Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim)

by Richard Kadrey

  I drop the rest of my cigarette into Sola’s coffee cup.

  “I don’t like being manipulated. You fucked this thing up. You fix it.”

  I get up and walk out.

  I CROSS TO the other side of the street, where it’s darker and I can keep the sun out of my eyes. Candy just about catches up with me halfway down the block.

  “Wait up, will you,” she says.

  I keep walking.

  She catches up and walks beside me.

  “I sent Vidocq to the clinic and told him to take Allegra to breakfast. Want to have breakfast with me?”

  “This is why Vidocq bought you, isn’t it. I’m the asshole who walks out and you’re the angel who’s supposed to bring me back in.”

  “Of course. Is it working?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  She gets in front of me at the corner.

  “Come on. Just have breakfast with me. We don’t have to talk about any of this.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Why do you have to make everything so hard? Let’s do something. Just us. We kissed that night at Avila and the timing has been so fucked between us trying to get to know each other ever since. But we’re here now and I don’t have to save Doc and you don’t have to save the world. Can we just try to be like normal people for an hour?”

  “I thought not being normal people was why we got along. Monster solidarity.”

  She puts a hand on my chest.

  “Then we can pretend. A couple of wolves eating blueberry waffles among the sheep.”

  “Keep your waffles. I need grease to kill this hangover. Lots of bacon or ham. Maybe a chicken-fried steak.”

  “Anything you want.”

  I take a step back from her.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. You never play games like this or lie to me again. About anything.”

  She nods.

  “I promise.”

  “Okay.”

  She loops her arm in mine and pulls me down the street.

  “Roscoe’s on Gower, then. They have fried chicken and waffles.”

  Candy is a little shorter than me. I look down at her smiling in those stupid sunglasses. Sometimes just seeing a woman smile is like a knife in the heart. It hurts and it rattles your whole system, but against all your instincts you swallow the pain and keep looking. After a while you realize it doesn’t hurt as much as you thought it would.

  “Okay. Roscoe’s.”

  WE SIT IN a booth in the back of Roscoe’s, me with my back to the wall. It’s an old family habit after Wild Bill caught one in the spine back in Deadwood. Neither of us had to look at the menu to order. Roscoe’s specializes in fried chicken and waffles in a heroin-addictive gravy. You eat there because the food is great, and if you live in L.A. and aren’t going to flatline on a speed binge, you might as well check out with arteries the color and density of concrete.

  I’ve been trying to ignore my arms all morning, but I can’t stand it anymore. I heal fast, but it’s just a fast-forward version of how everyone heals and that means almost-healed skin itches like hell. I lean back against the wall, scratch one arm and then the other. It feels great. I want to dig underneath the red skin and new scars and hack away at the nerves with my fingernails so they’ll shut up.

  Candy says, “Have you been sleeping in pet-shop windows? You look like you have fleas.”

  “A Gluttire demon made me his chew toy last night.”

  “You have all the fun. I’ve never even seen one of those.”

  “Unless you see it through binoculars from an air-conditioned bunker, you don’t want to. The bastard burned the hell out of my arms.”

  “Let me see.”

  I shrug off my coat and push my burned sleeves out of the way. (I really need to change clothes soon. It looks like I stole my clothes from a hobo arsonist.) I hope there aren’t any nice families looking over here right now. They might have to bag up their chicken and finish it at home.

  Candy leans across the table and pokes my raw red left arm.

  “Hey. That hurts.”

  “You big baby. It doesn’t look so bad.”

  “I’ll send the next Gluttire to your place to give you a massage and a skin peel.”

  Our drinks arrive. My coffee and Candy’s Coke. I haven’t eaten with her before, but I hear that Jades have a real sweet tooth.

  In between sips of soda she says, “After breakfast we should see Allegra. She’ll have something to fix you up.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Even if it’s only something to stop this damned itching.”

  Candy takes the straw from her drink and wraps it around her finger.

