Hollywood Dead Read online

  “The clock is ticking, Stark. Your body is already starting to break down.”

  “A cigarette would really help me think.”

  “Tick-tock,” she says.

  I take a breath and lean back on the pool table.

  “Then we have to make them come to us,” I say. “Make them think you have something they want so they’ll come after it. Maybe a counter-spell that can blow up their ritual. Now, here’s the hard part. Someone’s got to take that fake spell and stroll out of here with it. Let themselves get kidnapped, then bring one of them back here for questioning. Any volunteers?”

  I glance around the room knowing the answer but hoping Roger might be enough of a suck-up that he’ll raise his hand.

  No such luck.

  “I think you win the coin toss, Stark,” says Sandoval.

  “I had a feeling I would. I wish you’d told me all this earlier in the day. I can’t really get started until tomorrow, Thursday. That’s cutting things close.”

  “I told you. We couldn’t bring you back any sooner,” says Howard.

  “You’re lucky you brought me back at all. I was one hot second from being double dead.”

  Howard frowns.

  “Dying in Heaven?”

  “Being murdered, technically.”

  “You do find trouble everywhere,” says Sandoval.

  “I was just looking for the buffet line.”

  “Is there anything we can do to get started now?” says Sinclair. There’s the slightest edge to his voice. He doesn’t like all this chitchat. Yeah, he’s scared, but he knows something he’s not telling me. Probably what’s really going on. I believe that these creeps don’t want to get blown to rags, but I wonder what they do want. I’ll put beating information from Sinclair on my to-do list for tomorrow. For now, I just talk to him.

  “Do you have a rat in your organization? Don’t answer. It was a rhetorical question. For things to be this out of control, of course you do.”

  “They’re worse than you think,” says Sinclair.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Assassinations,” says Sandoval. “Slow, but steady.”

  Sinclair chimes in.

  “Mostly the heads of other offices. Pieter Holden in Vienna was first.”

  Sandoval holds up one finger, then two.

  “Megan Bradbury in Chicago and Franz Landschoff in Cairo are the most recent.”

  I look over at the roaches, then back to them.

  “You’re sure it’s the faction doing it?”

  “There’s no question,” Sandoval says.

  “Not just a rat then. A great big rat.” I go to Sandoval and stage-whisper, “Eva, do you think it’s one of these assholes?”

  She looks over at her mute bugs.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “I trust all of these people with my life.”

  “Good. ’Cause if it’s one of them, we’re completely fucked.”

  “What’s your idea?” says Sinclair.

  “Put the word out to all of your people. A courier is taking something life-or-death important across town tomorrow afternoon. Make it to one of your other offices.”

  “You think the faction will try to intercept the courier?”

  “They better or you can relax and eat finger sandwiches until they blow your asses up.”

  “And you with us,” says Sandoval. “I take it that you’re going to play the courier?”

  “Since none of you stepped up, I guess so.”

  She looks at the roaches.

  “All right. You know what to do. Spread the word about the courier to all of your subordinates.”

  “Make sure they know I’m the only thing between their ass and the next coal cart to Hell,” I add.

  “Go,” says Sandoval. “Start making calls.”

  I hold up a hand.

  “Not yet.”

  Everyone looks at me.

  “If someone doesn’t give me a cigarette, the deal is off.”

  Roger reaches into his jacket and tosses me a pack of Shermans.

  “Got a lighter?” I say.

  “I thought you were Mr. Magic. Light it your-fucking-self,” he says.

  “Thanks, Rog. You’re a pip.”

  They all file out.

  “We’ll be working tonight, Stark. What will you do to occupy yourself?” says Sandoval. “And keep in mind that you’re barred from the bowling alley.”

  “Then I’m going out.”

  “Where?”

  “Out. I want to smoke. I want to see things. I want to have a drink with people I don’t hate.”

  She doesn’t believe me.

  “Calm down, Eva. Where am I going to go? I’m in hock to you. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. Just make sure your cherubs do their jobs.”

  She checks her watch and says, “Two hours.”

