I wave a finger in the air.
“Nope. I’m still interrogating you. Tell me about the stunts you’ve been pulling. If I saw two, I assume there are more.”
They sit on the edge of the sofa.
“There have been lots. Usually they’re just once a month or so but we’ve had some birthdays this month, so there’ve been more excursions.”
“Excursions. Is that what you call them? Running blind through traffic?”
“That’s what Juliette and Dan call them.”
“They’re the ones in charge?”
Janet looks uncomfortable, like they’re thinking. Or getting ready to tell another lie. But when they answer the question I watch their eyes and see they’re telling the truth.
Janet blurts, “It’s called the Zero Lodge. Because there’s zero chance you’ll get out of it alive.”
“Cute. I guess it was true for the guy the tiger ate.”
They stare up at the ceiling.
“Poor Charlie. Charlie Karden. He was nice. Funny. A champion marksman too, you know.”
“Maybe he should have told the tiger. How did you even find out about the Idiot’s Lodge?”
“Please don’t call it that. And you have to be sponsored.”
“Who sponsored you?”
“My old roommate, Cassandra.”
“Was she the woman you were with at the zoo?”
Janet’s brow furrows.
“No. She’s dead. A crackhead stabbed her.”
“On an excursion?”
They give me a defensive look.
“No. We might be a little crazy, but we’re not stupid.”
“The jury is still out on that.”
They get up and walk around the room.
“You’re still mad.”
“More than a little. What about the cops?”
“You mean when things happen to people?”
“Exactly.”
“Dan and Juliette handle that. They have people who . . .”
They wave their hand in the air.
I say, “Clean up their messes for them?”
“Something like that.”
Janet picks up the glass of water and drinks it down.
I say, “Why do you do it? The stunts, I mean.”
They shake their head and say, “I want to ask you some questions you’ve been dodging.”
“Trying to change the subject?”
“Very much.”
“Shoot.”
“Tell me more about fighting wild animals.”
I shrug. I must be messed up from the attack because the lorazepam can’t be working yet, but I’m suddenly exhausted.
“I was somewhere very bad and very strange. They had me fighting all sorts of nasty things. Most you’ve never even heard of.”
“Was it like a gang thing?”
“More like a prisoner thing.”
They look surprised.
“In America?”
“You don’t get to know that yet.”
Now it’s Janet’s turn to look annoyed.
“So, you get to know about the Lodge, but I don’t get to know about your fight club?”
“For the moment.”
They give me a sly smile.
“What if I give you an incentive?”
They move around so they’re straddling my lap.
“Nice try, but those funny pills are hitting me. I can barely keep my eyes open. Besides, I’m still kind of mad.”
They lean over and whisper, “Angry sex is the best.” Then they kiss my neck.
With my good arm, I move Janet back.
“There is no way this is happening tonight.”
They lean their forehead against mine.
“You sure?”
“Ninety-nine percent.”
Janet says, “I’ll take those odds.”
They kiss me and the room tilts.
I pass out with them still on top of me.
I don’t know what time it is when I wake up, but it feels late. My neck is stiff from sleeping all night with my head against the back of the sofa. Janet is curled up next to me, their head on a pillow and one hand draped across my knee. I slide out from under them and go into the bathroom. When I flex the fingers of my right arm, they ache, but the pain is manageable. Using the black blade, I cut off my bandages. The arm doesn’t look too bad. The skin over the wound has knit back together. It’s pink and puckered and ugly as hell but in another day it will be just one more scar and the tiger just one more stupid story.
“Holy shit.”
Janet is behind me in the bathroom doorway. They grab my arm and look at it.
“How is that possible? Half of your arm was gone.”
“You’re exaggerating,” I tell them. “And I’m a fast healer.”
“You said that in the clinic. This is more magic, isn’t it?”
I push her out of the bathroom.
“I have to brush my teeth and things. We’ll talk about it later.”
Just before I get the door closed they say, “Are you still mad at me?”
“I’ll decide after I’ve had some coffee.”
“You take your time. I’ll make it.”
With them gone and my head clear, I finally have a chance to think about things. Or really, wonder about them. I never took Janet for the crazy type, but here we are. The Zero Lodge and people getting run over by cars and eaten by tigers. I’m going to have to keep an eye on her—them. I have enough crazy in my life. If Janet is too much, I might have to find a new donut place after all.
They hand me a mug of coffee when I walk into the kitchen. Then I remember something.
“Fuck. My coat.”
“What happened to it?” says Janet.
“I lost it in Little Cairo. I feel weird without it.”
They run their fingertips through my hair, straightening it.
“Let’s go out,” they say. “For saving me, I’ll buy you another one.”
“You’re a student. You can’t afford new coats.”
“Who said anything about new? I’ll show you where I get all of my Lodge outfits.”
They take me to a used clothes shop on Melrose. We must spend an hour pawing through the merchandise. One of the salesclerks, a heroin-thin guy in turtleneck-and-beret beatnik drag, follows us around and hands me things. I don’t know if he’s trying to be helpful or just make sure the scarred guy doesn’t rob the place, but he gets everything wrong. Janet rejects all of his coats without letting me try on anything.
