Kill the Dead (17 page)

“My wings are like a shield of steel!”

I’m so pleased with myself that I miss the third cartridge and it hits me over the eye.

“Touchdown!” yells Kasabian.

“Damn. That hurt.”

I take another sip from my tumbler. The pains in my stomach and side aren’t getting any better, but they’re getting farther away. Like I’m looking down at them from the third floor. My cell phone rings. It rings again. Kasabian is back working on the computer. After the third ring, the phone stops. A second later, the phone at Kasabian’s desk rings. He picks it up and gives me a look.

“Yeah, he’s here. Sure it rang. He’s just being a little bitch today.”

I have a pretty good idea who’s on the other end of the call. Kasabian mostly listens and grunts every now and then.

He has
Black Sunday
playing on the monitor with the sound down. Some very bad men are nailing a devilish witch mask to Barbara Steele’s pretty face. I’ve seen that done for real. I’m glad this version is in black-and-white.

A couple of “okays” followed by a “yeah” and Kasabian hangs up.

“Guess who that was,” he says.

“Unless it was about me winning the lottery, I don’t care.”

“Lucifer says for you to answer your damned phone.”

“What did he want?”

“He doesn’t need you today and maybe tomorrow, too. Ritchie and some bigwigs are coming to the Chateau for a meeting.”

“Does he know them all? Does he trust them?”

“He said you’d ask that and says not to worry. He owns all their souls. They wouldn’t dare cross him.”

“Those are exactly the people who are going to cross him.”

“He says he’s got it under control.”

“I hope he has fun and only agrees to tasteful nudity.”

“You know, you’ve been drinking a lot lately, even by your standards.”

“‘There was moonshine, moonshine to quench the devil’s thirst. The law they swore they’d get him, but the devil got him first.’ Robert Mitchum wrote that for
Thunder Road,
the year of our Lord, 1958.”

“You’re not Robert Mitchum, this isn’t
Cape Fear,
and the devil is pissed at you. You might think about spacing out the Jack with, I don’t know, anything that’s not Jack.”

“You heard anything new about Mason?”

“Nope.”

“Ever hear of a guy named Spencer Church?”

“Should I?”

“Probably not. He’s a rich junkie who’s turned up missing.”

“There’s a first.”

“What about the Sub Rosa. The families. Are they in the Codex?”

“Everything is in the Codex.”

“Except what I want.”

“Try asking the right questions.”

“It’s my fault, then. You’re not holding out on me.”

Kasabian ignores me and watches his movie.

“What does it say about the families?”

“It’s boring. It’s mostly histories. Family trees. Who begat who. There’s one fun fact to know and tell. Whenever a lot of families are in the same geographic area, each family specializes in a different kind of magic. It’s like a franchise. Supposed to keep down the hillbilly feuds.”

“The Springheels were blue bloods, so I suppose they’d have first dibs. What kind did they do?”

“Past-tense blue bloods. They didn’t have much by the end. I don’t know what magic they started out with, but even at the end they were pretty respected charm makers. Amulets. Talismans. Protective runes.”

“What about the Geistwalds?”

“Scryers. Fortune-tellers. If you ask me, the whole so-called art is a joke. I’ve met maybe two or three scryers with enough nickels in their pockets to make a quarter. The others I’d second deal at poker and take all their money. They couldn’t even see me cheating. What kind of seer is that? The whole so-called art is for rubes.”

“The Geistwalds look like they’re doing all right. Their house is about the size of the San Fernando Valley. Someone said they advise studios on what movies to make.”

“Still sounds like a gaff.”

“What does it say about the Ashes? Cabal and his sister.”

“Another old family. They pulled something shady back in the old country, took off, and ended up here. No one’s sure if Cosima, the chick, is Cabal’s sister or his wife. Hell,
they probably don’t even remember anymore, which makes it even worse if you’ve ever seen them.”

“I have.”

“My condolences. The Ashes are into the Black Sun. Chaos magic. Technically, it’s about controlling elementals to bring you luck and your enemies bad luck. It’s power yoga for the ruling class. Tycoons and politicos love it. It’s sketchy, but no one’s getting attacked, so it’s all legal. Everyone knows the Ashes keep the big-money stuff off the books. Revenge. Banishments. Maybe even vaporware.”

