Hollywood Dead Page 14

  Great. Sinclair slipped me a counterfeit bill. I can’t even get a decent drink before I turn into cold beef stew.

  I start to get up when Carlos says, “This is the second time you’re in here and you still haven’t said hello properly.”

  He slides the bill back to me. I don’t touch it.

  I say, “What’s the right way to say hello?”

  He shakes his head, like he’s disappointed he can’t teach a mollusk to play fetch.

  “Asshole, the right way is, ‘Hello, Carlos. Pour me an Aqua Regia.’”

  I stare at him.

  “How the hell did you know?”

  He pinches my cheek.

  “The pretty-boy face. Whenever you want to look like regular people, you always use that same stupid face. Get rid of it, man. It’s giving me the willies.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want people to know I’m back. I fucked up and might not be around too much longer.”

  Someone down the bar signals for a refill. Carlos shoves two beers in front of him and says, “Don’t bother me again.”

  When he comes back over he says, “Were you really dead all this time?”

  “Yeah.”

  He leans in closer, whispering.

  “Look, if someone is after you, you can always hide in back.”

  I take a sip of my drink.

  “It’s not like that. I’m back but, you see, I’m only fifty percent alive. If I don’t fix things, I’m going to be a hundred percent dead again.”

  Carlos stands back and glances around the room.

  “You’re nothing but trouble, aren’t you?”

  “Mom says I’m her special little angel.”

  “Drink your drink,” he says. “I’m closing early.”

  I grab his arm. “Don’t do that, man. You’ve got a nice crowd in here. This is your living.”

  “That’s right: it’s my living. And that means I’ll run it any way I like.”

  He throws a switch behind the bar and the jukebox goes quiet. The crowd moans. Carlos stands on a crate behind the bar and whistles, loud and piercing.

  He says, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming, but I need you to finish your drinks and clear your asses out of here. Family emergency.”

  There are a few “aww”s and more moaning, but everyone does what they’re told. The last thing the kind of people who come to a place like Bamboo House want is to get banned. It takes another ten minutes or so for the crowd to pay up and shuffle out the door looking for other, less interesting places to get wasted. A few of them look at me, the one guy not moving. They’re wondering if I’m privileged or in trouble. I’m wondering the same thing, but I’m also enjoying the excuse Carlos used to shut the place down. Even if he didn’t mean anything by the word “family,” it was still nice to hear.

  After he hustles the last stragglers out and locks the front door, he looks at me.

  “You ready to go?” he says.

  “Where?”

  “To meet my brother-in-law. The brujo.”

  “You really have a brujo? I always thought that was a joke.”

  “It’s not. Get your ass outside and let’s see if he can do anything about your ridiculous situation.”

  I get up slowly, afraid my skin might slide off at any moment.

  “Carlos, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  “Shut up. You’re going to pay me back plenty when he fixes you. Sandman Slim got the crowds in here before and you’re going to do it again when you’re better. You’re going to sit at the bar, sneer and ignore people, and tell anyone who wants an autograph to go fuck themselves.”

  “Like old times.”

  “Damn straight.”

  I follow him out the back and around the corner to a brilliantly polished red and black 1970 Ford Torino.

  Dying or not, I can’t help looking it over.

  “Carlos, I had no idea.”

  “That’s why I don’t park it near the bar. I don’t want any drunks puking on it. And if you think for one second about stealing it, I will shoot you in the head myself.”

  He unlocks the doors and we slide inside on the black vinyl seats.

  “I’d never steal this one,” I tell him. “But if I live, I’m definitely going to have to steal something like it.”

  “You’re going to live,” he says. “You’re the only thing that’s going to let me throw the damned karaoke machine in the trash. I’ll drag your ass out of Hell myself for that.” He looks at me. “Now, do what I told you. Get rid of that stupid face.”

  I drop the glamour.

  He says, “That’s better. I’m not bringing home Beaver Cleaver.”

