Hollywood Dead

by Richard Kadrey

“I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t sweat it. It’s the story of my life.”

  “Speaking of Vidocq, I didn’t see him when the others left. How is he?”

  He looks at me.

  “You’ve been spying on us? There’s a word for that: stalker.”

  “That’s why I came in tonight. I don’t want to be that person.”

  “Thanks for making me your shrink.”

  “So, where is Vidocq?”

  He shrugs.

  “Don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a while. Allegra dumped him after the thing with the French chick.”

  “He was kind of an idiot, chasing after a girl he hadn’t seen in two hundred years.”

  “I’m not sure you’re in a position to judge, window peeper.”

  “How’s Brigitte? Working?”

  He reaches back and pulls a Blu-ray box set off the wall.

  “She’s doing fine. She’s the star of a big cable series. Plays an international spy and hit woman. But she’s a good guy, you know? Anyway, she spends a lot of time kicking the shit out of everybody in six-inch heels.”

  I turn over the box set. Queen Bullet, it says in shiny red letters. The back is mostly stills of her snapping necks and shooting bad guys, dressed in miniskirts and evening gowns. She looks like she’s having a ball. Good for her.

  I slide the set back to him.

  “And how’s the store? Still in business, I see.”

  Kasabian sighs.

  “It’s doing good. Alessa had the idea to sponsor movie nights every month and Candy lets bands play here sometimes. We put the floor shelves on wheels so we can push them out of the way.”

  “That really is good thinking. Are you still getting those special movies?”

  “All the time.”

  A witch friend used to use her hoodoo to find us movies in other realities that were never made in this one. Then she’d snag us a copy and we’d rent them for a fortune.

  Kasabian hands me another disc.

  On the front is a drawing of a burning giraffe holding a butterfly net and wearing a cowboy hat. I hold it under the light to make sure I’m seeing it right.

  “What the fuck is this?”

  “Giraffes on Horseback Saddles,” he says. “Screenplay by Salvador Dalí and starring the Marx Brothers.”

  “This is what’s keeping the lights on?”

  He takes the disc back and hands me another.

  “Right, I forgot you have no sense of humor. This is more the stuff that’s keeping us going.”

  There’s a horned red guy smoking a cigar on the front. The cover says, Hellboy 3, directed by Guillermo del Toro.

  I hand it back to him.

  “That makes more sense. I’m glad you didn’t all lose your minds while I was gone.”

  He turns around and gives me a look.

  “Don’t worry about us,” he says. “We’re doing fine and making more money than ever.”

  “Don’t stab me in the heart so quick. I’m not ready to die again.”

  “Okay. But sometimes you have a high fucking opinion of yourself. I mean, if you came back to save us, we don’t need it.”

  “Understood.”

  I look around the store, feeling like it was a bad idea coming here. The place looks great. Clean. New posters on the wall. And unless Kasabian was lying, they’re making money, which we never did when I was here. It makes me wonder if I was the thing holding the store back. Candy and Kasabian, too. Maybe it’s more than them getting over me. Maybe it’s that I was the problem in the first place. If that’s true, I’m not really sure what I came back for. It’s sure not to fuck up everybody’s lives again. I’m going to have to think about it. See if there’s some small place I can still fit in.

  Kasabian is wiping his cigarette ash into a trash can when he says, “So, who brought you back?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Yes, I do. First time you came back from Hell you were alive. This time, I don’t know. I saw you die. We all did.”

  I look at him.

  “Wormwood. It was Wormwood who brought me back.”

  He frowns.

  “Those crazy Illuminati bastards? Why would they do that?”

  “I’m working for them. But only for one more day.”

  “What the fuck are you doing for people like that?”

  “Trying to save your life, for one thing. They might be complete assholes but there’s a worse bunch of assholes that want to blow L.A. off the planet in less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Is that why you’re here? To tell us to get out of town?”

  “No, because I know when and where it’s going to happen and I’m going to stop it.”