“They’re soul merchants?”

“Soul trading is bigger than hookers and drugs combined in L.A. So many people have lost theirs or the one they have is so rotten they need a transfusion.”

“Think they’d murder someone for a particular soul?”

“There’s stories.”

“Working with elementals means they’d probably have hotshot demons on their Christmas-card list.”

“Along with their T-shirt size and favorite Beatle.”

“They ever been caught playing rough, demonwise?”

“The Inquisition has made some moves, but never found enough to do more than fine them. The Ashes are one of the oldest families in the world. They know how to cover their tracks.”

“Unless they don’t want to cover their tracks. Unless they want to make an example of someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

I mentally walk through the Springheel house, from where Marshal Julie was pulling doorman duty to Santa
Muerte standing guard over bones and gristle, to the broken magic circle that was really a hexagon drawn to call dark forces. One dark force. The eater. Did Cabal and Cosima know that Enoch Springheel was a Bone Daddy and sent him something special delivery? But why bother? From what everyone is saying, the Springheels were about as low as you could get and still have indoor plumbing. If you wanted to off somebody to make a point, why not go for the Geistwalds? But the Ashes are too smart for that. And if they just wanted to have fun, they’d go for civilian rubes, not another Sub Rosa. Still, there is a dead guy and the demon that ate him.

I don’t even know why I care. I didn’t know the guy. I don’t know any of these people. But I don’t like being lied to, especially if being lied to gets me shot. Springheel gets eaten. Lucifer gets bushwhacked. Another Sub Rosa named Spencer Church is missing. Carlos lost his pal, Toadvine, and that woman at Bamboo House is missing a kid. Probably none of this has anything to do with me, but as long as Lucifer means to drag me along into the Sub Rosa’s billion-dollar outhouse, I know there’s a gun pointed at the back of my head.

“Give me the Walter Cronkite on Hell. What’s the weather like down there?”

Kasabian turns from the movie and looks at me. He sighs.

“There’s nothing to tell. It’s the usual mess. Guys stabbing guys. Women stabbing guys who just stabbed guys. It’s rerun season down there. Nothing new.”

“The other night I was walking around East L.A. and for a second I thought I saw Mason.”

“You didn’t. That’s impossible.”

“Then he’s down there. You’ve seen it.”

“I don’t have to see it. I know.”

“From Lucifer?”

“I just know.”

“That’s not good enough. I need to know what’s happening. Lucifer is here for a reason and it’s not to make a damned movie.”

“Can’t help you. Speaking of movies, shut up. The two traveling doctors are about to open Barbara Steele’s coffin and bring her back to life.”

When you make a threat, make it big. When you make it big, make sure you’re prepared to go all in if someone calls you on it.

I go to the table and hit the power switch on Kasabian’s monitor.

“Hey, I’m watching that.”

I grab Kasabian and his deck under one arm, pull open the door, and carry him downstairs.

He stage-whispers, “Put me down! Take me back!”

I carry Kasabian straight out the back door to the alley. If any customers caught a glimpse of a head on a deck, they would just think I was throwing away a mannequin or an old movie promotion.

Kasabian is pretty discreet considering his situation. He doesn’t start screaming until I close the back door.

“What the fuck are you doing, man? Take me back inside.”

“It’s time for you to leave the nest, Tweety Bird. The world is your oyster. I saw a ‘Help Wanted’ sign at Donut
Universe. With your managerial skills, you’ll be running the place by the end of the week.
Vaya con Dios,
Alfredo Garcia.”

“Are you out of your mind? What if someone sees us?”

“People will pay big bucks to see you. Maybe you should go to Griffith Park and sign up at the petting zoo. Hell, you’ll be their star attraction.”

“Is this about the money? I wasn’t embezzling. I was investing it for us. The store is on its last legs, man. We’re going to need a stake when it goes under.”

“It’s not the money or the attitude or you shitting beer out your neck hole. You’ve outgrown the place. You’re a lone wolf, not a team player, and I don’t want to hold you back.”

I reach into my pocket, wad up one of Lucifer’s hundreds, and toss it at him.

“Go buy yourself some platform shoes. Tall people always get the best job offers.”

