Killing Pretty (29 page)

“They're one of the biggest,” says Tykho. “There's one more thing I'll tell you and then you have to go.”

“Make it something good.”

“The ­people you say you saw killed on Wonderland, and others who've died in the canyon, what do you think happens to them?”

“The nonfamous blue-­yonders? They become flunkies for the big-­name ghosts. Valets and butlers.”

“Not as many as you might think,” Tykho says. “Think bigger. There's no profit in maid ser­vice for ghosts.”

I look at Candy and Vincent, but get nothing from them.

“I'm sick of smelling your shit wine. It reminds me of Hell and I don't need that tonight. What else do the White Lights do with the dead?”

“Entertainment. Spectacle,” she says. “In a show-­business town, the big money is in show business. What can ordinary ­people, with no singing or acting talent, no name and/or status do when they're dead?”

“Ask me a lot of stupid questions?”

Tykho leans across the desk and speaks quietly.

“Did you hear of an online phenomenon years ago on the Web? It was called bum fights.”

Candy says, “Sure. Frat-­boy assholes would pay homeless ­people to fight. They'd video it and put it online and charge to watch it.”

“Well, imagine what dead souls can do to each other in a dog pit,” Tykho says. “It's quite a thing to see.”

I say, “Where? I want to see for myself. How do we get in?”

She opens a drawer and tosses an envelope on the desk.

“Here are some passes. They were supposed to be a raffle prize tonight, but you spoiled the party, so you might as well take them.”

I take the envelope and put it in my pocket with Vincent's knife.

For a minute, I think very hard about killing Tykho. Candy puts a hand on mine.

“Let's go home. Tykho is more useful with her head on her shoulders,” she says.

“Yes. I really am.”

I have to give it to Candy for keeping her cool. I was two seconds away from putting my Gladius through Tykho's throat. But like she said, the new Death owes her a favor. How would killing her now hurt her?

I say, “Is there anything else you haven't told us?”

“Lots,” says Tykho. “But that's all you get now. You ruined my party and it will take days cleaning and ass-­kissing to fix it. Go now and play save the world like you always do. But when you go to the fights and see the slaughter, remember that those ­people
asked
to be there. They volunteered their souls.”

“I doubt that,” I say. “No one is going to buy into something like that.”

“You've been to Hell. What horrors do you think ordinary ­people will endure on Earth so that they don't have to go into the Abyss? Go see the fights. Educate yourself.”

We leave Tykho's office. Candy and I have our guns out, but none of the guards bother us. Vincent doesn't say a word. Not on the drive back to the Beat Hotel or when we drop him off at his room.

“Good night,” Candy says.

He just stares at her with the thousand-­yard stare of someone who's been through Hell and knows that whatever happens, he's never going home again.

C
ANDY CALLS
J
ULIE
and tells her what we found out at Tykho's club, without going into details of how we got it. I think. I can only hear Candy's side of the conversation, so I guess it depends on what questions Julie asks. Not much I can do about it either way. Candy tells her we're going to check out the bum fights and asks if she wants to come with us. We could use the backup. While they're talking, Candy looks at me and shakes her head. The last thing she says to Julie is “Okay. We'll call when we get back. Be careful.”

I'm drinking coffee spiked with Aqua Regia.

“Be careful about what?”

“She says there was a car parked across the street all day, and when she left the office, it followed her.”

I hand Candy a nonspiked coffee.

“Should we go after her?”

“She says she's got it under control. She took a ­couple of turns to lose the tail, then got behind the car. Now she's following them.”

“Good for her. I hope she doesn't do anything stupid.”

“So says the man who went into Death Rides a Horse like it was Omaha Beach. I might be able to cover you on what happened outside of Evermore Creatives, but the club? That's going to be all over town.”

“It was a lot of noise, but no one got hurt.”

“You cut a guy's arm off.”

“He's a vampire. It'll grow back. And we got a lot of useful information. Plus these.” I hold up the tickets.

“I agree. All I'm saying is that Julie might question the approach.”