  He looks at me.

  “Are you sure? I mean, I can get to LAX in an hour. Burbank airport even faster. And don’t worry. I’ll leave a note for Candy and Alessa.”

  I tap a finger on the counter.

  “Stop it. I told you. I’ve got it handled. After I take out the bombers, I’m free. I don’t owe Wormwood anything. I fact, I plan on killing a whole lot of them soon.”

  He puts his hands over his ears.

  “I don’t want to hear this shit. Don’t you understand? None of us have had to hear about one of your Superman murder sprees for a year. And I think I can speak for Candy and Alessa too when I say we don’t want to. Things are quiet. We do our jobs and we have fun. We have okay lives. Please don’t fuck that up.”

  I look at him, trying to gauge his level of bullshit. Kasabian has never forgiven me for cutting off his head, and I can understand that. Part of me wants to believe that he’s saying all of this because I’m in a weak position and it’s his chance to finally get some revenge. But it’s not that. He doesn’t have a heart for me to listen to, but I can read his eyes and the frightened microtremors around his lips. He’s telling the truth. Barging in here like this, I might as well have driven a tank through the front door. At least I waited for Candy to leave so she didn’t have to see this disaster.

  “You’re right,” I say. “I just had to know how things are. I’m going to go now. Do not tell Candy I was here.”

  He looks at me like he doesn’t trust me. “Is that a threat?”

  “No. It’s me asking you politely to keep Candy out of this.”

  “Okay,” he says grudgingly. “I just didn’t like your tone there at the end.”

  “Sorry. I’m going to take off.”

  I’m starting to step into a shadow when Kasabian says, “Hey, I’m not telling you to fuck off forever. Just don’t pop out of the dark like the Grim Reaper and scare the piss out of me.”

  “Got it.”

  “For what it’s worth, I know Candy misses you. We had a drink on your birthday. Just the two of us. She got kind of misty-eyed and everything.”

  “Misty-eyed? I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  As I’m about to leave, a poster on the wall catches my eye. It’s for a drive-in theater called the Devil’s Door.

  “Is that Flicker’s place?”

  “Yeah,” says Kasabian. “She reopened about three months ago. Fixed the place up nice. You ought to go see it.”

  “I just might.”

  “See you, Stark.”

  “Later, Kas.”

  I step through a shadow but don’t go out anywhere. I stay in the Room of Thirteen Doors and just breathe the cool air.

  That didn’t go the way I’d hoped. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure what I was looking for, but it wasn’t “You being dead is the best thing that ever happened to everyone.” I’m going to have to think about this more before I do anything. Maybe check in and see if Vidocq wants some company. Two assholes without a country. I wonder if he’s still living in my old apartment. Maybe he wants a roommate. It doesn’t sound like anyone is going to be inviting me back to Max Overdrive anytime soon. But I’
ll worry about that later. Got to keep my head clear and get through the next twenty-four hours. After that, whatever happens, I’ll be home and alive. Hell, if it comes down to it, I can get a sleeping bag and bed down here in the Room, which, now that I say it, sounds incredibly depressing. I wonder if I can squeeze some money out of Sandoval for finishing the job early. Then maybe I could get my old room at the Beat Hotel. A bathroom, a bed, and clean towels that don’t stink of Wormwood corruption would be fine with me. And I’d be back in Hollywood full-time. It’s not exactly an ambitious plan, but the world is coming at me hard and fast. One step at a time is all I can handle right now.

  At the moment, however, I have to figure out the rest of my night. I’m not ready to go back to Sandoval’s place and I’m sure as hell not going to Bamboo House. Kasabian is right. There’s a fine line between looking in on your ex and stalking, and I’m right on top of it. What’s depressing is that even Donut Universe is useless to me right now. But I have one more alternative, and it’s not a bad one at all.

  I STEP INTO a shadow and come out due west of Max Overdrive.