When I go back inside, he’s still sitting there with his mouth open, the hundred lying at his metal feet.

I pull the door closed and wait. Right away I hear scratching, like a stray cat trying to get in after it got locked out of the house at night. Kasabian is cursing me through the door, but not loud enough for anyone else to hear. He doesn’t want that. The kicking and cursing goes on for thirty or forty seconds, getting louder the whole time. Then it stops. I listen. Nothing.

Okay. That’s something I didn’t count on. That moneygrubbing jack-o’-lantern isn’t crazy enough to go around to the front, is he?

I run up the stairs far enough that the customers can’t see me, and step through a shadow into the alley.

At first, I don’t see him. Then I hear a scrabbling from overhead. Fuck me. The little centipede is halfway up the wall, climbing for the bathroom window on his prehensile legs. He’s slow, but he’s moving steadily. I had no idea he could do that. Something else he’s been hiding along with all the other information he’s locked away?

I start to say something. When he looks down his eyes go wide. He screams and starts to fall. I throw up the shield I used earlier in the room. Kasabian is right over the Dumpster, so I vault the side and catch him when he bounces off the shield.

He yells, “Get out! Get out now!”

“Calm down. You’ve been in plenty of dirtier places than this.”

“Look down, asshole.”

I move Kasabian’s deck to the side and look at my feet. At the bottom of the Dumpster, on a pile of JD bottles, boxes, and worn-out DVD cases is a man’s hand. There’s a few inches of bone sticking out past the torn and ragged wrist. It looks like rats have been having a Sunday buffet.

“Please take me back inside.”

“What are you so upset about? It’s not yours.”

I get out of the Dumpster and set him on the ground.

“Sorry. I can’t go carrying you through there naked again. You’re wearing a disguise this time.”

There’s a Disney box lying on top of the Dumpster junk. I grab it, drop it on top of Kasabian, and carry him inside and up to the room. I punch the power on his monitor and
set him down in front of it.
Black Sunday
is still playing. He stares at it for a moment like he’s never seen a movie before, and then turns it off.

“Is there any beer left?” he asks.

“I think so.”

I take one from the minifridge, pop the top, and slide his bucket under him. Kasabian is still staring at the blank monitor screen.

“Did you see that fucking thing?”

“It was pretty much on my foot.”

“Where do you think it came from?”

“A guy’s arm.”

“I mean did you recognize it. Did it look familiar?”

“It looked like a hand. You want to be Sherlock Holmes? I’ll drop you back down there and you can play patty-cake with it all day.”

“Body parts lying around. That’s a bad omen for me. I can’t afford to lose anything else.”

“That’s right. The universe stopped by our trash to personally deliver you a message from the great beyond. Get a grip. Some wino probably died in the neighborhood and the dogs got at him. Or there’s medical trash on the beach again and kids are leaving legs and eyeballs all over town.”

“What a waste. A perfectly good hand like that.”

“I’ll look for the other one. You can wear ’em like angel wings.”

“I’ll never have one again. Lucifer’ll never let that happen.”

“You mean a body.”

“It’s humiliating, you know. This whole situation. I’m
not even a dog. I’m half a dog. On top of that I got you and Lucifer surrounding me, gnawing my ass like it’s filet mignon. You both want information and I know someday I’m going to tell one of you something you don’t like and you’re going to throw me into the wood chipper without a second thought.”

“I can’t help you get a body. The black blade is a mean Hellion hex machine. Whatever it cuts stays cut and all the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t, you know.”

Kasabian picks up his beer and chugs the bottle. It drains out of his neck and into the bucket, sounding somewhere between a light summer rain and someone peeing in a Dixie cup.

“So, my options are: I can go back to Hell, be damned and tortured forever, but at least I’ll have a body, or I can be Zardoz on a skateboard up here with you forever. You’d think this would be an easy choice, but it isn’t.”

“Does the Codex say anything about someone in your situation putting a body back together?”

“No, but I’ll tell you one thing I’ve learned. Any spell cast can be broken. Any spell broken can be put back together.”

“If you want I can have a word with the boss.”

He shakes his head and drops the bottle into the recycling bin.

“Forget it. The last thing I need to get into is office politics.”