Kill the Dead (14 page)

“I brought him. He carries the knife.”

“Only because I couldn’t fit a gun under this damned jacket.”

Brigitte and Koralin smile.

“I’m glad you’re here taking care of our special guest,” says Ritchie. He claps his arm around Lucifer’s shoulders.

“Did you hear? Spencer Church is gone,” says Jan.

“Missing?” asks Ritchie.

“No one knows.”

“Spencer Church is a drug addict, a gambler, and a pusher,” says Koralin. “He’s either sleeping in a ditch or buried in the desert. But this isn’t the time or place to be talking about these things. This is a party.”

Jan says, “Why don’t we make a circle around the room? I know there are a lot of people who’d like to pay their respects.”

Lucifer nods.

“I always enjoy a little genuflecting. Shall we walk?”

Lucifer, Jan, Koralin, and Ritchie stroll on ahead looking impressive and important. Brigitte and I follow a few steps behind. Close enough to keep an eye on things, but far enough back that we look like a couple of sixteen-year-olds pretending we’re not with our parents.

“So, you’re the famous Sandman Slim. I supposed we both have to have funny names to do our jobs. Do you get that my name is a little joke?”

“You mean how there’s Brigitte Bardot, a jet-propelled French succubus from the sixties? Got famous in
And God Created Woman.
Got respected in
Contempt.
Kind of a nut job, but she liked dogs. Then there’s Bardo, like the Buddhist states of being. Life, death, enlightenment, and a side of fries. Yeah, I think I got it.”

“Very nice. Most Americans don’t understand.”

“Don’t be too impressed. Everyone in California is a Buddhist for fifteen minutes. Then they realize they’re not allowed to eat chili dogs and enlightenment starts sounding like a real drag.”

“You know, I thought you would be uglier.”

“Huh. Thanks?”

“I heard that you were covered in scars. You don’t look so bad, really.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“You were looking at me before. Have you seen my work?”

“Ritchie said you were an actress in France. You coming to work in Hollywood?”

“Simon is going to help me do different sorts of movies than what I was doing back home.”

“Were you stuck in those rotten American action-movie rip-offs they do over there?”

“No, pornography. I’m very famous for it in Europe. In Japan, too.”

Hey, at least she didn’t tell me she’s dead.

“I’ve met a couple of local porn girls in clubs over the years. I’m never sure what’s worse for them—not recognizing them or recognizing them too quickly.”

She smiles.

“It’s fine either way. All that matters is that the person isn’t too mean or too happy to meet you.”

“Good way to put it. I’ve been trying to work through something like that myself.”

“I know. You may not know me, but I recognized you and your funny nom de plume.”

“Don’t blame me. Hellions gave me that behind my back. I didn’t even know about it until a cop told me.”

“It’s better than ‘whore.’ That’s usually what’s said behind my back.”

“Most people are idiots. There’s nothing worse than idiots who tell you their opinions.”

I puff my fake cigarette. It really doesn’t taste that bad, but the plastic texture is hard, like sucking nicotine through a spackle gun.

“So you’re in
Light Bringer.
You an angel or what?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m Eve, the destroyer of men and, so, the whole world.”

“And here I am without a drink to toast you with.”

“See? I’m much worse than you could ever be, Sandman Slim.”

“People call you names behind your back, but trust me, they’d call me worse if they weren’t afraid I’d skin them and wear them like oven mitts.”

“Being friends with Lucifer must help.”

“I’m not stupid enough to think we’re friends, but we’re not enemies. We have some common interests.”

“Then you are what people say you are?”

“What’s this week’s theory?”

“That you’re a bit of a vampire, but without the blood. You’re strong like a vampire. You’re fast. You heal and you can see inside people. Some believe that you were a vampire, but that Lucifer cured you and now you are his property.”

Out of habit, I tap my finger on the cigarette to knock off the ashes. Moron. There’s no ash on a piece of plastic.

“I’m no one’s property. I get paid for my services,” I say. “I also freelance for the Golden Vigil. They’re not exactly on Mr. Macheath’s side.”

Up ahead, Lucifer is getting glad-handed by Cabal Ash. I think the guy took out his spinal fluid and replaced it with tequila. He’s epically, gorgeously drunk. If his drunkenness had legs, it would be Alexander the Great and conquer the
known world. Then it would puke for a week into a solid gold toilet it stole from Zeus’s guest room.

