Ballistic Kiss, Page 2

“I’m having a movie night with the girls. We’re going to do each other’s nails.”

  “What movies are you watching?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m thinking about Con Air or Face/Off.”

  “I’ve never seen those.”

  I almost spill my coffee.

  “You’ve never seen Con Air or Face/Off? How are you allowed to even live in L.A.?”

  “Goodbye, Stark. Have fun at your party.”

  “When your spooks are gone, go to Max Overdrive. Kasabian will set you up with some real movies.”

  “You know there’s something called streaming, right?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

  I hang up and sit there for a minute. Abbot’s a nice guy, but the idea of going back to work—and as a ghost janitor—is extremely unappealing. If he wanted me to punch some sewer monsters, fine. Set some kill-crazy vampires on fire, cool. I’d even pick up his dry cleaning. But hanging around with a bunch of incorporeal fuckups sounds downright depressing, and I don’t need more of that right now. Plus, has Abbot ever seen a movie in his life? How can I work for a complete illiterate? It’s undignified.

  Talking to him wrecked my mood. There’s no way I’m going to Bamboo House now. I’d spend the whole time grousing and I’ve been doing too much of that lately. I don’t need to inflict it on Carlos or anybody else. Instead, I grab all the movies in the house and step through a shadow so that I come out in front of Max Overdrive. Maybe trading these in for some new discs will put me in a better mood. And if it doesn’t, at least I’ll only bother Kasabian.

  I try to psych myself up so I’ll go into the shop all smiles. Not let anyone know what a delicate flower I’ve become. But Hollywood is Hollywood, and on a hot day on the right corner you can smell the shit a block away.

  There’s a new pretend dive bar for young media bros near the corner of Las Palmas. Outside, a muscular guy in new leathers is doing a belligerent Tom Hardy impression—like the most deranged audition in history—and has backed a smaller guy against the wall, jamming a finger over and over into his chest. I can’t tell if the smaller guy is a friend, a younger sibling, or a lover. He’s definitely someone Tom Hardy is sure he can dominate. Tom keeps pointing to a shiny new Harley Roadster with all the bells and whistles. I get the feeling that the little guy wasn’t sufficiently impressed and Tom is trying to scream awe into him. When Tom takes a breath, the little guy tries to slip away, but he’s not fast enough. Tom gets hold of his arm and yanks him back hard.

  So, I kick over the bike.

  “Clumsy me. Sorry.”

  At the sound of crunching metal, Tom spins around. He lets go of the little guy and approaches me slowly, like his mind can’t quite wrap itself around the carnage. Finally, he looks at me.

  “Motherfucker, do you want to die right now?”

  I put a boot on the bike and step over it, careful to leave a footprint on the pristine seat. When I’m kissing distance from Tom I look into his stupid, beer-addled eyes.

  “Do you even know what death is, Tom?” I say. “It’s dumb, and it’s loud, and it smells bad; you’re in Hell and you want to die to get away from it all, but you’re already dead and there’s nowhere to go. And what’s worse is you know you’re there because you deserve it, because you’re such a fucking waste of skin and gristle. So no, I don’t want to die. It’s no fun and there’s too many people like you there.”

  I’m not halfway through the sales pitch when he reaches for a knife. The little guy is still against the wall, too scared to make a run for it.

  I say, “Why don’t you let your pal go and I won’t piss in your gas tank?”

  Tom starts waving the knife around, all movie menacing. No way the little guy is going to run now. I know what he’s thinking. He’s worried that Tom is going to kick my ass and take it out on him later.

  I slap Tom hard, and he takes a step back like he forgot that I have hands and can do things with them.

  “It’s okay,” I tell the little guy. “He’s not going to hurt you.”

  He takes a couple of steps. Looks at Tom and back to me.

  Tom lunges at me with the blade. It’s not much of a fight. He’s as subtle as a one-eyed hippo. I smack his drunken hands away, bat the knife to the ground, and grab him by the throat. Lift him up so he’s on his tiptoes. He does a funny little dance as he chokes.

  I look at the other guy.

  “Do you want him gone for now or forever?”

  He hesitates. Then says, “Forever.”

  “Done.”

  “You’re not going to kill him . . . ?”

  I lift Tom up a little higher. He waves his arms around like he’s trying to signal passing jets.

  “There’s too many people around,” I tell the little guy. “But he won’t bother you again.”

  He runs off.

  When I drop Tom, he falls in a big leather heap. I get his knife while he’s still trying to remember how to breathe and cut a hex into the palm of his left hand. A funny Hellion one you only use on people you find extra annoying.

  The moment Tom catches his breath he’s on his feet. Swings a big John Wayne roundhouse punch at my face. I stand there and let him connect. At which point, he screams. His hand has collapsed into a soft wad of hemorrhaging meat.

  “You’re going to want to watch your temper, Tom. From now on whenever you smack someone in anger, your bones are going to turn to chalk and come apart like just now. Don’t worry. They’ll grow back, just not a hundred percent. And each time you break them, they’ll get worse and worse until there’s nothing left of you but a sack of rattling skin. Understand?”

