Killing Pretty (8 page)

“We're going to be working together for the agency.”

“And you'll send her home alone every night. Your time in Hell might have taught you to plot strategy and when to strike, but it hasn't helped you understand how ­people work. Chihiro isn't a strategy and she isn't someone who makes plans. She's spontaneous and intuitive and more easily hurt than you might understand.”

That go-­for-­broke quality is one of the things I always liked about Candy. She went all in when she got into something, whether it was anime, being Doc Kinski's assistant, or hooking up with me. I never thought of myself as a brain person, but maybe I'm turning into one. Like I said, it's been a funny year.

“Let me think about it.”

“Don't lie to me or her, and especially don't lie to yourself. If you're going to think, do it fully and soon.”

I want to change the subject, but I can't ask Brigitte about her love life. Her lover, Father Traven, is dead.

“Has either of you seen a Fiddler in here tonight?”

Carlos looks around.

“How about Christopher Marlowe over there?”

Marlowe is by the jukebox chattering at one of Brigitte's friends. The lady doesn't seem interested.

Brigitte shakes her head.

“He's wasting his time,” she says. “She doesn't like men and she doesn't speak English. I'll rescue her and send him to you.”

She squeezes my hand.

“Think about what I said. What's more important: Chihiro or one more little apocalypse?”

She goes over and says something to her friend. The woman goes back to the table, and when Marlowe turns his attention to Brigitte, she points at me. All the fun goes out of his face. He's not scoring with any of the Euro girls tonight.

Marlowe comes over and puts his hands up like a robbery in a cowboy movie.

“I swear, Sheriff, I didn't lay a hand on her.”

He's boyishly handsome, wearing a green-­striped shirt and khaki pants, looking a lot more J.Crew than Elizabethan. He's not the real Christopher Marlowe, of course. At least I don't think so. Last I heard, the real Marlowe is a vampire living happily in Tangiers. Still, I bet this Marlowe has a screenplay. There are more unproduced scripts in L.A. than rats.

“Relax. I'm not playing chaperone. Besides, Brigitte carries a gun, so she doesn't need my help.”

Marlowe glances at her, back at the table with her friends.

“Thanks for the warning.”

“It was more friendly advice, but you're welcome.”

He leans against the bar and orders a dirty martini. When Carlos goes off to make it, he turns to me.

“So, if you're not minding the beauty's business, why have you summoned me? Fashion advice? First, ditch the Johnny Cash coat. This is L.A., not the Grand Ole Opry.”

“Thanks. When I want advice from a Banana Republic catalog, I'll come to you.”

Carlos brings him his drink and he pays.

“Carlos says you're a Fiddler. Is that right?”

“Are you asking because you're famous and want a favor?”

“Not at all. I'm a small businessman myself. I can pay.”

“Cash?”

“You can bill the agency.”

He looks at Carlos.

“Is this guy for real?”

“Yeah. He's a regular Derek Flint these days. His boss comes in here all the time.”

“Fine,” he says. “Show me what you have.”

I hand him the knife.

“You looking for anything in particular? I'm good with dates and original owners.”

I put the utility cloth in my pocket.

“Just tell me anything you can tell me about it.”

Marlowe runs his fingers around the hilt, over and around the blade. He sniffs it. Presses the blade to his forehead.

“That's weird.”

“What's wrong?”

“There's nothing on here, and I mean nothing. You're not even on here and you just handed it to me.”

“Can you tell me how old it is or where it came from?”

He takes a gulp of his drink.

“What did I just say? There's
nothing
here. I've never felt that before. It's a complete blank.”

“Could someone do that with hoodoo?”

“Of course, but I've always been able to read through magic. This thing is wild. I might know buyers for something this special. I do consulting and appraising for some of the auction houses.”

I take back the knife.

“It's not for sale.”

“Your loss,” he says, and finishes his drink. “Even though I didn't find anything, it still counts as a reading, you know.”

“Sure. Bill me.”

He puts down his glass.

“This is pissing me off. Let me try it one more time.”

I hand him the knife.

“I want to try something.”

“Whatever you need to do, Kreskin.”

He holds the knife with the tip straight up and just stares at it for a minute. Then puts the blade to his mouth, licking it from the hilt to the tip in one motion.

Carlos looks at me. I don't know if I'm getting my money's worth out of Marlowe or just feeding some secret knife fetish.

“If you're going to popsicle that knife, it better be for business reasons.”

“Fuck,” he says, and hands me back the knife. I take it using the utility rag and wrap it up without touching it. I'll have Vidocq chamois it off again later.

“There's nothing on there,” he says. “I get the slightest trace of you, but nothing else. It's like that thing is a black hole, sucking everything in. You've got to tell me where you got it. Are there any more like it?”

“No, I don't, and I don't know. Just bill me for your time.”

“Where should I send it?”

“Bring it to Max Overdrive.”

“Or he can leave it here,” says Carlos.

“I think I'd be more comfortable here. That friend of yours with the metal hands creeps me the fuck out.”

“He was even worse when he didn't have a body.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Marlowe holds up his glass for another drink.

“Listen, I know buyers with way too much money on their hands. I won't charge for the reading if you tell me where you got the knife.”

“Sure. From a murder scene.”

He shakes his head.

“It doesn't make sense. That's the first thing I would have felt.”

“But you didn't and that's all I need to know for now.”

“If you find out who hexed the knife, I'll pay you for the name.”

“Maybe. I do enjoy the company of money.”

Carlos sets the martini down in front of Marlowe.

When he reaches for it, his hand goes limp. He knocks the glass over. It falls to the floor and he goes down with it, his body rigid and convulsing.

I remember something about turning choking ­people on their sides, so I roll him over. Carlos comes around the bar and hands me a small blue bottle.

