Kill City Blues: A Sandman Slim Novel

by Richard Kadrey

  WE DECIDE TO meet at Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s a holy place. My second home. The best bar in L.A. A punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy & The Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees around the liquor bottles. Coconut bowls for peanuts. Martin Denny and Les Baxter on the jukebox. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. I met him my first day back from Hell. Helped him out with a skinhead problem and now I drink for free. Ain’t life grand?

  “Sir Galahad returns,” he says when he sees me. “How’s the saving-the-world biz?”

  “Slow. But it’s a growth industry. I expect a lot of investors when Godzilla takes a shit on Disneyland.”

  “Hold a place for me in the lifeboat. I’ll bring my cocktail mixer and we can toast El Apocalipsis with Manhattans.”

  “Sounds yummy,” says Candy.

  “How are you doing, ma’am?” he says.

  “Great. I’ll be spectacular with a beer in me.”

  “You got it,” says Carlos. “Aqua Regia for you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Black coffee. I’ll be setting a saintly example tonight.”

  “Better you than me,” says Carlos. “Hey. Put that back.”

  There’s a skinny blond guy in a red Pendleton shirt trying to palm the cash the drunk next to him left sitting on the bar.

  I reach for the guy, but before I touch him he screams. His hands have shrunk to doll size.

  I don’t see any witches or Coyote tricksters around. Carlos is holding a crushed paper cup in his hand. Holy water, amber, and spots of what look like red mercury wormwood drip from between his fingers. Fucking Carlos just used hoodoo on someone.

  “Where did you learn that?”

  “Get up and get out,” Carlos tells Tiny Hands.

  The money is too big for the guy to hold on to. He drops it on the floor. I think he wants to scream, but his brain has vapor-locked.

  “Your hands will be okay in a couple of hours. But your head won’t be if you ever come back here,” says Carlos, grabbing up a baseball bat from under the bar.

  Still staring at his mangled hands, Tiny Hands backs out the door.

  “Neat trick, huh? Cutter Blade taught it to me for a bottle of Gentleman Jack. I keep the potion back here, and when someone gets untoward, I crush a cup while giving them the hairy eyeball. I’m the new brujo in town, right, motherfuckers?”

  People bellied up to the bar clap and hoot. Carlos bows like it’s Las fucking Vegas.

  “Why do you need that hoodoo?”

  Carlos moves his head from side to side like he’s thinking.

  “I can’t have you cleaning up my messes forever. And you can’t be here all the time. I decided that with all you abracadabra types around, learning a trick or two was better than taking one of those pepper-spray courses.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. But be careful with that stuff. Crazy shit can happen when you learn on your own.”

  “Like what?”

  “Make sure you wash that stuff off your hands before you pee,” says Candy.

  “I’m going to etch that on my eyeballs,” he says, handing her a beer.

  “I’ll come by and teach you a couple of civilian-safe tricks after I find the 8 Ball.”

  “Muchas gracias,” says Carlos, and sets a cup of coffee in front of me.

  I’m impressed with the hoodoo. It’s hard for civilians to ever do real magic and harder still for them not to kill themselves doing it. But Carlos has always had balls of steel. He’s had skinheads and zombies in here and he just cleaned up the mess and started serving drinks again. When his clientele switched from regular L.A. drunks to Sub Rosas and Lurkers, he didn’t even blink. I’m not surprised he can pull off some bush magic.

  Father Traven and Brigitte come in with Vidocq and Allegra. Traven looks tired. His worn soldier’s face is pale and there are dark rings around his eyes. That’s where the drinking comes from. He doesn’t sleep, so he tries to knock himself out with booze. I’ve been there. It works too. But it’ll kill you faster than the worst insomnia.

