The Everything Box

  “Is that him?” said Nelson.

  “No,” said Bayliss. “It’s Mr. Rogers back from the dead.”

  “No. It’s Mr. Rogers,” said Nelson in a high squeaky mocking voice.

  Bayliss, the junior agent, in her off-the-rack jacket and knock-off Gucci shoes, looked at him. Nelson wore an expensive suit and tie, but his white shirt was wrinkled like he’d had it on for a couple of days. Been sleeping in his car again, thought Bayliss.

  “Are you drinking already?” she said.

  “I couldn’t be talking if I was drinking.”

  Bayliss watched the jailbird and the crook eat. Nelson was quiet for a moment, then said, “There. You heard that silence a second ago? That was drinking.”

  Bayliss ignored him. “He’s with someone I don’t recognize.”

  “Let me see.”

  Nelson took the binoculars, got them tangled in Bayliss’s hair for a second, then pulled them free. Nelson took his sweet time adjusting the lenses. Bayliss was sure he did it to spite her.

  Finally, Nelson said, “That’s his asshole buddy, Morton something. The one who ratted him out.”

  He handed her the binoculars and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the inside of the van.

  “Why isn’t that in the briefing folder?” said Bayliss.

  “Why should it be? I just told you who he is.”

  “What if your liver committed suicide and you died? No one else would have that intel.”

  “Guess you better pray I don’t die.”

  “I pray for your good health every night. More than world peace, I pray for your continued, sparkling existence.”

  “That’s so sweet of you,” said Nelson. He got up, swayed a little, and dropped into the passenger seat, gazing vaguely out the window.

  “You’re a less than admirable human being,” said Bayliss.

  “Want a drink?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Good. I wasn’t in a sharing mood.”

  “Then why did you offer?”

  “It was a test. You passed.”

  Bayliss lowered the binoculars and frowned at Nelson. “I don’t really pray for you, you know. I pray for you not killing us and me ending up on the mook squad.”

  Nelson snort-laughed at that.

  “You don’t have to die for that,” he said between sips from a leather-clad flask. “You’re already a zombie. A toe-the-line, follow-all-orders, fake-Armani-wearing zombie.”

  “Oh? And what are you?”

  “The one wearing real Armani . . . and watching our target. He’s on the move.”

  Bayliss looked back out the window.

  “Oh, crap,” she said, scrambling into the driver’s seat.

  Nelson snort-laughed again.

  “You even curse like my grandma.”

  “I really hate you sometimes.”

  “You’re the wind beneath my wings.”

  Bayliss pulled out into traffic, following the two men. Staying with them, but a little behind so they wouldn’t spot the tail.

  Nelson hummed tunelessly. At the light, Bayliss jammed the brakes. Nelson spilled vodka down the front of his creased trousers.

  “Nice,” he said. “Very mature.”

  “What’s this mature you speak of? We zombies don’t understand that concept.”

  Nelson wiped the front of his pants with a silk handkerchief as wrinkled as his shirt.

  “Just drive.”

  SEVEN

  THEY WENT BACK TO MORTY’S PLACE, A SEVENTIES-ERA two-bedroom apartment on Fountain Avenue near Gower. Back when it was built, the place would have been called a bachelor pad. Now most sensible people would regard it as a stucco deathtrap, since half the building rested on nothing but a few questionable pillars in the open carport beneath the living room. Coop looked out the window, imagining an earthquake and his last moments on Earth, skewered by the rooftop TV dish and smothering under the gold velour couch Morty had taken as payment from a shady lawyer for stealing some incriminating photos from an even shadier lawyer. The photos apparently showed the client in scuffed red and black rental shoes and nothing else making sweet love to an inflatable sheep while the Professional Bowlers Association Tournament of Champions played on a TV the size of a Sherman tank . . . all on this couch. When Morty had offered Coop a peek at the shots, he’d politely declined. But Morty’s bathroom was clean and the shower worked and that was all Coop wanted. Just to blast the last prison grime off his body with scalding water. After he dried off, Morty loaned him a blazer and a dress shirt, one that didn’t hang off Coop’s frame quite as much as his own.

