“Thanks a lot for coming over and taking care of everybody last night.”
She says, “How’s Fuck Hollywood?”
“A lot better. Allegra says that her hand should heal pretty well.”
“That’s so great.”
“How are you doing?”
There’s an annoyed exhalation of air on the line.
“The fucking alarm company refuses to install the system,” she says. “Not after the riot last night. Chickens.”
“Do you need any help? I mean, I’m absolutely no good at those things, but I can bring snacks.”
“It’s okay. Alessa and I got all the sensors in place ourselves. Kasabian wouldn’t even help. He thinks if he gets on a ladder he’ll fall and be paralyzed.”
“Or he’s just lazy.”
“I don’t think that’s it. He’s working on getting the system online, but is having trouble. Want to come over and help him? He won’t let Alessa or me do it. I think he could use some guy company.”
“He’s desperate enough for me?”
“Don’t talk like that. And yes, he is. Come right over,” she says and hangs up.
I check on Fuck Hollywood and she’s still out like a light. Before leaving I whisper some hoodoo so that if she wakes up, I’ll know it and can come back. I put on my mask and go straight to Max Overdrive. I hate that there are nervous butterflies in my stomach, but there’s no denying it.
As usual now, the front door of the shop is locked. And they’ve installed a second dead bolt. I knock a few times and Kasabian opens the door. Then he goes back to the laptop open on the front counter. He stares at me until I lock the door, before poking at the computer again.
I point to the machine.
“Need any help?”
He doesn’t look up.
“No. Go hit something with a hammer. This is brain work.”
I hold up my bandaged right hand.
“No hammers. I’m out of commission for the day.”
“How about your left hand?”
“It’s fine.”
He hands me a thick computer manual.
“Good. Hold this. You’re my book stand.”
He goes back to ignoring me. Just poking at the laptop and cursing quietly.
I try to look over his shoulder.
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“Of course.”
“Because you’ve been typing the same thing over and over for five minutes.”
“You’ve been here for only one.”
“I’m just assuming.”
He says, “I’m looking for the sweet spot.”
“Hurry up. The manual is getting heavy, what with my encumbrances.”
“Get your ass kicked again?”
“Got shot.”
“Is that all you do now? That and moon after Candy?”
I look at him hard.
“If you ever say that where another human being can hear, your head’s going to be back on a skateboard so fast.”
“Candy would love you if you did that.”
“Just push the right buttons, for fuck sake.”
He pokes at the keyboard for a minute and throws up his hands.
“Yes!” he yells like he just cured cancer. He even smiles when he looks at me. “Remember my streaming service?”
“You mean your betrayal of all movie rental shops ever? I remember.”
“I’ll have Disney Voodoo Riot up and running in a couple of weeks.”
I look at him.
“That’s the name you’re going with?”
“What? You don’t like it?”
“It’s fine. I’m sure when the Mouse finds out about it he’ll be amused too.”
“Disney will never find it. We can run the server from the same place we get the movies. There’s no way to trace it because it’s not in this plane of existence.”
I have to smile at that.
“You bad man.”
He laughs quietly.
“The worst. This is going to be my mark. I know I’m third-rate as a magician, but I always had the best movies in L.A.”
“And the way you’ll know if you’ve made it big is if no one ever knows it’s you?”
“Exactly. I’m the man who makes things happy behind the scenes, but no one knows. I’m Dr. Mabuse.”
“That’s great. Just remember: Dr. Mabuse ended up in the nuthouse.”
Kasabian makes a face.
“Always with the negative waves, Moriarty.”
I shake my head. “You aren’t Donald Sutherland.”
“And you aren’t Clint Eastwood, so just hold the damn book while I finish.”
Another minute or so of his slow, uncertain poking and then little red lights go on all around us as the alarm system comes online.
He pulls out his bottle of Macallan from beneath the counter.
“You can stay and have a drink if you don’t talk,” he says.
My phone vibrates. There’s a new text.
“Jimmy, I know you’re having fun and games with your movie chums, but we need to talk. Meet me at Musso & Frank’s nowish.”
I read the text over a couple of times, trying to decide if it’s real.
“No time for drinks,” I say. “I have to meet Samael.”
Kasabian frowns.
“What does that guy want?”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
“Well, don’t bring him around here. He gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
“Say goodbye to Candy and Alessa for me.”
“Sure thing. Coward.”
“Not a word or it’s skateboard time, Alfredo Garcia.”
The Musso & Frank Grill isn’t far from Max Overdrive, so I walk because with all the madness going on, I want to feel a little human for a minute. Big mistake.
Every masked face I pass is a potential Shoggot and it gets me jumpy as hell. I’m still hurting from the riot and the last thing I want right now is to have to mud wrestle even one crazy. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth, an old calming trick. It doesn’t do a goddamn thing. I step into the doorway of a shuttered tourist trap selling Hollywood snow globes and T-shirts and, as discreetly as possible, move the Colt from my back and into my coat pocket, where I can keep a hand on it. I’m not saying I’m looking forward to shooting a Shoggot in the face, but I am saying that it would be very satisfying.
