by Jason Ridler
He reached into his back pocket and I kept the card on the launch pad until he fingered out my earnings—my twenty and another twenty dollars in smaller bills and change—into Michael’s hands. Michael was shocked and a little scared, but as the money piled up, his smile grew. “Why?” he said, then looked at me. “Why, mister?”
“Like I said, I was rude to interrupt your game, Michael. To make up for my rudeness, I wanted to help you. But we all know you would have won this round anyway, right?
He smiled and nodded.
“Great, now how about that dime?” Michael plucked out a coin, and proudly handed it to me along with my original bill. “Now, go and save Underdog from that awful leash around his neck!”
Michael crammed the money in a pocket and nodded just as his caretaker—a harried woman in her sixties cramming two hundred pounds onto her five-four frame and into fuchsia capris, a blue blouse, and rhinestone sandals—arrived. “I told you not to veer away from the group! The bus is waiting, it’s almost craft hour!” Michael grabbed his prize before following the woman. I had no idea what craft hour entailed for Michael, but I was glad that Underdog was tucked safely under his arm, ready to smash evil should it invade the city.
“You fucked me up the ass,” the dealer snarled, gripping his table so hard the veins on the backs of his hands swelled like a junkie’s itching for a needle. “Who sent you?”
The shill’s presence behind me was as annoying as a winter coat in Aruba. “No one. I’m a freelance do-gooder, and you, good sir, were ripping off someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Where I come from, that makes you a shithook.”
“Where you’re from don’t matter as much as where you going,” said the shill. The point of the blade in my back was more annoying than his presence or his threat. “Come on. We’re going to take what you stole.”
I sighed. “Boys, I’m proud to say I swing in many directions, but I don’t entertain shithooks, so listen up clear. You can murder me here, run, and let L.A.’s finest cops follow you to whatever hole you’re squatting in. Or you can admit defeat, grab your table, and find a fresh stretch of property. Anything else, and I’ll show you my favorite card trick. The Cyclops.”
The dealer snorted. “So, you’re a sharp. Big goddamn deal. What are you going to do with that? Slice a watermelon at twenty paces?”
“Hmm. Not a bad trick. But not as fun as this.”
I let fly. The card launched in the air like a ninja’s shuriken but spun with just a hint of magic to fuck with physics. The queen sliced a gash across the dealer’s forehead before taking flight, bouncing off the telephone pole with the wrestling show poster plastered on it, ricocheting back, spinning, and planting itself in the shill’s eyebrow. All in less than a speed freak’s heartbeat.
Screams followed as both men reached for their faces and the shill dropped his switchblade. “Someone help them! Killer bees! They got hit by killer bees!” The great thing about cutting the head is the amount of blood that ensues in seconds, but no permanent damage is done. It’s the kind of wound you see on real wrestlers, not bodybuilders like the late Jack Lumber, whose ears had barely turned to cauliflower.
Everyone stayed away as the two rotten bastards bled across the Boardwalk, heading north. But the shadow behind me was annoyingly familiar.
“You know what, Jimmy?” Dixon said. “You’re starting to make my ass itch.”
16
DIXON LOOKED BAD. LIKE, ALL-NIGHT-COFFEE-and-cigarettes bad. But I’d last seen him at the Legion Hall only a few hours before. “You look lovely, Detective. New shampoo to make your buzz cut shine just so?”
His jaw was chewing itself, cheekbone stronger than iron. “Why is it if I’m looking for trouble all I have to do is follow the glare of your awful suit?”
“High fashion has never been a criminal act in L.A., and you know it.”
“What the fuck was that ruckus with the Boardwalk trash?”
“You know, if West Oakland had had a boardwalk, we would have been its trash.”
Shoulders hunched, he spoke with contempt. “Knock off the memory-lane bull. Just because we went to school together doesn’t mean shit. Who were they?”
“Confidence men. A rather rotten breed of street thug, related to jugglers by marriage, if I’m not mistaken.”
He poked my chest with intent to do harm. “What do they have to do with the bombing?”
