The Wrong Dead Guy

  Warren perked up. “Cool. Do you think they’re real?”

  “A monster like him, who knows?” said Linda.

  Dylan moved the group one lane closer. “Let’s wait and look for an opening.”

  “Okay, Sheriff. We’re ready to roll,” said Chris.

  “Finally.” Turning to the eagle handler, Sheriff Wayne said, “Okay, Jungle Jim. How do we do this?”

  The handler gave Sheriff Wayne a heavy leather glove that covered most of his arm.

  “You just put this protective glove on your arm and bend your arm a bit. The eagle will hold on. All you have to do is worry about your lines.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Sheriff Wayne pulled on the glove, which pissed him off a little, considering how much he’d paid for every damned stitch of his suit. Once he was covered, he bent his arm and the handler brought over the eagle. He held it by the legs and just as he was transferring it to Sheriff Wayne, the bird let out a wild screech and viciously flapped its enormous wings.

  Sheriff Wayne staggered back a few feet. “What the fuck was that? I swear if that pterodactyl puts one claw in me, you’ll end up on the barbecue with the porno king over there.”

  The handler got the eagle settled on his arm again. “I’m sure he was just startled by the traffic. He’s a professional. He’ll be fine.”

  “He better be.”

  “He scared the bird,” said Linda with a little catch in her throat.

  “I think the bird scared him,” said Warren.

  “I know I’m scared,” said Brad.

  Heather hated herself for saying it, but she couldn’t help it. “Maybe we should think this over a little more.”

  “Seize the moment,” said Tyler.

  “Who’s going to seize the bird?” said Dylan.

  “It will sense that we’re here to save it and come to us,” said Linda mistily.

  “Really?” said Sarah. “You really believe that?”

  “Gaia is a lot smarter than you, smartass.”

  “Sheriff Wayne has the eagle,” said Brad.

  Dylan looked at Warren. “I swear, if you say ‘junior’ again, I’ll buy that pickup truck over there just so I can run you down.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re hearing things again,” said Warren, smirking.

  In the distance they could hear, “Hi. I’m Sheriff Wayne Jr., home of low, low . . .”

  “It’s started,” said Tyler in a way that made Heather wish that everyone but the two of them would all drop dead at once.

  “This is an Audi. It’s small, so parking is easy, but it has a lot of power,” said Donna.

  “See? Little cars can have power,” said Doris.

  Walter’s normal scowl turned into a menacing glower. “What’s that smell?”

  All three of them looked around for where the stink might be coming from.

  Walter laughed and pointed at Doris. “I think Rin Tin Tin is doing his number ones on you.”

  “Oh, Pepper, not again,” said Doris. She put the dog down and took a wad of tissues from her purse. As she dabbed at her blouse, Pepper went to the Audi and pissed on the tire.

  “Atta girl,” said Walter. And for the first time since they arrived, Donna saw him smile.

  Sheriff Wayne Jr. was just wrapping up a perfect first take with, “. . . So, come on down to Sheriff Wayne Jr.’s. We’re at the Livingston exit off the 101 near . . .”

  A gust a wind came up and blew off his red, white, and blue hat. He whirled around to see where it went, knocking the eagle off balance. It cawed and snapped at him.

  “Goddamn fiend,” he shouted, and shook his arm free. The eagle flapped its majestic black wings and took off across the parking lot.

  “It looks like she’s all done now,” said Doris.

  “Good girl, Pepper,” said Walter.

  Doris shielded her eyes and looked into the distance. “What is that?”

  A second later, what Doris would later describe as a “black-and-white hell beast” shot between them and took off into the sky.

  Doris looked around. “Pepper?”

  The three of them looked at each other, and then at the black dot disappearing over the horizon.

  Sheriff Wayne Jr., Chris, the handler, and the video crew watched the eagle fly away.

  “Boys,” said Sheriff Wayne, retrieving his hat, “I’m definitely shooting someone today.” He looked at Chris and the handler. “You two work out which one of you it’s going to be.”

  Across the lot, Linda and the others gasped.

  “It . . . it . . .” she said.

  Tyler drew himself up heroically, something he’d wanted to do since seeing Chuck Norris in Good Guys Wear Black as a kid. “We’ve got to get this guy.”

