Killing Pretty

  “But they still represent some regular acts too,” she says.

  “Probably to keep up appearances. No one wants to be pigeonholed in this town.”

  “Get this. They make a lot of money selling wild-­blue-­yonder contracts.”

  “Of course. Every star needs one.”

  “No. They sell to civilians. It’s almost as big as their ghost business. Isn’t that a little weird?”

  She’s right. I puff the Malediction. A guy walking by with a yoga mat under his arm makes a face when he passes through a cloud of my fumes.

  “Excuse you,” he says.

  I wave to him.

  “Have a blessed day.”

  “There’s something I don’t understand,” says Candy.

  “Why does a talent agency brand its clients?”

  “Exactly. That doesn’t sound like a business–client relationship. That’s more like . . .” She searches for the right word. “Ownership.”

  “Maybe they owned Eric Townsend. I want to know why a talent agency is doing business with the White Light Legion.”

  Candy stares at her phone. She’s still mad, but at least she’s talking.

  “We don’t know that they are,” she says. “It could just be the one guy.”

  “I wonder if that one guy lived with the other zoo animals in Laurel Canyon?”

  “Julie might know. I’ll e-­mail her.”

  “Send her my love.”

  “See me typing? That means I’m ignoring you.”

  I drop the rest of the Malediction out the window, look around for somewhere to get coffee. If I can’t have Aqua Regia, maybe caffeine will help me get my brain around all that’s happened in the last few days.

  I say, “What do we have? Someone killed Eric Townsend and dragged him and another stiff out to a Nazi condo in the woods.”

  Candy sets down her phone.

  “One that’s not easy to get to. That would be a hard hike carrying two corpses.”

  “Right. The White Lights performed a ritual to bind Death to one of the bodies, dumped it, and then went to all the trouble of hauling the first body out of there.”

  “Why leave a body behind when you just bound an angel inside?” she says.

  “Maybe those kids partying spooked them. Remember, Death was locked in a rotting corpse. He wasn’t going anywhere until Varg took the knife out of his chest. What I want to know is why the White Lights were so in love with one body that they dragged it to the ranch, then humped it all the way back out again.”

  “And assuming it was magicians from the Silver Legion that did the ritual,” says Candy, “why talk about Wormwood? What does Tamerlan’s bank have to do with Death?”

  “I’d like to see that other body. I bet it had an ECG brand on it too.”

  “There’s a lot more we don’t know. Who is Sigrun?”

  “And who or what is the new Death?”

  “I’ve been looking for actors, singers—­anyone in L.A. involved in show business named Sigrun. I haven’t found anything.”

  I point at the ECG building.

  “I’ll bet you a dozen donuts she has a blue-­yonder contract with those creeps.”

  “Or she could work there. Or just be a freelancer they brought in for the job, which will make it harder to track her down.”

  A seagull circles overhead and shits on the Crown Vic’s hood. The bird was probably aiming for me and missed.

  “It’s no fun going over things if you aren’t going to jump to conclusions with me.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid doing,” Candy says.

  I look at her.

  “I haven’t seen you so latched on to something since Doc Kinski died.”

  She flips through screens on her phone, looks up at me.

  “I’m liking this private-­eye thing. I like learning things and doing smart work.”

  “So, does that makes the work we did before dumb stuff?”

  “That’s not what I mean. I liked kicking in doors and punching bad guys with you. But sometimes I missed working with Doc. I learned things working at the clinic with Allegra, but it wasn’t the same. Now there’s this new thing and I think I could get pretty good at it. What do you think?”

  “I think you can do whatever you set your mind to.”

  “But do you think I’m wasting my time with Julie?”

  “You’re doing a lot better than I am. And if brainwork is what you want, I think you can handle anything she throws at you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles.

  “Now let’s see if you can get me out of the doghouse with her.”

  “I’m not sure anyone’s that smart.”

  She holds up her phone and takes a photo.

  “What are you shooting?”

  “I’m Instagramming the seagull shit.”

  “Good idea. It could be a Nazi seagull.”

  “Please. Seagulls are anarchists,” Candy says. “They don’t play by anybody’s rules but their own.”

  I open my mouth to argue with her, but what comes out is, “Oh shit.”

  She turns where I’m looking.

  “What is it?”

  “Lock the back door on the passenger side. I’ll be back in a second.”

  I get out and walk as fast as I can without attracting attention.

  Outside the ECG office, David Moore is having a friendly chat with his phone. I wait until he’s facing away, come up behind him, and put the black blade to his back.

  “Hang up,” I whisper. “Tell them you’ll call back later.”

  Without missing a beat he says, “Babe, I’ve got to call you back. Something’s come up.”

  I turn off the phone for him and put it in his pocket.

  “Let’s take a ride.”

  “Why can’t we talk here? I won’t run away.”

  “I don’t like the sun. My scars don’t tan. I end up with freaky white railroad tracks all over my face.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Back here for now. Later, who knows?”

