Authors: Richard Kadrey
Carlos brings the bottle and a glass and pours me two healthy shots. I take out the apothecary bottle and look through the amber glass.
“What’s that stuff?”
“Medicine.”
“You sick?”
“Not for long.”
I upend the bottle and pour the whole thing into the Aqua Regia.
“L’Chaim,”
says Carlos.
“De nada.”
I knock it back in one gulp. My mouth, throat, and stomach are very unhappy about that. I squeeze my lips together to make sure I keep it all down.
“That good?”
“Worse. It’s like a dog with cancer ate a rat with leprosy and shit it down my throat.”
“I had one of those in El Paso once. You’re supposed to chase it with goat piss, but I’m fresh out.”
“Next time.”
“That old lady is back.”
“Which old lady?”
“The one with the missing kid.”
“Aki.”
“Yeah, that’s him. She’s over with Titus. I hope he’s not stealing all of that lady’s money.”
“He always leaves them enough to cover his drinks.”
“Seriously, I don’t like people messing with old ladies.
Mi madre
had cancer and gave all her Social Security money to a faith healer.”
“What happened?”
“He gave her a homeopathic cure and she felt better. Of course, the homeopathic cure was just sweet wine with ginger and some low-grade morphine. When she ran out of money, the cure stopped coming. She went back to the regular doctor, but by then the cancer was everywhere. Let me
tell you, having cancer sucks, but being broke and having cancer is the shittiest fate that can land on a human being.”
“I’m sorry, man. You want me to go over and have a word with Titus?”
“Don’t sweat it. I’m just talking out loud. I’ve got my eye on him.”
“Titus might string things out a little, but he’s good at what he does. If the ring is real and the kid’s here, he’ll find him.”
“He better get his bloodhounds barking if he wants to keep drinking here.”
Carlos goes off to serve other customers. I can see a few of them staring at me in the mirror behind the bar. It’s a good crowd tonight. No one tries to talk to me.
I drain the dregs of the dog shit cocktail and set down the glass, feeling queasy. The things we do to stay ugly. I check my hands hoping that maybe I’ll be able to see the scars grow back in front of my eyes like Lon Chaney Jr.’s hair in
The Wolf Man.
Nothing. I can’t live without scars. I bet if I asked nicely, someone around here would tie me to their back bumper and drag me a few blocks. I’m like a marathoner coming off an injury. Only I need to get my wind back by peeling off a few layers of skin. Is that too much to ask? Where are Mason and Aelita when you need them? They’d drag me to Alamogordo and back.
Enemies kill you with a knife in the back. Friends kill you with kindness. Either way you’re dead.
I didn’t need to stomp out on Allegra like that, but I couldn’t just stand there after she opened her mouth. There are things you think and things you say out loud and they’re
very different things. You’d think someone like her, six months into hoodoo lessons, would know that. You don’t ever say “The devil is your daddy” out loud. It doesn’t matter if you and everyone else in the room are thinking it. You don’t say the words. Words are weapons. They blast big bloody holes in the world. And words are bricks. Say something out loud and it starts turning solid. Say it out loud enough and it becomes a wall you can’t get through. The last thing I need is a big brick Lucifer in my way.
What kind of kid would want Lucifer for a father? He’d give you the shittiest Christmas presents ever. On the other hand, he’d throw great Halloween parties.
Carlos comes back with the bottle.
“You want another one to wash the taste out of your mouth?”
“Just a half. Thanks.”
A woman says something to the guy on the stool next to mine.
“That pretty redhead in the Gucci blouse? She’s been looking at you the whole time I’ve been here. Why don’t you go and say hello?”
This guy looks around and gets up. The woman slides into his seat.
I know that accent. I turn and look at her.
“Brigitte?”
“I wanted to tell you that you’re not an easy man to find. That I had to scour the back streets of Los Angeles to track you down. The truth is that you’re ridiculously easy to find. All of Simon’s friends know where you drink.”
“But do they know where I get my donuts?”
“I’m not sure I know exactly what those are.”
“Frosting and grease with a little cake in between. Sometimes chocolate on top. Sometimes they put in industrial waste that tastes like cherries or apples. They’re like eating sugar land mines.”