  Warren waved at the receding dot. “Fly, Falkor fly!”

  “Shut up, Warren.”

  25

  Froehlich and Harkhuf were staying in a caveman-styled cabin in the Hollywood Golden Bungalows on Sunset Boulevard. The walls and ceiling were made of Styrofoam with a rigid gray material on top that resembled rock in the same way that a dusty plastic fern in a dentist’s waiting room resembles the Amazon rain forest. While the Hollywood Golden Bungalows had been built during the Hollywood heyday of the forties and were used to house rising stars and the occasional movie-magnate mistress, the years hadn’t been kind to the place.

  By the seventies, the movie studios had lost interest in the Hollywood Golden and it quickly became a hangout for the endless waves of starry-eyed musicians that washed up on L.A.’s shores like so many dead whales.

  By the eighties, it had become a hot destination for punks, runaways, celebrity Satanists looking for a discreet place to hold their monthly black masses, and the coke dealers who supplied them all. This led to a brief revival of the Hollywood Golden’s fortunes. But it all came crashing down when Phantom Ball Sac, a speed metal band from Pensacola, OD’d while bingeing on what they thought was a kilo of stolen Colombian nose confetti. In fact, it had been misplaced by a particularly lucky Satanist. Lucky because what he thought was coke was really a mix of angel dust and crystal meth, all cut with a kind of animal tranquilizer that would have been more appropriate for larger rhinos and, if they still existed, woolly mammoths.

  Rumors soon began circulating that Phantom Ball Sac haunted their French Revolution–themed room, with its guillotine bed and Parisian sewers decor. The LAPD closed the bungalows soon after and the place fell into disrepair.

  When the Hollywood Golden finally reopened, the only people interested in its abandoned carnival ambience were hookers and ghost hunters, along with a few lost souls hiding from jilted lovers and the police. Froehlich had once visited a Vegas-themed bungalow in the company of a hooker who always brought her pet Gila monster along in her purse. On one occasion, the lizard escaped the bag, crawled onto the bed, and bit Froehlich on a tender area of his body at a particularly frantic moment of coitus.

  He’d had a soft spot in his heart for the Hollywood Golden ever since.

  Froehlich’s romance with the bungalows only increased now that Harkhuf had taken control of him. He expected to hate being a slave, but the truth was that ever since he’d relinquished his will, the flicker of despair that lay at the center of his being was nothing but a smoldering ember. This puzzled him and led to some serious self-examination.

  First, he’d given up his will easily.

  Second, he didn’t mind as much as he thought he should.

  Third, he had to admit that he sort of liked it.

  Maybe that’s been my problem my whole life, he thought. I wasn’t called a cur enough. What’s next? Am I going to be in a collie costume paying a lady dressed like Eleanor Roosevelt to spank me with a rolled-up newspaper for not doing my business outside? Froehlich didn’t like how easily the idea popped in his head—or how much it appealed to him—but he didn’t dislike it either.

  A commercial for auto insurance came on the television. He got u
p from the bed with its faux-tiger-skin duvet and used a Swiss Army knife to unscrew the room’s air vent. Carefully, he slid Harkhuf from the vent shaft and set him down next to a caveman chair. It was supposed to look like it was made of the bones of some small dinosaur, but to Froehlich it looked like what serial killers did on weekends as a hobby.

  Froehlich dusted Harkhuf off a little and then took a step back from his master.

  “I told you you would fit,” he said. “And it wasn’t any worse than that sarcophagus, I bet. Are you comfortable over there? If you could bend your legs, I could put you in the chair.”

  “I am adequate where I am,” said Harkhuf inside Froehlich’s mind.

  The commercial ended and a game show came back on. There was a lot of screaming. Froehlich sneaked a glance at the screen.

  “Serve me, soulless one,” said Harkhuf.

  “I am serving you. But I was also watching TV. In case you’re interested, our set only gets two channels. One is all Hitler all the time. The other is a foreign game show where girls have hamburgers strapped to their asses and guys crawl around trying to eat them while the girls have a pillow fight.” Froehlich held up the remote. “Do you have a preference?”

  “Wretched dog,” said his master.