  IT’S ONLY A fifteen-minute ride to Carlos’s place. He lives just north and east of the bar, in the Los Feliz area, just off Franklin Avenue. It’s an okay little neighborhood, a mix of old apartment buildings and one- and two-story single-family homes.

  He pulls us into a two-car driveway. The other car is a gray Honda Civic. Boring as dirt, but just as polished as the Torino. The house is two floors, done in mission style. It looks like it’s from the forties. It could use a little work, but there are desert plants outside that give it a nice, lived-in look. He locks the Torino and sets the alarm before taking us inside.

  Like the outside, the living room looks comfortable and lived-in. It’s a crazy combination of overstuffed easy chairs surrounded by modern and antique everything else. There’s a Victorian desk in the corner, but the coffee table is delta shaped, like the ones at the café. There are stuffed mariachi frogs and a jackalope head on the mantelpiece over a fireplace. Around the room are old gas-station signs and thrift-shop paintings that someone has modified. Robots in old barnyard scenes. UFOs and dancing girls in landscapes.

  Carlos smiles, looking at me trying to take it all in.

  “Like it?” he says. “Most of it’s Ray’s. He’s a collector, only he can’t decide what he collects, so he collects everything.”

  “I love it,” I say.

  “Good. Be sure to tell him that when you meet him.”

  “Is Ray your brother-in-law?”

  “The one and only.”

  Carlos goes to an open door that leads to another room.

  “Ray, you home?”

  “I’m in the kitchen,” comes another voice.

  “Well, come on out here. We’ve got a guest.”

  “Coming.”

  Ray comes out a few seconds later, wiping his hands on a small towel. He’s in a white shirt and tan pants. In good shape. He’s sandy haired and wearing Buddy Holly glasses. Ray could be a computer programmer or an ad writer. Whatever he does for a living, he doesn’t look like any brujo I’ve ever seen. He puts out his hand as he comes in.

  “Hi. I’m Ray,” he says.

  We shake.

  “I’m Stark.”

  He walks back to stand by Carlos.

  “I know exactly who you are,” he says, smiling. “I’ve seen you at the bar a few times. You’re the one who brings in all the trouble and all the business.”

  “See? He knows all about you,” says Carlos.

  Ray is a little taller than Carlos. He says, “Hi, babe,” then leans down and gives him a peck on the lips.

  Turning back to me, Ray says, “Let me guess. He told you I’m his brother-in-law.”

  I nod.

  “That’s what he tells everyone.”

  Ray looks at Carlos affectionately.

  “For as long as I’ve known him. He thinks it’s hilarious.”

  “It is hilarious,” says Carlos. “It’s just I’m the only one with a sense of humor.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” says Ray.

  I hold up a hand. “Only if you’re having some.”

  “Three cups it is,” he says, and goes back to the kitchen.

  Carlos leads me into the living room and we sit down.

  I don’t say anything for a minute and Carlos says, “So, now you know my dirty little secret. I live with
a pack rat.”

  I say, “Ray seems really nice.”

  “He is.”

  Carlos leans his arms on his knees, looking a bit more serious.

  “There’s certain stuff I don’t talk about at the bar,” he says. “Stuff like my home life.”

  “Or your car.”

  “Especially not my car.”

  I pause for a minute, trying to phrase the question right.

  “Do you think anyone is going to judge you? I mean, especially the crowd at Bamboo House?”

  He leans back in the easy chair and nods thoughtfully. Then smiles faintly.

  “Easy for you to say, Mr. Can Beat Up Five Guys at Once and Not Break a Sweat. When someone bashes me—and they have—I go to the hospital and have to close the bar for days.” He shakes his head. “It’s not worth it.”

  I lean in a little closer.

  “You know I’ll fucking destroy anyone who tries that, right?”

  He nods as Ray comes in with the coffee.

  “I appreciate the thought,” says Carlos. “But you’re not always around. Especially lately. Which brings us to why you’re here, so let’s just focus on that, okay?”