“Ah. You mean
koblihy.
Yes, I’m fond of them.”
“No. What you ate back home probably resembled food. You’re not in America until you’ve eaten an American donut.”
“Then I’ll have to try one. You’ll take me?”
“If you promise not to tell Ritchie’s friends. I don’t mind if they know about Carlos’s place. It’s more money for him. But a man should be able to enjoy a fritter in peace.”
“It will be our secret. Is that red wine? I’m famished. Do you mind?”
“It’s not wine.”
She sputters and spits it out. Curses in Czech.
“What awful thing is that?”
“Aqua Regia. It’s an acquired taste.”
Carlos appears with a glass of water.
“Drink this or you’re not going to have any taste buds by morning.”
“Brigitte, this is Carlos. Carlos, Brigitte.”
“Nice to meet you, Brigitte. Have we met somewhere?”
“She’s in the movies. Maybe you saw one of them. She goes by the name of Brigitte Bardo.”
“Oh yeah.”
He nods. Half smiles, apparently not sure what to do with his face.
“Sure. Okay.”
Another customer flags him down for a drink.
“I think you made him blush,” I say.
“That’s sweet. I didn’t think California people could blush.”
“They’re an endangered species. The government tags them like condors and pandas.”
“You’re not what I expected. You’re a very silly man, James.”
“I come from a long line of tall-tale talkers. Our family crest is bullets over crossed fingers and underneath it says, ‘Bullshit
Über Alles.’
”
She takes cigarettes from her purse, but Carlos stops her.
“Sorry. You can’t in here.”
“I’m in a bar full of vampires and witches, but what people are afraid of is my cigarette.”
“Welcome to America, where everyone lives forever and everyone is beautiful if you have the money.”
“Why do you drink that horrible drink?”
“It’s a bad habit I picked up along the way.”
“When you were gone?”
“Gone, yeah.”
“And you still drink it? I’d think you’d want to forget about that place.”
“No. I don’t want to forget anything. Not one second of it.”
“Why?”
“Because someone owes me for it. Every second I was there. Every beating. Every bad habit and every shitty dream. And for Alice.”
“There you are. That’s the man I was looking for. He was hiding in your eyes. A killer’s eyes.”
“What are you doing down here, Brigitte? Shouldn’t Ritchie be buying you France or something?”
“Simon is with Mr. Macheath just now. I don’t expect him back for some time. He says they’re discussing the movie, but I think he’s lying.”
“He’s trying to renegotiate his soul deal? I’d love to hear that conversation.”
“Simon can be very persuasive.”
“That I believe.”
It bugs the hell out of me how beautiful she is. I’ve seen friends go through this. Falling for porn girls can be like mainlining Twinkies. It’s usually more about addiction than nutrition. Both are sweet and oh so irresistible because they can’t help it. Then you get jealous or she gets bored and the sugar rush ends. The crash hits and there you are, depressed, toothless, alone, and with crumbs in your sheets. I don’t need to take Brigitte to Donut Universe. She
is
Donut Universe.
Or maybe I’m just full of shit, spooked by her ballistic beauty, and looking for an excuse to run away like a kid who’s never figured out how to talk to girls.
“You still haven’t told me why you came down.”
“I wanted to see more of L.A. than the inside of a limousine. And our conversation was cut short at the party. I heard that I missed all the fun when you and Mr. Macheath left.”
“Fun like a bullet hole in my side.”
Her eyes widen.
“Really? Let me see.”
Okay. Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe she’s more than donuts after all.
I stand and pull up my shirt. She gets off the stool and squats on her haunches so she can get a better look at the damage. We’re getting a lot of looks from around the bar and this time I can’t blame them. This crowd probably thinks I get medical exams from porn stars every night. It’s better than them knowing most of my social life is drinking and watching
The Killers
with a dead man’s head.
“Do you always heal that quickly?”
“Not lately. But I’m hoping that’s fixed.”
“So do I.”
“Do you know anything about the guy they were talking about at the party, Spencer Church?”
“Why do you want to know about him?”
I shrug.
