Hollywood Dead

by Richard Kadrey

  “You wouldn’t quit the business?”

  He chuckles and pours us both another round.

  “I’m a bartender. Some people are cops or priests or movie stars. Me? I pour drinks and keep the jukebox cool.”

  As the music fades away, someone behind us blows into a microphone.

  “Testing. One. Two. Can you hear me?”

  The crowd murmurs.

  A young guy wearing a pale blue pullover and a tech-startup haircut is hunched over the mic at the karaoke machine. He points to a young woman across the room.

  “This is for you, Cherie.”

  I can’t help but smile when I see her. This is a taste of the old Bamboo House of Dolls. A clueless tourist slumming in a weirdo bar and he picks up a pretty young thing. Only his paramour is a Jade and if he does or says the wrong thing, she’s going to bite him and drink his guts like a milkshake. I’m almost tempted to tell him, only then he starts singing that Barry Manilow song “Mandy,” but substituting “Cherie” in the chorus. That’s when I decide to let Darwin sort out his fate.

  I finish my drink and get up.

  “I think that’s my cue to get moving.”

  Carlos puts out his hand and we shake.

  “Don’t be a stranger. You’re allowed to come back more than once a year.”

  “Believe me, Carlos. I will if I can.”

  He gives me a funny look.

  “How did you know my name?”

  Shit.

  “I must have read it on Yelp or somewhere.”

  He nods, not entirely buying it.

  “Okay. Well, come back on a Tuesday and play trivia with those necro bores. I’ll throw in a lot of old movie questions.”

  I give him a nod and leave.

  Carlos, you have no fucking idea how much I want to make that happen.

  I WANDER ALONG the boulevard. It’s a nothing night. Cars honk at jaywalkers. Knots of wandering tourists are disappointed at how boring Hollywood and Vine really is. The Egyptian Theatre is dark as a repair crew works on the electric lines out front. There’s more action down by the wax museum and Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, but the lights are too bright and it’s too close to the Chinese Theatre. An off-duty creep in a Spider-Man costume chats up a bored Wonder Woman who’s about two puffs of a Virginia Slim away from beating him to death with her shield. Really, I’m not ready to go back to Sandoval’s Castle Grayskull and I’m trying to distract myself from lurking outside Max Overdrive in hopes of catching a glimpse of Candy. I’ve already done that once since I got back and she almost caught me. There’s no percentage in taking a chance like that again, so of course, I do it anyway.

  Lucky me, there’s nothing happening there either. Candy is upstairs or out, so I’m basically staring at a dark storefront like a tweaker trying to work up the nerve to rob the place. But unfocused staring sometimes pays off. Through the front window, I get a glimpse of Kasabian moving around inside. He’s talking to someone and smiling, and for a second I get fifth-grade giddy that I might score a look at that cute girl who sits next to me in history class. Instead, it’s Alessa— Candy’s girlfriend. Candy met her a few weeks before I died and they became lovers soon after that. I mean, I told her it was okay with me, and it was. Candy had always dated girls and the fact she was with me didn’t make her desire to be with other women magically disappear. Now, though, things are different, and for the first time I feel jealous of the two of them. They had a year together that I’ll never get back. They’re a year closer and I’m on the street like a goddamn lost dog wondering if I’ll ever find my way back home.

  Thinking about it, though, maybe this is a good thing and I should shut up and not get so maudlin. Candy watched me get murdered and Alessa was there to help her through it. And Alessa has obviously forgiven Candy for lying to her about who she really was. Alessa didn’t know Candy was a Jade when they started dating. She also only knew Candy as Chihiro, the identity she had to adopt to stay out of a federal lockup. When someone gets hit with secrets like that all at once and they stick around, that makes them good people and someone who really cares about you. So, yeah, Alessa is a lot more all right with me now than she was before I died.

  But none of that stops me from wanting to charge inside and see Candy right now. Instead, I step into a shadow before I do something truly stupid.