“Nothing.”
He pulled his jaw back and laughed. “Oh my god, Jimmy. You got a friend dying in the hospital and you’re wasting your time on trash hustling the idiotic?”
I smiled. “Haven’t you heard? I’m an awful investigator. But as bad as I am, you’re here, looking for me and asking questions. So, as bad as I am, you don’t have much better. Detective.”
The smug smile sank into the recesses of his face. “You’re involved. You are. I couldn’t find any ties to that goddamn porn actress going missing. But I know you were involved.”
“Can’t help you there. She was something of a free spirit.” Meaning Nico, a.k.a. Tabitha Vance, Edgar’s daughter, a hellcat by any other name who I hoped would take a short eon to recover from the nightmare she’d put me through.
And Dixon had been on my heels then. Bad news. He might be a rotten human being, but he had the determination god gave mamma bears to protect their cubs. The cub in Dixon’s case was his pride. The little rat from Piedmont had made detective, and now his major case was going so poorly he was hassling me. “But I was going to ask you, Detective, if there was any word on the people who attacked the hall.” My tone was calm and aggravating. If his shit itched before, it was now sweating with friction.
“The investigation is still ongoing,” he said. “We’re tracking down several leads.”
“Well, I hope they lead somewhere,” I said. “Cactus will be yanked off life support tomorrow if he’s still in a coma. So, take your time. Wait until your assault case turns into a homicide. Me? I actually want to catch the guy before my friend goes from vegetable to corpse.” I walked off.
His fingers bit into my shoulders almost a second before I could flex, breathe, and not allow those fingers to cause pain. “Watch yourself, Jimmy. The only friend you got is almost dead. But I will tell you this: there’s something . . . bigger at work than hippies having a psychotic break.”
I matched his stare. “Something more organized? More planned?”
He held still. “Let’s just say I’m getting the push to mop this up, pin it on the freaks and heads, and call it a day. I don’t like being pushed, Jimmy. Not by anyone.”
Which is why it amazed me that a guy who said “fuck you” to the army would end up a cop. “Thanks for the tip.”
“It’s more like a warning. Something’s behind this. Someone with influence. Watch yourself.” He shoved me. “And don’t come back here.”
I raised my arms in surrender, just as a little bus drove by. In the front window was Michael and Underdog, watching me getting pushed around. I smiled, but it did those two heroes no good.
Rat or not, I had to take Dixon’s warning seriously. As for the Boardwalk, I was sick of it. Maybe I couldn’t avoid it in the future but for now I could at least place some distance between its planks and my presence.
I headed into town to find a payphone, one that I prayed didn’t have Edgar hiding in its glass. I strolled a few blocks and stopped at one near the red-tile-roofed Venice Post Office. I doubted that official U.S. government property was any protection against Edgar, but at least Windward Circle is a pleasant neighborhood.
I dialed.
“Pet Palace, where your pet is king.”
“Dr. Isabella Caylao.”
“Who should I say is calling?”
“Anyone but James Brimstone.”
“Oh, you. The guy who ruined her office.”
“I tried to save it! Look, just patch me into Izzy, okay?”
The familiar sound of dismissal amongst Filipinas was a tsk that sounded more like chit.
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Phone cradled on my shoulder, I saw a weak reflection of myself in the glass. My hair, as always, looked fantastic, even if a bit mussed. (Dad’s thick Irish mane was the only gift that sack of violence and lies ever gave me.). But my suit looked worse than worn and tired, and it wasn’t even happy hour. I adjusted my shirt, then licked both hands to reform my mane into a slicker version of its wilder cousin.
Then a click. The liquid in my voice turned to sand.
“This better be anyone other than James Brimstone.”
“Hi, Izzy.”
“Because James Brimstone still owes me an explanation for the riot in my waiting room.”
“See, about that—”
“And James Brimstone owes me two dinners and a movie of my choice, which will be in Tagalog because he needs to improve his own, which is awful at best.”
“That’s mighty fair.”