  “I’m going to need some money.”

  “Why?”

  “Unless things have changed in the past year, liquor isn’t free.”

  She stares at me.

  “I don’t carry cash.”

  “Of course you don’t, your highness.”

  I look at Sinclair.

  “How about you? You too good to touch filthy lucre?”

  He pulls a wad from his pocket enclosed in a gold money clip. Peels off a twenty.

  “Don’t fuck with me.”

  He peels off another.

  “Keep going. I tip big.”

  I stop him at a hundred dollars. He holds the bills out like I might bite his hand off. It’s tempting.

  I walk to a shadow and put the bills in my pocket.

  “Don’t wait up.”

  “I don’t want you coming back drunk,” says Sandoval.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll look pretty for class pictures tomorrow.”

  One more step and the shadow swallows me.

  I know those two are going to fuck me over, but I don’t know how, and until I do I’m going to have to dance their dance, take my lumps, and smile the whole time. Howardis the one I need to keep an eye on. The necromancer is the Blue Fairy to my Pinocchio and I want to be a real boy again. If things go sideways, the others can fry. Howard though? I won’t let anyone touch a hair on his stinking head.

  I step out of the shadow onto Hollywood Boulevard a few blocks west of Las Palmas and Maximum Overdrive, the video store where I live. Or used to. Who knows now? Up ahead, Donut Universe shines like the Virgin Mary doing barrel rolls over Lourdes, so I head over.

  BEFORE I GO inside there’s the matter of Roger’s cigarette. There’s no one on the street I can bum a light from, which leaves me with one option. I put the smoke in my mouth and cup my hands around it. Whisper some Hellion hoodoo. A small flame flickers up from my palm, just big enough for me to spark the cigarette. It’s a relief, and I don’t mean just getting to smoke. I haven’t done any hoodoo since coming back and I didn’t want Sandoval and Sinclair to see me in case I blew it. Now I want to try something bigger, but what I’m best at is breaking things, so I’ll wait until there’s something I want to see in pieces.

  The Sherman is a decent smoke in its own way, but it doesn’t have the bite of a Malediction, the most popular cigarette in Hell. I had a whole box stashed upstairs at Max Overdrive. Wonder if they’re still there. More important, I wonder if I should even go near the place again. What if I run into Candy? The last time she saw me, I was dying with a knife in my back. I’ve been gone a year. What’s her life like now? A year is long enough to move past whatever grief she might have felt back then. The good news is that I saw her outside Max Overdrive the night I came back from Hell, so I know she and the store are still around.

  The truth is, I want to run inside and see her right now. But what if things don’t work out with Wormwood? It’s almost Thursday and I could be gone again by Sunday. Is it fair to stumble back into her life when I could just as easily stumble out again? The answer is simple. Seeing her now wouldn’t even be close to fair. So, for the moment I’ll ke
ep to myself and see how this insane fucking situation plays out. It’s a lonely feeling, but I’m almost used to that.

  What’s really getting to me is that as much as I missed her in Hell, it’s a hundred times worse being back. My perfect, beautiful monster. During my last look at her she was in her Jade form, tearing Audsley Ishii apart. That’s how you know someone really likes you. Anyone can give you chocolate and flowers, but when they’ll disembowel someone for you? That’s true love.

  I crush the Sherman under my heel and go inside Donut Universe.

  The smell that hits me is almost overwhelming. Familiar and alien at the same time. Hellion food tastes like what a butcher shop throws in the trash and then a hobo sleeps on it for a couple of days. But what’s on the shelves in this shop …

  If I have to die again, let it be in Donut Universe. Bury me in old-fashioneds and éclairs. Burn me in the parking lot and let me drift up to Valhalla on a wave of holy sugar and grease fumes.

  When it’s my turn, I step up to the counter, where a pretty young woman asks me what I want. Like the rest of the Donut Universe staff, she wears little antennae with silver balls on the end. The balls bop gently as she speaks. My friend Cindil wore antennae like that when she worked here. Back before she was murdered. I can’t ever come in here without thinking of her. But I brought her back from Hell and now she has a pretty decent new life. She even plays drums in Candy’s terrible band. Or she did a year ago. Where is she now?