  “The game show it is.”

  Froehlich looked from Harkhuf to the game show and back again. He waited for a reaction, but got only silence. He looked at his master and dropped the remote on the bed.

  “How exactly am I not serving you? I got you out of the museum. I got you across town, and I got us this room. And I found a nice vent for you to hide in. I even paid in cash, so no one can track us,” he said with as much pride as worthless scum like him deserved.

  I may be getting too comfortable with this too fast. I might be scum, but I’m not worthless. I’m worthful. Except . . .

  “Is ‘worthful’ a word?” Froehlich said.

  Harkhuf’s voice filled his head. “I have need of objects of power. With them, I will find my beloved Shemetet and we shall change this wretched world forever.”

  A little piece of fake rock had fallen from the ceiling. Froehlich picked it up and tossed it in the trash because he knew Harkhuf liked the place tidy.

  See? You’re doing it again. Don’t be such a pushover.

  “Why is everything so wretched all the time?” Froehlich said. “I’m wretched. The world is wretched. Earlier, you said the room was wretched. Be happy. You’re in L.A. You hit the jackpot.”

  “How dare you question me, cur?”

  Froehlich kicked another piece of rock under the bed while discreetly taking a quick look at the pillow fight. “I admit it. The room isn’t that great. But I’m not made of money. And you didn’t even have cable three thousand years ago, so I think it all evens out, don’t you?”

  Harkhuf turned to him and slowly raised an arm. “You are my thrall.”

  Froehlich nodded, sighing. “I know. We’ve clearly established those boundaries. But I haven’t eaten since I helped you escape. I’m your tired, hungry thrall.”

  “Retrieve my objects immediately!”

  “I would, master, but the museum isn’t open. I can’t get in until tomorrow. But I will. First thing in the morning.”

  “Bring the objects to me or your suffering will be endless.”

  Froehlich took another peek at the game show. The more he watched the more he really wanted a hamburger. “I gave up a promising career for this, you know.”

  “You gave up nothing,” said Harkhuf. “I have given you your true life in eternal servitude.”

  Froehlich saw the collie costume clearly in his mind’s eye. Eleanor was glaring at him with the rolled-up newspaper in her hand. Now he wanted a hamburger and to be told he couldn’t have it.

  “Maybe ‘promising’ isn’t the word for my career. But after helping out Mr. Klein, I was moving up,” he said. “Now look at me. Hiding in a fleabag motel, I’m starving, and I can’t even watch girls have a pillow fight.”

  Harkhuf moved closer to him ponderously. “I must have the amulet. With it, wretched mortals could have power over me. This cannot be allowed.”

  Froehlich sat down, his mind racing. “Really, Master? An amulet that gives mortals power over you? That’s interesting.”

  Pain that felt like a monkey with an ice pick shot though his head.

  “Ow. Okay. Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “I wouldn’t use it. I was just asking.” He took a long drink from his flask.

  “You must bring it to me,” said Harkhuf.

  Froehlich’s ears rang. “Is there anything else you want?”

  “A figurine. The goddess Isis herself. She will lead me to Shemetet.”

  Froehlich looked up at his master. “Don’t take this the wrong way—I’m only asking as your wretched thrall—but how the hell am I supposed to walk into the museum and stroll out with a pile of artifacts under my arm?”

  Harkhuf said, “I will be with you in spirit. I will see through your wretched eyes, hear through your unworthy ears. I will grant you power when needed. You will do this for me.”

  “Power? That could be fun,” Froehlich said.

  “Fun? Beguilement is not for the likes of you. You will serve me and my beloved until the flesh falls from your unworthy bones.”

  Don’t think about the collie costume. Don’t think about the collie costume . . .

  “I will, Master,” said Froehlich. “But I’ve never been on the lam before. It’s more exhausting than I thought it would be.”

  “Then eat. Drink. Fill your dog belly, for tomorrow you shall serve and die for me if necessary.”

  “That’s not going to give me nightmares. Thanks. Maybe I should be the one who hides in the vent tonight.”

  Someone knocked on the door. Froehlich looked through the peephole in the door. “Finally!” he said. “Let the feast begin.”