“And James Brimstone better not be asking me for any more favors, since I’ve never received so much as a thank you for the one that, if he is still alive, saved his life.”
I sighed. “I’m alive, Izzy, thanks to you and that anting-anting charm. I would have returned it, but in order to save the world I had to let a monster eat it.”
“You . . . destroyed a good luck charm?”
“Yeah.”
Izzy’s laughter was warm, even when served cruel. “Of course you did, you stupid American batang lalaki. I give you one thing to save your life and you destroy it!” She cackled at the irony of my idiotic existence. “Oh, James. This is you. This is you in a peanut shell.”
“Just so we are clear, I also saved the universe.”
“No, you didn’t!”
“Well, a part of the universe.”
“A very small part, but I live here, so thank you. And this is why you call? Because you’re not thanked? You don’t come back to my store and face me for what you’ve done and what you’ve broken and what you’ve ruined and wrecked. You are many things, James, but I didn’t take you for a—”
“Cactus is in a coma.”
Her tone changed quicker than a switchblade retreating into its handle. “Awful. Who did it? Who could do it?” Izzy liked gambling and had met Cactus numerous times at his casino, the Filipina and the Apache both enjoying the games that sucked the white man’s pockets dry. I tried not to think of what happened between them after hours, since Izzy was a modern woman and took what she liked in love and romance and, in my case, left it behind. And, well, Cactus was five times as handsome as yours truly.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. My trail is warming up, but I need someone who knows a lot about herb lore and plants. The kind that haven’t been kicking in the dirt for two thousand years.”
“What kind of plant could fell Cactus?”
“A kind called Black Lotus.”
“Hold on.” She left me hanging. I heard her heels clack and the ruffle of papers. Izzy’s main vein was animal magic of healing, but she dabbled in florae, which had been her mother’s trade back in San Juan, north of Manila, in the highlands of Luzon. Her grandmother had been a master of bug magic. Both had died under the sword of the Japanese when MacArthur ran away to Australia and left girls like Izzy as the front line against nationalist, racist shitbags who viewed the Filipinos as a bastard race and slave labor.
Her heels clacked louder and tickled the old wound in my heart. “Cimmerian flowers?”
“Exactly.”
A woosh of flipping pages. “They’re . . . tied to early days of magic and blood. Sumerian . . . tied to Tiamat, mother of gods and monsters.”
Weasel’s rant was fresh in my ear. “That sounds lovely. But what does it do? What if you eat it?”
“This is not my field, James. What I have here says warriors ingested it before battle to have no fear and fight like gods. You’re saying this flower is alive and in L.A.?”
“Yes. And one flower was found where Cactus was almost blown to hell and back. There’s someone selling it on the street. I think it strengthens people, but it may ruin their organs.”
“The age of Cimmerian warriors was short and bright,” Izzy said. “It would not surprise me if they bargained for strength in battle for a short life.”
“Killing you to make you invincible? I’ll take an old-age home and hitting on nurses until the light winks out, thanks.”
Izzy giggled and I wanted to hold her. “There’s that bravado that charmed all the girls along the carnival trail. I’m sorry, James, that’s all I know. The masters of plants were even more secretive than you magicians.”
“Damn it. Is there anyone you know who might have answers?” As Samuel Johnson noted, there were two kinds of knowledge: that which you had, and the kind that let you have more. “And anyone in Venice Beach.”
“Venice?” she said with a mild tut-tut of disgust. “You can take the boy out of the carnival, but—”
“Not everyone hates their carny days, Izzy.”
Which was when I fell for her. Got her a ring made from a spoon and a diamond I’d stolen off a woman who liked fifteen-year-old boys to rub her back for a penny. Presented it and my love, only to hear laughter and have her vanish the next day. “You’re still a stupid romantic,” she said.
“Only for you.”
I could almost hear her smile. “There is a girl who worked for me. She was awful with animals, but her calling is the herb and plant world. Her name is Margarita Diaz.”
“And she’s in Venice.”
“Yes, she left contact data. Very upscale place, so you better buy a better suit.”
