I head for the door.
Just as I’m about to leave she says, “Atticus Rose.”
I look back at her.
“The Tick-Tock Man?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Hell yes.”
Atticus Rose is the king of Tick-Tock Men in L.A. He makes mechanical familiars for the richest Sub Rosa in the city. I tried to shut him down more than once.
“Where can I find him?”
“He runs an antique store in West Hollywood,” she says.
“Familiars and mystical objects for Wormwood?”
“Something like that. I don’t remember the name of the place,” Marcella says.
“I’ll find it.” Before I get up I say, “Why the change of heart? Why give me the information now?”
“Because you didn’t try to hurt me.”
“That’s not enough. Why?”
“If you find Rose or kill him it won’t make any difference, you know. What’s happening won’t be over. It’s never going to be over until our side wins. If it takes forever, the people at the top will never let up. They’re not looking for power but salvation.”
“You still didn’t answer my question. Why?”
“Maybe when this is over you can be the one to kill me. I know you’ll do it fast so it doesn’t hurt, Boy Scout.”
“We’ll see. Thanks for the name.”
“Thanks for the shirt,” she says. “And tell those bastards upstairs to bring me a damn sandwich. I’m starving.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
ANGELIC BAZAAR IS on Sunset Boulevard near La Cienega in West Hollywood. From the outside, there’s nothing special about it. Look through the window and you’ll see the usual big-ticket trash that litters most antique and decorator shops in this pricey part of town. Old dressers and armoires. Stand mirrors. Beds and adorable little side tables, perfect for a Waterford crystal vase full of dead flowers. It lives up to its name though. There are more angel sculptures, figurines, and paintings here than at a Vatican garage sale. Enough that it feels like the place is trying to overcompensate for something. Like maybe a connection to the Wormwood faction. A BE BACK SOON sign hangs on the front door, so there’s not much for me to do but wait for Rose to get back.
Across from the Bazaar are a café and a bar. It’s just after noon and I wouldn’t mind a drink, but I’d rather get it at Bamboo House. So, I head to the café. It’s not bad inside. The decorations are what I think they call midcentury. Kidney-shaped tables and bright fake-leather swivel chairs. Lighting fixtures that look like stars and UFOs. The Jetsons would feel right at home here. The place is so ridiculous that even I don’t hate it. I’m dressed in the young-executive Beverly Hills clothes Sandoval’s people gave me, and I’ve disguised my low-rent face with a glamour, meaning there’s a reasonable chance that the café will let me stay.
I still have some of Sinclair’s money in my pocket so when a waitress comes over and doesn’t throw me out I order coffee. That seems to confuse her and she starts naming alternatives.
“Maybe you mean an Americano? Maybe a flat white or a macchiato?”
“Those all sound like wrestling holds. I just want coffee.”
“Maybe an espresso?”
“Wait. I know what that is. It’s the one in little cups, right?”
She laughs. I think she thinks I’m flirting. I guess that’s better than thinking I’m crazy and giving me the bum’s rush.
“Yes,” she says, still smiling at me. “It’s the one in the little cups.”
“Great. I’ll take four of those.”
She raises one eyebrow at me.
“Let me guess. You’re a late riser or you tied one on last night.”
“Yes and yes. I had a little accident and my hosts didn’t have Vicodin, so I had to make do with bourbon.”
“Sounds a lot like my house. Only we always have Vicodin around.”
“If I’d known that I would have come in earlier.”
She puts a chipped red fingernail on the table for a second, then holds out her hand.
“I’m Alyx,” she says.
I shake her hand.
“Hi. I’m Stark.”
Shit. I should have made something up. I really do need coffee. Or was I just caught off guard by talking to someone I don’t want to strangle?
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“You too.”
“Do you work around here?”
“I’m just back in town and sort of freelancing for now.”
She screws up her face in a parody of deep concentration.
“Let me guess. You’re either a graphic designer or you do something in tech.”
“Are guns tech?”
Her mouth comes open.
