“Yum.”
I try to slip out the front of the bar, but the cops are already there. It's the two that were in the bar earlier. When they try the bully-Âboy routine, I use the only weapon I can think of. One that might backfire in my face. I flash my Vigil credentials at them. They back off. Reluctantly, but they back off.
“I understand you removed evidence from the accident scene,” says one. The one who looked at me funny before. He's still looking at me kind of like I'm a talking lobster.
“I'm taking in a cell phone to the Vigil's labs.”
“You don't think this was a traffic accident?”
“I don't know what it is, but I know the kid is a person of interest in a Vigil investigation, so I'm keeping the phone.”
“Let me see that ID again.”
I pull it out but keep it close enough that he can't grab it from me.
He writes down my ID number and closes his notebook.
“We'll be in touch,” he says.
“I'll count the seconds.”
I walk around the corner into the alley next to Bamboo House. The headlights of the cop car throw a nice shadow on the wall. As I step through I catch the cop with the notebook watching me. I keep going. This is Hollywood. Fuck him if he can't deal with a little street magic.
I
'M HOME MAYBE
twenty minutes when someone pounds on the front door of Max Overdrive. I grab my Colt and head downstairs. The front of the store is all glass, so if someone really wanted to get in they could. Still, I'd like to know who I'm dealing with. I flip on the outside light and go behind the counter. We installed a surveillance camera over the door when Kasabian and I had the place fixed up. Except tonight all I can see is the outline of a body outside and heavy rain. More pounding on the door.
“Stark. I know you're in there. Open up, dammit.”
It's a woman's voice.
I take a chance and look around the shade that covers the door and recognize Marshal Julie Sola. I stuff the Colt in my waistband and unlock the door. She brushes past me to get out of the rain. She's in a long slicker raincoat with the hood pulled up over her head. Still, she's drenched and making a puddle on the floor. I point to the peg on the wall where Âpeople can hang their raincoats. She gives a soft “Ah,” takes off her coat, and hangs it up.
Her hair is long and dark, pulled up high and pinned in place. It was, at least. Now it's a wet rat's nest. She's dressed in light, loose-Âfitting sportswear, a kind of idiot camouflage the Vigil makes many agents wear to try and blend in with their country-Âclub location. She looks vaguely embarrassed, but quickly shakes it off.
“Thanks,” she says. “I thought I'd find you here.”
“You're half drowned. Why didn't you wait till I came in tomorrow?”
“Would you have really come to see me?”
“Maybe not first thing, but sure. I like you fine.”
“That isn't what I mean,” she says. “This is what I mean.”
She hands me the manila envelope she's been holding. She had it under the jacket, but the front is still damp.
I open the envelope and find official Vigil stationery and forms. Many pages of forms. It's my psych evaluation.
“I have to do all this?”
“Ah no. This is just part one. There are three parts.”
“Fuck me,” I say. The pages are full of word problems, shapes I'm supposed to group together, drawings, and questions about my parents.
“I can help you,” she says. “I know the right answers to give so Washington won't ask any questions.”
“You think Washington is going to buy it if I come off like Mike Brady?”
She smiles and rubs her hands together to get the circulation going.
“So we'll leave some rough edges on. The point is you'll pass. We need you.”
I drop the envelope on the counter.
“Why are you back working with them? Last I saw you, you were happy in the Mike Hammer PI biz.”
She shrugs.
“Look at things. The world is too crazy to want one more inexperienced private investigator. Don't get me wrong, I was good at my job, but I was slowly starving to death. Eating through my savings and playing a lot of Tetris waiting for the phone to ring.”
“Bad timing, I guess.”
“To say the least. When Marshal Wells called and offered me my old job back, it wasn't hard to say yes. What about you?”
“Not so different. But he told me he knew how to work a weapon, something to fight the Angra with. Turns out it was a fib. He has a bag of bones working on it. Maybe he'll figure it out.”
“I met him once. Creepy guy. He called me âtubby.' I don't look fat to you, do I?”
“I don't know. He called me âlardass' last time I saw him.”
Candy comes down the stairs.
