Kill City Blues

Page 11

“Who hired you to make the copy?”
Rose can’t take it anymore. There’s too many of us. We’re too loud. I might kill him with my creepy hand and Candy and Brigitte might fuck up his life’s work. He turns away. I think for a second that he might be crying. But he’s not. When he turns back he’s fished a small box, like a cable remote, from his pocket. He punches in a code with his thumb. A second later Candy slams into one of the worktables as someone blurs by her, heading for me. I step aside at the last second and let Kid Flash fly by. When he turns, color me surprised.
It’s Trevor Moseley. Upright, clean, and completely uncrushed by a number 2 bus.
Moseley comes at me like a flat-footed tornado. All fury and power but not really knowing what to do with it. I slip his first couple of punches, then give him a quick pop in the kidneys. The asshole doesn’t even react. He was doped when we danced our first waltz and I guess he still is.
I go down low, giving him a good target. Moseley takes the bait, and when he throws a kick at my head, I grab his leg and plant a boot into his balls.
I don’t know what Moseley is on, but I want some of it. I’ve still got hold of his leg when he springs off the other and slams me on the side of the head with his foot. The world spins and I flop down flat on my ass. Moseley grabs something bright and sharp from a worktable and comes at me. I pull the na’at from under my coat, swing it like a whip so it wraps around his arm. Flick the grip so the na’at goes rigid, then twist it to break his arm. It works. A little too well. His arm snaps clean off, spewing blood, hydraulic fluid, gears, and cams all over the floor.
I retract the na’at and whip it again, this time at his head. Half of his face comes off, revealing polished wood and carved bone underneath. The fucker is one of Rose’s automatons.
There’s a soft explosion behind me, like a giant snake coughing. I turn and there’s another Moseley on the floor with a big hole in his chest. He’s oozing goo and machine parts. Across the room Brigitte has her gun out and in ready position. I nod a quick thanks for covering my back.
The other Moseley grabs me from behind. I spin and plant an elbow full force on the side of his head. And the head comes off, rolling like the world’s most surprised bowling ball, coming to a rest at Rose’s feet. At least I know why Moseley wasn’t afraid to step in front of the bus. With all the spare Moseleys around to take his place, why not?
“You’re a talented prick,” I say to Rose. “Why hire help when you can build your own? Is the real Moseley still around or did you kill him after you copied him?”
A smile creeps across Rose’s face like a tarantula.
“Oh, he’s alive, but you’re so dumb I doubt you’ll live long enough to meet him.”
“Did you tell him to shoot me at Donut Universe?”
“I don’t ask clients what they do with my creations after I deliver them.”
“I forget. What was the client’s name?” says Candy.
“I forget too,” says Rose, thumbing another code into the remote. “Of course, I have confidentiality agreements with all my clients, but now that you know this secret part of my work, none of you can leave.”
He presses a button on the remote. Closes and locks the apartment door.
Machines kick into life around us. Saws. Drills. Lathes. Growls, hisses, and birdcalls float on top of the machine rumble. Rose has activated all of the equipment and every one of his mechanical familiars.
Candy is the first of us to attack. She goes full Jade—nails curved into claws, a mouthful of white shark teeth, and eyes like red slits in black ice—and leaps on top of a jaguar. Digs her teeth into the nape of its neck. Rakes her claws down its side. It makes a grinding, ripping sound.
Brigitte blows apart a cobra as it leaps for her and an eagle as it dives, talons out and aimed at her eyes.
Something slams me down on the first Moseley’s busted carcass. Then it roars in my face like a drunken 747.
A fucking grizzly bear. It rears back, but before it can drop down and crush me, I roll out of the way, pulling the Colt .45 from under my coat.
On its hind legs, the bear is ten feet tall and half a ton. I wait until it comes down for me. When it opens its big wet mouth, I aim inside and put two slugs through its upper palate. The top of its head pops off like a toaster full of clock parts and it falls.
I look around for Candy and Brigitte, but a flock of birds—crows, starlings, and buzzards—flies around the room at jet speed, screeching and pecking at everything, including us. The air is a gray blur. I’m blind and deaf in the noise and I can’t see what might be creeping up on me.
