Killing Pretty

  “That guy over there,” he whispers like no one else can hear.

  I take a step toward the kid.

  “I know. They cut his heart out. You were one of the assholes partying here that night, weren’t you? Did you see what happened?”

  He nods.

  “Part of it.”

  “Want to elaborate?”

  “Mostly it was over. They took his heart and put it in some kind of jar with a bunch of writing on it, then stuck the knife back in his chest. After that, they took the other guy and left.”

  “What other guy?” says Julie.

  The kid stares at her, then Vincent.

  I come up behind him and drape an arm over his shoulder.

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Varg.”

  “Sure it is. Varg, that lady is my boss. If you don’t answer her, I’ll be obligated to stir-­fry your balls for her pet piranhas.”

  Varg looks over at where he dropped his joint. He’s either regretting being high or wishing he was a lot higher. He moves his head in two jerking nods.

  “Okay.”

  He points at Vincent.

  “But keep him away from me.”

  I wave Vincent off. “Why don’t you grab some wall?”

  He goes to the back of the room and stands in the corner watching us.

  “Time to answer the lady, Varg. What other guy did you see?”

  “The other stiff. They wrapped him up with the heart and took him away. They were a lot nicer to him than to that guy,” he says, nodding his chin at Vincent.

  “What did the other ­people look like?” says Julie.

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t see too good. They had some flashlights is all. I didn’t get a look at their faces. Except for the chick.”

  “What chick?” says Candy. “What did she look like?”

  “She was hot. Like you,” he says, trying to be charming.

  Candy raises her eyebrows. “What did you fucking say?”

  Varg squirms. I tighten my arm across his shoulder.

  “Sorry,” he says. “But, I mean, she really was hot. A blonde. Pretty like a model.”

  “Wow. It’s like she’s here with us right now,” says Candy. “What else did she look like?”

  “I don’t know. One of the dudes called her Sigrun.”

  “That’s a funny name,” I say. “Are you sure you heard it right?”

  “I thought it was funny too. But the dude said it again. Sigrun.”

  “Tell us about the other body,” says Julie. “They killed two ­people that night?”

  Varg shrugs.

  “I don’t know. But they both looked dead to me.”

  He whispers to me as he stares at Vincent. “How’s he walking around?”

  “Well, Varg, that’s the Angel of Death. Want to meet him?”

  “No way.”

  “Smart boy.”

  “Which way did they go when they left?” says Candy.

  He points outside opposite of the way we came.

  I say, “Was one of the men here that night dressed like a used car salesman?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, flashy. Not normal flashy like in a magazine. Old flashy like you’d see on Starsky & Hutch.”

  “Yeah, I know them. But no. I didn’t see anyone like that. They were all wearing robes or some shit. I couldn’t see anyone’s regular clothes.”

  “You took the knife from his chest,” says Julie, pointing to Vincent. “Why?”

  “Did you see it? It was cool.”

  “And it came out of a real live dead guy, right? Your friends would love that.”

  Varg nods.

  “None of those pussies would touch it. But I did.”

  “Thanks, Varg,” I say. “If you hadn’t done that, Vincent over there might not have woken up.”

  “I thought you said he was the Angel of Death.”

  “He is.”

  “The Angel of Death’s name is Vincent?”

  “Your name sounds like a dog fart, Varg, so don’t get pushy.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Anyone have any other questions for Lemmy?”

  Candy comes over.

  “Let me see your driver’s license.”

  Varg gets out his wallet and gives her the license.

  She photographs it, then reads it over.

  “Now we know your real name, Danny, and where you live. Don’t tell anyone you talked to us and don’t try to run away or we’ll send Vincent after you.”

  I feel Varg tense.

  “I won’t. Can I have my license back?”

  Candy hands it to him.

  Varg puts his wallet away. He looks at me.

  “You know what this place is, right?”

  “Yeah. Hitler’s bachelor pad. What of it?”