  I come out in my room in Sandoval’s mansion. I want another drink, but that means going into her office, which means I might see her or Sinclair, and in my current mood I’m not sure either one of them would leave with their head on their shoulders. Instead, I throw my clothes in a heap in the corner and get into bed. I’m suddenly a lot more tired than I was a couple of hours ago.

  My dreams are about bombs exploding and L.A. being wiped off the map. It’s all in slow motion, so I get a good look at the city flying apart, burning bodies tossed into the air with flaming palm trees, the fire moving up the hills, scorching everything along the way. The Hollywood sign flies apart. The Griffith Observatory explodes when the concussion wave hits it. I try to distract myself with all of this cinematic carnage, but it doesn’t work. Swirling around the center of things is everyone I know and care about: Candy, Kasabian, Vidocq, Allegra, Brigitte, Carlos, even Alessa. They’re whipped around in a sun-bright vortex, pulled down into a boiling mass of nothingness. A swirling singularity so incandescent it turns to ash not just their bodies, but every particle of their being, so that there’s nothing left of them for Hell or Heaven, meaning they just fade from existence like they were never there. And all I can do is watch and let it happen because I don’t know how to stop it.

  Fuck Wormwood. Fuck the faction. If I can’t stop the ritual, no one lives. No escape jets or yachts heading out to sea for this crowd. They get swallowed in the burning madness with the rest of us. I’ll laugh and laugh as they cry and cry all the way down into nonexistence when it finally hits them that all their money and power isn’t going to hold their atoms together in the coming shitstorm. The feeling isn’t satisfaction. It’s more like revenge. And sometimes that’s as close to satisfaction as you’re ever going to get.

  WHEN I WAKE up in the morning, there’s a black suit waiting for me in the closet. It’s a Hugo Boss. Of course he’d be the go-to guy for Wormwood. In World War II, he made uniforms for the SS. There’s also a dark purple shirt and a pair of Italian shoes by the bed.

  When I try everything on, they’re a perfect fit. That’s unsettling. I’m going to assume that Sandoval or someone figured out my size by eyeballing me. It’s either that or someone sneaked in here while I was asleep and measured me like they were getting me ready for a coffin.

  Normally I don’t like playing dress-up, but Sandoval, Sinclair, and their roaches look startled enough when they see me in James Bond drag that it’s worth it.

  “You look very convincing,” says Sinclair.

  “Except for the face,” says Sandoval. “Really, Stark, you’re much too ugly to be a Wormwood associate.”

  I whisper some hoodoo and put on the glamour I used last night. Again, Sinclair and the roaches are startled. To Sandoval’s credit, she just looks me over like she’s selecting which lobster in the tank to eat for dinner.

  She says, “Much better. Almost human.”

  I adjust my tie in a mirror on the wall.

  “Thanks. You’re looking pretty Maleficent yourself. Curse any kids today?”

  “No, but Sinclair and I punched a lovely hole in the Japanese stock market.”

  “It seemed a good time to bring down some Yakuza-controlled companies that have aligned themselves with the faction,” he says.

  Sandoval grins broadly.

  “There’ll be blood flowing in Tokyo tonight.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I say. “Me, I prefer a good thriller. Ever seen The Usual Suspects?”

  “Stop it. We don’t have time for your nonsense. And neither do you.”

  I close in on her and Sinclair.

  “I only bring it up because the wh
ole story hinges on a huge lie. You see my point?”

  Sinclair scratches his ear. A nervous tic.

  “We did what we talked about. All of us.”

  “So, everyone knows that a courier is going out?”

  Sandoval says, “Calm down. We said as much as we could without being too obvious. If there’s a traitor in our organization, he or she knows that you’ll be moving an important package.”

  There’s a briefcase lying on the pool table.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Random financial records,” says Sinclair. “Nothing the faction can use against us.”

  I look at them both.

