Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim), Page 2

  Vidocq grabs my shoulder and pulls me back to the car. He bunny-hops on his good leg into the passenger side and I slide into the driver’s seat, jam the black blade I carried back from Hell into the ignition, and we peel out.

  “What the hell kind of burglar alarm was that? Why can’t rich people have rottweilers like everyone else?”

  “I don’t think that was an alarm. That was a demon.”

  I glance at him. My arms are throbbing now, and between each throb they still feel like they’re burning. I smell something, but I don’t know if it’s the coat or me.

  “I’ve never seen a demon like that before.”

  “Neither have I, but the potion that hurt the creature was a rare type of poison. A toxin formulated to affect only demons.”

  I drive at a moderate speed. I pause at stop signs and obey every light.

  “Think it was after us?”

  Vidocq shrugs.

  “Possibly. But who knew we’d be here tonight? And why would someone attack you now? You’ve been a good boy for weeks.”

  I roll down the windows to let out the smell. I’m stinking up the Lexus, but who cares? I hate these luxury golf carts. Gaudy status symbols with as much personality as an Elmer’s-Glue-on-white-bread sandwich.

  I say, “Maybe someone was settling an old score. Hell, maybe it was after you.”

  Vidocq laughs. “Who would send a demon for me?”

  “I don’t know. The few thousand people you’ve robbed over the last two hundred years?”

  “It’s more like a hundred and fifty. Don’t try to make me sound old.”

  “ ’Course, sending a demon for something like that sounds like overkill. Especially something rare enough that neither of us recognizes it.”

  “I’ll look into it tomorrow when I’m certain I’ll be able to feel my right leg again.”

  “Whiner. Your girlfriend is the best hoodoo doctor in town. She’ll give you an ice pack and conjure you some kangaroo legs. Then you can do your own second-story work.”

  Vidocq pats me on the shoulder.

  “There, there . . .” like he’s patting a five-year-old with a skinned knee. “I would have thought you’d be happy. You got to have a fight. Draw a little blood. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting?”

  I think it over.

  “I suppose. And you killed it, not me, so my not-slaughtering-things record is still intact.”

  “Unlike your arms.”

  “A little Bactine and they’ll be fine by the morning.”

  “Judging by the look of them, they’ll hurt in the meantime. Take this. It will help you sleep.”

  He reaches into his coat and hands me a potion.

  “No thanks. Dr. Jack Daniel’s is coming by tonight. He’s got all the medicine I need.”

  He slips the vial into my pocket.

  “Take it anyway. He might be late.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “And don’t forget to brush your teeth and say your prayers.”

  “Fuck you, Mom.”

  WE DRIVE ACROSS town, near what the city fathers call the Historic District, an ironically named area in a city that has no history but has seen more shit go down than a lot of countries. It’s all right to forget all the Mansons, the celebrity ODs, the brain-boost religions, the UFO religions, the tinhorn Satanists, the rock-and-roll suicides, the landgrabs, the serial killers, the ruthless gangs and even more ruthless cops, the survivalists with cases of ammo, cigarettes, and freeze-dried beans in their desert compounds, as long as we remember to bring the family downtown to grab a latte and admire the knockoff Mickey Mouse T-shirts.

  We ditch the car in the Biltmore Hotel parking lot and start the four-block walk to the Bradbury Building. This is flat-out stupid, but Vidocq insisted that he could walk off whatever happened to his leg in the fall. I’ve seen plenty of injuries. I know he can’t, but I let him hobble until he grabs my arm, huffing and puffing before falling against a newspaper box full of local porn papers. I didn’t know those things were still around.

  “Want to take the shortcut?” I ask.

  “Please,” he says.

  I put one of his arms around my shoulder and lift him off the box. We limp to the corner and around the side of a Japanese restaurant. I pull him into a shadow by the delivery entrance. We go into the Room of Thirteen Doors and I pretty much carry him out the Door of Memory and into Mr. Muninn’s place.