Someone has painted King Bullet’s skull graffiti on the wall next to an Irish pub that’s selling to-go drinks. There’s a homeless guy hanging around outside. He’s wearing two or three ragged coats and a sweat-stained Captain America baseball cap. Any other day, I might feel sorry for him, but today I eye him like he’s a napping T. rex. He mistakes my look for sympathy and heads my way. Or maybe he’s a Shoggot lookout and I’m going to get to shoot someone after all.
He holds out a grimy, callused hand in my direction and we lock eyes. I should be able to read him this close and know whether the homeless look is a gaff or not. But I can’t get a lock on him. His mind is going in a dozen directions at once, which tracks for some of the wilder Shoggots. I keep my eyes on his, giving him my best Lee Van Cleef narrow-eyed stare. Soon, his eyes twitch away. He pulls back his hand and limps behind a parking meter, like he thinks I won’t be able to see him there.
Great. I just scared some poor asshole who’s having enough trouble clinging to reality. He doesn’t need me glaring at him like I think he’s a rabid dog. Feeling like a heel, I take a twenty from my pocket and hold it out to him. It takes him a moment to come away from the safety of the parking meter, snatch the bill from my hand, and go back into his imaginary hiding place. One more day I’ve ruined. One more brain I’ve bruised when I didn’t need to. King Bullet is deep in my head and I want him out. Maybe getting drunk on Samael’s dime will help me start.
Musso & Frank’s is old Hollywood. It’s been on Hollywood Boulevard for more than a hundred years and I hope it makes it for another hundred. Frank
ly, with its red upholstered booths and classy look and feel, the place is a little intimidating for someone like me who grew up heating frozen macaroni in the microwave because Dad was gone and Mom had been at the box wine all afternoon. So, when I find Musso & Frank’s door closed, I consider turning around and leaving. But it opens a moment later and a red-jacketed waiter in a black surgical mask ushers me through the front of the place to the back room.
Samael is there, checking his phone and sipping a martini. He smiles when he sees me and waves me over.
I say, “I thought this place was closed because of the virus.”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
“And why is that exactly?”
“Years ago, a few of the staff sold me their souls.”
“But you’re not Lucifer anymore.”
“They don’t know that and we’re going to have a lovely meal because of it.”
The waiter comes back with menus and a martini for me. I hand it back to him.
“Can I get bourbon?”
Samael gestures for the waiter to set the glass down.
“Drink your martini, Jimmy. It’s a classic.”
“I don’t like martinis.”
I wait for him to say something clever, but he just ignores me until he’s looked over the menu.
“I recommend the steak tartare as a starter.”
“Raw beef? I’d rather eat my own leg.”
He shakes his head sadly.
“Not a politically correct joke in an age of autophagia.”
“I wasn’t making a joke and I’m not eating that stuff.”
He takes a breath.
“Then try a lobster cocktail.”
“Is it cooked?”
“Exquisitely.”
“Okay then.”
“Soup?”
“I hate soup.”
“Of course you do.”
I skip all of the middle stuff on the menu and go straight to the steaks.
“If you’re paying, I’ll get the filet mignon.”
“Get the lamb chops.”
“I like filet mignon.”
“That’s because you have the palate of a twelve-year-old. Trust me. You’ll be happier with the lamb chops.”
I set down the menu harder than I needed to.
“I want the filet mignon.”
He finishes his martini and takes mine. Then he gestures for the waiter.
“We’ll have the steak tartare, a lobster cocktail, the French onion soup, house salad, and two orders of the lamb chops.”
“Goddammit.”
“Ignore him. He thinks the Last Supper was nachos and Twinkies.”
The waiter beams at us both and heads back to the kitchen.
Samael looks me over.
“I take it from your slight hunch that your back is injured and the bandage on your hand tells me that things didn’t go quite your way with King Bullet?”
“It might not be so bad if I’d had backup. Fucking Abbot and his blue bloods. I think they want me dead.”
He eats the olive from my martini and says, “You’re stronger than any of them and you have powerful friends. Therefore you pose a threat. Of course they want you dead.”
I think about that for a minute.
“It’s not like I don’t want to murder King Bullet and feed him to the coyotes,” I say. “I just don’t want to go after him without a plan or backup.”
“All perfectly reasonable. By the way, would you like to know why I invited you to lunch?”
“Yeah. Why am I here?”
“That friend of yours. What was her name? The wayward angel a few months back.”
“Zadkiel. And she wasn’t my friend. I never heard of her until you told me to find her.”
“And then you killed her.”
“Only after she tried to kill me.”
Samael looks around for the waiter.
“I could use another martini. How about you?”
“I’ll pass. And what’s the story with Zadkiel? I mean, I have my suspicions, but I want to hear it from you.”