  “Well, some of the ­people, including Sigrun, they were speaking German.”

  “Too bad. I don’t suppose you’re bilingual, Varg.”

  “Yeah. I am. My grandma’s from Düsseldorf. That’s why I remember what they said.”

  Julie comes over.

  “What did they say?”

  “When they were wrapping the one guy up, the one they liked, one of them said, ‘Get wormwood’ or ‘Get the wormwood.’ I figured they were going to go and get high.”

  I’m guessing pretty much everything means getting high to Varg. I’m surprised he remembered as much as he did. If I let Vincent loose on him, I bet he’d remember all the state capitals and the names of Santa’s reindeers, but Julie would never let me do that.

  “We done here?” I say to Julie.

  “Yes. Let him go,” she says.

  I take my arm from Varg’s shoulder.

  “You’re free to go. We’re releasing you back into the wild.”

  “For real?”

  “Scoot, Varg.”

  He hesitates.

  “Can I have my weed back?”

  The joint is still lying where he dropped it.

  “Sure.”

  Varg runs over, scoops the joint into his pocket, heads for the entrance. He stops and points back at Vincent.

  “That guy’s a freak, man.”

  “It’s not smart to be mean to Death. He has a long memory.”

  “That asshole’s not Death,” says Varg. “The other guy is. That’s what the blond chick said. Er ist der Todeskönig. ‘He is the death king.’ ”

  I turn to him.

  “Why didn’t you mention that before?”

  “ ’Cause fuck you, that’s why,” says Varg. He holds up his hands, flipping us double birds, and runs off into the trees.

  Candy starts after him.

  “Let him go,” says Julie. “We’re not going to get anything more out of a frightened stoner right now. Besides, we can find him if we need more later.”

  Vincent is by the entrance, staring in the direction where Varg ran. He goes down the stairs and follows the kid’s trail. We follow him a few yards past more buildings. Beyond a stand of thirsty trees is a set of steep concrete stairs going a ­couple of hundred feet, all the way up the canyon wall. Varg is already a quarter of the way up.

  “That’s the way I left,” says Vincent. “I remember climbing and climbing.”

  I look at him. Vincent isn’t a big guy. I try to imagine anyone climbing all those steps with a hole the size of a shotgun blast in their chest. I couldn’t do it. But this scrawny bastard did. And fucked up as he was, he tracked me down all the way in Hollywood. Vincent has more brains and bigger balls than I imagined. Damn. Now I actually want to help the prick. But it’s nice that I’m being paid to do it.

  I wave a bee away from my face. Goddamn nature. All it wants to do is hitch a rid
e, kill you, or sting you. Sometimes all at once.

  “Are we done here?” I say to Julie. “I need a drink and a tick bath.”

  “Yes. We’re done.”

  She keeps looking at Varg and the stairs. I start back the way we came.

  “If you want to go after him, be my guest, but I’m not climbing that. Fire me if you want, but I’m going this way and cranking the air conditioner in the Crown Vic all the way to Ice Age.”

  Julie nods.

  “Let’s head back,” she says, coming after me.

  As we walk, she turns to me.

  “Good job back there, Stark. You were menacing, but didn’t try to shoot anyone. A big step up for you.”

  “Thanks. I’m happy to just be part of the team.”

  “That’s why it pains me to tell you.”

  “What?”

  “The air-­conditioning in the Crown Vic doesn’t work.”

  I really hate this job.

  CANDY AND I go to Bamboo House for a few drinks after work and have a ­couple of more at home. Kasabian is binge-­watching Mulholland Drive, transfixed by Naomi Watts’s cheekbones. Vincent went to his room after we got back from Murphy Ranch and I haven’t seen him since. My guess is he popped a ­couple of pills and passed out. Can’t say I blame him. Still, I might have to steal the pill bottle from him sometime when he’s not looking.

