Killing Pretty

  “It’s the version James Cameron was supposed to direct,” Kasabian says.

  I watch for a few minutes, but I’ve never given much of a damn about poor, pitiful me Peter Parker, so I go upstairs to have a drink with my fritter.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be off playing I Spy with Tamerlan’s flunkies?” says Candy.

  “Not until tomorrow. My job today is to wait.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll know tonight.”

  “What are you doing until then?”

  “Eating this donut and drinking this drink.”

  She closes the laptop and pinches off a piece of her donut between thumb and forefinger. She chews and swallows it.

  “I was thinking of taking a break too. Why don’t you pour me a drink and take off your clothes? We can wait on your whatever together.”

  “Don’t you have work to do?”

  “Why do you think I want your clothes off?”

  She doesn’t have to ask twice.

  AFTER I’M SURE everyone is asleep, I grab my coat, go downstairs, and head out.

  I get halfway through the sales floor when Vincent’s door opens.

  “It’s nearly three,” he says. “Where are you going?”

  “I just have to check on something.”

  “Do you need help? I could come along.”

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Not much these days. At night, I mostly lie in bed trying to remember the way things used to be.”

  “I know the feeling. Look, I’m not going to a nice place. This might be dangerous.”

  He cocks his head.

  “You mean I might die?”

  “Okay, not that. But it’s still dangerous.”

  “I’ll get my coat.”

  His coat is a sweatshirt Kasabian loaned him. It doesn’t matter. This is L.A., where, if the temperature dips below sixty, we call in the National Guard.

  I head out to the car and Vincent follows. When he gets in, he takes out the bottle and pops a pill.

  “You should take it easy on those.”

  He swallows hard, getting the dry pill down his gullet.

  “It doesn’t matter. That was my last one.”

  “You went through that whole bottle?”

  “Yes. Do you think you can get more?”

  “We’ll let the doctor decide that. I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”

  “It would be nice to meet some new ­people.”

  I steer the Crown Vic into the light middle-­of-­the-­night traffic and head east. Vincent looks out the window, watching the city roll by.

  “I didn’t often get to look at places in my work,” he says. “I like it.”

  “Enjoy it while you can. We’ll have you back with a scythe in your hand in no time.”

  “I hate that image. It makes me look like a monster.”

  “If they painted you in pink taffeta with fairy wings, you’d still be a monster to ninety-­nine-­point-­nine percent of the human race.”

  “I know.”

  “The pills make that easy to deal with, don’t they?”

  “I feel the pull of life. The rejection of limbo and nothingness, and that’s what death, unexamined, feels like. Even though I know otherwise, it feels as if my body itself rejected the idea of its end.”

  “Survival instinct. I suppose you immortal types don’t worry about that much. We deal with it every day.”

  “You’re part angel, but you still worry about death?”

  “Not the death part so much as the stuff I’ll leave behind. I lost a lot of years Downtown. I’ve barely started making up the time.”

  “And your friends?”

  “What about them?”

  “You’re afraid of leaving them behind.”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “We’re friends now. I’ll make sure their transmogrification is an easy one.”

  We’re almost to Elysian Park. I look at Vincent.

  “Thanks . . . I guess.”

  “You don’t want them to die at all.”

  “No one wants ­people they care about to die.”

  Vincent stares out the window and starts to hum. It takes me a minute to get the song. “Chim Chim Cher-­ee” from Mary Poppins. I imagine him in his room, humming all the songs from all the movies he’s watched with Kasabian.

  “Things were easy before, less frightening when you came back from Hell and knew you could go back when you wanted, weren’t they?”

  “A lot easier.”

  “We’re the same, then. I can’t go home and neither can you.”

  I never thought of Hell as home before, but in a twisted way he might be right. It’s the place I always think of running to when things get bad here. Maybe home isn’t the place you love, just the place you know best.

  I say, “Maybe tonight will change that. Maybe I’ll be able to walk to Hell and back again, and if that happens, maybe you can too.”

  Vincent settles back into his seat.

  “Going home won’t make me me again.”

  “One step at a time, man.”

  I stop under the 5 Freeway near Lupe’s and get out with my na’at in my hand. If things go sideways I don’t want to attract any cops with gunfire.

  Vincent follows me out of the car, looks around.

  “What are we afraid of?”

  “Lions, and tigers, and bears. And shitheads who want our cash.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “If you explain that to them, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  When I’m sure there’s no one on the street, I grab Vincent’s sleeve and pull him behind me into Piss Alley. I see his face change when the smell hits him.

  “Oh my,” he says.

  “Not so great having senses now, is it?”

  “Why are we here?”

  “To see if I’m getting wings. Stand over there,” I tell him.

  He goes to where I’m pointing, a trash can well away from the Duesenberg. I extend the na’at to the length of a sword and twist the grip to shape it into a blade. Holding the na’at up, ready to gut anything waiting for me in the car, I use one hand to twist the wires holding the trunk closed.

  It pops opens and nothing attacks me. A few rats scatter down through the exposed undercarriage, but they mostly head off in the direction of Lupe’s to party in the Dumpster out back.