“Because I’ve been drunk and out of touch for a long time and I’ve missed a couple of hundred things. A woman came in here asking me about her missing kid. Then I hear that other people are turning up missing. The truth is, I don’t give a rat’s ass about Spencer Church, but someone tried to make my boss disappear the other night and I got shot for it. If Church did disappear, I want to know who took him or if he did it on his own.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know him well. I know that some of Simon’s friends bought drugs from him.”
“Did he burn any of them? Take their money and not deliver?”
“Not that I know of.”
“I never heard of a Sub Rosa dope dealer before. I guess they had to be there, but I never thought about it till now.”
Carlos sets down two glasses of brown beer nearby and comes over to us.
“Did I hear you talking about Spencer Church?”
“You know him?”
“Hell yes, I know that prick. He’s an ice-cream man and a bad one. He used to sell his shitty product out of my bar, meaning when people came back to complain, I’m the one that had to hear about it, not him. He is totally, one hundred percent banned from any building I happen to be in.”
“Good policy.”
“Except that that ratfuck
concha
piece of shit just walked in.”
“Spencer Church is here?”
“A couple of minutes ago. He’s at the end of the bar. You can’t miss him. Skinny blacked-eyed junkie that looks like a scarecrow with a migraine.”
I look at Brigitte.
“I’m going to go talk to this guy.”
“Do you think he will tell you anything?”
“Ritchie isn’t the only one who can be persuasive.”
I push through the crowd to the end of the bar. It’s not hard to spot Church. He’s taking up a lot of real estate. No one wants to get near him. Once upon a time his clothes were nicer than Cabal Ash’s, but he smells worse and he looks like he’s been sleeping under freeway overpasses for a week. Both of his hands are flat on the bar. His nails are long, dirty, and broken. He’s got a thousand-yard stare aimed at the far wall. Between a hundred voices yammering
and the jukebox, he doesn’t hear me coming. I motion for Carlos to come get his attention.
I’m right behind Church when Carlos eyeballs him.
“What the hell are you doing here, man? I told you you weren’t welcome here.”
Church doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just stares straight ahead. I nod to Carlos to try it again.
“Hey, asshole. You need to get out. Like now. Like five minutes ago. And don’t come back.”
This time Church seems to notice he’s being yelled at. He slowly raises his head, like a Sphinx waking up after a thousand-year nap. He moves his lips and makes a small sound.
“What?” Carlos asks. He moves closer. “What?”
Church growls and half leaps across the bar, grabbing at Carlos with his filthy claws. His mouth is open and he’s craning his neck like he wants to bite him. Carlos is yelling and bracing his arms against the bar. Church makes a gurgling growl. The floor clears as people try to get away from the chaos.
Church snaps black teeth at Carlos’s face, missing it by an inch. I grab the back of Church’s head and smash it down on the bar. I can feel his jaw crack, but it doesn’t even slow him down. He turns and lunges at me. He’s growling and biting the air, only his mouth isn’t working too well anymore. His shattered lower jaw flaps around like a baggie full of oatmeal. His teeth and tongue are black as tar. Someone must have slipped something interesting into his syringe. But even meth won’t rot your mouth that fast. What’s he on?
Church grabs my arms and opens his black pit of a mouth. He’s strong for a skinny guy. Must have pumped
out a year’s worth of adrenaline in the last thirty seconds.
Cue my own little panic attack. What if Church only seems strong because I’ve got a Samson hair thing going on and I’m getting weaker as my scars fade?
His teeth snap next to my ear.
One way to find out.
I grab Mr. Oatmeal Jaw’s shoulder, spin, and toss him like a bag of trash. He flies the full length of the bar and smashes into the back wall, leaving an extremely satisfying dent in the plaster. While I’m admiring my work, feeling a warm, giddy sense of relief that I can still do unreasonable amounts of damage to my fellow man, Church rolls onto his side and stands up. He’s holding his body at a funny angle. It looks like his back cracked when he hit the wall. His left arm is badly dislocated. It hangs by his side, as limp as his jaw. If he’s in pain, he doesn’t show it. He teeters, gets his balance, and rushes me.
His head jerks back and then explodes. Not all of it. Just the back. An exit wound.
I spin around to see who fired and there’s Brigitte, up on the bar, kneeling and holding a weird little pistol in a double-hand cop grip. A white wisp of CO
2
curls out of the gun barrel.