“Get that down his throat,” he says.

I roll Marlowe onto his back and pry his jaws apart enough to pour in a syrupy orange potion that smells like cat piss and bubble gum.

It takes a minute for the convulsing to stop. I roll him back onto his side and soon he's breathing normally.

He opens his eyes and looks around, realizes he's on the floor, and sits up.

“What happened?”

“You dosed yourself, jackass, when you licked the knife.”

“I take back the offer. Keep that thing away from me.”

I get his shoulders and wrestle him to his feet. There's a crowd around us, but Carlos gets them back to their tables and drinking again. I set Marlowe on a bar stool. Carlos gives him a glass of water and he gulps it down. I wait for him to finish.

“Did you see anything when you were unconscious?”

He takes a long breath and lets it out.

“Yeah,” he says. “It felt like I was dying and someone was coming for me.”

“You mean, like Death?”

He rolls the glass between his hands.

“That's the weird part. I knew it should be, I felt like it, but it wasn't Death. It was someone else.”

“You mean ‘something.' ”

“No. Some
one
.”

I take the glass out of his hands and set it on the bar.

“You should go home.”

He looks at me, still woozy.

“I'm billing you for a cab, too.”

“Fine. But you owe Carlos for the potion that brought you around.”

He takes out his wallet and slaps it on the bar. The leather is so expensive it looks like it came off an angel's backside.

“Take what you want,” he tells Carlos.

He turns to me.

“And you, get the fuck away from me. Don't talk to me and don't ever bring me any of your poison shit again.”

Carlos already has his phone out. He pushes Marlowe's wallet back at him. I reach over to get it, but knock it off the bar. I pick it up from the floor and hand it to him.

“There's a cab on the way,” Carlos says. “Keep your money. The potion is a business expense. Better that than dead ­people piled up in the bar.”

Marlowe pushes himself up and starts to go outside to wait for the cab. He stops by the door.

“I saw one other thing, Stark.”

“What's that?”

He steadies himself with a hand on the wall.

“It knows you're looking for it. Whatever that knife is, it knows about you.”

Marlowe gives me the finger and goes outside.

Carlos wipes the spilled drink off the bar. I sit down and Brigitte comes over.

She says, “This is exactly what I was talking about. What just happened isn't something Chihiro should have to hear from me.”

She goes back to her friends and I take out my phone.

“Hi,” Candy says after a ­couple of rings.

“How's our friend?”

“What do you think? Still asleep. And Kasabian's gone out to buy beer.”

“Sounds boring.”

“It is. Where are you?”

“At Bamboo House. Why don't you come over.”

“What, be seen in public like a real person?”

“Just like one. I'll buy you too many drinks. Later, we can order Chinese food from bed.”

“Thai.”

“Demanding harlot.”

“Watch that mouth, boy. You're going to need it later.”

“Hurry. I'm at least three drinks up on you.”

“Then order me three drinks and stand by.”

“See you soon.”

She doesn't say anything for a beat.

“Hey, why did you suddenly get smart?”

“I'll tell you a funny story when you get here.”

“It better have clowns and Sailor Moon in a bikini in it.”

“And ponies.”

“I'm swooning.”

“See you soon.”

I order a drink for myself and three extras. Carlos sets the glasses down and I arrange them in a pyramid just like a clown would.

W
E WEAVE BACK
to Max Overdrive after an hour or so of drinking. The first three drinks pretty much did Candy in. I don't know how many more she ordered, but Carlos cut her off at two. I got cut off too, but more, I think, to encourage me to take Candy home. It was time anyway. I'd told her about Vidocq, Marlowe, and the knife by then, so there wasn't much more to say. I didn't mention what Marlowe said about a bogeyman waiting for me in the great beyond because I was 90 percent sure he was fucking with me. If he wasn't, I figured I'd know soon enough.

We go in through the side door because I don't want to look at
KILLER
on the front windows. I'm in too good a mood for that. It doesn't last long. The moment we get inside, Kasabian comes clanking up on his Tin Woodsman legs.

“He's awake,” he says. “He woke up just a little while after you left.”

He gives Candy a look that's half accusing and half scared shitless. I wave a hand in his face to get his attention.

“Where is he?”

“Right the fuck inside.”

We go around the counter and there he is, the Angel of Death, stark damned naked in the middle of the empty store watching
The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari
on the big screen. He's got this goofy grin on his face, like an ankle biter seeing a mobile for the first time.

I walk over and stand next to him, watching the movie.
Caligari
is a silent film. Cesare, the somnambulist, is carrying Jane across rooftops that look like they were designed by Dalí and drawn with crayons on blotter acid.

“Is this old?” he says.

“Yeah. From 1920.”

He points at the big screen.

“I remember all of them. When each passed on, I remember taking them.”

Candy comes over. Kasabian stays back by the counter.

“How are you feeling?” she says.

He looks at her, then back at the screen.

“I still hurt, but watching helps take my mind off it.”

“You just described the entire twentieth century,” I say.

I take the pills out of my pocket and put them in his hand.

“Try these. They should help with the pain.”

“Thank you.”

He pours some out and looks at them.

“How many does someone take?”

I shrug.

“Try two.”

I look at Kasabian.

“You have anything to drink?”

He takes an open beer from under the counter and hands it to me with his fingertips, keeping as much distance as he can between himself and our naked guest. I hand Death the beer.

“Wash them down with this.”

He sniffs the beer. Makes a puzzled face and puts the pills in his mouth. Then raises the beer can, draining it.

“This tastes familiar,” he says. “I think whoever this body belonged to liked it.”

“That narrows the suspects to about three million in L.A. County.”

He stares at the can like he doesn't know what to do with it. I take it from him and toss it to Kasabian. Death looks at me.