  The father is another civilian who’s picked up a little hoodoo. Before he became a professional bookworm, he was a sin eater, a priest who used bread and salt to ritually consume the sins of the dead. When he started working with us, he learned to use those sins as a weapon. He calls it the Via Dolorosa. It’s like a horrible kiss when he puts his mouth over yours and spits enough sins down your gullet to book you a seat in the deepest, darkest pit in Hell.

  Candy gives my arm a squeeze and goes over to the happy couples. Like we agreed, she leads Vidocq, Allegra, and Brigitte away and aims Traven at me.

  “Good to see you,” he says. “It’s been a while.”

  “Sorry. I got so twisted around looking for the Qomrama that I stopped talking to practically everyone. Especially when I came up with nothing.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah, but I almost got lucky. A guy offered me a million dollars for it a couple of days ago.”

  “He thought you had it?”

  “How’s that for a kick in the head? And there are other assholes out there who think the same thing. Whoever really has it must be laughing his ass off.”

  Traven gestures to Carlos.

  “Evening. Could I get a gin and tonic, please?”

  “He’ll have coffee. Just like me.”

  I pick up my cup and take a drink.

  Traven raises his eyebrows.

  “You’ve been talking to Brigitte.”

  “She’s been talking to us. She’s worried about you.”

  He looks at her across the room.

  “I suppose with reason. The last few weeks have been both wonderful and very difficult. I’ve never known anyone like Brigitte before. I joined the Church young. I’d never even had a serious girlfriend. I suppose I was running away from the world. Then I met Brigitte and heard about her adventures. She’s opened my eyes to a lot of things.”

  “If everything is so Ozzie and Harriet, why are you turning into a lush?”

  Carlos sets down the coffee. Father Traven practically drowns it in cream and sugar. I should have ordered him a milk shake.

  “The certainty of Hell. The coming of the Angra Om Ya. Of having nothing, then having something and knowing it will all be taken away when I disappear into the Abyss.”

  “Speaking as someone who’s been to Hell and had everything taken away from him, I can say that, yeah, it sucks. But it’s not going to happen to you. “

  Traven sips his coffee. Leans back a little and looks at me.

  “You’re not Lucifer anymore. You can’t guarantee me anything. In fact, from what you’ve told me, the very God I offended by writing about the Angra is now Lucifer. If anything, that might merit me special punishment.”

  “No wonder they kept you in the back with the books. You’re even depressing me.”

  “That wasn’t my intention. But you asked why I was drinking and that’s the best I can tell you. I’m scared.”

  I put my hand around the cup of coffee, feeling the hot ceramic against my skin. How do you explain to someone that you understand their fear, then convince them that it’s going to be all right? In my experience, the more you talk about what scares them, the worse it gets. There’s not much to do but ride out the fear with them and try to keep them away from liquor and razor blades.

  What I wouldn’t do for a Malediction and a shot of just about anything right now.

  “You need to get out more. You’ve been with your books too much. Brigitte was like a kid again when we busted up the Tick-Tock Man’s place yesterday. The next time I’m going someplace interesting, you should come along.”

  Brigitte laughs at something Vidocq says. Traven smiles.

  “She’s been floating on air since she came home. Yes, it would be good to do something other than poring over the same books again and again.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A way out. A way
that I’ve read the signs wrong and the Angra aren’t coming.”

  “Did you find it?”

  “I’ve been translating older and older texts and they all say the same thing. That the universe was not created by the deity we call God. It was created by something older and far less forgiving.”

  “That sounds like the Angra.”

  “Yes. The thin membrane of reality that separates the Angra’s prison domain from ours is breaking down.”

  “Or they’re punching their way through.”

  “You know, it’s no coincidence that Lamia was the one to break through. There are twelve Angra in all. Six male and six female, but they’re the polar opposite of the Greek and Roman myths we grew up with. The females are dominant among the Angra, and Lamia is one of the strongest.”

  “If they have a lot more like Lamia, we might just be fucked.”