  Sure enough, it’s right where I remember. Because the entrance faces north, Flicker calls the place the Devil’s Door. The drive-in is surrounded by a high black wall covered in flames and horned dancing girls. There are eyes over the entrance and teeth around the edges so that when you enter, it’s like you’re diving right down the Devil’s gullet.

  I go through another shadow and come out by the concession stand. It’s all overpriced drinks and expensive popcorn that you’re happy to pay for because all the money goes back to keeping the last old-school drive-in in L.A. open for business.

  On the screen, Alan Ormsby is chewing up the scenery as he mock-marries a corpse from the local cemetery. The movie is Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things and Alan’s blushing bride will be snacking on his guts before the honeymoon is over. It’s a beautiful print of one of the first color zombie movies ever made. I wonder where she found it.

  It’s wall-to-wall cars below the screen—a full house. There are even a few rented hearses in between the sports cars and SUVs. About half the crowd milling around the food stand is in makeup and filthy zombie rags. That’s why it takes me a few minutes to recognize her. She’s in zombie drag too, talking to an undead ballerina and a cowboy spinning a lariat made of vertebrae.

  I don’t know Flicker’s real name and I don’t know anyone who does. I know she’s Chinese. I know she comes from heavy Sub Rosa money. And I know that she doesn’t talk to her family anymore because they don’t approve of the kind of hoodoo she practices. But she’s one of the best at what she does and this drive-in is proof of that.

  Out of habit, I get a hot dog and watch the movie for a few minutes. It really is a glorious, noble mess, with a spooky ending that makes you want more, but I’m glad they never made a sequel because it could never be this good.

  When Flicker’s zombie friends shamble back to their car, I wander over to her.

  “Hi, Flicker. I love what you’ve done with the place.”

  She looks at me and does a little double take.

  “Stark? I heard you were dead.”

  “Still am, Flicker. But just a little.”

  “I guess that’s better than the alternative.”

  I give up on the tasteless hot dog and toss it in the trash.

  “I’m working on getting completely undead with a necromancer in Beverly Hills.”

  She swivels her hips and shoulders a little when she says, “Beverly Hills? My. Isn’t that a little uptown for you?”

  “Tell me about it. I get a rash just saying the words.”

  She takes my arm and leads me around the back of the concession stand, where it’s quieter. When we get there, she says, “Aside from being dead, how are things?”

  “Could be worse. At least I’m at the movies.”

  She smiles. I point to the screen.

  “I like what you’ve done with the place.”

  She leans on the wall next to me.

  “Thanks. It seemed like the right thing to do with my waipo’s money.”

  “I’m sorry to hear your grandma died. You must have been close.”

  “She’s the only one in the family I could stand to be around. We were besties the last few years of her life.”

  “How did your folks take you using your inheritance to reopen the theater?”

  She rolls her eyes to the heavens.

  “They were furious when she left me everything. Then when I blew it all on repairs, a new screen, and a new parking lot, they officially cut me off.”

  “That doesn’t seem right.”

  “They still had fantasies about me marrying a nice lawyer and having Ivy League babies. The inheritance was supposed to be my dowry. Fuck that.”

  “Since you repaved, can you still do that trick with the parking spaces?”

  Flicker is a land witch—a geomancer. All of her power is concentrated in certain patches of ground. Power spots that only she and a few other magicians know about. The Devil’s Door sits right on top of her personal spot.

  She waggles her eyebrows.

  “It’s easier than ever. The lines separating the parking spaces are held in place with spring bolts. I can pivot them into any hexagram I want. Stick around. Fulci’s Zombi is up next. I’ll show you after that.”

  “Thanks. But I have a pretty big day tomorrow.”

  “You and your necromancer?”

  “Fingers crossed that he knows what he’s doing.”

  “You’ll be fine. Second-raters don’t last too long in the Hills.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  She turns to me, leaning on her shoulder.

  “If you ever need to do any big rituals, just call. I can shape whatever you need in twenty minutes.”