  I walk him to the Crown Vic. Candy leans over the seats and opens the rear passenger-­side door. I shove Moore inside and get in next to him.

  He looks at Candy in her big black shades, black lipstick, and pink hair.

  “This is Chihiro,” I say. “She has a gun and a phone, so it’s fifty-­fifty whether she’ll shoot you or Instagram you.”

  “I told you, I’m not going to run.”

  “You got that right,” she says.

  She crooks her finger at me.

  “Can we talk a minute?”

  I keep the knife against Moore’s ribs and lean up where I can talk to Candy.

  She whispers, “This is kidnapping, exactly the kind of thing Julie doesn’t want us doing.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Maybe you should leave that part out of your report.”

  “This once, but we seriously need to work on your bedside manner.”

  “Good plan. But I already have Moore, so let’s see what we can get out him.”

  “Fine.”

  I swivel around so I’m facing Moore again. He’s pressed up against the door, as far from me as he can get.

  I say, “You wanted to sell me a wild-­blue-­yonder contract a few days ago. Actually, you lied to me—­said you were with the L.A. Times—­then you tried to sell me a contract.”

  “So? I embellished a little. Welcome to show business.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “I told you before, the agency wants A-­listers. You’d fit right into our Smoking Gun department.”

  “What’s a Smoking Gun department?”

  “I think he means crooks,” says Candy.

  “Is that what you
mean? Who else do you have in there?”

  “Client names and affiliations are confidential.”

  “But basically you want me to do a dog and pony show with Johnny Stompanato for some rich idiot’s sweet sixteen party?”

  Moore frowns.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “What else do you do for ECG?”

  “I just look for clients.”

  “For wild-­blue-­yonder contracts.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have a lot.”

  “Not as many as you might think. We have high standards. Only the right backgrounds get an offer.”

  “What’s the right background?”

  “That’s also confidential.”

  “Show me your left arm.”

  I grab his arm and pull it straight so Candy can hold him by the wrist.

  He wiggles and pulls, but she’s got him tight.

  “Don’t hurt me,” he says.

  I hold up the knife.

  “It’ll only hurt if you move.”

  Digging the knife into a seam, I slit the sleeve of his jacket and shirt all the way up to his shoulder. Up near his armpit is a brand in the shape of the ECG logo.

  “What does the brand mean?” I say.

  “That’s confidential.”

  “You’re talking to a bored man with a knife. What will I cut next?”

  Moore looks from me to Candy. She shrugs.

  “Don’t look at me. There’s no reasoning when he gets this way.”

  I say, “Let me get things rolling. I bet you have a blue-­yonder contract. Is that what the tattoo means?”

  He nods.

  “Why mark ­people?” says Candy. “Is it to scare off other agencies?”

  “Partly,” Moore says. “But it’s to let paramedics and morticians know, anyone who might work with dead bodies, about the contract.”

  “A blue yonder is about the spirit,” I say. “Why does the body matter?”

  “Each brand is a little different.”

  “Like a serial number,” says Candy.

  “Yeah. They use it to confirm you’re dead so the necromancers can collect your soul.”

  I tap his leg with the knife, thinking.

  “How long does a contract last?”

  “Indefinitely,” he says.

  “So, basically ECG owns you forever. Who told you to come to me?”

  “No one. I’m a salesman. Getting you to sign would have been a big deal for my career.”

  I look at his eyes, trying to read him, but he’s too scared for me to get anything useful.

  “You know you’re talking to someone with a history of erratic behavior, right? And I’m holding a knife.”

  He looks at the ceiling for a minute. Candy lets go of his arm and he snatches it back.

  “It was my boss,” he says.

  “Who’s your boss?”

  “Mr. Burgess.”

  “And who told him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Someone from the White Light Legion? Wormwood?”

  “How do you know about Wormwood?”

  With all the conviction of a good liar, Candy says, “We know all about Wormwood. They own your agency.”

  Moore narrows his eyes, but his face relaxes a little.

  “No, they don’t. The Burgess family owns it. You don’t know anything about Wormwood, do you?”

  I prod him with the knife.

  “Why don’t you enlighten us?”

  Candy’s phone rings.

  In the split second she and I look at the phone, Moore pulls the door handle and stumbles out onto Wilshire. He sprints across the street, dodging traffic like a goddamn ballet dancer. He almost makes it to the other side when a van pulls out of a parking space down the block, peels rubber, and mows him down. I get out of the car, ready to go after it.

  Candy tackles me and pulls me out of the street just as a blue Honda Civic sideswipes the Crown Vic and takes off. I don’t have to run after it this time. I recognize the car from the other night when it shot up the front of Max Overdrive. That means the van that took out Moore was another White Light vehicle.

  “Where’d he go?” says Candy.

  I look up and down the street. There’s no evidence left of Moore’s collision but some skid marks and blood.

  “They must have grabbed his body. Let’s get out of here.”

  We jump in the car. It starts and drives just fine. All the damage the Civic did to it was cosmetic.