“Oh my god. Are you a bodyguard?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s so hot.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
Alyx looks around the café.
“This is just my day job, you know. I’m really an artist.”
“Really. What kind of stuff?”
“Hot-rod and old-school pinup stuff mostly. Sometimes I do band posters and flyers.”
She’s wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and her arms are heavily tattooed with old flash designs. She points to a mermaid and a medusa lounging in a martini glass.
“These are both my designs,” she says.
“They’re great. Do you have a site where I could see more?”
“Sure. I’ll get you the info,” Alyx says, then points at me. “That’s four espressos, right?”
“Exactly.”
“Be back in a second.”
She goes to the barista and says something to him that I don’t think is my order. He looks in my direction and whispers something to her. They both laugh. I’m not sure what that means. Did I just get made as an impostor in my nice clothes and fake face? I’m tempted to leave, but the BE BACK SOON sign is still hanging on the door to Angelic Bazaar. If I leave, my only choices are to loiter on the street like a high school weed dealer or steal a car and hope I can find parking close enough to keep an eye on the store. I decide to stay in the café for now and hope that whatever it was they were laughing about doesn’t involve anyone spitting in my coffee.
Alyx comes back a couple of minutes later with two cups of thick coffee.
“Two double espressos,” she says.
“Perfect.”
I take a twenty from my pocket and hold it out to her. She puts up her hands.
“They’re on the house.”
“Do you treat all your customers like this?”
“It wasn’t me,” she says with a grin. “It was Jason.”
She points back to the barista. He waves, so I wave back.
“He’s got a thing for bad boys.”
“What makes you think I’m bad?”
She nods down at me.
“You’ve got a glove on one hand, so either it’s hurt or you’re hiding an identifying mark.”
“Maybe I’m just into Michael Jackson.”
“And your wrist. Are those handcuff marks?”
I look down and, yes, my damn wrist is still bruised.
“It is, but it was all a misunderstanding.”
“So, it wasn’t recreational handcuff play …?”
“Recreational for someone, but not for me.”
“Too bad,” Alyx says. “Handcuffs go great with Vicodin.”
I sip my espresso. It’s thick as molasses and the caffeine would revive a dozy rhino. I just wish I could taste the damn thing.
“An artist and a doctor. Is there anything you don’t do?”
“Not much,” she says, pulling a card from her pocket. She puts it on the table. “That’s my card. It has my site on it.”
Above the URL is a color drawing of a topless girl in leathers on a motorcycle. The banner underneath reads “Kiss and Kill.”
“Very nice,” I say.
Alyx cocks her h
ead.
“It’s a self-portrait.”
I can’t help smiling at that.
“You like bikes?” I say. “Too bad I didn’t ride mine.”
“What kind is it?”
Interesting question. I can’t really tell the truth—that it was made by Hellion craftsmen when I was the Devil and I drove it all the way back from Hell. But it would be fun to say.
“It’s custom. Modeled it on a ’65 Electra Glide.”
“The moment you started talking I knew you were a Harley guy.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“As long as you’re not like those rich guys down on Melrose who only drive on the weekends in the city.”
“I hate those guys.”
“Me too.”
She waits a beat before saying, “So, when can I see it?”
“The bike?”
That’s a really good question. Where is the Hellion hog? I left it at Max Overdrive, but that was a year ago. It could be anywhere by now.
I say, “It needs work before I can take it out again.”
I look out the window at Angelic Bazaar, but the damn sign hasn’t moved.
“What do you ride, Alyx?”
“A Ducati Monster 797. Is that the wrong answer, Mr. Harley?”
“Like I said, it isn’t a real Harley. And Ducatis are nice bikes.”
“Then you should let me take you out for a ride sometime. Just until you get your Harley back.”
“Alyx,” calls Jason, the barista.
She turns and he points to other customers who’ve come in since we started talking.
“Shit,” Alyx says. “I’ve got to go. Check out my site.”
“Thanks. I will.”
As she moves to another table, she says, “And whatever you do, don’t look at the back of the card.”
