting everything from frat boys to Japanese CEOs.”

“Come on,” I say, “there’s more going on here than watered-down beer.”

“Well, duh. Here, let me show you. You gotta see this.” He opens a desk drawer, pulls out a stoppered vial. The liquid inside glows an iridescent green.

“The hell is that?”

He tosses it to me. The glass and stopper are etched with lead-painted runes.

“Magic in a bottle.”

“No shit?”

“The glass is special-made. Rock solid. The cork’s spelled for intention. You have to want to open it. I had a guy test them down at a shooting range. Took a Brenneke slug from a 12-gauge just to chip it.”

I’ve seen these before, but never this close. When he said it was magic in a bottle he wasn’t kidding. I can feel the power pressing against the glass like a water balloon about to burst.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Made it. I get three or four of those a couple times a week.”

“Okay, I can think of half a dozen ways to do this and none of them are good.”

“It’s not that bad. I’ve got an ebony cage in a hole under the bar.”

“Isn’t that one of those wicker baskets you make out of demon bones?”

“Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Uh—You do know that they’re not actually dead, right? The demons? Just really pissed off?”

He gives me a don’t-be-stupid look that I can’t say I’ve missed. “You don’t say. Of course I know. I’ve got it warded six ways to Sunday. Been siphoning the energy in this place every weekend for a year and a half.”