  I fall asleep early, still bruised and battered by my encounter with trees and grass. Now I remember why I don’t like to leave Hollywood. The closest thing to nature we have here are the tofu joints out past La Brea Avenue, and I can get over the trauma of seeing them with a plate of carnitas and frijoles.

  In my dreams, I’m back at Murphy Ranch lying, like Vincent, in the bloody center of the circle. When Mason Faim sent me to Hell, it was through a magic circle. I use them all the time when I’m doing high-­level hoodoo.

  My life is full of circles. For all the batshit craziness of my first trip back from Hell—­the Drifters, ghosts, ghouls, cops, Hellions, and gods—­it was really about finally getting clear of Mason. Now Mason is dead for good, a sacrifice to a mob of angry old deities. Maybe I’m starting a new circle. If this is the beginning, I’m not sure I want to see where it ends.

  I used to dream about being back in the arena in Hell. Now I dream about being stuck in traffic in the Crown Vic, my new Hell on Earth. Even when I was a Hellion slave, I never felt as trapped as I do now that I’ve lost the Room of Thirteen Doors. I keep trying to find angles. Ways to get it back. Ways to convince myself that it’s okay to open it and go inside. That another universe won’t rush out to devour this one, and that the old gods, the Angra Om Ya, are dead and gone forever. But I know it’s not going to happen. I can’t ever open the door again. The Room is gone for good. But I can’t live without it. I can’t stay planted on the ground like a goddamn beet farmer, shuffling my way through the dirt and mud forever. There has to be an angle I haven’t figured out yet. Something I can steal or buy or trade for what will let me shadow-­walk again. The price will be high, but I’ll pay it. I need to know I can walk the universe again and that, in the end, there’s one safe refuge that’s mine and mine alone. Even Candy would be safe and she could wear her own face again. But I don’t even know where to begin looking. Well, I do. But I don’t want to go there. There are parts of L.A. stained enough with blood, bile, and misery that even I don’t want to deal with them.

  Just keep cool. See where you land. If you work shit out for Vincent, he’s going to owe you. Death can go anywhere at any time he wants. Maybe he knows a trick or two he can pass on, right?

  No. That’s not the kind of luck I have.

  I dream about the White Light Legion and a blond Valkyrie ripping my heart out. It almost means something and I can almost see Sigrun’s face. They put my heart in a jar and carry it home. Is it a trophy? An offering? Or just Rover’s dinner?

  My chest hurts. I’m sweating. I’m back on Wonderland Avenue. Every door to every home is open. Blood trails smear across the welcome mats and driveways, down the street, and into the dark. I see the brand on Vincent’s arm and his knife in my chest. I want to choke Tamerlan until all this madness makes sense. I want the Room, but never to have gone to Hell. It’s mostly childish noise, I know, but pieces of it are worthwhile. If I get one or two more, maybe things will start falling into place.

  I wake up and get out of bed. In the kitchen I start to pour myself a drink. Instead, I go and wash the sweat off my face and sit on the couch. Someone left the Blu-­ray player on pause. I hit the play button and Nightbreed starts playing. It’s a strangely comforting movie. Monsters living with monsters in a world built just for monsters. Of course, civilians eventually come along and fuck it all up, the way they fuck everything up. I watch for a few minutes, until the cops head out to hammer Jesus and good clean American living into the monsters. Then it gets depressing, so I turn it off. I go to the window and smoke a cigarette. I wish I hadn’t given Vincent’s knife to Julie. I’d like to see it and feel it in my hand. Now that I’ve seen where it was used, maybe it would mean more.

  I finish the cigarette and go back to bed.

  Things are going to get weirder and worse before they get better. I can feel it. Goddamn skinheads are bad enough, but smart skinheads mixed up with hoodoo? That’s bad news.

  I go back to bed. Candy rolls over and drapes her arm over me, only it’s not her arm. It’s Chihiro’s arm. Things can’t stay like this. Things have got to change.