  I lean to the side to let street light fall into the trunk. A small brown bottle glitters in the middle of all the garbage in the trunk. I pocket the bottle and wire the trunk closed again. Vincent follows me back out to the street. I collapse the na’at and put it in my coat.

  “What is it?” he says.

  “A bottle. There’s a note attached.”

  Paper dangles from a red ribbon around the bottle’s neck. In florid script, the note says Drink me. I hold it up to the light to make sure I’m reading it right.

  “They think I’m goddamn Alice in Wonderland.”

  “Who?” says Vincent.

  “Them. Whoever runs Piss Alley. The bottle wants me to drink it.”

  “Is that all?”

  I turn the paper over. There’s more writing on the back.

  Sidestep for one week.

  Vincent moves around, trying to stay clear of rats and bugs.

  “What does it say?”

  “It wants to me to dance a jig. Or something. I don’t know what the hell this is.”

  “Drink it and find out.”

  I look at him.

  “You know how to drive?”

  “No,” he says.

  “Too bad. If this kills me, you’re shit out of luck. Cabs don’t come here.”

&nbs
p; “Then good luck.”

  I hold the bottle up to the light. There’s nothing special about it.

  “Fuck it.”

  I take out the cork and upend the bottle, swallowing the slimy stuff in one go.

  It doesn’t really taste that bad. Sort of like cherry cough syrup with a whiskey bite. I put the bottle back in my pocket and wait. Nothing happens. A minute later, nothing is still happening.

  “Did you do it wrong?” says Vincent.

  “It said ‘drink me.’ How can you fuck that up? Maybe the stuff went bad sitting in the trunk. I should have come earlier.”

  “Maybe you should have,” says a man holding a gun to Vincent’s head.

  I was so wrapped up in my Alice in Wonderland bottle that I didn’t hear the crackhead creeping up on us. I’m going to be very embarrassed if I get shot because I was waiting for the Queen of Hearts’ tarts.

  “Don’t look at me,” says the creep.

  Vincent’s eyes are wide.

  “Be cool, Vincent. This will be over soon.”

  I shouldn’t have put the na’at away. The fucker has his finger on the trigger of a snub-­nose .357 pressed behind Vincent’s left ear. I’m fast, but I’m not fast enough to stop the gun from firing. The extra good news is that while I still have a lot of the $500 Julie paid me, it’s back at Max Overdrive on the bedroom dresser.

  “You, talker, give me your cash,” says Mr. 357.

  “I don’t have any.”

  I hold up the keys to the Crown Vic.

  “Want a car?”

  The crackhead shifts his stance nervously, pressing the gun hard enough into Vincent’s skull he might be tunneling for gold.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” he says. “Give me the money.”

  I speak slowly, like I’m trying to explain differential equations to a Chihuahua.

  “I’d like to, but I don’t have any.”

  Mr. 357 keeps hold of Vincent, but points the gun at me.

  “Last chance, cocksucker,” he says.

  “Really, man, I want to help.”

  I measure the distance between us. It’s too far to grab him before he fires.

  “Fuck it,” he says in a tone that I recognize.

  As the gun goes off, Vincent screams and I jump to the right, hoping to slip past the bullet.

  And I come down in a hurricane. Grit stings my eyes. I put up an arm to keep the wind from blinding me. Overhead, the sky swirls like oil in black water. Things blow by around my ankles. Trash it looks like, but trash that’s alive. The street is still the street, but time seems to be moving very slowly or I’m moving very fast. The slug from the .357 emerges from the barrel like a snail out for an evening stroll. Things boom in the distance. L.A. disappears. Crumbles to the ground. Things like swarms of insects land on the rubble and build the city again. Then it falls apart. And is rebuilt. Ants up the block use the living garbage to assemble other things. Horses. Rivers. Air.

  This is it. The note really meant to take a sidestep, right out of reality and into the machinery that keeps the show running. This is the world, just from a different vantage point. Behind the scenes, where you aren’t supposed to peek.

  I lean into the wind, struggle a few steps until I’m behind Vincent. I get out the na’at, and this time I take a step to the left. The wind lets up. The sound of the gun going off deafens me. I swing the na’at like a cosh at Mr. 357’s head. His skull makes a satisfying cracking sound and he falls like a hippo with the bends.

  Vincent whirls around and looks at me.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Into the wings. Did you miss me?”

  I push Vincent to the car and kick the crackhead’s pistol into Piss Alley. Let’s see if he or the cops have the balls to go in and pick it up. My guess is no.

  Jamming the key in the ignition, I start the Crown Vic and head back through Echo Park. Somewhere in the distance, I can hear sirens. When the crackhead tells the cops about the guy who disappeared right before his eyes, they’re as likely to 5150 him as arrest him. Maybe vacationing for a few days in the loony bin will do him some good. The food can’t be worse than any other lockup and I bet the beds are better than jail. Hell, if the county throws us out of Max Overdrive, maybe I can get us all locked up together. It ain’t the Chateau Marmont, but it’s better than trying to live in the car.

  And it will have a/c.

  I DROP VINCENT back at Max Overdrive and head for Tamerlan Radescu’s place. I need to get as much done tonight as I can, before I turn into a bump on a log tomorrow.