  “Thanks. You taking commercial clients too?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  “Cool. I’ll spread the word.”

  “Just wait until you’re alive again.”

  I look over at her. “What? You’ve got a problem with us Revenant-Americans?”

  “Hey, some of my best friends are dead. But you look like you’re running a quart low.”

  She touches my hands and head.

  “Your aura is shit.”

  “It feels that way, too. I like your zombie suit, by the way.”

  She makes a face.

  “You think so? I thought that maybe I should have used more blood.”

  “Nah. I’ve seen plenty of Drifters. They weren’t bloody unless they were feeding.”

  “That’s a relief. If you like this outfit, you should have been here for our Marlene Dietrich festival. I wore a tux and white tie all week.”

  “I bet you were a knockout.”

  “You’re goddamn right.”

  “What’s your next festival?”

  On-screen, the dead are clawing their way up out of the ground.

  “We’re doing a seventies week. Everything made in or about the seventies. From Foxy Brown and The Getaway to Boogie Nights and Dazed and Confused. You should come by. I’ll be in Roller Boogie sequined booty shorts and skates all week.”

  “I’m sold.”

  She crosses her arms and looks me over.

  “I’d tell you to dress appropriately, but I know you’re incapable of not looking like a broke-ass biker. Don’t worry though. I’ve got an ex’s Nehru jacket that will fit you perfectly.”

  “I’m not sure I’m the Nehru type.”

  “Too late. You said you’d be here.”

  “You got me.”

  We walk back around to the front of the concession booth and she hands me a folded broadsheet.

  “Here’s a calendar with the rest of the shows this month. You got a car?”

  “I can steal one easy enough.”

  “Awesome. Bring your girl Candy around too.”

  I rub a knot on the back of my neck.

  “That part I’m not sure about. She’s n
ot exactly my girl anymore.”

  She looks around, embarrassed.

  “Damn. I’m sorry I said anything.”

  “Don’t be. She’s happy and that’s all that counts.”

  Flicker grabs a bag of popcorn through the concession window and eats a couple of pieces. She says, “It’s big of you to say that, but we both know that’s not how these things work.”

  “No, but if I keep telling myself it is, maybe I’ll start to believe it.”

  She taps the broadsheet.

  “Definitely come back for Taxi Driver, then. I know you love misery.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  She holds out the popcorn. I take a couple of pieces to be polite.

  “And seriously,” she says. “If there’s anything I can do to help with your undead situation, just ask.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Take care, Stark.”

  She squeezes my hand and I step into a shadow to the campy screams of Alan Ormsby and his dumb friends being eaten.

  ROGER AND ANOTHER of Sandoval’s roaches bring me my gear in the morning, so I spend the rest of the day prepping it and myself.

  I take everything out behind the mansion, deep into the eucalyptus grove. The body armor fits well, but it’s cop style with a lot of padding around the neck. That’s nice in terms of protection, but makes me feel like I’m being strangled. They left the clothes I died in in a storage bag in my closet, so I was able to get the black blade and na’at. With the blade, I cut off the collar padding. I’ll just have to turtle my head in if things get too up close and personal. The armor over my body feels fine, except where it rubs yesterday’s gun wound. The damned thing is technically healed but still tender to the touch. That’s more than a little aggravating, but there’s nothing I can do about it now, and anyway, it won’t be an issue after tonight.

  I run one box of ammo through the Glock, using the trees to practice head and torso shots at different distances. Then I run the same drill with the rifle. Both guns feel smooth and ready to go. The na’at is up next. I spin it over my head like a whip, splitting open tree trunks and ripping down limbs, then twist the grip and reconfigure it into a sword, running through a whole series of Seven Samurai exercises. Last, but not least, I twist the grip again so that the na’at extends to its full length. I shove the tip through one of the smaller trees, twist once more so that the far end opens into a fork whose tines are bent backward on themselves. With one good pull, I yank the fork through the tree, splitting it in half. It comes down with a pleasantly loud crash.