  “Why are we running?” says Candy. “Somebody back there must have gotten our license plate. The cops will find us at home. Or find Julie.”

  “Not necessarily,” I say. “After the other night, when the White Lights got our number, I switched plates.”

  “With who?”

  “A Porsche by Bamboo House. I took them while the owner was inside drinking mai tais.”

  “So, besides kidnapping, we’ve been riding around in a car with stolen plates.”

  “Yeah. Are going to rat me out?”

  “Are you kidding? If I told Julie this shit, she wouldn’t fire us. She’d have us arrested.”

  “Was she the one who called?”

  Candy looks at her phone.

  “Yes. I’ll call her back when we get home.”

  “That’ll give us time to get our stories straight.”

  “You’re going to change the plates back to the real ones. And throw the damned Porsche plates away.”

  “What are we going to tell Julie about the car?”

  Candy thinks a minute.

  “We didn’t see it happen. We went for chicken and waffles, and when we came out, we found it this way.”

  “That’s good. I’d buy that.”

  No one talks for a while, then Candy says, “I don’t want to have to lie for you again.”

  “You won’t. And thanks for saving me back there.”

  “I had to. You still owe me brass knuckles.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “You better be.”

  “You’ve got to admit, though. The thing with the cars. That was a rush back there.”

  “Yeah, it was,” she says. “Poor stupid Moore.”

  “Poor? An ECG employee is going to get priority treatment. They’re probably processing his blue yonder right now. He’s going to be fine.”

  “I wonder what he’ll end up doing?”

  “Probably babysitting his Smoking Gun goons. Once a company man . . .”

  “Always a company man.”

  WHEN WE GET back to Max Overdrive, Kasabian and Vincent are sitting on the step by the front door. Kasabian is eating a donut and Vincent is sniffing the bag like a starving dog.

  I park and we go over.

  “Knock it off,” I tell Vincent. “You look like my grandma huffing paint.”

  “Sorry,” he says, and sets the bag on the step. “It just smells nice.”

  “What’s going on?” says Candy.

  Kasabian hooks a thumb over his shoulder. There’s a piece of paper glued to the door and chains on the lock. Candy shades her eyes so she can read the notice.

  “It’s from the county,” she says. “It has something to do with the eminent domain, but I can’t understand anything past that.”

  “Take a picture and send it to Julie,” I say. “It’s another message. More harassment from the White Lights.”

  Vincent studies the dents and scrapes along the Crown Vic’s side.

  “What happened to your car?” he says.

  “A Nazi tried to run me down.”

  He looks at the locked door, then to me.

  “I think the Nazis are winning.”

  “He’s right,” says K
asabian.

  He gets up and clanks over to me.

  “You can do something, right? Just break the door down.”

  “I wouldn’t try,” says Candy.

  “Why?”

  She holds up her phone.

  “This is a Vigil app, kind of an augmented reality thing. It detects and displays traces of magic.”

  I look at the screen. Max Overdrive is rimmed in pulsing neon green.

  “That’s cool. Good for the Vigil.”

  “Fuck the Vigil,” says Kasabian. “Can you break the door down?”

  I shake my head.

  “Whatever kind of hoodoo they’re using, it looks powerful. If I knocked the door down the blowback would probably wreck the whole store.”

  “That’s what someone wants,” says Candy. “For you to break in. The county calls in the sheriff’s department, and they seize the property out from under us.”

  “We get thrown out of the Chateau Marmont and now we can’t even go home,” says Kasabian. “Vincent and me, we don’t have any clothes but what we’re wearing. We were out getting food.”

  I haven’t eaten all day. I take a donut out of the bag. Chocolate glaze. It’s pretty good.

  “They were probably waiting for you to leave.”

  “Screw your clothes,” says Candy. “I don’t have my laptop.”

  I go around to the side of the building.

  “Hang on, all of you. We can’t live here, but maybe I can get some of our things.”

  “How?” says Kasabian.

  “Are you going to do that trick again?” says Vincent.

  “I’m going to try.”

  “What trick?” says Candy.

  “Something I learned the other night. It’s a little like shadow walking, but it’s going to wear off in a few days, so don’t go asking me to steal the crown jewels.”

  “Where do you pick up this new talent?”

  “At Piss Alley.”

  “Really. And what did you give them?”

  “Just a bottle of Aqua Regia.”

  “It’s going to cost you more than that, you know,” she says.

  “I know.”

  “If you can do something, then do it,” says Kasabian. “I’m feeling a little exposed out here.”

  “Relax. I’ll know in a minute if it works.”

  I step to the right and the hurricane hits me. The outside of the store glows the same neon green I saw on Candy’s phone. I put out my hand and touch the side of the building. Nothing happens. No alarms and no counter-­hoodoo. So far, so good. I press my weight against the wall. It bends a little, but holds. The hoodoo is powerful, even against sidestepping. I back up a back a few paces, then run at the wall. And end up on my ass, thrown back to where I started. I’m not going to try that twice.