Hollywood Dead

by Richard Kadrey

  “Something like that,” says Sandoval. “In fact, exactly like that.”

  “How are you feeling over there, Barron? Are you looking forward to eternity choking down those horse pills?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I’m getting a little better every day. Even if it takes a year or ten years to get back to normal, what do I care? What’s a decade when placed against eternity?”

  “You know the faction did this to you, right?”

  “Who cares? They’re being dealt with right now.”

  “You mean what’s on the news? The faction’s pretty big. I wouldn’t count on them catching everyone, at least not tonight. But there’s something more important you ought to be thinking about.”

  “What’s that?” Barron says.

  “How did the faction get to you? I mean, you’re part of the team working with the rebel angels. You’re a Mafia made man. And yet, somehow they got to you. How do you think that happened?”

  “What makes you think the faction did this to me? You have no proof.”

  “Sure I do. It’s a kill list. A friend translated it for me. All of your dead Wormwood friends are there, and in order. Pieter Holden, Megan Bradbury, Franz Landschoff, Jared Glanton. I guess they didn’t rate the immortality serum, did they? Just you and Eva and who else? That’s the funny thing about immortality, though. Being alive doesn’t necessarily mean walking around eating tamales. How does spending eternity in a coma sound? It’s still immortality, but probably not the kind you were hoping for.”

  Barron looks at me.

  “Do you have the list?”

  “In English? Just the interesting parts.”

  I hand him the piece of paper. He looks it over.

  He says, “Do you know anything about this, Eva?”

  Sandoval looks at me like she wishes her eyes were jackhammers and I was a chocolate Easter bunny.

  “Let me see it,” she says.

  She reads it over. Wads up the paper and throws it on the floor.

  “It’s a list of names. He probably made it up himself. Nothing that comes out of this animal’s mouth is the truth.”

  “That girl’s name,” says Barron. “Alessa Graves. How would he possibly know about her? We were looking at her father ourselves. And there was an incident outside of the store where she works.”

  “He could have added her name because he knew about her father. He could have staged the incident himself.”

  I go and stand next to Barron.

  I tell him, “She’s never going to give anything up. Any questions you have, she’ll have a quick answer. Eva worked this all out ahead of time. When she decided to feed some of you to the faction and run Wormwood herself.”

  Barron gives me a dirty look, but when he turns to Sandoval his hands flex nervously.

  It should be noted that everything I’m saying is absolute bullshit. I’m completely winging it. I don’t know who poisoned Barron or why. But I know these Wormwood pricks are paranoid, which makes them easy to fuck with.

  “Hey, Barron. When’s the last time you checked your pills? I hate to think that someone might be keeping you sick on purpose.”

  “Eva …,” he starts.

  “Stop listening to this idiot,” shouts Sandoval. “You’re ill and he’s manipulating you.”

  “But how did the faction get to so many of our people?”

  “You know as well as I do that they got some of their spies among us.”

  “And who let that happen?” I say.

  Sandoval looks at me.

  “I was stabbed, for Heaven’s sake,” Eva says.

  “Not very badly.”

  “It’s true,” says Barron. “You weren’t in the clinic long.”

  She shoots him a look.

  “Of course not. They used healing magic. It took no time at all.”

  I lean down to Barron.

  “Ask her why she killed Bruno, the one guy who could have told you how the faction was infiltrating your operation.”

  “Eva?” he says.

  “He attacked me!” she shouts. “There was blood everywhere. I don’t remember much after that.”

  “But at least you have your arrangement with the angels, right, Barron? I’m sure she’s above making any side deals.”

  He rubs his chest and gulps down a couple more pills. When his hands are steady, he pulls a small pistol from under his jacket and points it at Sandoval. His voice is rough when he speaks.

  “Do you have some kind of deal with Stark? You let him take Howard.”

  “Shut up, Barron,” says Sandoval.

  We’re finally where I wanted.

  “Howard is the key to the angels, isn’t he? All that spooky secret hoodoo he knows. I knew you weren’t keeping him around just for my benefit.”

  “Do you see what you did?” Sandoval shouts at Barron. “You’ve told him everything.”

  Barron looks at me, a puzzled expression on his face. When he looks back at Sandoval she has her own pistol out. Without missing a beat, she shoots him in the head. Barron slams into the back of his chair, knocking his pills off the table. They scatter in a hundred directions on the floor.

  “I’ll make you another deal,” she says. “Bring back Howard and we’ll see about having him fix you.”

  I cut a sigil in my right arm with the black blade.

  Sandoval takes a step back, disgusted by my black blood soaking into her Persian rug.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she says.

  “I’m weak, Eva. But blood magic, it supercharges every spell and curse you can cast.”

  She levels her pistol at me.

  I have to time this just right.

  “I just turned off the mansion’s hoodoo defenses. Those faction assholes waiting outside should be breaking in here any minute.”

  Sandoval smiles.

  “What are they going to do? Shoot me?”

  “You shot Barron.”

  “He’ll heal, and when he does, I’ll shoot him again. The idiot.”

  “Maybe they can’t kill you, but they can put you in a cage at the bottom of a mine shaft for the next million years. How does immortality sound now?”

