Killing Pretty (33 page)

About the time I'm thinking of getting physical, the doorman waves me over.

“Go in,” he says. “But wait for your escort.”

The music hits me when I open the door, the bass like a Munchkin beating on my solar plexus with a rolling pin. A phalanx of bruisers rolls up before I can take two steps inside. Big beefy boys with necks as big as manhole covers. Do vampires need some kind of fang extensions to drain a few drops from guys like this? Before I can ask, they surround me and hustle me through the packed crowd like a troop of bulldozers plowing through a field of bunnies.

When we reach Tykho's office, the lead bulldozer opens her door and the rest shove me through. The door closes behind me. Tykho is behind her desk, making a big show of not looking up. She's signing papers with a gold Montblanc pen.

She says, “I'm only seeing you because you said it was for the last time. Can I hold you to that?”

“If you tell me the truth.”

“About what?”

“What happens at the new moon?”

She stops writing, puts down the pen, and holds a hand out to a chair for me to sit down. I do it and pull the chair up close to her desk.

She thinks for a minute and says, “Do you know a book called
Germania
? It's sometimes called the
Codex Aesinas
.”

“Never heard of it.”

Tykho puts her hands flat on the desk.

“On the surface it's nothing. Just a brief Roman account of the history and customs of ancient Germanic tribes they encountered while they were busy trying to rule the world.”

“What's the big deal about it?”

“There have been a few slightly differing translations of
Germania
over the years. We had several in the Thule group. Himmler was mad for the thing. He, and some in his circle, saw the book as final proof of the superiority of a pure German Aryan race.”

“Like you fucking Nazis needed more propaganda.”

“I told you. I wasn't political.”

“Yeah. You said. What does a fascist tourist brochure have to do with what went down at Murphy Ranch?”

“I told you there were several translations, but the thing is, none of them was complete.”

“What was missing?”

She picks up the Montblanc and doodles something on a pad. I can't quite see it.

“Why, the chapter on ancient Aryan magic, of course. That's why Himmler wanted any of the few surviving complete manuscripts. He sent a whole squad of his pretty SS boys to a villa in Italy for it. He missed that one, but the Ahnenerbe eventually found another.”

“What kind of hoodoo are we talking about?”

“How to become the Lord of Death.”

Now we're getting somewhere.

“If those
übermensches
running around the woods had that kind of power, how is it the Romans kicked their asses?”

“The Romans didn't conquer all the tribes, but your basic point is right. They never did make proper use of the power.”

“Why not?”

She pushes the pad across the table to me. It's covered with alchemical symbols and runes. I wish I'd brought Vidocq along.

“Because back then they couldn't put all the pieces together,” says Tykho. “The magic described in the book called for certain kinds of metals and potions, things they couldn't produce at the right purity, so they could never complete the death ceremony.”

“And maybe they needed a nonpolitical vampire for the ceremony?”

“Maybe. The point is that it took the believers two thousand years to create everything the ritual required.”

“But they haven't finished it, have they?”

“That's right. Until the new Death reigns through a new moon, the ritual isn't complete.”

“How do we stop them?”

She takes the pad and sits back in her chair.

“Why should I tell you? You keep showing up uninvited. What's in it for me if I tell you anything?”

I lean my elbows on her desk.

“Let me ask you something: Why did you help me the last time I was here? Why did you hand us those tickets? You wanted me pissed off, didn't you? You want us to take down the White Lights. What do they have on you?”

“I don't like ­people knowing about my past. It makes them feel like they have power over me and they're prone to take liberties.”

“What kind?”

“Some things are private, even from you.”

“I know about your past now. You coming after me next?”

She makes a face at that.

“Please. Everyone knows you're insane. Tell them I'm Sigrun. Tell them I'm Catherine the Great or Wonder Woman. No one is going to believe you.”

She has a point.

“How do I stop the ritual?”

“Don't be so dense, Stark. When we cut Townsend open, what did we take?”