  He’d taken his jacket and work shirt off earlier and was now just in his guard pants and a white T-shirt. He thought about putting the shirt back on, but this was the Hollywood Golden Bungalows, he thought. They’re lucky I don’t come to the door in nothing but a devil mask and Mary Janes. Froehlich found the image not quite as compelling as that of the collie, but it wasn’t bad. He decided to file it away for later, and opened the bungalow door.

  A guy with hungover red eyes and a guitar-toting rooster on his T-shirt shirt was waiting outside. “I’ve got a delivery from Dr. Rock’s Chickenpalooza for a Mr. Smith.”

  “That’s me,” said Froehlich. The delivery guy handed him a large white bag. It smelled like deep-fried heaven.

  The delivery guy looked at the other bungalows. “A lot of Smiths out at this place, if you know what I mean.”

  “It’s a family reunion,” said Froehlich.

  “You must have a really big family, Mr. Smith.”

  Before he could say anything, the delivery man went on.

  “That’s one Sammy Hagar Rockin’ Barnyard Special, with extra gravy and napkins.”

  Froehlich signed for the bag and dug around in his pocket for a tip.

  “Looks like you’ve got your own Barnyard Special going on, Mr. Smith,” said the delivery guy.

  Froehlich looked around and realized that Harkhuf was clearly visible just few feet behind him.

  The delivery guy did a mock salute. “Evening, ma’am. I hope you enjoy the chicken. And whatever else you’re doing in there.”

  Froehlich grabbed some bills from his pocket and shoved them into the delivery guy’s palm. “Thank you. You didn’t see anything,” he said.

  The man looked at his hand. “Wow. Five bucks. I can finally quit my job and go to beauty school.”

  Froehlich slammed the door.

  “Sorry about that, Master.”

  Harkhuf walked away. “When Shemetet and I rule this world, he will be dealt with.”

  “Him?” said Froehlich. “Don’t worry about him. He’s seen plenty worse.”

  He tore the bag open and spread the
Barnyard Special on the tiger bed spread.

  “Eat your fill, dog,” said Harkhuf. “Tomorrow I shall find my beloved.”

  “Damn, this chicken is good,” Froehlich said. He wondered what it would be like to get bitten downstairs by a Gila monster while eating chicken and how much it would cost to arrange.

  Damn. My mind is all over the place tonight.

  He was well into his second chicken thigh when Harkhuf said, “What is that man doing to that woman?”

  Froehlich looked at the television. “I told you. He’s eating a hamburger off her ass.”

  “It is wretched to behold.”

  Froehlich licked grease off his fingers. “She doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “No, she does not,” said Harkhuf. “This is a strange world in which to awaken.”

  “Sorry. I’ll switch to Hitler.”

  “I said it was strange. I did not say turn it off.”

  Froehlich wiped his mouth with a napkin and with as much nonchalance as he could muster said, “When you were a big shot back in Egypt and a thrall was bad, did you ever hit him with a rolled-up newspaper?”

  “What is a newspaper?” said Harkhuf.

  “Silly question. Never mind.”

  Harkhuf got closer to the television, then looked at Froehlich. “And what ass will you eat your dinner from? Surely you do not have the temerity to think I would permit—”

  Froehlich put up his hands. “No, Master. That’s a contest. This is regular life.”

  “Good. Shemetet would not approve.”

  “Plus, it would get your wrappings dirty.”

  “Indeed. Now be quiet. I’m watching.”

  Froehlich finished the second thigh. On television, men on their hands and knees gnawed on burgers.

  He said, “If you wanted, I could crawl around a little. Would you like me to crawl around while I eat?”

  “Why would I want that?”

  “No reason,” said Froehlich quietly, his appetite suddenly spoiled.

  26

  Froehlich drove his Camry to the museum early the next morning. The banners for the Egyptian exhibit were still up, but there was a large Not Open to the Public sign at the front door. He parked and approached the building nervously. His master had told him that everything would be all right, and who was Froehlich to question the boss? Of course, it was easy for him to say from the comfort and safety of his own personal caveman bungalow. Froehlich’s ass was hanging way out in the open, a pockmarked Macy’s Thanksgiving Day balloon just waiting for a gust of wind to blow it into the power lines.