  There’s a crash in another room. Footsteps. Shouted orders.

  “Bye, Eva.”

  “Good-bye, Stark,” she says.

  Remember when I said I had to time this just right? I should have factored in that my body is moving slower than normal.

  Before I can step into a shadow, Eva fires her pistol twice. One of the shots hits me in the stomach. I don’t step out of the room so much as fall on my face.

  I DON’T FEEL a thing. If it wasn’t for all this blood I’d think an old lady bumped me with her purse on the bus. Not that I ever ride the bus.

  I lie on the floor of the Room wrapping duct tape around myself until the roll runs out. It seems to take a while, but I’m not sure. Time has gone a little sideways. Space too. When I get to my feet, I try to lean on the wall but I can’t find it. I can see it, but it seems infinitely far away. I keep heading for it and, lucky for me, trip over my own feet. I find the wall with my forehead when I fall against it. That doesn’t hurt either, which just makes me laugh.

  Usually I love the Room for its silence and solitude. But I don’t want to die here alone. I get to the closest door and step through it.

  And come out on Hollywood Boulevard. I’m not sure if it’s still night out, but it sure seems dark. The street is pretty much deserted. The closest street sign is hard to read. It wobbles and the letters are smeared like we’re having an earthquake.

  Are we having an earthquake? I know I am.

  It takes a couple of minutes, but I’m pretty sure the sign says Ivar Avenue, which puts me near Bamboo House of Dolls. That means Max Overdrive is west. But, for the life of me, I can’t remember how far. Nothing to do but start walking. Go west, young man. Someone said that, right? Power through the desert. Try not to eat all your cattle or each other along the way. Brave pione
ers. Manifest Destiny. Make America great again.

  Fuck that noise.

  Where was I going?

  Got it.

  Max Overdrive. Man, my brain isn’t working right. And I think I’m bleeding. Must have cut myself shaving.

  Goddamn, I’m hilarious.

  Where was I going? West. Right.

  Let’s get this wagon train moving.

  I start walking. I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m doing because I keep bumping into buildings and parked cars. It’s hard to tell. I’m looking at the pavement a lot more than I am the street. From a distance I probably look more drunk than gutshot. Good. At least people will leave me alone. Unless I run into some cops.

  Oh man. Whoever is in charge of the universe right now, please don’t let me run into cops. I don’t need the hassle and they don’t need me punching them because there’s no way I’m spending whatever time I have left in a drunk tank.

  I miss Candy. I mean, I was just talking to her, but I still miss her.

  I already miss the world too. Considering what a shitpile it is in daylight, L.A. is sure pretty at night. All light and the outlines of buildings floating against dead black sky and stars. I wouldn’t want to die anywhere else.

  Shit. There must be an earthquake. All the buildings are on their sides.

  Scratch that. It’s me. Must have missed a step. I have a hard time getting up until someone helps me to my feet.

  Please don’t be a cop. Please don’t be a cop.

  And it’s not.

  He’s a scruffy little guy. Or maybe he’s tall. Everything seems to be both at once.

  “You doing all right tonight, pardner?” he says.

  Because I’m hilarious I say, “It’s my birthday.”

  “Congratulations. Looks like you’ve been having a good time.”

  “The best. I love birthdays. Do you love birthdays?”

  “I love your birthday,” he says. “Did anyone slip you a little cash at your party? Maybe an envelope or a little something from Grandma?”

  He keeps pushing me. I look down and see that he has a knife against my side.

  It’s so fucking funny. I can’t help laughing.

  He laughs along with me.

  “I mean it,” he says. “Give me your cash. All of it.”

  He doesn’t sound fun and friendly anymore. I think it makes me sad, but I can’t be sure because I’m still laughing.

  He pushes the knife a little harder, so I push him back. Pretty hard, I guess, because he goes flying into a parked car and drops his knife. I stumble over with the Colt in my hand and stick it in his face.

  I say, “L.A. sure is pretty at night.”

  He’s frozen there on his knees.

  “Don’t you think?”

  “It sure is,” he says.

  “What’s your favorite part?”

  He shifts his shoulders nervously.

  “The people?”

  “The lights,” I say.

  “The lights. Yeah. You’re right.”

  I pull the last of Howard’s money from my pocket and hold it out to him.

  “Take it.”

  He hesitates.

  “I said take it. You have to. It’s my birthday.”

  I keep the gun on him while he reaches for the bills.

  When he has them I say, “Get up.”

  He does, very slowly. Everything is slow now. It’s like one of those science shows where it takes a droplet a minute to splash into a pool of water.

  When he’s on his feet, I put the Colt away and he runs off.

  “Go west, young man.”

  I’m not sure he heard me or if I even said it out loud. But I’m sure he got the message.

  Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me.

  Wait. It’s not my birthday. That was a joke.

  It occurs to me that I might not get to Max Overdrive.

  I make it to a bus shelter and drop down onto one of the incredibly uncomfortable seats to wait for something. Not a bus. I’d rather be dragged behind a burning pickup truck into a barbed wire lake than ride the bus.

  Wait. I remember now. I’m dying. I’m waiting to die.