“Oh? What are your suspicions?”
“Before she died, she said ‘I’ve done something awful.’ I think she might have meant the virus. She sent it.”
“Interesting,” he says. “But I don’t think so.”
“Then what did she do?”
“She ripped a hole in the universe.”
I look at him for a minute, waiting for him to go on, but he gets distracted looking for the waiter again.
I say, “What the hell does that mean? Ripped a hole in the universe? How?”
“She was the Opener of the Ways. She opened a door that even Father didn’t remember being there. Tore the thing right off.”
“And what does that mean? Did something go out? Did something come in?”
Samael shrugs as the waiter comes by with two more martinis. He doesn’t even pretend the second one is for me, but slides both to his side of the table. Out of curiosity, I take mine back and sip it. It’s like getting a mouthful of rubbing alcohol and bitters, only cold.
“Is she or isn’t she responsible for people dying and going nuts?”
“It’s doubtful either way. But I suspect it’s possibly the indirect result of the universe going a bit pear-shaped.”
I push my martini back to him.
“Can’t Mr. Muninn just fix it?”
A sigh. Genuine this time.
“He’s not at his best. Still recovering from battling the rebel angels.”
“When he’s better, will he do anything or is he still playing hands-off with the universe?”
“You of all people should know that Father isn’t what he once was. He can’t just reshape creation with a blink anymore. What is it you once called him?”
“A janitor,” I say, feeling lousy saying it out loud.
“Exactly. Not the creator or lord of time and space, but a janitor just trying to keep the grounds clean. And honestly? There are days when he’s closer to that than any of us would like to admit.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad.”
Samael nods, looking annoyed with me.
“Now you do, so you might give the old man a break now and then.”
“I was just hoping for something that might help me beat King Bullet. But I’ll tell you a secret. Something that just came to me sitting here right now.”
He looks at me. “You don’t want to fight him again.”
“Exactly. At least— No. Fuck it. I’m out. I got beaten, knifed, and shot. And for what? I didn’t even lay a finger on King Bullet.”
“But it sounds like you gave it the old college try.”
“I sure as hell did. Let Abbot’s troops handle things from now on. Why am I getting my ass handed to me if he won’t lift a finger?”
“There’s absolutely no reason at all.”
“And if Abbot won’t send in the troops it means the Sub Rosa Council has deserted L.A. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
“Maybe not.”
The waiter brings Samael his tartare and me my lobster cocktail. I take a couple of bites. It’s good. Very good, but I lose my appetite.
I push the food away and say, “But what if the Council just lets King Bullet run amok?”
Samael swallows a big mouthful of tartare. I feel a little sick watching.
“See?” he says. “This is what you always do and why you have a bullet hole in your chest. You can’t ever leave a fight alone. But Mr. James Butler Hickok Stark, not everything is your responsibility.”
“It is if it affects my friends.”
“Why not at least wait a while? Maybe your chum Abbot will surprise you.”
He finishes his tartare and I think I might even be able to eat again someday.
“Do you know something?” I say.
The waiter brings the soup, but Samael ignores it.
“Just that the National Guard has been pulled back to the edges of the city.”
“Who knows?”
“Finally. Good for you, Abbot.”
Samael eats the top off of his French onion soup and pushes the rest away.
“You didn’t finish your soup.”
“I just like the cheesy bit on top. I can’t stand the rest.”
He waves off the salad and tells the waiter to bring our entrees.
“I’d advise you not to go charging in trying to help them,” he says.
“I didn’t say I was going to.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t stand anyone having a fight without you. But let this one go. They want you dead. Just because they’re going in force doesn’t mean they’ll protect you when the moment comes, and it will come.”
The waiter brings the lamb chops. I’m still angry, but I take a bite of one. And it’s like someone split my head open and filled it full of heavenly choirs and motel sex with Candy. But I keep frowning. There’s no way I’m letting Samael know how good they are.
“Good?” he says.
“Passable.”
“If you don’t want yours then I’ll have them.”
“Touch my plate and I’ll stab you in the eye with this fork.”
“Good boy. We’re expanding your palate quite well today, don’t you think?”
I eat more of the lamb and it just gets better as I go.
Between mouthfuls I say, “So, I just sit around and wait for the news?”
“No. You go home and take care of that poor injured child in your apartment.”
I look at the time on my phone.
“You’re right. I probably shouldn’t leave her alone too much longer. But I need to stop and pick up some food.”
“Don’t bother. I’m having them prepare a few items for you to take home.”
“No tartare?”
“No tartare.”
“And more lamb. This isn’t the worst thing ever.”
“I’ll have them add an order.”
“Then I accept your generous offer.”
“Bully for me.”
The waiter brings two pieces of key lime pie and it’s almost as good as the lamb.
Samael says, “I miss your shop. I miss stealing your movies.”
“Stop by. Kasabian wouldn’t dare stop you.”
“How is your lady friend, Candy?”
King Bullet Page 12