  Every good thief needs a fence and Mr. Muninn is Vidocq’s. Muninn’s regular shop, the one he keeps for his vaguely normal clients, is in the old sci-fi–meets–art-deco Bradbury Building on a floor that doesn’t exist. He serves a pretty select clientele—mostly Sub Rosa and über-wealthy L.A. elites. But if you ever stumbled into his store and could afford a Fury in a crystal cage, the seeds from Eve’s apple, or Napoleon’s whalebone cock ring, he’d let you in. Mr. Muninn’s a businessman.

  The really interesting stuff he keeps in a deep cavern beneath the Bradbury Building. His secret boutique for only the oddest and choicest items in the world. That’s where we come out.

  When he sees us Muninn holds his arms out wide like he’s giving a benediction.

  “Welcome, boys. What a pleasure to see you two working together again.”

  Vidocq says, “Just like the good old days. I’m limping and he was just on fire.”

  Vidocq drops into a gilt armchair that probably belonged to King Tut.

  I stamp my foot on the stone floor a few times, shaking loose shotgun pellets that have embedded themselves in the soles of my boot.

  “On fire is my best look. Ask anyone.”

  Muninn shifts his eyes to Vidocq and then back at me.

  “How may I ask did a simple robbery turn into a Greek drama? And were there any witnesses who might make things complicated later?”

  I say, “The drama started and ended with demons. One in the house and one in the street.”

  “The only witness is the man who owned the scroll you wanted,” says Vidocq. “His residence was badly cloaked and there was a guardian demon in the safe. He’ll be too embarrassed that he paid for a worthless shield to tell anyone. No doubt he knows that leaving a demon mantrap where an innocent party might stumble on it is a serious violation of Sub Rosa precepts. No, I believe he’ll lick his wounds and not tell a soul about tonight.”

  Muninn smiles and does his benediction thing again.

  “And there we are. An adventure complete with just a few scars to make the memories all the more vivid. And then there’s your reward. Not a bad night’s work, I’d say.”

  I take the box out of my pocket, then peel off the charred remains of my coat and drop it on the stone floor. If it was anyone else, I’d stomp him for his attitude, but Muninn doesn’t think like regular people. I don’t know if he’s the oldest man in the world, but I’ll bet there isn’t anyone else within midget-tossing distance who’s seen multiple ice ages freeze and thaw the world. He’s a nice guy for someone who thinks like a Martian. And he’s always fair when it comes to business. If you ask me, we could use a few more like him. You never know what’s going to come out of his mouth and he always pays on time.

  He rummages around his endless maze of shelves crammed with books, bones, strange weapons, the crown jewels of kingdoms no one’s ever heard of, and ancient scientific devices. Does even he know what they do? They could be Krishna’s gumball machine for all I know.

  He comes back with a handblown green glass bottle and three small silver cups, takes them to his worktable desk, and pours drinks. He hands us each a glass and raises his own.

  “To God above and the devil below.”

  Vidocq says something pithy back in French.

  Great. Now it’s my turn to sound smart. The angel in my head chimes in with something, but I shove Beaver Cleaver back into the dark.

  “You owe me a coat,” is all I can think of.

  He smiles and nods, pouring more drinks.

  “A man of many thoughts but few words. Lucky for u
s all that it’s not the other way around.”

  Vidocq laughs and turns away, pretending he’s looking at the shelves so I won’t see him.

  Muninn says, “I hear that when you’re not playing le voleur with Eugène, you’re rebuilding your movie house.”

  “Rental place. We don’t show them. We just pimp them. And yeah, Kasabian and I are rebuilding and expanding Max Overdrive with all the Ben Franklins that vampire bunch, the Dark Eternal, gave me.”

  Muninn looks down, contemplating his glass.

  “I expect they would be grateful for you clearing out the revenants. Zombies can’t have much nutritional value for vampires.”

  “According to the news, it never happened. It was mass hysteria. Drugs in the water or weaponized LSD. Between tourists, traffic cams, and private security, there’s a million video cams in L.A., but there’s not one good minute of zed footage anywhere, just blurry cell-phone shit. We might as well say we were attacked by Bigfoot.”