  The address on the slip Brigitte gave Julie was on Elrita Drive, near Mulholland. Of course Tamerlan lives in Laurel Canyon. Where else would the prick be?

  I head down the winding roads through the hills, past gated palaces with circular drives and fences out back to keep the coyotes from eating the pets. Dump the car on Laurel Canyon Boulevard and go the rest of the way on foot.

  The driveway is so long that I can’t see Tamerlan’s house from the road. I’d hop the Spanish tile fence out front, but there will be surveillance and alarms, and maybe even armed security. Instead, I hide in a shadow and take one step to the right.

  The hurricane hits me again and I’m backstage. The sky is a whirlpool of glistening oil. The living garbage blows by. Some piles at my feet, tossed by the wind to land on my ankles. They touch me, run their smashed and crumpled bodies up my legs, trying to figure out what I am. Insects destroy and reconstruct the mansion as I watch. The fence disintegrates and I step past it before the insects have a chance to rebuild it.

  It’s a long, stumbling walk up the drive. Each step feels like falling, a nauseating sensation. The hurricane blows down the hill, harder than it did on the flatlands. Off to my left lies L.A. Despite the storm, the backstage view of the city is bright and clear and beautiful. Between gusts, I can see all the way to the ocean. Between whitecaps, the water too dries up and is rebuilt by the insects.

  Then the house comes into view. It’s a white Italian villa hugging a stone hillside. There are marble lions flanking the entrance. The villa seems more substantial than the fence, more solid than much of what I’ve seen tonight. The walls are translucent, but they stay in place and don’t crumble like so much of the architecture I’ve been seeing. I touch the front door. It stretches like a thin latex membrane. Pressing my face to the thin skin, I push. The wall membrane stretches, and curls, enveloping me. In a few seconds, it peels open and I’m through.

  A step to the left, and the wind stops. The world goes back to normal.

  I’m in the foyer. A checkered marble floor. Grand piano. Flashy paintings as memorable as motel art on the walls, but probably costing more than a black-­market kidney. A staircase to my left. The kitchen to my right.

  I stay put, listening for anything that means ­people are awake.

  From upstairs comes laughter. Several ­people. Men’s voices. I take out the Colt and head up the steps.

  A few doors down the second floor is a large room. A desk and laptop to one side. Pricey chairs and sofa around a carved coffee table in the center of the room. Tamerlan sits on a leather recliner at one end of the group, his men scattered on the sofa and chairs. Six of them. I put the Colt away. If I could shadow-­walk, I could come through the dark patches on the walls and floor and take the men out. But I can’t figure out how sidestepping will help me do that. So, I go with a different, much dumber strategy. I put the Colt back under my coat and walk into the room unarmed.

  Tamerlan sees me first. He holds up a forefinger like he was expecting me.

  “That’s close enough,” he says.

  His men turn in my direction, then scramble to pull out guns. They’re clearly Sub Rosa and able to throw hoodoo. The fact they went for their guns means they might use the same trick I do: dipping their bullets in Spiritus Dei, a rare and expensive potion
that when coated on a bullet will kill fucking anything. I’m not about to put up my hands for these pricks, but I hold them out at waist level so they can see I’m unarmed.

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Tamerlan nods. The room is full of smoke. Foreign cigars the size of brown burritos sit in crystal ashtrays. Tamerlan still holds his.

  “Everyone knows who you are.”

  “You don’t seem surprised to see me.”

  Tamerlan shrugs. He’s wearing a dark red tracksuit with brown loafers and white socks. It’s a strange look. Part CEO of a software start-­up and part Russian gangster, but his voice doesn’t sound like either. More like an East River tugboat captain than a crooked Dr. Moriarty.

  “I knew someone was going to show up, though not you in particular. Why’ve you been you harassing my business partners?”

  “Partners? They hate your guts.”

  ­“People don’t need to be best buddies to do business.”

  “No, but it makes for better New Year’s parties.”

  “You missed the holidays. But Valentine’s Day is coming soon. I’ll buy you one of those boxes of chocolates shaped like a heart before I have my men kill you.”

  “Speaking of hearts, I want to talk to you about the guy whose heart you had cut out.”

  He puffs his cigar, blows smoke. It hangs blue over his head.

  “How did you get in here?” he says.

  “I walked through the wall.”

  “Yeah. I heard you could do shit like that, but I wasn’t sure I believed it.”

  He turns to his men.

  “Shoot this asshole.”

  Before he actually gets near the word asshole, I’ve dropped to my knees, pressed my hands to the dark wood floor. A shot tears out a piece of the doorframe over my head as I shout Hellion hoodoo. The rest of the shots go up into the ceiling as Tamerlan’s men fall where I made the floor disappear. I shout more hoodoo and the floor reappears. Tamerlan sits up straight in his chair. His is the only part of the floor I left untouched. He puts down his cigar, tries to play it cool and not show shock, but the microtremors in his hands give him away. I close the door and speak a little more hoodoo. The door and windows fade away and are replaced by a smooth surface of walls. Tamerlan looks around at his redecorated room.