“That’s too long,” they tell the guy. “Not a private eye coat. More like Johnny Cash.”
I’m happy to let them argue. It leaves me time to walk around and examine all the hexed clothes and anti-hex charms. I thought I recognized the intersection when we came in. We’re at the nexus point in a territorial dispute between Hollywood High and private school Sub Rosa brats. There’s enough hoodoo power in this little shop to launch it to Mars. My guess is at least half of the clothes they’re selling didn’t end up in here because someone needed money. This is a turf war in leather jackets, lace gloves, and vinyl corsets. And the staff doesn’t have a clue. They probably just get migraines and the occasional bout of night terrors when someone brings in something truly insidious. I could spend all day in here following the spectral lines of hoodoo power as the dopey kids battle it out over absolutely nothing.
In the end, Janet and Jack Kerouac save the day and I walk out of the shop wearing a comfortable frock coat with only a minimal number of curses attached. I blow them away with one little Hellion bark and, feeling more like myself again, take Janet for a ride on the Hellion Hog.
We blow down the coast to Malibu and I show them how to sneak onto Teddy Osterberg’s estate.
“You enjoy hanging out with all these dead people?” says Janet.
“I’ve known a lot of dead people. Occupational hazard.”
“It’s quiet, at least. And the trees are nice.”
“The
landscape is whatever goes with whatever cemetery. Trees here. A bamboo grove there. Tombs or a waterfall there.”
“Are all these cemeteries real?”
“Every one of them.”
“You know some odd people, Mr. Stark,” says Janet.
“So I hear.”
Janet comes over and bumps me with their shoulder.
“Still mad?”
“I’m mostly over it.”
“Did you see Rodney’s eyes when he saw your gun?”
“Rodney was the clothes store clerk?”
“Yep. He almost shit himself. Me, on the other hand, I like it.”
I take the Colt out from under my new coat and hand it to them. They make a little shocked noise when they feel the weight.
“It’s a cinder block,” Janet says. “How do you hit anything with it?”
“It’s not so bad. You get used to it.”
“Show me how to use it.”
I take it from them and shoot some acorns under an oak tree.
“Me next,” they shout.
When I hand them the Colt they just stare at it.
“All of a sudden I’m not sure about this.”
“Go ahead. See that tumbleweed near the tree? Shoot it.”
Janet points the gun at the ground nervously and says, “I thought there were a lot of safety rules.”
“There are. Don’t point the gun at me and don’t point it at yourself. That’s pretty much it.”
They aim the gun with two hands and pull the trigger. The Colt’s kick knocks them backward a couple of steps.
“Whoa. I was not expecting that.”
“Everybody says that the first time. Try it again.”
Another shot. Another miss.
“The tumbleweed is too small,” they say with a mock pout.
Janet points to the nearby tombstones.
“Why can’t I shoot at them?”
I take the pistol away and reload it.
“Those people have been through enough,” I say. “They deserve a decent sleep.”
When I hand Janet the Colt back, I get behind them and correct their stance. Straighten their hips and adjust their shoulders. I hold on to their hand and help them aim.
I say, “Shoot.”
They pull the trigger and the tumbleweed jumps back a foot. Janet lets out a loud whoop and leans back against me.
“That was great!”
“Nice job.”
Still leaning into me, they adjust their hips to shoot again. But they lower the pistol.
Janet says, “Stark. Do you have another gun?”
“Nope.”
She grinds her ass into my crotch.
“Then what’s that pressing into me?”
Before I can say anything, they turn and kiss me hard. I kiss her back and take the gun away.
Janet smiles and takes off their shirt.
“I guess you’re not mad at me anymore.”
“Not too much.”
No matter how many times movies and songs make getting undressed fast sound sexy, in my experience, it’s anything but. Especially on a hill in an overgrown cemetery. There’s nothing to do but muscle your way through it and forget about dignity. Just keep going and you’ll get to the promised land.
I start to say something about it, but Janet pulls me down on top of them and there’s not a lot of talking after that. I’m not saying we break any furniture, but we manage to rattle a couple of tombstones.
Sometime later, we’re lying on my new coat and Janet is making finger guns to shoot at the nearby tombstones. When they catch me watching them, they lean over and bite my shoulder. It’s a nice moment and I don’t want to ruin it, but I’m an expert at ruining moments.
“You should know, I bring trouble to people I get close to.”
Janet laughs once and leans on her crossed arms.
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
They sit up and say brightly, “In case you didn’t notice, scared isn’t my thing. What’s fun if it isn’t at least a little dangerous? Plus, I always have my knife.”
They pull it from the side pocket on their jeans. It’s a pricy Microtech automatic knife. Push a button and the blade flicks out in a fraction of a second. Push the button again and the blade is gone. I click it a couple of times and give it back to them.
“The blade’s more than two inches. That’s illegal in California.”