  “What?” he peeps.

  “Never mind. You’ll figure it out.”

  I leave him there nursing his putty hand and head to Max Overdrive. People are streaming out of the shop. Others mill around on the sidewalk as I go inside. I’m surprised when the place is empty.

  Kasabian glares at me from behind the counter.

  “Your usual graceful entrance,” he says.

  “He started it.”

  He shakes his jowly head.

  “We’ve had this discussion. You’re a shit magnet. You attract trouble.”

  “And I made it go away.”

  He sweeps his metal hand around, gesturing to the empty shop.

  “Look, dumbass. You scared all our customers away. You’re a walking calamity.”

  My heart is still pounding from the scene on the street. It shouldn’t be doing this. I was in much worse situations in the arena and didn’t break a sweat. But that guy got to me—and I wanted to hurt him. Bad. There’s still more rage stuck in me than I wanted to admit earlier. I should talk to Allegra. Maybe try some different pills. Or maybe forget them altogether. What fucking good are they if all they do is jack up my heart rate and make me not want to hurt bullies?

  I set the movies I brought with me on the counter, a little embarrassed that Kasabian might be right about my scaring everyone out of the place.

  I say, “Let me pick up some new stuff and I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Thank you. We got some new special titles in.”

  Max Overdrive is known in the underground-movie-fiend community for its “special titles.” A nice little witch friend of Candy’s has contacts in other dimensional realms where movies that don’t exist in this world are common. It’s the only reason the place is still in business.

  I look past Kasabian at the racks behind him.

  “What did you get?”

  “Kubrick’s Napoleon.”

  I shake my head.

  “Too big. Too serious. I want something for the party tomorrow night.”

  “I heard about that,” he says.

  “You’re invited, you know.”

  He shakes his head slowly.

  “I’ll pass. I don’t want to watch you beat up the hors d’oeuvres.”

  “What else did you get in?”

  “Vincent Ward
’s Alien 3.”

  “The one on the satellite with the monks who have to fight the xenomorph with wood?”

  “The very one.”

  “Cool. I’ll take that for me. But I still need something, you know, company friendly. Con Air or Face/Off.”

  Kasabian’s eyes narrow at me.

  “Face/Off is strictly for film nerds who want to scream at its awfulness.”

  I think it over.

  “Maybe that’s not the right mood.”

  “No, it’s not the right mood for the people you invited. They just want something stupid and light and fun. Get Con Air.”

  “And maybe something old and funny to go with it?”

  “Stay safe. The Thin Man. Or something straight-up funny. His Girl Friday.”

  “Can I have both?”

  “Will you go away?”

  “Watch my dust.”

  “Fine,” he says. “You know where the regular stuff is. I’ll get the Vincent Ward.”

  While I’m pawing through the forties comedy section, Alessa—Candy’s girlfriend—walks out of the back room, a pile of invoices in her hand. She stops for a second. Probably wondering why the shop is empty.

  I call over to her, “Hi. How are you?”

  She looks at me, then to Kasabian. He raises his eyebrows a little and she turns back to me.

  “Hi, Stark,” she says. The way she stomps upstairs lets me know that she knows I’m the reason the store is empty.

  Kasabian laughs.

  “Man, she loves you.”

  “Fuck off. I’m over here trying to be a person.”

  He shakes his head, still laughing.

  “Making friends everywhere you go.”

  I think Alessa hates me most because of my old connection to Candy. But I’m not trying to steal her away. I’m no homewrecker, and I wish I and Alessa could at least be in the same room together for two minutes. But she’s only seen me in a crisis. Killing people and encouraging Candy to go Jade. I know she doesn’t want that for Candy. I’m nervous about her coming to the party. So I’ll be extra polite, wear a clean shirt, and try not to set anything on fire.

  Kasabian takes my discs and puts them in a bag. I grab it and head for a shadow.

  He shouts, “Try not to murder anyone between here and the wall.”

  After I drop the discs at the flying-saucer house, I step through another shadow and come out in the parking lot of a giant supermarket at the corner of where Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard meet. Back in the silent-movie days, when this area was wide open land, they shot some big epics here. This corner is sacred ground. I was in one of these stores a year or so ago but chickened out and ran away. Not this time. I’m going to shop the hell out of this place. I head into the grocery, all innocence and optimism. Grab a cart and venture into the consumer wonderland.

  I’m not ten steps inside when a rent-a-cop starts following me. She doesn’t have a gun, but I spot pepper spray and a Taser.

  This again. I want to leave but don’t. I’m tired of feeling like I don’t belong anywhere. Besides, I don’t have to do any hoodoo on the cop or anyone else. I have a pocket full of hundreds and I know the one most important rule in L.A.: money is the magic anyone can do. So, I stand my goddamn ground.

  There’s a young guy in a spotless apron giving out free samples near the frozen food aisle. I stroll up with the cop behind me as discreet as a pink elephant.

  The guy with the samples flashes me the smile of a true believer and without pausing says, “Care to try a sausage?”