I take a sip of coffee and flip the card. There’s a phone number there. I put it in my shirt pocket.
What is it about this face and these clothes? Alyx was nice to me, and so was the barista. Carlos was nice. So was the girl at Donut Universe. Although, come to think of it, I wasn’t using a glamour that night, so she was nice to my real face, which is just as puzzling. But really, it’s moments like this one with Alyx that make me question my place back in this world. Who am I supposed to be? When I look like myself I tend to scare small dogs and cops. Even Sandoval couldn’t stand the sight of me and she’s with Wormwood. Who knows what kind of sick shit she’s seen over the years. Candy thinks I look all right, which is the only thing that really matters. I don’t know what Alessa thinks or what Candy has told her about me. How could she explain all my scars? “His mom swaddled him in burlap and razor wire when he was a baby …”
What am I supposed to be now that I’m back? What if Candy doesn’t want me anymore? Am I going to spend the rest of my life wearing this fake Steve McQueen face, going through the world like somebody I’m not? What I am isn’t much, but at least it’s real. Did I come back to live a lie for the rest of my life?
I sip my espresso and watch the traffic on Sunset. No one goes near Angelic Bazaar. I check the boomerang-shaped clock over where they prepare the coffee. I’ve been here a half hour. Atticus Rose is really stretching the definition of “Be Back Soon.”
I finish the second double espresso and regret it immediately. It leaves me wanting to run around and throw furniture—but in a good way. Not good stakeout behavior.
Alyx notices that I’m done with my coffee and comes over.
“You went through those fast. You want another double?”
“Yes, but I already want to bench-press that bus out there, so I probably shouldn’t. What do you have with less caffeine?”
“Everything,” she says. “Literally everything here has less caffeine than what you just drank.”
“Can you narrow it down from everything?”
“Sit tight. I’ll get you something.”
As she moves off, I check the Glock in my suit jacket. I don’t know why I do it. Nervous energy. The same energy that makes me check the black blade in a pocket I’ve torn in the other side of the jacket. If Rose doesn’t get here soon, I’m going to be even harder on him than I’d planned. It’s Saturday and I technically have until midnight to find and kill the faction’s board of directors. I know if I can find them, I can do it no matter how many guards they have or what hoodoo they’re using. But right now I’m sitting with the coffee jitters and they’re winning because every twitch I feel is another second off my life.
What if I fuck this up? What will it be like to rot? Will it hurt? Rotten meat smells bad, but if you’re the rotten meat can you smell yourself? How long will it take for me to fall apart? Will I decompose from the edges in? My fingers and toes coming off, and then my hands and feet? I bet I’ll be conscious for the whole thing. That’s how this stuff always works. The moment you want to be out of it, that’s the moment when you’re most alert. The worst part is that Sandoval and the others will get to watch it happen. I bet they’ll even chopper Roger in for a ringside seat. Rose better be here soon or I’m going to force-feed him every goddamn angel in his shop.
A few minutes later, Alyx comes back. She sets down a plate and a tall glass.
She says, “Here’s some orange juice and a grilled cheese sandwich. Citrus is good for the caffeine shakes. So is food. I see you keep looking out the window. Who are you waiting for?”
I take a sip of the juice. There’s no taste, but the pulp feels good going down.
“You see that store over there? Angelic Bazaar? I’m waiting for the guy who runs it.”
Alyx crosses her arms and frowns.
“Oh. Him. He comes in here sometimes. Kind of weird. Always orders a latte and three chocolate chip cookies. Then he puts about nine packets of sugar in his latte. And he never tips. Not once.”
I glance out the window.
“Some rich people are like that.”
“Are you going to bodyguard him?”
“Can you keep a secret?”
She leans in closer. “Not boring ones, so make yours good.”
“I’m going to do the opposite of bodyguarding.”
She straightens up again.
“I said it before, and don’t think I’m hitting on you— although I am—but that’s hot.”
“And it’s our secret, right?”
“Totally.”
“Even from Jason.”