  “There’s no reason to think that they’ll all get through. Or even one complete deity. Even one would be almost impossible to defeat. We’ll have to hope that when they come, it will be in the form of something like Lamia. A larger and more dangerous fragment, but something on a scale we can comprehend.”

  “This isn’t a pep talk, right? Because if it is, you’re doing it wrong.”

  He looks at his coffee cup. Turns it around in his hands like he wishes there was something in there besides coffee.

  “Sorry. I’m still working some of this through in my head. Talking about it helps.”

  “All this theoretical stuff is interesting, but how do we fight them? And how will the Angra get free in the first place?”

  “That’s the one piece of good news I have. It looks like they can’t come back all the way on their own, no matter how many cracks appear between the universes. The full Angra can only return through a summoning.”

  “Great. Where’s the Golden Vigil when you need them? They could set up surveillance on every Angra cult in California.”

  “It’s not that simple. We’re talking about a ritual. Something anyone with the right knowledge can do without even necessarily realizing what they’re doing.”

  “So, some kids with the wrong book and a Ouija board could destroy the universe.”

  “I don’t know about that exact scenario, but essentially that’s it.”

  “Fucking great. So we’re still nowhere.”

  “No. I believe that the Qomrama is the key. It can kill gods, but I believe it’s the key to releasing them too. We need to have it and find out if there is a way to destroy it.”

  “Why don’t you work on that last bit? I’ll keep looking until someone coughs it up or I think of something better to do.”

  “And you’ll bring me along on your next adventure?”

  “Absolutely. Now, why don’t you go back with the others?”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But you’ll know it when you see it.”

  “Thank you for the talk. Maybe there’s a way out of this after all.”

  “One more thing. Do you think the Terminator had a soul?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean yeah, he was a robot, but he had a human body on top of all the gears. The body was even cloned from a real guy. So could someone or something like the Terminator have a soul?”

  He thinks for a minute and shakes his head.

  “No. I don’t think so. Why do you ask?”

  “I was hoping to track someone down in Hell, but now I doubt he’s there. I doubt he’s anywhere.”

  “You’ll have to explain that to me sometime.”

  “Sure. Sometime.”

  He gets up and goes and joins Brigitte with the others.

  So much for tracking down Trevor Moseley in Hell and giving him the third degree. I hold up the remains of my coffee to Carlos.

  “Can you make this more interesting?”

  He gets a dusty bottle from under the counter and pours a shot of Aqua Regia into the cup. Just what I need to kill those last few brain cells that are getting in the way of what I think I need to do.

  Carlos puts the bottle back and says, “You know, someone was asking about you yesterday.”

  “Did you get a name?”

  He shakes his head.

  “He didn’t say. But he was dressed to the nines and the tens.”

  “Did he look like someone who might produce bad TV or good porn?”

  “Neither. He was right out of GQ.”

  “Then he wasn’t Declan Garrett.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I was eating a donut and he tried to shoot me.”

  “Some people are like that. Anyway, the guy who is looking for you said he’d be back. He has a business deal for you.”

  “When he gets here tell him to fuck off. I’m beginning to I think I’ve spent this whole month doing things backward.”

  “Backward how?”

  Carlos pours more Aqua Regia into my cup. The more I drink, the clearer it gets. I look around to make sure Traven doesn’t see me.

  “I’ve been looking for a thing, but what I should have been looking for is who wants it. Think of the ultimate weapon. Think of a death ray that fits in your pocket like a phone. Who would want that? In the old days, it would be the Vigil. They had a massive hard-on for hoodoo tech. Who’s left in L.A. like that? Not the cops. If they had the 8 Ball, they’d have blown themselves up by now. Who does that leave? Gangsters. But not civilian ones. They’re dumber than cops, so they’d all be dead. It’s got to be a Sub Rosa or Lurker crew. They’re the only ones who might handle the 8 Ball without setting off World War Three.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but feel free to yammer.”

  He sets out coasters and drinks for other customers.

  I say, “How would you feel if I became extremely unreasonable?”