  “Let’s start the job interview. Mr. Stark, what’s your favorite color? Your favorite movie? Your favorite song?”

  “Are you fucking serious?”

  “It’s called speed dating. You have five minutes to see if you like someone, then a permed-bitch control freak rings a bell and you have to move on to someone else.”

  “You’re serious. You’ve done this?”

  She makes a face and shakes her head.

  “Hell no. But I want to see you squirm. And I have lots worse questions than those. If you were a tree, what kind would you be?”

  Someone remind me why I came back to earth.

  “Christ. Okay. Ask me the questions again.”

  She gives me a wicked smile.

  “Favorite color, movie, and song.”

  I glance at the kitchen, willing our food to arrive so I can stuff my mouth and not talk.

  “Hellion gray, Herbie versus Godzilla, and ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ ”

  “Okay. Now me.”

  “If this is how speed dating works, I think I’ll stay home with Kasabian.”

  “Go on.”

  “Okay. Favorite car, movie, and way to use a knife.”

  Our food arrives while she’s answering. Thanks to whatever monsters are watching over me. This will be over in a minute.

  “Shelby Mustang and Evil Dead II. I’ve never used a knife except to cut bagels.”

  “Wrong. The correct answer is a ’71 Impala Super Sport. Once Upon a Time in the West. And from behind, your right arm around the throat and an upward thrust with your left so the blade slips between the ribs and into the heart.”

  The waiter is laying out the plates when I answer. He freezes for a second then puts down our cutlery and glasses of water. He turns and walks away slowly, like from a rabid dog, trying not to draw its attention or piss it off. What a pro. I’m leaving him a massive tip.

  “How are the waffles?”

  “Perfect. How about your chicken?”

  “Smoothing over this hangover like a road grader.”

  We don’t talk for a while. Just eat our food like a couple of civilians who haven’t killed enough people to populate a small city. It’s been six months since that night at Avila when we were both in monster mode, ripping our way through some of L.A.’s most elite millionaires and politicos, all of them Mason’s accomplices as he tried to open the gates of Hell. Candy and I did kiss each other that night. A hard, long kiss while we were covered in other people’s blood, a couple of monsters who recognized each other and weren’t afraid of what they saw. And then nothing. Candy went back on the wagon, taking Doc Kinski’s potion to keep from turning back into a killing machine. Then the Drifters invaded. And someone was looking to kill Doc, so she went on the road with him. I don’t know if there’s anything between us really, but it sure as hell feels like someone sprinkled mayhem and saltpeter all over creation to make sure we never find out.

  I feel a little guilt bubbling up in the back of my mind. It’s the same feeling I always get when I look at a woman who isn’t Alice. But like Candy said, we’re here now. Let’s just see what happens. I can’t live in the shadow of Alice’s absence every moment of my life. I don’t push her away, but let her drift back where she was. Not forgotten, but not making me wish I was dead. I don’t let the picture of t
he Sentenza kid get to me either. Julia found one exorcist, so she can find another. Hell, I could point her to some Sub Rosa demon hunters.

  My phone buzzes. A text comes through.

  The girl is delicious. You’re right to be with her.

  Leave the case alone. Forget you heard about it.

  Stay with the pretty girl.

  I push the plates away and get to my feet, storming through the restaurant looking for anyone holding a phone. A guy in blond dreads and a sleeveless T-shirt is looking at his. I’m across the room in two long steps and snatch it from his hand. A woman’s voice comes out of the speaker. He’s listening to his voice mail. I slam the phone on the table and stomp out of the emergency exit, setting off the alarm. There’s no one on the street. A dusty station wagon and a VW Bug pass each other in the road. Only one passenger in each and neither of them has a phone.

  I push back into Roscoe’s through the front door. Everyone in the place is looking at me like they’re expecting the crazy man in the coat to set off the bomb he’s obviously hiding.

  I go to the table and show Candy the message.

  “Tell me this isn’t you or Vidocq. Or something one of you set up with Julia.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Vidocq wouldn’t and I didn’t,” she says. I look at her and let the angel out for a second so he can look, too. He sees what I see. She’s telling the truth.