“His heart.”

“Right. Restore the body. Put the heart back where it belongs.”

“And that will kill McCarthy?”

“No. But he'll be weak enough that he can be destroyed. Of course, you'll have to go to the Tenebrae to do it.”

“How the hell do I get to the Tenebrae? And more important, how do I get back?”

She picks up her pen.

“I've given you enough. You're on your own from here. Run along, little angel.”

“Where's the heart?”

“In a canopic jar in the
Gruppenführer
's office in the Legion's warehouse. It's on a high shelf, next to lovely framed photo of Adolf and Eva and some other party nonsense.”

“Where's the office?”

“You found the special room upstairs?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Straight through there.”

“Just one more thing: Is Burgess in on this?”

“I have no idea.”

“What about Wormwood?”

“Wormwood Investments? It wouldn't surprise me. They have their fingers in a lot of interesting pies.”

“What does a bank have to do with Death?”

“Good-­bye, Stark. You know the way out.”

Tykho's door doesn't budge when I push it. I have to bang on it a ­couple of times before it swings open. The bruisers crowd the way out, looking over one another's shoulders, checking on their boss, and keeping an eye on me. As soon as Tykho nods the all clear to them, they do their bulldozer thing again, and shove me out the front door without slowing down. I almost trip on the pavement, Charlie Chaplin with a gun. The meat puppets in line get a nice chuckle out of that.

The guy with
payot
is still working the door. For a second I'm tempted to go over and tell him who his boss is. But she was right. I might as well say she's Hello Kitty. He'd believe me about as much.

I get in the Crown Vic and head home.

M
Y BRAIN SPINS
in circles as I drive.

Bugsy Siegel first came to California in '33, the same year Hitler became chancellor of Germany and William Pelley formed the Silver Legion. When Bugsy settled in Beverly Hills in '37 he looked up his old pal, movie star George Raft, best known for his roles as gangsters and tough guys. Both men were sharp dressers and there were a lot of arguments around town over whether Bugsy was copying George or it was the other way around.

Hollywood has always loved a good crook and Bugsy palled around with big-­name actors, studio heads, and millionaires. Any L.A. luminary who wanted to get a whiff of the wild side. The closest thing America had left to Wild West outlaws, Jesse James or Cole Younger.

Here's the funny thing: Bugsy was a hood and a creep, but he hated Nazis. In '38, the lovely Countess Dorothy Dendice Taylor DiFrasso took him to Europe and introduced him to Göring and Goebbels. Bugsy couldn't fucking stand them. He even offered to put a hit out on them, but that went nowhere fast.

Which brings me all the way back to Murphy Ranch. If he'd won the war, would Hitler have loved that concrete Eagle's Nest? And would Hollywood have embraced Europe's wild man the way they did Bugsy? Der Führer was a vegetarian who loved animals, so two points in his favor right there. And he had a hard-­on for art. He was also a painter, though a lousy one. Of course, that sure never stopped any Hollywood celebrities who liked to dabble in watercolors from getting shows in tony L.A. galleries looking to make a splash off the star's name. With the right connections, would Hitler have eventually hung next to Hollywood art-­world luminaries like Sylvester Stallone and Stevie Nicks?

Part of me feels very far from home. I'm sure as hell a long way from where this case started. From Vincent finding me at Bamboo House of Dolls, I've skated from Laurel Canyon to the world of old-­school mobsters right into a necromancer dead end. All the way to Himmler's book club and séance rooms in twenties Munich, then back further to pelt-­wearing Teutonic horsemen, all the way to the Thule group's Hyperborea. But the thing is, throughout this weird ramble, I never really left Hollywood. Once I make it through all the craziness, where do I track the source of and solution to this whole mess? To a fucking playhouse off Sixth Street where entrepreneurial Nazi shitheads are staging nightly pageants, like Andy Hardy and Betsy Booth doing a musical in a barn.