“Is this where the party is?”
“Candy, this is Julie Sola. Marshal Sola these days. Julie, this is Candy.”
Candy comes down and they shake hands. She has powdered sugar on her fingers and it rubs off on Julie.
“Sorry,” she says, and holds out the bag she's holding. “Want a donut?”
“No thanks. I was just dropping off some paperwork.”
Candy says, “You're the private eye he talked about. You got him onto the zombie case.”
Julie nods.
“Yeah. We thought it was a simple demon possession at the time. He saved us.”
“Yeah, he does that.”
“I've seen you around Vigil headquarters.”
“Don't bring me any paperwork. I'm just this one's unofficial assistant.”
“Don't worry. If you're not on the payroll you don't have to take the psych evaluation.”
Candy looks at me and laughs.
“You're supposed to pass a government psych evaluation? Oh man, I hope you like the smell of a rubber room because that's where you're headed, pal.”
“I can pass for normal if I have to.”
“Yeah, and I'm Nancy Reagan's wrestling coach.”
Julie puts her hand out and I shake it.
“Listen,” she says. “If we make it through this maybe we can work together again. Believe it or not, I still have a few clients. And I don't think you're going to want to stay in the Vigil forever.”
“Sounds good. If the world doesn't end, let's talk.”
She starts to put on her raincoat.
“Don't forget about those papers.”
“I'll get on them first thing in the morning.”
Candy holds out the bag again.
“One for the road? I have plastic wrap upstairs.”
“No thanks,” Julie says. Then, “Shit. I almost forgot the real reason I came. Marshal Wells gave this to me to give to you. It looked important.”
It's an envelope. Nice, crisp, expensive paper. On the inside, it's lined with a molecule's thickness of gold. The thing is uncomfortably familiar. I open the note inside. It's from Saragossa Blackburn, the pope of the whole Sub Rosa kingdom in California.
The note says,
Come see me tomorrow. At noon. I know you're not an early riser.
His signature is under that, signed with a fine pen using ink that probably cost as much as a lung transplant.
“Thanks,” I say, and drop the note on the counter with the papers.
“Good night,” says Julie. To Candy she says, “Nice meeting you.”
Candy gives me a look.
“Offer the lady a ride home, Sir Galahad.”
I turn to Julie.
“Want me to get you home the fast way?”
She shakes her head.
“No thanks. I have my car.”
“Drive safe.”
“Thanks.”
“She seems nice,” says Candy, biting into a jelly donut. “What else did she bring you?”
I pick up the note from Blackburn and drop it again.
“I have to go and see one of the few guys in town who can call in a hit on me. I saw a kid get crushed today. I got a phone call from Downtown. And now this.”
I look at Candy. She's already headed for the stairs.
“These are really good donuts.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“Don't whine to me. You forgot the coffee. Now I have to go make some. Forget those papers for tonight. Come upstairs and have something to eat, fatty.”
I can tell by her tone she's going to be calling me that for a long time.
Before we fall asleep I almost ask her why she never told me about the Ommahs. Almost. Maybe I'll ask later when we're not so tired. Yeah, then.
I
CAN'T SLEEP,
so I get up at the crack of eleven. Candy is still asleep, so I pull on my clothes quietly and go into the bathroom to brush the taste of lard and sugar out of my mouth. We killed most of the bag watching
Barbarella
and
Danger: Diabolik
last night. I don't need to experience the wonders of fried dough again for a year.
I'm sick of hiding from the world, moving through the Room all the time. When I'm ready to leave I go around to the alley beside Max Overdrive and uncover the Hellion hog. It's a little something I picked up in Hell, back when I was playing Lucifer. I wanted a motorcycle so I could get around by myself and not always in a clown-Âcar presidential motorcade. I asked the local demon techs to throw together a 1965-Âstyle Electra Glide. They did their best. In fact they did a great job, but what they came up with was a lot more Hellion than Harley. The bike is built like a motorized rhino with handlebars that taper to points like they came off a longhorn's head. The pipes belch dragon fire and when I kick the bike hard, the engine glows cherry red like it wants to shoot off into the sky, a panhead Space Shuttle.