  I take a couple of the hundreds I grabbed from my stash of vampire money last night. Drop the money on the table and nod for Candy to follow me out. We double-time it back to Hollywood Boulevard to get lost in the tourist crowd before one of the solid citizens back at the restaurant dials 911.

  I say, “Do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a little agitated and don’t want to have to explain anything. Do me a favor and call Vidocq. Tell him I want in on the case. I don’t like threats and I hate crank calls.”

  Candy puts her robot glasses on.

  “At least whoever it was thinks I’m pretty.”

  “Even assholes can have good taste.”

  THERE’S A PARKING lot less than a block from the Beat Hotel. Vidocq hates riding in stolen cars, so I look for one that will make him the least unhappy and settle on a brown Volvo 240, one of the most boring cars in the world. No one, especially a cop, will look twice at a Volvo, especially one the color of a Swedish turd.

  I leave Candy in the idling car, go into the room at the hotel, and ditch my burned shirt for a clean one. I always have the knife and na’at with me, but on the way out I grab the Smith & Wesson .460. You don’t have to shoot an elephant with a gun this big and powerful. You just hit it on the knee with the butt and the elephant will give you all of its lunch money. When he sees me slip the gun into my coat pocket, Kasabian shakes his head, which, in his case, is his whole body.

  “I knew they’d drag you in. You can’t stay away from trouble.”

  “Can I help it if trouble has me on speed dial?”

  “Have fun, sucker.”

  “Vaya con Dios, Alfredo Garcia.”

  Sola already gave Vidocq the Sentenza family’s address, so I pick him up and we head north on the Hollywood Freeway.

  STUDIO CITY IS the kind of place where the poor have to settle for two-million-dollar “luxury properties” instead of mansions. The only difference between them and the genuinely rich in the hills is that they have to get by with one pool and they can’t park a 747 in their two-story living room, though they can probably squeeze in a decent-size blimp. There are fake villas with fake Roman mosaics out front and fake castles with wrought-iron gates like Henry VIII is going to stop by with guacamole for the keg party.

  Lucky for everyone, the address Julia gave us belongs to a place on Coldwater Canyon Avenue with nothing but a long snaking driveway. No monarchist gates, armed guards, or a giant hermetically sealed Jetsons dome.

  At the end of the drive, a gold Lexus is parked next to a clean but well-used Ford pickup. There are streaks of mud and dried cement around the truck’s wheel wells. We get out and follow a stone path to the front door. I ring the bell.

  A woman opens the door a second later. She’s obviously been waiting for us. She’s about fifty and pretty, with short dark hair and a high-quality chin tuck.

  “Oh,” she says, all the hope and brightness disappearing from her eyes.

  It’s Hunter’s mom. I can see the resemblance from one of the photos back at the bar. Mom takes one look at my scarred face and I can practically see the words home invasion with multiple fatalities spinning around her brain like the dragon in a Chinese New Year’s parade.

  I say, “Mrs. Sentenza. Julia Sola sent us.”

  She relaxes. The storm in her brain clears and her blood pressure drops to below aneurysm levels. Her little freak-out probably shaved a good five years off her life, but they’re the shitty ones at the end, so no big deal.

  “Oh. You must be Mr. Stark and Mr. Vidocq. Julia said you’d be dropping by.” She stops, staring at Candy in her robot sunglasses.

  I say, “This is my assistant, Candy.”

  Mrs. Sentenza gives Candy a thin smile.

  “Of course she is. Please come in.”

  The inside of the house is bright, with light coming through a million windows and reflecting off the polished tile floor. Obsessive California chic. Like they own the sky and are goddamn well going to use every inch of it. Hunter’s father is waiting for us by the stairs leading to the upper floor of a two-story living room. (I told you.)

  “This is Hunter’s father, Kerry.”

  “Nice to meet you all. Call me K.W.”