  I lean back against the plastic wall of the bus shelter.

  There’s an old man sitting a few seats away.

  “L.A. sure is pretty at night,” he says.

  It takes me a while to process the words, but I get there.

  “Yes it is.”

  He says, “Don’t you think it’s time to let go? To come home?”

  I stare at him but can’t see anything until passing headlights illuminate his face.

  Oh.

  “Hello, Mr. Muninn.”

  “Hello, James.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “It’s been busy in Heaven.”

  “That’s what people tell me.”

  Who’s Mr. Muninn? That’s a complicated question and I’m not good with complicated at this precise moment. You’ll just have to trust me when I say that Mr. Muninn is the grand marshal of the big parade. To be a little clearer, he’s God. Yes, that God. The one in all the books. Not a bad guy either. We’re friends. More or less. Less a lot of the time. I never pictured him waiting for a bus.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “What you’re doing. Dragging your battered body all over creation. Just sit back and relax for a while. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  I look at a bright red neon sign across the street.

  CHECKS CASHED.

  I point at the sign.

  “Isn’t that nice of them?”

  Mr. Muninn swivels his eyes toward the sign, then back at me.

  “You’re babbling,” he says.

  “It’s my birthday. I get to babble.”

  “It’s not your birthday.”

  “I know why you’re here.”

  “Why?”

  “You want me to go to Heaven with you.”

  “Does that sound so bad?”

  I sit up straighter.

  “The war in Heaven is still a mess then?”

  “In some ways, worse than ever. The rebels’ plans … they’ll do anything to win. They make me feel ashamed of myself for what I’ve created.”

  “I know about their deal with Wormwood. Steal all the souls. Stick them on the wall like bowling trophies.”

  “For the record, it was Wormwood that developed the proposal. Not the angels themselves.”

  “Your point being that even though you’re at war with the rebels, mortals are still worse.”

  “Not quite as simple as that,” he says. “But yes, essentially.”

  “I had a weird year, too. Want to hear about it?”

  “I know all about it. You killed the archangel Michael on my doorstep.”

  “I forgot that part. Mostly I remember driving forever and never getting anywhere. But I guess that’s Hell for you, huh?”

  “You don’t have to go back there again.”

  “Right. You’re going to whoosh me off to Heaven. That’s the thing, though. If you can take me to Heaven, you can make it my birthday. Come on. Do it.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You know, most people would jump at the chance I’m giving you.”

  “I’ve been to Heaven. It wasn’t so great.”

  “You saw the gates. It’s not the same thing. It’s like saying you looked at a picture of an ugly doll and it’s the same as seeing Bride of Chucky.”

  I lean back against the shelter wall.

  “You’ve seen Bride of Chucky?”

  “Of course not,” he says. “I was just trying to speak your language so you’d understand.”

  I reach over and slap him on the knee.

  “I appreciate it. I know I don’t look it, but complicated emotional responses are a little beyond me right now.”

  Mr. Muninn is holding a cane. He leans forward on it.

  “What exactly is it you’
re trying to accomplish here?”

  “I have to break the contract between Wormwood and the rebel angels.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  “I’m going to kill Jonathan Howard.”

  “And how are you going to do that? Poison him? Shoot him? He’s immortal.”

  I take out the black blade.

  “I’m going to use this. Remember this knife? An assassin’s blade. And it will kill anything. Including angels. If it will kill an angel, it will kill Howard.”

  He applauds lightly.

  “It seems you have some faculties left. All right. Let’s say you kill him. What about your personal situation? With Howard gone, you’ll be killing the one person who knows the ritual to bring you back.”

  “Fuck Ludovico and the Ellicit he rode in on. Howard was never going to do it. It was just a stalling tactic.”

  “It seems to have worked.”

  I laugh again.

  “I guess you’re right. Still, what you want is for me to lean back, close my eyes, and sleep the big sleep. I can’t do that. If I’m going to die, I’m going to go out messy.”

  He taps his cane on the ground.

  “Alice sends her regards,” he says.

  “Tell her hi for me. How’s Samael?”

  “He’s fine. Busy as always.”

  “Is he still the Angel of Death?”

  “No,” says Mr. Muninn. “He lost that job when he loaned you the knife that severs souls from their bodies.”

  “Oh yeah. It was nice of him. That knife sure came in handy Downtown.”

  “I’m sure it did.”

  I want to look at the stars, but the roof of the shelter is in the way.

  “What’s it like these days, being God and Lucifer at the same time?”

  He picks a thread off the knee of his pants.

  “I’m feeling spread thin. Endless war in one place. Endless suffering and confusion in the other. That’s another reason I thought you might come with me. Perhaps you’d consider taking over Hell for a while. Nothing permanent. Just while I sort out some things in Heaven.”

  I give up on the stars and look at him.

  “I was a terrible Lucifer, remember? What about Samael? He’s too smart to take the job, isn’t he?”

  Mr. Muninn adjusts his ass on the uncomfortable seat.

  “I thought about asking him but decided against it. He’s a good boy. But a bit rash sometimes.”

  “Yeah. He’d get bored and start a whole new war with someone.”