“You don’t even know what I’m wearing.”
“Whatever it is, you picked it, so you’ll need a better suit. Ah, here it is. The store is called ‘El Dorado.’”
“Great. Address?”
“Hilton Hotel in Venice. I suspect there’s only one.”
Yup. And inside was a married woman waiting for me like a tiger ready to strike.
“James? I prefer silence while I nap. How about a ‘thank you’ instead?”
“Thank you, Izzy. I owe you.”
“Again.” She sighed. “I wish I had some charm to keep you from getting into trouble. But then, you wouldn’t be you if you lived safe and sound.”
“You’ve already done enough to make my life worth living, Izzy.”
“Stupid romantic.”
“Always.”
She laughed, then hung up, never saying goodbye.
I squeezed out of the phone booth and waited to hear Edgar’s cackle across the wind. But if he was paying attention, he did it in silence.
At my feet was the bag Achilles had given me.
In the shade of a juice stand’s awning, I unzipped the bag.
Jock sweat, gym socks, and old blood greeted my nose as if released from a canister filled with biological waste.
Inside there was a full-body suit in black that looked like it would hug my muscles like pythons. Canary-yellow boots with long laces up the calf featured daggers going through a skull on each side, a riff on a popular Marine Corps tattoo. Fugh. Did he serve? Vets were dying around me like I was a walking sack of mustard gas.
And then, at the bottom, in shimmering silver and gold, was a wrestling mask that a man I helped kill today wore. Guilt and logic socked each other in the jaw as I lifted up the mask, the thick glitter sharp around the eyes and mouth. I’d done carny wrestling for years on the circuit. Hercules and Dr. Fuji taught me how to take a bump and perform basic holds and reversals, but I was almost always the “stick,” pretending to be a boy in ragged overalls covered in coal dust or farm muck or whatever other grime was pertinent to the place who would volunteer to fight Herc. The fans would writhe as Herc tossed me around and got the first fall, then I’d fight back for the second, and then everyone was on their feet when he finally got me in a blood choke made famous by Ed “Strangler” Lewis. (After he ripped it off of Evan “Strangler” Lewis, keeping the tradition of theft, hoodwinks, and charlatanism alive and well
in the squared circle.) We made a mint with this routine, and I rarely went off script unless I was “shooting”—wrestling for real—for a couple of bucks at a work camp or parking lot. But I knew pro wrestlers improvised, and if you fucked around they could turn the match real in a heartbeat, sticking you in an ankle lock that would cripple you for months. Thankfully, Dr. Fuji taught me legitimate martial arts, too, so I could protect myself.
Staring at the mask, I wasn’t sure if I’d need to. But something told me this outfit was also unfit for entering such rarified air as the El Dorado at the Hilton. And while I looked amazing in my subtle orange-and-brown windowpane suit, they might think I was the piano man arriving early for the five o’clock lush set. Albeit one with a hole in his ass.
And every move I made without finding the murdering bastards brought Cactus closer to death.
I took a breath and centered myself, exhaling deep from my chest: I had a lead, and it was at the wrestling match. Knowledge was power, so I would go to El Dorado to arm myself.
For this to work, I had to wear the outfit of a masked goon in the ring, and—to get to the ring—finer duds than I was ever used to owning, let alone wearing. In my line of work, your outfit generally won’t last a single case.
I fingered my cash.
Two hundred and no change. Enough to buy something more than decent. But this was laid-back, bohemian Venice. Where could I find upscale duds in a hurry?
I hit the main drag and caught sight of a cab. I whistled hard enough to break glass and the yellow beast skidded to a halt in front of me.
Behind the wheel was a teenage Latino in a well-worn denim workshirt, hair just a smidge too long for the army and a smidge too short for the revolution. “Where you headed?”
I hated the words that followed. “Martel’s Magic and Costume Emporium. You know it?”
“Yeah, it’s that closet in Mar Vista where all the kids hang out.”
Yeah. Kids. And Shirley Martel, the Rockette who became the face of women in magic back in the day.