  “You better not have fucked this up because my only other alternative is to start killing your staff and hope someone squeals.”

  “Why don’t you just do that now?” says Sandoval. “That sounds more efficient than this courier scenario.”

  “Sure. I could start with you and Barron. How do I know that this whole thing isn’t a setup? Maybe you two are the rats and you just want to see if anyone can get through to your faction pals.”

  “Don’t be absurd. We’re the injured party.”

  “Then don’t tell me who to kill and when. It unsettles my tranquil disposition.”

  “We’ve done our part. Now you do yours,” says Sinclair.

  Sandoval glances at her watch.

  “The car will be here soon.”

  I pick up the briefcase.

  “Nice. What is this? Rattlesnake?”

  “Alligator,” Sinclair.

  “I knew it was something cold-blooded.”

  Sandoval’s cell phone rings. She exchanges a few words and hangs up.

  “The car is here. The driver knows where to take you. It’s one of our law offices in Westwood.”

  “Do you know the driver?”

  Sandoval gives me a look.

  “Philip? He’s worked for me for years. I trust him.”

  “I mean, if I get snatched, he might not be in shape to be your driver anymore.”

  She looks at Sinclair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  She looks back at me.

  “That’s why we wanted you. Your sick little mind.”

  “You have any spare drivers lying around? Ones you don’t like as much?”

  “No. Do you, Barron?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ve known my driver for years.”

  “Just one big happy family,” I say.

  I weigh the briefcase in my hand. It’s very light. That means there aren’t any bombs in case they change their minds about me.

  “I’ll do my best to keep him alive. But if it comes down to him or me, well, you know.”

  Sandoval glances at her roaches.

  “Just do your job and leave the rest to us.”

  Before I start for the door I say, “Where’s Howard?”

  “In the library. Why?”

  “I’ll try to keep the driver safe. You do the same with Howard.”

  “Why do you think he might not be safe?” says Sinclair.

  “No reason. It’s just that I’ll be very cranky if anything happens to him.”

  Sandoval looks back at me.

  “The car is waiting.”

  Sinclair says, “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I reach the front door Sandoval calls after me.

  “Don’t get any grand ideas about betraying us or running off. The spell Howard used to bring you back is very specific and not something just any necromancer can duplicate.”

  I open the door but pause. “That reminds me. Does Howard like movie trivia?”

  “I don’t know. Who cares? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Just curious. If he brings me back right, I know the place to take him for a drink.”

  IT’S A HOT day, even for L.A. The sky is clear, but the cat-piss smell of Sandoval’s eucalyptus trees makes the air feel heavy. The driver is holding the limo door open for me at the head of the circular driveway. I get in and it’s twenty degrees cooler. Is the driver from the Arctic or does he know about my not-quite-alive situation and think he needs to keep me on ice so I won’t stink? Or maybe he knows what’s going to happen next and he’s trying not to sweat. There’s nothing I can do to help that, so he better buckle up tight.

  As he pulls away from Sandoval’s house and takes us out through the gates of the estate I say, “You’re Philip, right?”

  He glances in the rearview mirror.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, Philip, do you know who you work for?”

  “Ms. Sandoval? Of course.”

  “You know what she does for a living?”

  “I know that’s she’s in international finance.”

  I wish I could see his eyes. It would help me know if he’s lying. His heartbeat’s up a little, but he’s not panicked. Just curious about getting the third degree from a stranger in the backseat.

  There’s a small but well-stocked bar on the left wall of the limo. I find the bourbon and pour myself a few fingers. Look at Philip again in the rearview.

  “You ever heard of Wormwood?”

  He shakes his head. “No, sir. Should I?”

  I try to think of a delicate way to ask the next question but don’t come up with anything.

  “Is this car bulletproof?”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. But if I tell you to hit the gas or bail out or get on the floor, don’t ask questions.”

  Now his heart is racing. Even though it’s Ice Station Zebra in here I can smell him start to sweat.