  It stinks of the feds like ripe roadkill. Like Marshal Wells.

  Until I snuffed the zeds, Homeland Security had heavy muscle in L.A. I mean, they had a goddamn angel on staff. Aelita. The meanest celestial rattlesnake I ever met and I’ve partied with Lucifer. Aelita is Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS, but not as good-natured. She was the organ grinder and Marshal Wells was the monkey. They’re exactly the kind of bastards with connections to levels of occult and law enforcement power who could make thousands of hours of video disappear overnight.

  Washington spanked Wells hard after the zeds got out of control. Aelita strolled away, so he got to be the fall guy. DHS closed him down out here. Who knows, if he plays nice and eats his vegetables, maybe the Men in Black will send him back. They might even let him resurrect the Golden Vigil, his and Aelita’s private jackboot army. Heaven’s Pinkertons on earth.

  Muninn waves his hand.

  “It was bound to happen. Most ordinary people’s desire to forget what they can’t comprehend is virtually infinite. It’s more comforting to disbelieve their own eyes than accept the possibility that the dead can walk the streets. I can’t say I blame them.”

  I raise my glass.

  “To reality. The most overrated and underpaid game in town.”

  We all drink.

  “So, what will you do until your movie palace is complete?” asks Muninn. “Are you considering carrying on as an investigator? You seem to have a flair for it. No one else figured out the nasty little secret behind the revenants.”

  “That was a onetime thing. And I got lucky. If Brigitte and I hadn’t been bitten, I wouldn’t have done any of it. I would have taken her and blown out of town.”

  Brigitte is a friend from Prague. A trained High Plains Drifter—that is, a zombie—hunter. I might have fallen for her if we’d met at a different time, under different circumstances, and on another planet. I screwed up and let Brigitte get bitten by a Drifter. She almost turned. If it hadn’t been for Vidocq and his alchemy hoodoo, she would have.

  “That’s not true and you know it,” says Vidocq. “Perhaps you’ll turn your attention back to Mason? If I remember correctly, finding him was the main reason you returned from Hell. I understand, of course, your getting distracted, what with saving the world and all.”

  “I did find Mason. And I locked him up good and tight Downtown.”

  “Which is what he wanted all along,” says Vidocq. “I’m not sure you can call that punishment.”

  I give the old man a look. I don’t like having my own stupid confessions thrown back at me. Of course he’s right. Mason wanted to go to Hell and he wanted to go there alive, just like I did. And I walked up to him like a backwoods rube with a corncob pipe and put him there. Not many people know about that. I couldn’t walk the streets if they did. I couldn’t look people in the eye if they knew I’d sent the most dangerous man in the world to the worst place in the universe so he could raise an army to kill them all. People get murdered for mistakes like that. Sometimes they don’t wait for someone else to do it. If someone else tries it, they might get it wrong and leave you in a coma, only half dead. That would be even worse. Someone might feel sorry for you and that’s something I couldn’t take.

  “Kasabian still has access to Lucifer’s book, The Daimonion Codex. He keeps an eye on Downtown twenty-four/seven. If Mason makes a move, I’ll know about it.”

  “Why not simply go yourself?”

  “I’ve tried a few times. Even changing my face with a glamour, there’s always some Hellion or other who spots me and I have to de-ass the place fast. There’s got to be another way to get to him, but I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  I’m lying. I’ve tried it a couple of times and I was so nervous that the glamour wasn’t even half-baked. I thought I could walk back Downtown like Patton riding a tank. But I can’t. The smell and the heat hit me and I’m back on the arena floor, ripped open and bleeding, hoping my guts don’t slip out into the dirt. Or I’m covered in thick Hellion blood, playing hit man for another Hellion while he tells me Alice will be safe as long as I keep killing for him. And then she’s dead and all I am is a murderer. So I close the door to Hell and I slink back home, sitting at my favorite bar long enough that the smell fades and Kasabian won’t know what a coward I’ve become.

  What’s more useless than a weak-kneed killer?

  “You’ll find a way in,” says Vidocq.