  Carlos leans on the bar and speaks quietly.

  “Like the old days? You’re not going to kill anybody?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  He stands up and takes empty glasses off the bar.

  “Things have been quiet lately. Business is off. Maybe we need a little . . . what’s the French thing?”

  “Grand Guignol?”

  “That’s it. Some of that.”

  I nod. Push the empty cup at him. The place is crowded for a weeknight. Civilian groupies huddle at the jukebox with a vampire holding hands with a blue-skinned Ludere. Some Razzers pick at a plate of deep fried tumors. Horned Lyphs, a tour group from Seattle, take snapshots in front of the old punk posters. A table of psychics quietly shares a bottle of tequila shaped like a Día de los Muertos skull.

  “Who don’t you like? I mean if they all dropped down dead, who would you not miss?”

  “That’s easy,” Carlos says. He sets a gimlet in front of a Mal de Mer in a tight wife beater. He’s shaved down the coral on his scalp so it looks like a mullet swept back to the shoulders and covered in skin like a cobra’s—diamond-scaled and shiny as marble. Carlos picks up an empty glass and uses it to point across the room.

  “Them,” he says. “Those fucking Cold Cases.”

  I turn and spot a table with four of them.

  Cold Cases are soul merchants. There’s a lot of call for fresh souls in L.A. It’s an easy town to get yours smudged up. Or maybe you get dumb and desperate and sell it to Lucifer. Don’t worry. Just call your friendly neighborhood Cold Case. They have plenty of replacement souls. Most they even paid for, though there are rumors that they sometimes lift a particularly spotless soul without the owner’s permission. Everyone hates Cold Cases, but enough people need them that when one of them gets in trouble, evidence gets misplaced. Paperwork disappears. Not a one of them has ever spent a night in jail.

  These four are laughing together at a table, passing around a bottle of expensive bourbon. Old Cold Cases keep a low profile, but these guys are young and out to show off their wealth. Sharkskin suits. Bright ankle-length coats. Italian shoes and enough blood diamonds on their
fingers and ears to finance a third-world coup.

  “See their belts?” says Carlos. “They carry souls around with them these days. It’s a status thing. Like how crazy GIs used to carry strings of dead enemies’ ears.”

  I didn’t notice it at first but he’s right. They’re all wearing skinny belts from which dangle small glowing bottles.

  Carlos says, “What they do is bad enough, but flaunting and disrespecting people’s souls like that, it’s a sin, man. A goddamn sin.”

  “They good customers?”

  “If I lose all my Cold Case trade, good riddance. All they do is complain about whatever I serve them. They want to hang out late at night? Let them go to Denny’s.”

  “Okay.”

  I down my shot and head for their table, shouldering my way through the crowd. Pushing. Stepping on toes. I want them to see me coming. I want everyone to see me coming.

  All four look up when I reach the table, but none of them move.

  “Hi. I’m with the IRS. This is just a spot check see if you’ve paid this quarter’s asshole tax.”

  I hold out my hand to the one closest. He has a pretty-boy face but bad-news eyes. He’s the one in greenish sharkskin. He has the sleeves of his jacket pushed up to his elbows, eighties’ style. That alone is enough for me to punch him.

  I say, “I’m going to need to see some ID, sir.”

  His mean little eyes narrow.

  “Who the hell are you? There are four of us, faggot.”

  I smile.

  “Aw, I’m just kidding. You boys look like fun. Is that good? You don’t mind, do you?”

  I grab the bottle of bourbon and get a good mouthful. Make a face and spit it all over Mr. Sharkskin’s suit.

  “How can you drink that shit?”

  I gesture with the bottle like a low-IQ drunk, splashing whiskey all over the table and Sharkskin’s friends. All three get up, kicking their chairs back. I wait for one of them to reach into his jacket for a gun, but it doesn’t happen. They’re so used to being protected they’re not even armed.