  Handshakes all around. His grip is firm and serious. He has rough laborer’s hands, like he actually works for a living.

  “Are you three exorcists, too?” he asks.

  “No. Father Traven holds the prayer beads. We’re more like spiritual bouncers.”

  “Well, if you can fix this, we’re willing to try.”

  There aren’t any hoodoo vibes coming off these people. Nothing shifty and hidden. They come across like straight-arrow civilians who wouldn’t know a Hand of Glory from an oven mitt. They’re not responsible for calling a demon into the house. Unless they’re a lot more powerful than they look and can throw up a glamour powerful enough to even fool the angel in my head. Their eyes are dilating and their hearts are racing. I smell Valium and alcohol in Mom’s sweat. Most of what I’m getting off them is heavyweight fear for their kid and confusion and a meek mistrust of us three. No surprise there. They don’t run into people like us on the golf course at the country club.

  Vidocq looks around the place. Like me, he’s looking for any traces of magic, in his case mystical objects.

  “You have a very lovely home,” says Candy. “It looks like a happy place.”

  “It was,” says Mom.

  I say, “Can we see the room?”

  “It’s Hunter’s room. His name is Hunter.”

  “Hunter. Got it. Can we see Hunter’s room?”

  Mom isn’t sure about Candy and Vidocq, but I can tell she hates me already. I’m not sure about Dad. He looks like the kind of guy who didn’t come from money, and now that he has it, he’s always a little on edge waiting for someone to try to take it away. That means he’ll have a handgun or two in the house.

  K.W. leads us to Hunter’s room while Mom trails behind.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, but did Hunter take anything like antidepressants? Or was he ever locked up for, you know, behavior problems?”

  “You mean, was our son crazy?” asks Mom.

  “Was he?”

  “No. He was a normal boy. He ran track.”

  So that’s what normal is. I should write that down.

  “Did he take any recreational drugs?”

  Mom’s attitude has gone from hate to stabby.

  “He’d never touch those. He’s an athlete. Besides, when Hunter was a boy he saw Tommy, his older brother, destroy himself with drugs.
He hallucinated. He was scared all the time and couldn’t sleep for weeks on end. And it kept getting worse. Then Tommy died. Hunter saw all of it.”

  “He didn’t die. He hanged himself,” says Dad. His face is set and hard, but it’s clear that admitting this hurt.

  “Don’t say it like that,” says Mom. The tears come fast, an automatic reaction when her other son’s death comes up.

  These people are unbelievably easy to read. They don’t have any magic. There aren’t any spells that will hide it this thoroughly.

  K.W. puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

  “Jen, why don’t you put on some fresh coffee for our guests?”

  Mom nods and heads down the hall.

  When she’s gone K.W. turns to us.

  “Sorry. This thing has us both a little crazy, but it’s hit her worse. How are you supposed to live after one son’s suicide and your other son’s . . . well, whatever the hell this is. What’s normal again after that?” he says. He swallows hard. “I still don’t know what we did to ruin our boys.”

  “You didn’t ruin anyone,” says Candy. “Things just happen sometimes. It’s easier to fall off the edge of the world than you might think. Even for nice people.”

  K.W. looks at her. His eyes are wet, but he’s fighting hard not to let it go any further. I hate being reminded that rich people are still people.

  He pushes open the door to Hunter’s room.

  “This is it,” he says. “Look around at anything you want. We don’t have any secrets.”

  Mom comes back.

  “I put coffee on.”

  She looks past us into the ruined room.

  She says, “Julia told us not to touch anything, so we haven’t.”

  I scan the wreckage inside.

  “You haven’t done anything? Like a spilled glass of water or class photo?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Never clean up after monsters.”

  “My son isn’t a monster.”

  “I’m not talking about your son.”

  Vidocq goes into Hunter’s room.

  “What my associate is saying is that when powerful supernatural forces are at work, without proper preparation any encounter can be extremely dangerous. My advice would be to not enter the room at all and to keep it locked unless Julia or one of her associates is here.”