Right now, Cabal is stinking up the party with the death grip he’s got on Lucifer’s hand. He’s pumping it like he thinks he’ll strike oil. A woman dressed in the same kind of dirty rags as Cabal is trying to coax him away with more booze. Maybe I’m supposed to step in and pull the guy off, but it’s not my party and it’s too damned fun standing right where I am.

Cabal’s ragged lady friend finally gets his meat hooks off Lucifer and quickly steers the drunk into the crowd and out of sight.

“It’s nice to hear that no one owns you. Men, especially Americans, have quite a desire to buy and sell each other. For me, they’re attracted to me because I model and do sexy things in magazines and in movies, then when they have me—or think they have me—they want me to transform overnight into a mousy little housewife.”

“I can see how what you do could intimidate a guy.”

“But it doesn’t feel as if you are judging.”

“I’m pretty out of judgment for this lifetime.”

“What is that you’re smoking?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s low-tar crack for underage robots.”

“May I try?”

She puffs away and gets a nice red glow going on the LED at what’s supposed to be the lit end of the thing. Opens her mouth in an O and blows a series of perfect smoke rings. She gives the cigarette back to me, smiling.

“Is this what you smoke in Los Angeles these days? I’m
not sure I approve. Vices shouldn’t be safe. They’re what remind us we’re alive and mortal.”

I toss the thing, sending it skipping across the floor into one of the canal tributaries that run along one wall.

“There. Thanks for saving me from a too-long life.”

“So, you don’t like to be called Sandman Slim. Your Wikipedia page says that sometimes you are called Wild Bill.”

“I’m on goddamn Wikipedia?”

“It’s a tiny entry full of notes saying that no one knows if any of what’s there is real. It’s very funny. You’d like it.”

“Read it to me sometime. I have a feeling it’ll sound better in Czech.”

“But none of this answers my question. What should I call you?”

Up ahead, Lucifer turns away from his admirers with his phone to his ear. From the look on his face, someone is going to get a Cadillac-size pitchfork up the ass.

“Call me James. Not Jimmy or Jim. Just James. What do I call you?”

“Brigitte is fine.”

“Ah. I thought we were confessing true names.”

“No. I just asked what to call you.”

Now that he’s not getting the royal treatment for a couple of seconds, Ritchie’s realized that Brigitte isn’t next to him. He looks around like a
Titanic
survivor hunting for a life vest.

“I think you’re about to be called back to the stage.”

Brigitte gives a little sigh.

“You’re lucky. Your patron doesn’t spend all his waking hours worrying that you might fuck someone else.”

“Not that he’s mentioned.”

She smiles and waves to get Ritchie’s attention.

“I have to go. It’s been lovely talking with you, Sandman. Pardon. James.”

“You too, Ms. Bardo.”

As she goes, she runs a finger lightly over the back of my hand.

I don’t usually think of porn girls as actresses, but Brigitte might be an exception. When she goes to Ritchie, she gives him a
Pretty Woman
smile like she thinks he’s the center of the world.

It looks like the center of Lucifer’s world has gone sour. He crooks his finger at me and we start out of the ballroom. No good-byes. No handshakes. Nothing. It must be nice to just start walking and know that everybody else will follow. Which is exactly what happens. Jan, Koralin, and Ritchie practically sprint after him. Ritchie is pulling Brigitte like a puppy on a leash. She laughs as they go. I push through the crowd, cut around a hairy Nahual beast man and a couple of Jades eating raw meat off a golem’s tray. Wolf Boy has hold of the golem’s arm so it can’t wander away.

I catch up with them just as everyone is saying good night. Lucifer shakes a last few hands, blows some air kisses, and we’re moving again.

“What’s going on?”

He looks at his phone one more time and stuffs it into his pocket.

“We’re going back to the hotel. Apparently Amanda and her coven never left and they’re not playing nice with the hotel staff who are too afraid to throw her out.”

“Whose followers are dumber, yours or God’s?”

“Mine are simpletons and his are self-righteous prigs. Take your pick.”

“I should have known that little shit would be here.”

Lucifer looks at me. I nod at a pretty young guy drinking and scowling at the edge of a group of other pretty young things. It’s Ziggy Stardust, the bad-mannered kid from Bamboo House of Dolls who thought I was a dolphin who’d do a trick for a fish.