  Goddammit. Memory is such a bastard when you don’t know if any of it’s true anymore. Candy. Cindil. Max Overdrive. L.A. That’s hard to lose and maybe harder to get back when you don’t know if you can keep it.

  “Sir?” says the antennae girl. “Do you want a donut?”

  Fuck me. How long have I been standing here? I can’t even interact with actual humans without looking like a lunatic. Take two.

  “I’ll have an apple fritter and a cup of coffee.”

  She rings them up and tells me the price. I hand her one of the twenties and when she tries to give me change I say, “Keep it. I’m just happy to be back here.”

  She smiles and says, “Welcome back,” like she means it, and it kind of breaks my heart. She’s nice. I forgot what that’s like. I try to smile back at her, but I’m not sure I’m getting it right. I mean, my face does something. Whether it’s a smile or not is up to her.

  The good news is that when she brings me my order she doesn’t pepper-spray me. That’s a beginning. I feel like a kid on his first date, proud he didn’t spill whiskey on his girlfriend’s dress or puke on her when he drank too much.

  “Come back soon,” she says as I pick up my stuff.

  “If I’m still alive next week, I’ll buy out the whole damn store.”

  She laughs and says, “It’s a date then.”

  I nod and get out before I blow the moment.

  More than I already have, I mean.

  At the corner, I take a long sip of coffee. It’s funny. I remember what they served at Donut Universe as being pretty good, but I can barely taste this stuff at all. I unwrap the apple fritter and take a bite. It’s the same thing. I feel the dough in my mouth, but I can’t taste anything. Another sip of coffee and another bite of fritter. I chew until I can’t stand it anymore and spit the fritter into the gutter. It’s not the food. It’s me. I can’t taste it. Another side effect of being only half-alive. At least the cigarette had a little kick. And I could taste bourbon the other night. This half-alive situation is getting on my nerves. I’ll do whatever it takes to get right again.

  If cigarettes and liquor are all I can handle until I’m fully alive again, there’s only one place I can go. I head for Ivar Avenue and Bamboo House of Dolls. And it better be there. I swear if it’s gone, Wormwood won’t have to worry about the faction.

  I’ll nuke L.A. myself.

  FORTUNATELY FOR EVERYONE, I don’t have to drop even a single bomb. As soon as I spot the neon, my whole body relaxes. I need a drink more than ever to wash the last mealy remnants of the fritter out of my mouth. But I don’t want anyone here to know I’m back, including Carlos, the bartender. I step into an alley and throw on a glamour so no one will recognize me. There are still eighty dollars of Sinclair’s money in my pocket. That should be enough to get decently horizontal.

  But I don’t go inside right away. Instead, I stay on the street letting the moment soak in. A day or so ago, I was standing at the pearly gates. Just a few hours before that, on the road for a year with a dog pack of psycho marauders tearing up the Tenebrae, killing and burning everything in our path. Standing here now, just a day later, all that feels like a bad dream. Mouthfuls of dust, road rash, and the kind of burning fear that’s indistinguishable from anger. But here and now it’s just cigarette smoke, couples whispering to each other, and the sound of bird chirps and horns as Martin Denny spins on the jukebox. It’s a little overwhelming, but in a good way. I take one last gulp of L.A. night smog and go inside.

  At first glance, not much has changed inside. It’s still the best punk tiki bar in existence. Old Cramps and Germs posters hang on the walls. Plastic hula girls and coconuts carved like monkeys are lined up behind the bar. And Carlos is there, solo as usual, doling out beer and whiskey to the rabble. What’s changed is the crowd. It’s still a mix of fanged and feathered Lurkers and civilians, but they’re quieter than I remember. Bamboo House of Dolls used to be shoulder to shoulder any night of the week. Tonight you could fire a cannon in here and not hit anything but the wall. Over in the back corner is a minuscule stage where Carlos has installed the death knell of any good bar—a karaoke machine. It’s good to be back inside, but the state of the place is depressing. Most of the stools by the bar are empty, so I take one at the far end away from the door. Yeah, it’s quiet now, but I’ve had enough things creep up on me in here that I know I won’t be able to relax with my back exposed like that.

  Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the place. Have any flesh-eating High Plains Drifter hoedowns, skinhead assassination attempts, or hoodoo firefights happened here since I’ve been gone? Maybe not. And maybe people miss the danger. Maybe Bamboo House of Dolls isn’t the same if you’re not risking your life every time you walk inside. Carlos should have hired an evil clown to hide in the rafters and chase people around with a cleaver every now and then. It sure would have woken up these sad sacks.

  Carlos comes down the bar and gives me a hello nod.

  “What’ll you have?”

  I open my mouth and—like an idiot—almost say “Aqua Regia,” my favorite Hellion brew. Instead, I clear my throat, tell myself to focus for a goddamn minute, and manage to croak, “Jack Daniel’s. A double. Neat.”

  “You got it,” he says, and heads back to the bottles and hula girls.

  It’s ridiculous how happy it makes me just hearing his voice. The moment I do, the bar becomes more real, the smells and sounds more solid. Who cares if I couldn’t taste a fucking donut? This is my home away from home. Literally these days. I don’t even know if I have a home here anymore. For all I know, money got so thin at Max Overdrive that they tossed some throw pillows upstairs and now rent it out on Airbnb. I wonder if they would mention that I used to keep Kasabian’s head in the closet or point out all the blood that’s soaked into the floor. I would if I was them. It gives the place character. Who wouldn’t pay a little extra to sleep in a real-life Hollywood murder flat?

  When Carlos brings me my drink I put down a twenty.

  “Keep it.”

  He picks it up and tosses it back on the cash register.

  “Thanks.”

  I look around the place once more.

  “It’s quiet in here. Quieter than I remember.”

  “Yeah? You been in before?”

  “About a year ago. It was a lot more crowded. Loud and lively.”

  He looks around the place too.

  “That it was. Things change though. Crowds change.”

  I sip the Jack. Swirl it around in my mouth and swa
llow. It burns just right and washes away the last of the fritter.

  “Do you ever miss the noise?”

  He thinks for a minute.

  “Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes it was nice. Other times, it was something else entirely.”

  “I remember it used to be a little dangerous around here.”

  He lays out coasters and says, “Only if you consider dying dangerous.”

  “When you think of the old days, what do you miss most?”

  “The people. The old regulars. Some still come in, but others … they’re gone for good.”

  I take another sip of Jack.

  “This is L.A. Nothing is ever gone for good.”

  He smiles.

  “Maybe that’s what we need. A reboot. Bride of Bamboo House of Dolls.”

  “Son of Bamboo House of Dolls.”

  He gives me a look.

  “You a Frankenstein fan? I had a buddy who used to like old movies.”

  “What happened? You’re not friends anymore?”

  Carlos brings over the Jack and a glass. Pours himself a drink.

  “He’s gone with the wind.”

  “Left town?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He looks up as the jukebox begins to play Martin Denny’s “Quiet Village.”

  “Me too,” he says. “I mean he could be a real asshole sometimes, but you know?”

  “I have friends like that. Pains in the ass, but they keep things interesting.”

  “Exactly. But he’s gone, so what are you going to do?”

  “Get yourself a necromancer?”

  He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I get enough of those gloomy bastards on trivia night.”

  I almost spit out a mouthful of whiskey.

  “You have a karaoke machine and you do bar trivia?”

  He nods slowly.

  “Pathetic, isn’t it? But you do whatever it takes to keep the doors open.” He gives me a hard look. “What, you never compromised anything to stay alive?”

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

  “I’ve compromised plenty. More than I like to think about. But damn, trivia and karaoke?”

  Carlos downs his drink in one swallow.

  “I know. I sold my soul. But when I win the lottery— boom!—they’re all gone.”