But it's not just kicks I want right now. The overcast skies mean there aren't many good shadows to move through. Plus, I don't want to spook any of Saragossa Blackburn's guard dogs by appearing out of nowhere. When I get to his place, I want them to hear me coming.
I kick the bike into gear and it roars like a hungry Tyrannosaurus. At the curb, the water comes up almost to the tire hubs, but the bike doesn't slow. The engine boils the water around us and every time I stop I'm enveloped in a cloud of steam.
The streets through Hollywood in the direction of the 101 are as snarled as ever, though some of the side streets are starting to be passable. ÂPeople running for their lives 24/7âÂhell, even L.A. has to start emptying out sometime. I'd love to collar one of the runners and ask them why they're going, but I know what the answer would be. Aunt Tilly is sick in Nebraska. There's a vegan lute hoedown in Portland. Skull Valley Sheep Kill is headlining a nonexistent music festival in Houston. Lies, all lies, and they know it, but do they understand it? It's animal stuff. Zebras don't hang around a watering hole when the lions show up.
Maybe this parade of chickenshit civilians knows more than the rest of us Vigil and Sub Rosa types determined to tough it out until the end. I mean, why should the Angra pick L.A. to be their launching pad? Then again, why not? Maybe Zhuyigdanatha wants to do an open-Âmic night at the Comedy Store. Maybe the Angra want to have a drink at the Rainbow Bar & Grill like real old-Âtime rock-Âand-Ârollers. Maybe they want to stomp us into the dirt because L.A. defines reality for three-Âquarters of the world. Or maybe because Mr. Muninn used to live here and they fucking hate him and the rest of the God brothers.
The brothers make up what's left of God. See, he had a little nervous breakdown a few millennia back and split into five pieces. He's weak, and one part of him, the brother called Neshemah, is dead. Murdered by Aelita and cheered on by big brother Ruach. Like the Ramones said, we're a happy family.
Maybe I'm making too much of it all. L.A. is turning into Atlantis, slowly sinking beneath the waves. If the rain keeps up, those Brentwood blue bloods will be chain-Âsawing their mansions into arks, loading up the kids, the Pekingese, their favorite Bentleys, and heading for warmer climes. Trust-Âfund pirates and showbiz buccaneers, sailing the briny to Palm Springs and Vegas, where it never rains and Armageddon can't get through the guards at the gated communities without an engraved invitation.
W
HEN IT COMES
to showing off, the Sub Rosa aren't like the civilian big-Âmoney crowd. They like anonymity more than kittens and cotton candy. While civilians compete for
House Beautiful
trophies, wealthy Sub Rosas like their places to come across as the most miserable shitboxes outside of the town dump. If they could live in a greasy Big Mac wrapper they'd do it.
Blackburn's mansion is downtown, in an abandoned residency hotel on South Main Street. The bottom floor is boarded up, covered in aeons of graffiti and posters for bands and clubs that haven't existed for a decade or more. The second and third floors have been gutted by fire. There's something heroic about the utter devastation of the place. It probably says more about what the Sub Rosa have become than Blackburn ever intended.
The mansion is protected by more hoodoo than the gates of Heaven. So much that Blackburn didn't have guards for years. Then I broke in that one time, and ever since, he's stationed a private army outside. To fit in with the look of the street, his mercs are covered in grime and sporting the latest haute couture rags from Bums “R” Us.
Blackburn's security chief, Audsley Ishii, and a dozen of his crustiest compadres surround me as I pull up outside the mansion. It takes me a second to recognize him under the moth-Âeaten wool cap and stage-Âmakeup stubble. His raincoat is a plastic trash bag, which he's cut open at the bottom for his head and the sides for his arms. He doesn't pull a weapon. Neither does any of his crew, but if I sneeze I'll have enough bullets and hoodoo thrown at me to knock loose one of Saturn's moons.
Ishii says, “Stark. Don't you even know enough to get out of the rain?”
“I like it. Makes this neighborhood smell less like a piss factory.”
“Well, you'd know all about living like a pig, would you?”