“I'll send Tykho roses and a pint of O negative. She'll get over it.”

Candy blows on her coffee, sips it.

“Do you think it's a good idea for us to use those fight tickets without backup?”

“Probably. But that's half the fun.”

“Seriously, what are we going to do?”

“Vidocq and Allegra looked bored last time I saw them. Maybe they'd like a night out.”

“Goody. I'll call them.”

“Tell Vidocq to bring some potions. I don't know what the crowd is going to be like tonight. We might need to leave quickly.”

“No arm cutting, please.”

“I'm on my best behavior.”

“Be better than best. Be super best.”

“I'm going to need another drink for that.”

I
PICK
A
LLEGRA
and Vidocq up and we head out to the address on the tickets.

Turns out the space is in the old Warehouse District, which L.A. now insists on calling the Art District. I've never seen any art this way, but it makes perfect sense that the city would shove whatever artists it has left out to the land of hauling companies, cold-­storage facilities, and train depots.

The address is a two-­story warehouse with several outbuildings off Sixth Street, across the L.A. River, near the viaduct on South Mission Road. There are railroad tracks on one side and a wasteland of faceless storage companies and trucks on the other. If there are any artists around, they're keeping a low profile—­like subterranean.

The warehouse has a large parking lot, but cars spill out all up and down the length of Mission Road. The cars are a mix of old numbers like the Crown Vic and spit-­and-­polished Caddys and Porsches. There's even a Rolls-­Royce Silver Cloud, being babysat by a chauffeur with a bulge under his jacket like he's got a grenade launcher in there.

Outside the warehouse is a mix of methed-­up bikers and street punks with L.A.'s young, beautiful, and stupidly wealthy. The kind of ­people who open Fair Trade cupcake shops and art galleries with names like Paradigm. There are Sub Rosas in both the biker and artisanal asshole groups. I keep my head down and don't meet anyone's eye. Last thing I want tonight is to be recognized before I even get inside.

My instincts were right about one thing: it was smart to leave my weapons in the trunk of the Crown Vic. Everyone going into the warehouse gets a pat-­down. A guy with tattoos on his face and a graying jarhead crew cut frisks Vidocq. When he hears something clink, he opens the Frenchman's coat. Sewn inside are dozens of small pockets for the potions he always carries.

“What the hell are those?” says the crew cut.

“I have allergies,” Vidocq says.

Crew Cut gives him a look, grabs a bottle at random, and sniffs it. He makes a face like a baboon just shit in his mouth.

“What is that stuff?” he says.

“Cobra bile,” says Vidocq. “Very good for digestion.”

The crew cut gives him back the bottle and waves him through, saying, “You want to use that stuff tonight, you take it outside.”

“Of course,” Vidocq says.

Crew Cut has a good time giving Candy and Allegra a thorough going-­over. They deal with his bullshit without a word, but it's obvious they'd like to pull out the guy's guts with a boathook. I keep my eyes away from his while he gives me the once-­over. The fucker reminds me of someone, but I can't quite place him. On the wall above the door is the White Light Legion sigil. The crew cut isn't in uniform, but he has the Legion's tattoo on his right arm. It makes sense. Hold the fights at the Legion's compound. Let them work security and keep all the cash in-­house. They'll skim from the profits, but letting them handle the muscle work leaves Evermore Creatives to deal with the talent and the public.

It's stiflingly hot inside. I don't think the warehouse's old air-­conditioning unit was meant to deal with a crowd this size. We're on the top floor. There's a walkway all around that looks down onto a large ring in the center. Down there, close to the ring action, the crowd is really packed in. There are good seats, up front, close to the ring, and cheaper ones behind, separated from each other by a tall barbed-­wire fence. Uniformed Legion members patrol the area. They keep the peace just by staring ­people down.

They're packed two deep against the guardrails up here. It's hard to see anything, so we go around the walkway to check if we can get a better view. There's a bar in the corner where the well-­heeled smart set can rub elbows with colorful ruffians and share a glass of watered-­down Jack. It's a real meeting of the minds in here. The UN if it was run by sadistic morons.