I yell, “Hit the deck,” as loud as I can and bark some Hellion hoodoo.
The ceiling sizzles with flames. The fire licks down the wall like liquid. I get down on my knees and spin the na’at in circles over my head. It won’t stop the fire, but it gives me something to concentrate on as I try to control the flames so they burn the familiars but don’t get low enough to cook us.
It gets hard to breathe. The flames are burning off all the oxygen in the room. I bark more hoodoo and the fire dwindles to glowing ghost wisps.
“It’s okay,” I say.
Candy and Brigitte get up from the floor. I was expecting the hotel sprinklers to go off until I see that they’re melted and fused to the ceiling.
Except for us, the room is a charred pile of splinters and crispy critters. I look at Brigitte and nod at the apartment door.
“You wanted to kick a door in.”
She smiles and blows the lock off with her pistol. Kicks the door open, throws herself forward, and rolls upright, her gun out. It’s nice when those reflexes kick back in. Not that they’re going to do us much good. The door to the hall is open. I close it and kick a rug against the crack at the bottom so the smoke from the workroom doesn’t set off the hall fire alarm.
Rose is long gone. My guess is he won’t be coming back. Keeping wild animals and bloody cyborgs in a room charred like a bad night in Dresden might violate the terms of his lease.
Candy is back to human again.
“You all right?” she says.
“Fine. You?”
“Coolio.”
“Brigitte. How are you doing?”
“Lovely,” she says. “I haven’t had this much fun in months.”
Her necklace is broken, dripping pearls onto the floor. Her face and arms are scratched and bleeding, covered in soot. But she smiles like it’s New Year’s Eve.
“Thank you for bringing me along, Jimmy.”
“Thank you for saving my ass back there.”
“That was fun,” says Candy. “Do we get to trash this place too?”
“No. The workshop won’t do us any good, so look around here for anything like customer records or names or phone numbers. Any papers that look important.”
After half an hour no one comes up with a single useful thing. Brigitte steals a mechanical parakeet in the bedroom and names it Szamanka. Candy thumbs through a big leather-bound book.
“I think this is the book Atticus was talking about,” she says. “It has all kinds of drawings of the 8 Ball.”
She hands it to me.
I was expecting a moldy, crumbling relic. But the book doesn’t look more than a few years old. I put it under my arm and say, “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take this to Father Traven.”
“I can take it to Liam, if you like,” says Brigitte. “I’ll be seeing him tonight.”
I look at Candy. She moves her head microscopically. A secret nod. So that’s who Brigitte is seeing. Two nice Catholic kids. A killer and an excommunicated priest. Sounds like a match made in Heaven.
“You should come and see him soon,” Brigitte says. “The weight of things is hard on him. I think he drinks too much these days.”
“How about tomorrow?” says Candy. “Perfect. He’ll be happy to see you.”
“I didn’t just get eaten by a bear,” I say. “I’ll be happy to see anyone.”
MAYBE HAPPY ISN’T the right word. Maybe relieved is better. There isn’t a lot to be happy about. Yeah, it was fun busting up the Tick-Tock Man’s place, but now I’m back to square one. All my leads are blown up, burned down, run off, or dead, or as dead as a windup toy can be. Declan Garrett is still around, but he was trying to buy the 8 Ball from two different sources, so it’s pretty clear he doesn’t have it. I haven’t even heard anything useful about Aelita or Medea. I think all I’ve really accomplished in the last month is making Mr. Muninn really depressed. I’m nowhere. More wasted time. Why am I doing this? I’m ridiculous. No one cares. Most people don’t even believe the Angra exist much less are coming back. Hell, I’m starting to wonder myself. Am I playing this game because I’ve run out of legitimate things to kill? No. I saw Lamia and I know she was real, so the Angra are real. Still, maybe it’s time to just walk away and let things work themselves out. We die or we don’t. I’ve been there before. Will I have time to shout one last “I told you so” when the Angra burn the world? That’s a hell of a last request. Maybe I should have given Candy her Christmas present after all. I need a drink.
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.