“Aww.”
I look over at him slaving away at the steamed milk machine.
“You can tell him when I’m gone. By then, it won’t matter who knows.”
“It’s a deal.”
I push a twenty at her.
“And this time you have to take it. I’m not paying you. I’m bribing you to keep my secret.”
She picks it up and presses it to her chest.
“I feel so dirty.”
“Not as dirty as he’s going to feel.”
She gestures to my pocket.
“You looked at the back of my card?”
“I did.”
“Good. Call me or I’ll hunt you down like a dog.”
Flirting has been fun, but now I’m starting to not like it so much.
“I should be straight with you. I don’t normally look like this. At all. These aren’t my clothes. Hell, this isn’t even my face. I know that sounds weird, but it’s the truth.”
Alyx folds the twenty the long way and holds it to her upper lip like a mustache.
“So, you’re in disguise. We’re all in disguise.”
“But I’m really in disguise.”
“Okay, Danger Man,” she says, folding the twenty into a paper airplane. “Just remember one thing.”
“What?”
“I’ll hunt you like a dog.”
I hold up my orange juice.
“Thanks for the caffeine cure.”
I take my time with the juice and sandwich. When I’m done, I’m feeling better. But Rose still hasn’t shown up and I’m getti
ng sick of looking at his damn BE BACK SOON sign. I look at the café’s boomerang clock. I’ve been here almost two hours. If I stay I’m going to feel obligated to keep eating and drinking just to pay for my seat, and it’s hard to be scary during an interrogation when you have to piss.
I wipe my mouth on a paper napkin and get up. Stare at the store for one more minute hoping for some kind of activity.
Nothing.
Fuck this.
Alyx intercepts me on my way to the door.
“Going to do some unbodyguarding?” she says.
“That’s the plan.”
She looks away, then back at me.
“Look, I hope I wasn’t too weird or anything earlier. It’s just that, believe it or not, we don’t get that many interesting people in here. I mean, yes, we get lots of artists and musicians and stuff, but they can be such a pain in the ass. And anyway, it was nice meeting you.”
I look at her with my fake face and want to tell her that she didn’t meet anything like the real me.
“Thanks. It was great meeting you too. And, no, you weren’t too weird. You’re about as charming as it gets, which, now that I say it out loud, sounds like something an idiot would write in your high school yearbook. That means I should get going.”
“As far as idiots go, you did all right.”
“Thanks. See you around, Alyx.”
“You know you will. Hunt you like a dog, Stark. Like a dog.”
The sun is high in the sky as I jaywalk across Sunset to Angelic Bazaar. There’s a Japanese restaurant next door with a small parking lot. At one end of the lot is a billboard. Behind the base of the billboard, there’s a nice shadow. I step through and come out in the back of Angelic Bazaar. Atticus Rose’s office is nearby.
It’s like the shop. All old furniture and plush sofas, maybe a little more worn than the stuff out front for sale. There’s a too-large statue of the archangel Michael on a corner of his desk. I never liked Michael, and since he tried to kill me, I like him even less. I climb on Rose’s desk and turn Michael around so that he’s facing the wall. I don’t like staring at his rear end much either, but it’s better than that smug face. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with archangels? They’re all crazy in one way or another, and I’m saying that as the son of an archangel—Uriel. At least he never tried to kill me. Hell, in his own fucked-up way, he even tried to help me understand who I am. But like the mortal father who raised me, he didn’t stick around long. Although he had a better excuse. He was murdered. The whole archangel thing depresses me. This whole store depresses me. But Atticus Rose is a Tick-Tock Man. He’s not just selling end tables to the Martha Stewart crowd. Where’s his workshop? I know that whatever he’s making for the faction will be awful. Maybe awful enough that it’s an excuse to kill him. But not until he tells me where to find his bosses. My time is running out. Howard better be as good as Sandoval says he is. If I end up back in Hell for good, I’ll wait for them until they die and, like Alyx said, hunt them down like dogs.
Hollywood Dead Page 11