  WHEN I GO downstairs in the morning, I have a headache. Vincent’s door is closed, but Kasabian’s is open. However, the store is closed and there’s nothing playing on the big screen. I go to Kasabian’s door and knock. He looks up at me, holding a piece of paper in his metal mitts.

  I say, “You have some aspirin? I can’t find any upstairs.”

  He shakes his head.

  “No. What I have is this.”

  He hands me the paper. It’s on L.A. County Court letterhead. It reads, Dear Mr. Kasabian, As you may be aware, L.A. County has conducted several studies that will eventually lead to an extension of the 101 Freeway to serve the region and assist our county with economic development. The site portion of the study has recently been concluded, and this letter is to notify you that your property may have to be purchased for the freeway extension.

  The rest of it is all a lot of property parcel codes and legal noise. I hand the note back to Kasabian.

  “What does that mean?”

  He drops the letter on his bed.

  “It’s called eminent domain. It means that the county can come in and take Max Overdrive and there’s not a goddamn thing we can do about it.”

  “How is that even legal?”

  He shrugs.

  “It’s the government. They’ve got more money and lawyers than regular ­people, so they can do pretty much anything they want.”

  “It doesn’t even make sense. The 101 is like a mile down the road. To bring it out here, they’d have to knock down half of Hollywood.”

  “Someone’s got a theory,” he says.

  Candy comes downstairs.

  “What’s going on? What’s all the whispering?”

  “Remember when we got tossed out of Chateau Marmont?” says Kasabian. “Well, it’s going to happen again.”

  Candy looks at me.

  “What’s he talking about?”

  “We got a letter, and according to Atticus Finch here, it means that the county can come in and take Max Overdrive out from under us.”

  “What? What about the store? Where are we going to live?”

  Kasabian picks up the letter again, stares at it. I try to read it over his shoulder, but it still doesn’t make much sense to me.

  “Can’t we get a lawyer and fight it?” I say. “This is bullshit.”

  Kasabian laughs.

  “Lo
ok around the room. We’re three dead ­people in a store full of movies that doesn’t exist. Plus, we’re broke. What lawyer is going to work for us?”

  “Maybe a Sub Rosa one,” says Candy.

  “As I recall, the Sub Rosa like to eat, just like regular ­people,” Kasabian says. “We don’t have the money to pay a civilian, a Sub Rosa, a Lurker, or your aunt Sadie.”

  I reach over and take the letter out of his hands.

  “I know what this is. It’s the fucking White Lights. They’ve been around long enough they probably have all kinds of connections to crooked county pricks and lawyers. If they can’t kill us, they’re going to ruin us.”

  Candy says, “Let’s show the letter to Julie. She’ll know what to do.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” says Kasabian.

  “How am I wrong?”

  “You talked to the Augur, right? Told him you didn’t want to work for him.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “What if you pissed him off and this is his way of getting back at you.”

  That little rat bastard. I hadn’t thought of that.

  “It doesn’t matter. We still have to show the letter to Julie. We can worry about who sent it later.”

  I give Candy the letter.

  “I don’t want to leave,” she says. “The only other home I had around here was Doc Kinski’s clinic, and they burned that down. Now someone wants to burn us out of here.”

  Kasabian looks past us at the storage room.

  “Too bad we can’t let Vincent loose on these ­people. We have the Angel of Death in our pocket and we can’t even keep the doors open.”

  “No one is going anywhere,” I say. “First, we show the letter to Julie and see what she has to say. After that, I’m going to clean my guns.”

  “Can’t you just talk to the Augur and apologize?” says Kasabian.

  “We don’t even know it’s him. And if it is, caving without a fight doesn’t give us anything to bargain with.”

  “I’m getting dressed. You get dressed too. We’re going to the office,” says Candy, tapping me on the shoulder with the letter.

  “Yeah. We can hear what Brigitte found out too.”

  Vincent opens his door and comes out.

  “Good morning. Is there something wrong? You all sound tense.”