Janet looks shocked.
“Please don’t tell Mom.”
They put the knife away and lean against me.
“Admit it. Knowing I have a knife got you a little hard just then, didn’t it?”
“Maybe a little.”
She grabs me.
“Liar.”
An hour later, I drop Janet off at Donut Universe. Before they go in, they drag me around behind the place and we kiss like a couple of high school idiots.
When we come up for air, Janet says, “You should come with me tonight.”
“Where?”
“The Lodge. There’s a meeting. We’re not supposed to bring nonmembers, but after what happened last night, I think they’ll make an exception for you.”
I want to say they’re out of their fucking mind. That I never want to get near those people. But I have to admit that at this point I’m intrigued by these suicide-kick creeps. I wouldn’t mind finding out what makes them tick. And who knows? Maybe I’d get a chance to punch Dan and Juliette in the nose. I bet that would give dead Charlie Karden a laugh.
“Why do you like the Lodge so much?”
“Come and see.”
I say, “What time?”
“Pick me up at eleven.”
They go inside and I drive back to the flying saucer house, trailing a cloud of gray cemetery dust from my brand-new coat.
At home, I’m still confused by the whole thing with Janet. What am I supposed to do now? I want to cut things off with them before they get more complicated. But after today, I know that’s not going to happen. What am I going to tell Candy? Or anyone else? I’m in deep here. Deeper than I thought I was ever expecting. On the other hand, it feels good to be wanted by someone. But, seriously, what the hell am I doing?
To take my mind off all that and Samael’s idiot angel rescue mission, I go back through Stein’s folder, looking for anything I might have missed. Cop reports. Autopsy report. Witness reports. Photos. Then I find a second plastic envelope that was caught between a couple of sticky coffee-soaked report notes. It holds a small green address book. I take it out and thumb through it.
I recognize some names of actors, actresses, and directors. Theater addresses. Talent agency addresses. Some bars and clubs. All of the entries are written in very clean and precise block letters. Some of the names are coded with icons and colors.
Pace Ripley. A red dot.
Amber L. A green star.
JS & DP. Double red dots.
Kiki. A black heart.
One name catches my eye. Danny Gentry. He was a friend of Stein’s and just a notch below him in the billing for Murdering Mouth. With no other clues and nothing better to do, I dial the phone number.
After a few rings, someone picks up. When they don’t say anything I say, “I’m looking for Daniel Gentry.”
“Who are you?”
Judging from his voice, he was asleep. By the way he slurs his words, he might have been sleeping one off.
“I’m a friend of Chris Stein’s.”
“Who?”
“Chris Stein. The actor.”
“I know who you’re talking about. I just haven’t heard from anyone who knew him in twenty years. What do you want?”
“Just to talk.”
I hear a low grumbling sound; either he’s moaning or he fell back to sleep.
“Gentry?”
“Look,” he says slowly and deliberately. “I’ve talked to the cops. I’ve talked to the papers. I’ve talked to his friends. I don’t have anything else to say abo
ut Chris.”
“What if I don’t ask questions? What if you just reminisce for an hour?”
“Forget it.”
“I’ll give you a hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred,” he shoots back.
“For two I get to ask questions.”
“Prick. Fine.”
He gives me the address and it’s the same one in the address book. He’s been in one place for a long time.
“When can we meet?”
“You think I have a busy schedule?”
“I’ll be over in an hour. Be there.”
“Where else am I going to be?”
I shower, try to beat the worst of the dirt out of my coat, and have a few cups of coffee before getting on the Hog.
Gentry lives in the Kiernan Arms on a side street at the edge of Burbank. The Arms was kind of famous in the days of the old studios. They put up writers and young performers not big enough yet to move closer into Hollywood. But the building looks like it hasn’t been maintained since Fatty Arbuckle was the king of comedy. It used to be kind of elegant, but these days it’s a dingy fortress. An anti-junkie electric gate to get into an outer area with a dry fountain. There’s another buzzer on the door to get into the building. Barbed wire on top of the metal fence out front. The neighborhood isn’t quite what it once was.
If the outside is bad, inside, the Arms is a pile of junk. Half the doors on the mailboxes along the lobby wall have been torn off. The elevator is out of service. There are shaky banisters on the stairways where someone painted right over the splintered wood. Each floor features at least one unlit side corridor. Gentry is on the fourth floor. That can’t be an easy walk for a guy in his seventies.
Each apartment has a little suburban-style doorbell. I ring Gentry’s a couple of times because the apartment next door is blasting some kind of teeth-grinding country pop loud enough to make the hall light fixtures shake. It takes Gentry a couple of minutes to open the door. When he does, he gets one look at my face and says, “Christ. It’s Lon Chaney.”
He doesn’t say “come in” but just leaves the door open. I follow him down a short inner hallway to a dusty living room.
“Not that I should complain about faces,” he says as he settles down into a sagging easy chair. “Look at my mug. I used to be kind of a dreamboat. Not Steve McQueen or anything, but I did all right.”
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