  They drove Morty’s Bondomobile across town to the Sortilege Palms Hotel in Beverly Hills. Morty took them down Hollywood Boulevard so Coop could get reacquainted with the place. Coop had hardly seen daylight for eighteen months in the underground stir, and now that the sun was going down, he missed it. Until the lights came on. Streetlights. Flashing neon. Car headlights. The cool glow from shops and restaurants. They brought back memories of better days and he smiled. That is, until a kid in a souped-up Honda Civic ran a red light at Highland and almost T-boned them. Morty hit the brakes and the car skidded by the Hollywood Wax Museum and Guinness World Records Museum, stopping in front of the Ripley’s Believe it or Not Odditorium. Coop looked up at the tyrannosaurus model on the roof and then at Morty.

  “Woo! That was something, huh?” Morty said.

  Coop didn’t say anything.

  “You okay?” said Morty.

  “Did you ever get the feeling that something was trying to kill you?”

  “Like what?”

  “This city.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “We almost died.”

  “Don’t look at it so negative. The good news is we lived.”

  Coop watched a couple cross the street in front of them. They stared at the Corvette in shorts, sandals, and matching University of Vicksburg T-shirts and for a fraction of a second Coop felt better. Maybe he was destined to die under the fading shadow of a plastic dinosaur surrounded by pickpockets, hookers, and panhandlers, but at least he’d never been to Mississippi. That was something. Coop released his death grip on the dashboard and lit one of Morty’s horrible cigarettes. When he blew out the smoke he said to Morty, “If you ever see me in a matching T-shirt with a woman—any woman—shoot me. Okay?”

  Morty nodded.

  “You didn’t have to ask. I’d have done it on principle.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know a cry for help when I see it.”

  The Sortilege Palms Hotel sat huge on a man-made rise in Beverly Hills. There were turrets, towers, and a drawbridge out front along with neon palm trees that blew in an imaginary wind.

  “It looks like Dracula’s castle and Disneyland had an ugly baby,” said Coop. “If they’re going for a King Arthur thing, what’s with the palm trees?”

  “What can I say?” said Morty. “A lot of these rich types, they like tacky.”

  “Yeah, but it doesn’t make any sense. It’s like parking a Space Shuttle in front of a log cabin.”

  “What are you telling me for? Put something in the suggestion box. I’m sure they give the tiniest rat’s ass about what people like us think.”

  Morty steered the Corvette into the long, curving driveway. The bellhop who came to take the keys was dressed like a court jester. He looked at the car like it was Kryptonite.

  “Don’t park it under any pigeons,” said Morty.

  The bellhop frowned. “How could you tell if I did?”

  Morty and Coop walked into the hotel.

  “I don’t know what his problem is,” Morty said. “That car is a classic.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  Coop looked around as they made their way to the elevators. Out of Morty’s death wagon, with his feet back on terra firma, he was beginning to feel better.

  “I remember this place. I did a job here once. Stole a p
earl necklace and a Necronomicon from a movie producer playing doctor with his leading man’s mistress.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I got a room service cart and lifted a bottle of wine and brought it to their room. I had a Contego stone in my pocket, so the moment they invited me inside, it shut down all the spells for me.”

  “You got them to invite you in? Nice. Just like a vampire.” Morty smiled.

  “Yeah. Just like Dracula.”

  “You still have the stone? Sounds like it could come in handy.”

  Coop shook his head.

  “I lost it.”

  “Lost it,” said Morty. He nodded, but Coop could tell he didn’t believe him.

  Finally, the elevator came. An old man in a tuxedo and a succubus in an even nicer tuxedo strolled out arm in arm. The succubus winked at Coop as they went by. He wasn’t sure he liked that and reflexively checked his pocket to make sure his wallet was still there. In the elevator, Morty punched the button for the top floor.