  He looks at Ray and slaps him on the leg.

  “I had a feeling this was more than a random social visit,” Ray says.

  “That it is,” says Carlos.

  I reach for the coffee.

  “You need cream or sugar?” says Ray, but Carlos waves a dismissive hand at me.

  “He drinks it black, like some kind of animal. You could probably serve him tar and he wouldn’t notice.”

  “Carlos is right,” I say. “Not about the tar. The other part.”

  Ray takes a sip of his coffee and sets down the cup on the delta table. I drink mine too. I can’t taste anything, but I want to be polite.

  “Why don’t you tell me about why you’re here?” says Ray.

  Before I can answer, Carlos says. “Despite appearances, Stark here is dead.”

  Ray cocks his head and looks at me.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed,” says Ray. “You wear death well.”

  I pick up my coffee but don’t drink it.

  “It’s not quite as bad as Carlos says. I’m only half-dead.”

  Carlos says, “He didn’t exactly say it, but I’m guessing he pissed off a necromancer who was supposed to make him all the way alive.”

  “That’s pretty much it,” I say.

  “You got to be careful around those people. Necromancers are weird little fucks. I still think you should come by trivia night. Maybe we can find one of those guys to fix you up.”

  I set down my cup, realizing that it wasn’t coffee I wanted, but a cigarette.

  “I’d love to, but, what did you say, that’s Tuesday or Wednesday? I’m not going to last that long. According to the people who brought me back, I’m only going to have a few more hours.”

  Ray says, “Maybe I can talk to the necromancer. See what’s going on. Maybe convince him to help out. Where is he?”

  “Unconscious behind a stack of porn in a closet. I kidnapped him.”

  Carlos laughs. Ray gives him a look, and I must also be giving him the cockeye, because he says, “I’m sorry, man, but you are such an asshole. You never make anything easy.”

  I lean back and laugh too. It feels good.

  “I thought kidnapping him was the easy way,” I say. “But all it did was scare him. And we don’t have access to his equipment.”

  Ray is more serious.

  “Do you know what kind of spell he used?”

  “No. But it’s supposed to be something obscure. The people who brought me back were real clear that he was the only one who knew how to do it.”

  “Let’s hope they were exaggerating.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Shoot,” says Ray.

  “You’re not quite like other brujos I’ve met. Though, I suppose that’s not a question. I guess I’m curious what kind of brujo you are.”

  Ray hangs his head down for a second, then brings it back up.

  “That’s another one of Carlos’s dumb jokes. I’m not a brujo.”

  “You’re my brujo,” says Carlos.

  “Thank you, but that doesn’t really help Stark, does it?”

  I say, “If you’re not a brujo, what do you do? Are you Sub Rosa?”

  “No,” says Ray. “My grandfather was, but he rejected the community and never did any magic. I’m strictly home-schooled by my grandmother. She had a lot of old books, including some of my grandfather’s. She taught me things.”

  Carlos says, “His abuela. She was a real bruja.”

  “That she was.”

  Ray takes another sip of his coffee.

  “Okay, Stark, let’s get you upstairs and check you out.”

  FROM THE OUTSIDE, it’s an ordinary room in any suburban house. There are no runes, wards, or charms on the door to indicate that it’s anything other than a guest room or where someone ties flies for fun. But it’s very different when Ray ushers us inside.

  The room immediately reminds me of Vidocq’s apartment. Lots of old, stained tables covered in potion ingredients and glass lab equipment for mixing magical brews. There are books everywhere and an old apothecary cabinet the size of a steamer trunk.

  I say, “Nice setup,” and Ray beams.

  “I put some of it together, but most of it comes from my grandparents. My folks got me the alembic and the Erlenmeyer flask for Christmas when I turned eighteen, though. They wanted me to quit all this silly magic business when I was younger, but when they realized I was serious, they were very supportive.”

  “They sound like good people.”