“That’s Jan and Koralin’s son. Rainier I think is his name. An angry little bore and a ne’er-do-well.”

“Sounds like a typical Sub Rosa to me.”

Lucifer heads for the first gondola he sees, cutting off an angry Sub Rosa woman who was stepping into it. She starts to say something, sees me, and shakes her head.

It’s Medea Bava, head of the Sub Rosa Inquisition.

I step down into the boat and she says, “Judge a man by the company he keeps.”

“Admit it. You live alone with thirty cats, all named Mr. Whiskers.”

She stands there scowling at me as the golem gondolier poles us away.

“Friend of yours?” Lucifer asks.

“She either wants to burn me at the stake or shut off my cable. I forget which.”

“Why don’t you kill her?”

I look at him. I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“’Cause she hasn’t done anything yet.”

“Don’t be an idiot. If you always wait for your enemies to move first, you’ll be dead before breakfast.”

“But it’s your fans, not your enemies, that ruined your night. You just can’t win.”

“We might have put your no-killing policy on hold. Amanda and her people can be unruly, but they have to be dealt with one way or another.”

“You want me to slaughter thirteen people in the hotel lobby?”

He shrugs.

“Do it in the parking lot if you’re worried about the rugs.”

“These aren’t sulfur-sucking Hellions. I’m not promising to kill anyone.”

He lights a cigarette and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer me one this time.

“If you need to play at being the humanitarian, deal with Amanda first. Put her down and the others will most likely slink away home. I’ll deal with them later.”

“While we’re dealing with annoying situations, fuck you very much for that Eleanor thing back there with the old lady.”

“Don’t be so serious. You hate the Sub Rosa because you don’t know how to have fun with them.”

“Light Bringer
sounds fun. Great title, by the way. It makes you sound like Luke Skywalker’s harelip cousin. Maybe they can get Ewoks to play the other fallen angels.”

When the golem docks us by the reservoir stairs, Lucifer dials the chauffeur and tells him to wait back where he dropped us.

When we get back to the street, he isn’t there. Does this moron want his throat slit all the way around back, too, so it matches the front?

I say, “Go back inside. I’ll wait.”

“Calm down. Here he is.”

The limo pulls up to the curb and Lucifer heads straight for it. I grab his arm and hold him until the driver gets out. When he does, I do something I’m pretty sure no one but God has ever done before. I knock Lucifer down. The guy getting out of the limo doesn’t have the heartbeat or the nervous breathing of someone who’s just kept the lord of the flies waiting. He sounds more like me when I’m hunting.

Five more men follow him out of the car. They’re dressed in black jumpsuits, boots, and balaclavas, typical tactical drag, but they don’t have insignias on their suits. For all I know, they could be LAPD, Dr. No, or the SPCA.

Next time, no matter how tight the damn jacket is, I’m bringing a gun.

The six men split into two groups. The four with what look like nonlethals go for Lucifer. Two with guns come at me.

The taller one has an AA-12 auto shotgun. Looks like his pal has a G3 assault rifle. This is only interesting because it means that they work for people who can afford the best toys on the shelf, which means they’re probably pros. Damn. I was hoping to buy them off with free movie rentals. Microwave popcorn included.

Shotgun Guy starts blasting the moment he hits the curb, pushing me back toward the reservoir, trying to cut me off so I can’t help Lucifer. It’s a good plan. I’m not running in front of the double-ought shot and I’m not charging him while he has that hand cannon. I do exactly what he wants me to do. I fall down.

In gunspeak, it’s called a fall-away shot. You fall over backward while raising your gun and firing. If you’re good at it, a fall-away is a great way to shoot at an armed assailant without getting shot. Unfortunately, I’m not great at it. Fortunately, hitting something in the dark with a na’at is a lot easier than with a bullet.

I snap the na’at up and out, tagging him on the side of the throat. Judging by the red fountain that erupts there, I must have nicked his carotid. Lucky shot. Double lucky because his buddy with the G3 turns to check him out and gets hit in the face with some of the blood spray. Blinded, he snaps up his rifle, but he’s too afraid he’ll hit Lucifer or one of his own men to shoot. He tries to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. It takes him all of about ten seconds to get one eye clear. Long enough for me to collapse the na’at’s shaft and spin it like a whip so that it slams him in the center of his chest. His body armor stops the spear point from going all the way in, but the way he’s gritting his teeth tells me I’ve made contact.