  Coop said, “Did I tell you I had a vampire cellmate for a while?”

  “No. What was that like?”

  “I became a very light sleeper.”

  The floor numbers rolled by.

  “I dated a vampire while you were away,” said Morty.

  “How did that go?”

  “It was okay till she told me how old she was. I swear, she had my grandmother’s exact birthday. Same day. Same year. After that, every time we were in bed all I could see was my nana’s face. As you can imagine, it took a toll on our love life.”

  “I only want to date humans these days.”

  “Right. You had that thing . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “With the . . .”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that where your Contego went?”

  “Who knows? It’s a mystery.”

  “She was cute. Whatever happened to her?”

  “Not a clue. She disappeared after we broke up.”

  Morty sniggered quietly.

  “What?”

  “Broke up? She dumped you. Halloween night, too. I remember. I’ve never seen you so drunk. She broke your heart.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “It’s okay. It happens. She broke your heart.”

  “She didn’t break it. She ripped it out, bronzed it, and wore it like a belt buckle.”

  The elevator stopped and they got out. Morty headed for another elevator across the hall and pushed a button.

  “What’s this?” said Coop.

  “Those are for the regular floors. This goes up to the penthouse.”

  The elevator showed up a few seconds later and they got in. Coop couldn’t help but stare at the surveillance camera over the sliding doors.

  “I can set you up with someone,” said Morty.

  “Please, I’m asking you nicely. Do not set me up with anyone, human, fish, or otherwise. I’m only even talking to you for business reasons. The idea of making small talk with a stranger makes me want to kill myself and everyone in this elevator.”

  Morty glanced around the car. It was just the two of them.

  “Point taken. But might I remind you that we’re going to a meeting with a client who’s never laid eyes on you? A certain amount of small talk is inevitable.”

  “The difference is I’m not trying to woo him. I just want to woo his money.”

  The elevator began to slow.

  “Here we are. You ready?” said Morty.

  “Sure.”

  “Woo. That’s a nice word. You’re such a nice young man.”

  “Quiet. You never told me the client’s name.”

  “Mr. Babylon.”

  “Mister what?”

  “I don’t think it’s his real name.”

  “No shit,” said Coop as the doors slid open. A middle-aged man stood there in a maroon silk smoking jacket with gold trim. He was as bald as a banana.

  “No shit indeed, Mr. Cooper,” said Mr. Babylon.

  “Sorry. Slip of the tongue.”

  Mr. Babylon was very pale and round, and the folds of fat that formed his cheeks gave him the face of a giant baby.

  “No apologies necessary. Shooting a little shit into the air is a good way to break the ice,” said Mr. Babylon. He nodded at Morty. “Good evening to you both. Would either of you like a drink?”

  “Thanks,” said Coop.

  “What’s your preference?”

  “Anything brown that says bourbon on the label.”

  Mr. Babylon walked to a wet bar across the room.

  “I think we can accommodate you. Morty?”

  “Whatever you’re having, sir.”

  Mr. Babylon glanced back.

  “I’m having diet ginger ale. Doctor’s orders.”

  Morty hooked a thumb at Coop.

  “In that case I’ll have what he’s having.”

  “Very good.”

  The TV was on quietly, tuned to the hotel channel. A handsome young executive type was strolling by what looked like a bank vault designed by the Inquisition. It was all bars, spikes, and crosses. The silver pentagram in the center of the door was the only outward giveaway that the vault carried enchantments.

  The handsome man was saying, “ . . . and as a triple diamond member, you’re entitled to all of the hotel’s routine and supermundane security services, from our subterranean vaults, guarded twenty-four hours a day by our bonded and certified witches, to our encrypted computer and personal oracles . . .”

  Coop had never seen magic talked about so openly in a hotel with civilians before. He’d been raised to always keep his mouth shut about it around strangers, but here it was on TV with the room service menu and the personal massage services.