  I nod and finish my drink, putting on my serious, thoughtful face.

  “I hope it’s soon. Since I can’t play Hannibal Downtown, the angel in my head wants me to roam the streets at night looking for bad guys like Batman. I got so pissed one night that I actually did it. Know what happened? Exactly nothing. Looking to get mugged is crazy and bad guys walk the other way when they see crazy coming. What I need is angel Valium to shut this Boy Scout up.”

  Muninn nods.

  “I know how it feels to constantly be at odds with those closest to you. Eventually you reach the point where none of you can stand the sight of each other anymore. My brothers and I are like that.”

  “Brothers?” says Vidocq.

  That’s more interesting than a two-headed calf singing “Some Velvet Morning” in tight harmony. I have about a million questions, but most aren’t real discreet. I go with the easiest.

  “Are they like you? Live in caverns and know everything about everything?”

  Muninn shakes his head, lost in thought. He stares at the green liquor bottle.

  “I have four brothers, and no, none live in caverns. None of us is even the slightest bit like the others. I haven’t seen any of them in years. Centuries. Occasionally I miss them, but the truth is that I have no real interest in tracking any of them down. I daresay they feel the same thing about me.”

  No one says anything. We’ve hit into one of those weird silences that happen when someone drops something too real into the middle of a conversation that should just have been about drinking and patting ourselves on the back. Somehow, while we were talking, Muninn has opened the box and extracted a scroll from the scarab. I pick it up.

  “What’s so special about this that we had to bust open Fort Knox to get it?”

  Muninn’s eyes lighten. He smiles.

  “Yes, that. The scroll is for a gentleman in, let’s say, investment banking. A man like that can do extraordinary damage to his soul. Maybe even several souls. He is always on the market for new souls to wear until he ruins them too. Even L.A.’s many soul mongers can’t keep up with him. The price of souls is going up for everyone. And Los Angeles is a town that needs all the souls it can lay its hands on.”

  “So, the scroll is a soul?”

  “No. It’s a bit like . . . What do you call the elixir that restores hair?”

  “Rogaine?”

  “Yes! Rogaine for the soul. It restores and replenishes the user’s original umbra. A re-souling will last him a year or two I hope. Buyers can become testy when they want a new soul and you have to tell them that the cupboard is bare.”
r />   “Suddenly I don’t feel so bad about my life.”

  Vidocq says, “If you feel so good, why not come take a trip with me tomorrow?”

  “Another job?”

  “That’s for you to decide. I sometimes do work for a private investigator. Today she called and asked about you. She has a job that she believes you would be perfect for.”

  I finish my drink and smile.

  “Get mixed up in a total stranger’s problems for no good reason? Sounds like a scream, but I think I’ll pass.”

  “Maybe doing something for a stranger will settle down your angel,” says Muninn.

  The moment he says it, the haloed bastard starts squirming around. It tickles the inside of my skull and not in a good way. I try to push him back into the dark, but he smells a hero moment and won’t budge.

  “And there’s my poor, abused knee,” the old man says, patting his leg. “You owe me for tossing me through a window tonight.”

  I turn from Vidocq to Muninn.

  “Never save a Frenchman’s life. He’ll hold it against you for the rest of yours.”

  I look at Vidocq and screw up my face into the least sincere smile I can make.

  “What the hell? I haven’t done anything truly stupid in weeks.”

  THE BEAT HOTEL is in a typically glamorous area, near the corner of Hollywood Boulevard and North Gower.

  Across from the hotel is the Museum of Death, a fenced gray bunker with a ten-foot painted skull out front. Next to it is the long-dead Westbeach Recorders, an empty studio local acts used to record and where Pink Floyd recorded part of The Wall (I believe that like I believe Jesus invented chili dogs). Down the street a car dealership is dying in the desert sun, the parboiled cars like beached fish carcasses slowly cooking to squid jerky. A couple of strip malls and empty parking lots on the corner. The front of the Beat Hotel is painted a pale industrial green. Maybe green paint was on sale that day or maybe it’s supposed to be ironic. I’ve never been sure.