This might be the end of the world as we know it, but it's still show biz.

S
AMAEL IS WAITING
for me outside the Beat Hotel eating a Pink's chili dog. If anyone ever wondered if he used to be the Devil, all they'd have to do is watch him down that dog. The sloppiest food in the known universe, and he devours it without dropping so much as a molecule of grease or chili on his suit. That's hoodoo of the highest order. When he's done, he wads up the foil wrapper and tosses it into the gutter. I point to it as I come over.

“You're messing up my city. Would you dirty up Hell like that?”

“Of course,” he says. “I invented littering. Before I was thrown out, the streets of Heaven were strewn with ambrosia containers and empty six-­packs of divine mineral water.”

“You must have been an annoying kid.”

“No worse than you.”

“I'm not a litterbug.”

“No. You just run around shanghaiing innocent citizens.”

“There aren't any innocent citizens in L.A., especially the ones I grab.”

He smiles.

“It's always good to be back, Jimmy. Seen any good movies lately? Anything to recommend?”

“A few, though the thing is, we're kind of out of the movie business at the moment. The county padlocked the store.”

“Why don't you unpadlock it?”

I take out a Malediction, offer him one. He waves me off. I light mine.

“Because it might bring down more trouble than we need right now, what with this strange case I'm helping with.”

“Look at you, a responsible civilian. Restrained and refined. The Jimmy I knew a year ago would have torn the doors off City Hall and driven a police car through the mayor's office.”

“You have no idea how strange this feels, thinking things through before I do them. But I'm sort of responsible for other ­people these days. Don't want them getting hit with the shit I kick up.”

“I know what you mean,” he says. “Working as father's right-­hand man, it gives me pause. Father wants to make peace with the angels denying humans entry into Heaven, while I think the whole thing could be solved by cutting off a few heads.”

I take a pull on the cigarette.

“When did things get so complicated?”

“They didn't. We did. Men like us, with intemperate natures, we're not supposed to consider our actions. We just
do
and clean up the mess later.”

“In other words, thinking hurts.”

“You hit the nail on the head.”

We stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, past the Museum of Death.

“I've never been in,” he says. “Is it worth it?”

“You'd love it. It's like a mortuary textbook crossed with an old Hollywood scandal sheet.”

“Sold. The next time you're taking friends, count me in.”

“Sure thing. I guess things aren't going so well up in Heaven.”

“Not especially.”

We walked in silence for a bit. Finally, I say, “I've learned a few things about the new Death. Who he is. What he wants.”

“Will any of it kill him?”

“Maybe. Someone gave me a clue. I think I can trust her, but I'm not a hundred percent sure.”

“These aren't one hundred percent times. Go with your gut, I say.”

“Might as well. My brain isn't helping.”

“How is your guest doing?”

“It's hard to tell with him. He went through his pain pills pretty fast and he wants more, but I don't think it's for the pain.”

“Give an angel a body and they go mad, each and every one.”

I nod.

“Hey, you know anything about breaking a blue-­yonder contract?”

He shakes his head.

“It can't be done. They're as binding as mine were.”

“So, back in the day you wouldn't ever give someone a break? Not even a friend?”

“Well,” he says.

We walk a little farther, past empty clubs and car lots.

“There are exceptions to everything,” he says.

“So, it could be done.”

“You'd have to make a deal with Death and I have the feeling this particular one isn't in a dealing mood.”

“Shit.”

“Yes.”

“Someone told me that if I could get to the Tenebrae in the next twenty-­four hours, I might be able to take out McCarthy.”

“Who?”

“The new Death.”

“What an evocative name for Death. ‘What happened to old Frank?' ‘It looks like he's McCarthyed.' ”

“Hilarious. I keep saying you should do stand-­up.”

“And I keep telling you that you're the comedian, not me.”

“I'm not feeling so funny right now. I can't shadow-­walk anymore, so I don't know how to get to the Tenebrae.”