I get next to Vidocq and say, “What do you think?”

“I don't think they're observing the fire codes,” he says.

“Anything else? Come on. You've been around and seen some shit.”

“We had places like this in Paris in the old days. There were dog fights. Men would fight. Even women. I once saw an exhibition where a disreputable sideshow impresario set his charges against one another. Men with no legs fighting men with no arms. Bearded ladies and . . . what's the word? Pinheads? It seemed like a vision from Hell.”

“Did you do anything about it? Tell the cops?”

“Who do you think kept the peace during the exhibitions?”

Allegra stays close to Vidocq, her arms wrapped around one of his. When we find an open spot along the rail, I let Candy get in front.

There are three ghosts in the ring downstairs. Two of them are working over a third. I recognize the duo act from some old books. Manny King and Joey Franco. A ­couple of enforcers back when Bugsy Siegel was still big man on campus in the forties. They're going at the other guy with heavy wrenches and baseball bats. I suppose it could be worse. One side of the ring is like a murder wholesale house. It's full of heavy tools like you'd find in a garage—­chains, crowbars, and even some torches. Kitchen knives and cleavers in another area. Old weapons like something from the Crusades. Swords, morningstars, bell hooks behind them. With all the blood in the ring, it's hard to remember that all three of these guys are already dead. Yeah, ghosts have a kind of ectoplasmic blood. You cut them just right and they gush like anyone alive. They can even die. Blip out of existence like they were never even here.

It seems like the fight has been going on for a while. The crowd is getting restless. The guy on the floor won't die and the two bully boys can't or won't finish him. The loser is flat on his stomach. Manny, with the pipe wrench, stands over the guy's back with the weapon over his head, going for a kill shot. Before he makes him move, the guy on the floor finds a small cleaver and swings it back into Manny's leg. Manny lets go of the wrench and falls over. Now he's the one screaming. Joey laughs at him and kicks the guy on the floor over on his back.

It's Dash, Maria the witch's lost ghost. His face is a pulpy mess, but I still recognize him. So does Candy. She grabs my hand, pulls it down to her side so that no one will see her reacting.

I still dream about the arena Downtown, though not as much as I used to. But I don't go for more than a day or two without recovering some tasty bit of memory in which I'm either slaughtering or being slaughtered. Unfortunately, it's usually the second thing. I don't twitch and punch the air like I used to, but I remember what every blow felt like. That kind of thing never leaves you. But I made it out alive and sane, more or less.

I don't give Dash such good odds.

The kid has shed more than a few pints of ectoplasm all over the ring. His eyes are almost swollen shut and one of his legs is bent like something that would look better on a flamingo. He punches and grabs at Joey's legs as he stands above him. But the blows are marshmallows. Joey lets him punch himself out. When Dash gets so tired he can't lift his arms anymore, he drops them. He doesn't move or make a sound. He's a man who's seen the future and can't wait for it to come. Joey doesn't make him wait long.

He lifts the bat over his head and brings it down hard. It only takes one shot from the Louisville Slugger to crack Dash's skull. They crowd goes wild. They can't get enough of this shit. I'm not sure even Hellions enjoyed watching us beat each other bloody as much as these assholes.

Joey raises the bloody bat in the ring—­King Arthur pulling the sword out of some poor slob's brains. He does a turn while Manny struggles to his feet. Him stumbling around gets big laughs, but the big cheers go to Dash as his spirit goes transparent and fades away, like an image on a dying TV set. A lot of cash changes hands when he's gone. Joey helps Manny to his feet. There are necromantic physicians backstage who'll patch him up so he can do it all again tonight or tomorrow, whenever Evermore Creatives and the White Lights want to see those particular monkeys dance again.

I won't be telling Maria the witch about any of this. She doesn't seem the type to take it well. Honesty can be very overrated, while a good lie can give someone peace of mind when there isn't a goddamn thing they can do about the awful shit at the center of the truth.

“What did you bring us to, Stark?” says Allegra.