  “They are. Are you ready?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t have a real medical examining table, so the conference table in the corner will have to do. Carlos, will you help me with it?”

  “Sure.”

  As they hustle the table to the middle of the cramped room Ray says, “Stark, if we’re going to do this right—and I hope you aren’t the shy type—I’m going to need you to strip.”

  Carlos laughs.

  “Do you know how many times he’s come into the bar covered in blood? Shy he isn’t.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  While they set up the table, I take off my clothes and toss them into a relatively uncluttered area below something that looks like a whiskey still with TV rabbit ears on top.

  As Ray drapes a clean sheet across the table I say, “Can I help with anything?”

  “Nope. We’re just about ready for you to hop on.”

  Carlos glances over at me while Ray makes final adjustments to the table. The look on Carlos’s face isn’t reassuring.

  “What the fuck have you been doing, man?” he says.

  My first thought is that he’s never had a really good look at my Kissi arm. Or seen how scarred I really am. There isn’t much more than an inch or two of my body that doesn’t have some kind of mark on it. Then I look down at myself and see it’s so much worse. The bruises I’d hoped would be fading by now are dark and livid. Some are stiff, like hematomas. Others are pulpy soft.

  “Shit.”

  “Shit is right,” says Carlos.

  Ray looks over to see what Carlos is talking about. He has good control of his face. He’s done this before. Ray never looks shocked, but the momentary spike in his heartbeat and his pupils dilating tell me all I need to know.

  “Let’s get you on the table now,” he says. “Lie down faceup.”

  I climb onto the table and do what he says. Carlos keeps staring.

  “Ray has a better bedside manner than you,” I tell him.

  “I’m sorry,” Carlos says. “All those times I made fun of you. I didn’t know how fucked up you really were.”

  “Don’t worry about it. The bruises are mostly from the last couple of days.”

  “I’m not talking about the bruises.”


  “The scars are old. They help keep me alive. And they remind me of where I came from.”

  “Remind me to never go there.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. Except for the Aqua Regia and Maledictions.”

  “What are Maledictions?” says Ray.

  “The kind of cigarettes we smoked in Hell.”

  He looks at me.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I’m afraid so. Look, if you don’t want to do this …”

  I start to get up, but Ray pushes me back down.

  “No. We’re doing this, and we’re doing it right now.”

  He goes to the apothecary cabinet and pulls a few things from what, to me, looks like nothing more than a wall of little doors.

  I point to it.

  “How do you know what goes where?”

  “I’ve been working with this cabinet since I was five. I know every drawer, every door, every inch of it.”

  Ray comes over to the table with a collection of herbs and some small bottles about the size of shot glasses. He looks at me again and takes a breath.

  “You understand that we’re still in the diagnosis stage, right?”

  “Got it.”

  “I’m going to put some of these items on your chakra points,” he says. “Some of the plants might sting and the glass vessels might be a little cold.”

  “I’ve been through worse.”

  “Goddamn right,” says Carlos.

  I look at him.

  “You’re not making me at all self-conscious.”

  “Sorry. He’s the doctor. Also, I guess I thought you were exaggerating when you said you were part dead.”

  “I wish I was.”

  Ray begins laying out his magic tchotchkes. He starts at the top of my head, then moves to my forehead, my throat, and works his way all the way down to my groin.

  I try to look at him without turning my head.

  “What happens now?”

  “We wait,” he says.

  “For?”

  “The diagnosis. Try to lie still. Breathe gently in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

  I do it, feeling slightly silly lying naked in my bartender’s home, covered in flowers, nettles, and weird chemical brews. If this was college, I’d swear the whole thing was a hazing ritual. Only it’s not, I remind myself. You’re dying, so lie still and suck it up.

  I’m there for about five minutes. Every minute or so, Ray takes one of the items off a chakra and replaces it with something else. He was right. A few of the items sting. A couple burn slightly. All of the glass is cold and the annoying thing is that it stays cold.