  I guess they figure the rich are more discreet than the hoi polloi when it’s their money on the line, he thought.

  Mr. Babylon came back with their drinks. He held up his ginger ale in a toast. Coop and Morty did the same with their drinks.

  “To good work and honest companions.”

  Cooper wasn’t sure what to think of that. There wasn’t an honest man in the room, as far as he knew. Maybe not in the whole hotel.

  “To all that stuff,” he said.

  “And more,” said Morty.

  Mr. Babylon stared into his ginger ale for a few seconds.

  “In that vein, Mr. Cooper, I understand that you’ve just been released from, as they say in old movies, the Big House.”

  Coop sipped his bourbon. It was a lot better than the swill at the Grande Old Tyme.

  “State prison, actually. Out east in the desert.”

  “Then you must be used to this heat wave.”

  “Actually, we had very good air-conditioning. Some of the cons were dead and others would melt if it got too hot.”

  Mr. Babylon moved his shoulders in a mock shiver.

  “My, what a colorful world you two live in. All hocus-pocus and will-o’-the-wisps. I myself possess no conjuring abilities at all. I was once given a magic kit as a young man and set the downstairs parlor on fire.”

  “Well, we’ve got plenty of magic to get done any job you need,” said Morty.

  “Just so we understand each other,” said Coop, “I’m like you. I can’t conjure either.”

  Mr. Babylon held up his glass in Coop’s direction.

  “Thank you for admitting that, Mr. Cooper. Of course, I knew it already from having you checked out, but the fact that you came right out and said it makes it easier to trust you.”

  “Making you happy is what we’re here for,” said Morty. Coop gave him a take-it-down-a-notch look.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Babylon. He got very close to Coop and spoke quietly. “Now, if you lack any wizardry, tell me exactly why the fuck I should hire you?”

  Coop thought the word fuck sounded funny coming out of that pale baby face.

  “Because I have something you don’t, Mr. Babylon. Another ability. A rare one,” he said. “I’m immune to magic. Conjury
, enchantments, fascinations, mesmerisms, mind reading, and ladies sawed in half. The whole bit.”

  Mr. Babylon sipped his drink, made a sour face, and set it on a large mahogany desk. He went around it, opened a drawer, and looked inside.

  “Yes. Your report said that, too, though I have trouble believing it. Are you telling me that no curse or spell can harm you?”

  “Not directly,” said Coop. “Of course, there are indirect spells I have to look out for. Like if I broke in here and, say, there was a poison curse on the place, I could walk right through eating an ice cream sundae and be completely safe. On the other hand, if someone put a failsafe on the room—if they rigged it for the ceiling and walls to collapse—then I’d have to use one of my other skills.”

  “What other skills?”

  “I’m a fast runner.”

  Babylon chuckled, took a small golden pistol out of the desk drawer, and pointed it at Coop.

  “What you’re saying then is that if I were to shoot you with this gun, which is imbued with a liquescense curse, it wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You know what a liquescense curse is?”

  Coop nodded.

  “It turns flesh and bones into clam chowder.”

  “Yes. It melts them like ice in the desert sun.”

  Morty put his hands up, palms out.

  “Hey, let’s not get overwrought. You said it yourself, Mr. Babylon, we’re all honest men here.”

  Mr. Babylon cocked his head slightly.

  “Are we? Reports can lie. People’s pasts can be altered by conjuration or payoffs. If we do business, I’m trusting you with my time, my money, and a very valuable object. Possibly even my life. I think I ought to know exactly who and what I’m paying for. Don’t you, Mr. Cooper?”

  Coop straightened. “Shoot me if you want, but it’s going to cost you a thousand dollars.”

  Mr. Babylon raised a baby eyebrow.

  “Is it?”

  Coop nodded.

  “You get one shot at me. If I don’t turn to lobster bisque, you owe me a thousand dollars.”

  “That’s my jacket you’re wearing,” whispered Morty. Coop ignored him.