  “Are we in danger?” he says.

  “It depends on what you mean by ‘we.’”

  “Am I in danger?”

  “That’s the first smart thing anyone’s said to me today. And, yes, you really are. So do what I tell you.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for the warning.”

  “Just remember to duck if I say so.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He’s quiet after that.

  WE’RE ON THE part of Sunset Boulevard that winds like a drunk anaconda through Beverly Hills and Bel-Air. Most of the drive is a dull blur of walled compounds where good, upstanding American families debate whether their artisanally raised mutts deserve domestic or imported champagne with their prime rib kibble. But it’s the side streets that are where the action is. These Sunset flatlanders are mere paupers with millions of dollars, while the side streets lead to gated Xanadus where the toilets are gold and the trash doesn’t end up in landfills but gets a gentle yacht journey out to the open sea, where it receives a Viking funeral, complete with human sacrifice. I can’t help but wonder how many associates of Wormwood and the breakaway faction we’re passing on our way west. Odds are that some of them live right next door to each other, filling Easter eggs with thermite and hiding razor blades in apples as Halloween surprises for the unenlightened in the neighborhood. I’m trying to work up some sympathy for the big-money families that have no Wormwood connections, but it’s hard to do. Whether it’s Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, or Pandemonium—Hell’s capital city—odds are anyone living in this kind of luxury has a body or two buried in the greenhouse. No, this patch of land is a No Sympathy Zone. They don’t give it, so they shouldn’t expect it. Whether it’s death by Wormwood, a bad stock market, or Daddy’s drinking, they’re on their own. Islands of privilege in a sea of shit and bad karma. When the tide rises, they better know how to swim, because no one is tossing these gold-plated Capones a life preserver.

  Which makes me wonder what kind of deal Sandoval and Sinclair will offer me to not murder them after I’m completely back in my body. Whatever it is, it won’t be enough and they probably know it, which means they’re going to fuck me over at their first opportunity. I need to focus and be ready for when it happens. I let an idiot send me to Hell once. It will be embarrassing if I do it again.

  It’s about halfway between the Playboy Mansion and the Bel-Air Country Club
that I spot the van behind us. Black with dark, tinted windows, no plates or brand insignia on the front. I tell the driver to turn left on Hilgard Avenue, then swing onto a side street.

  “Oh god,” he says. “Is it happening?”

  “What did I say about questions?”

  “Not to ask them.”

  “Right. Now, do you have a cigarette lighter?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about a handkerchief?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give them to me.”

  As he hands them back, I take one last slug of bourbon and stuff the handkerchief into the neck of the bottle.

  The moment we turn off Sunset, the van speeds up. With luck, being on a side street will get us away from traffic and minimize collateral damage, but I’m not counting on that last part.

  The van floors it and slams us from behind. The limo starts to spin out, but Philip gets control and stops us before the car flips. We’ve done a one-eighty, though, which gives us a perfect view of the van as five men in sharp suits and balaclavas pile out, shouting and waving shiny new SIG 552 rifles—very serious weaponry that makes me wonder if taking prisoners is a priority.

  “What do I do?” shouts Philip.

  I roll down a side window.

  “Get on the fucking floor.”

  I light the handkerchief in the bottle and throw it at the welcome committee. A small but satisfying fireball explodes in the street, scattering the gunmen and sending a couple of them into frantic pirouettes, beating out the flames on their suits. I don’t want to see Philip get shot over my fun, so I step outside and take a couple of badly aimed swings at the closest shooters. All of my instincts make me want to crack their skulls, but I let my punches miss by a mile. I keep reminding myself that I want to get taken hostage, so when the five of them swarm me, I go down without a fight. Two of them haul me up while another grabs my briefcase. I can’t see what the others are doing, but when I hear a single gunshot I know exactly what it means: Philip didn’t make it.

  Fuck. Shooting an unarmed driver cowering on the floor, that’s just mean, even for Wormwood.