  I pick up one of the little meat discs with a toothpick and pop it in my mouth.

  “It’s our brand-new extra-spicy chorizo with super jalapeños and a generous layer of pepper jack in the middle.”

  I watch him as he talks, like he’s the most interesting guy in the world. Over his shoulder, I can see the cop’s reflection in the glass doors of the frozen food cases. But as I stand there, fascinated by every word falling out of Sausage Man’s face, the cop gets bored and wanders off. The truth is that the sausage is pretty good.

  I say, “What’s a super jalapeño?”

  He falters for a second.

  “It’s like a regular jalapeño . . . only super.”

  I pop another piece of chorizo in my mouth and say, “I really like this.”

  Sausage Man beams like I just named my firstborn after him.

  “It’s one of our most popular new items,” he says.

  I think for a minute, tugging at a memory. Then, trying to act like a normal person chatting with another normal person, I blurt, “It reminds me of manticore tail.”

  He blinks once.

  “Manticore?”

  “You know. Those big fuckers that graze along the Styx. Human head. Lion body. Scorpion’s tail? Hard to kill, but they’re good eating.”

  He smiles at me the way you smile at a rabid dog, hoping it will bite the guy across the room and not you. His eyes move around in their sockets, trying to spot the security guard. By then I realize what I’ve done and feel bad for ruining Sausage Man’s day. To make it up to him, I grab two packages of chorizo and dump them in my cart. He flinches slightly when I grab the merchandise but never drops the professional smile. Someone needs to give this guy an Oscar. I can smell his fear sweat. I wish Candy were here. She’d know how to calm him down.

  I just mumble, “Thanks for the meat.”

  “Come again,” he says.

  “Probably not.”

  He whispers, “Thank you.”

  I steer my cart down the closest aisle to show Sausage Man that I mean him no harm.

  I’ve been in this building for five minutes and I’m already discouraged. I’ve been going to bodegas ever since I got back from Downtown. I forgot what regular grocery stores were like. Complete nightmares. I prefer the street markets in Pandemonium, where you eat whatever someone killed that day. Simple. But it’s not like that here. I mean, look at this aisle. What am I supposed to do with seven hundred kinds of soup? I don’t even like soup. Why am I here? Who are all these people buying all this soup?

  This store is like a bad day in the arena. I’ve lost and all I can do is crawl away and try not to die.

  But.

  I said I’d go shopping and get stuff for the party. I can’t walk out of here empty-handed, so I come up with a plan.

  I start at one end of the store and walk along the head of every aisle grabbing the first bright and shiny thing that catches my eye. At the far end of the store, I check my haul. A jar of olives. Tuna. Canned asparagus. Refried beans. Spaghetti sauce. Frozen pie shells. Low-sodium instant ramen. Tarragon. And, of course, the sausage. I’m no cook, but that seems like enough to throw something together for a party. But I still need dessert.

  I use the same method in the cake department. What do people like for dessert? I think about Donut Universe. All of their stuff looks fun. Cream or fruit filling dripping out of the ends. Whipped cream and maybe a cherry on top. That’s the secret. Sweet, but cute too. I circle the cakes and cookies on display, but I’m not impressed. Then I hit a frozen case and spot the perfect thing—a yule log with a little Santa and reindeer on top. Christmas cake is festive as fuck. Everyone will be really surprised.

  My last stop is the best: the liquor aisle. I don’t know what everyone drinks, so I just grab a couple of bottles of everything and pile it into the cart. The bottles tinkle together gently, kind of like jingle bells. Now I’m sure the yule log was the right choice.

  I pile all of my crap on the belt at the checkout stand and the lady running the register sweeps her weird little scanner over everything. She raises her eyes a fraction of an inch when she sees all the booze but, like Sausage Man, remains a real pro. Finally, she looks up at me.

  “That’s five hundred and sixty-seven dollars and forty-eight cents.”

  I pull out a wad of hundreds and lay down six. She doesn’t touch them for a second. Just reaches for a pen and draws a line on each bill. It takes me a minute to regist
er what she’s doing. Checking for counterfeits. She draws a second line like she doesn’t trust the first. Holds the bills up to the light. Glances at me and shrugs. I’m starting to get annoyed. Finally, she pops the money drawer open and counts out my change. Out the corner of my eye I spot the security guard again. A kid at the end of the counter loads my goods into bags, then into the cart. Grabbing my change, I head outside.

  Just for the hell of it, I stop in the parking lot and light a cigarette. It gives the security guard time to follow me and watch me load my haul into a car. Only I don’t have a car, so I aim the cart at a shadow at the edge of the building. Just before I disappear, I turn and give her the finger. Then I’m gone.

  Put that in your report, Miss Marple.

  When I get home, I empty everything onto the kitchen counter, except for the liquor. I leave that in the cart and shove it into the living room. As I look over the food, it occurs to me that it might be a little more random than I first thought. I’m not sure this stuff is meant to go together, but I’m certain if I mix it with stuff from the refrigerator it’ll be fine. Better than fine, even. Then it hits me—maybe I should have gotten something hot to eat. Made it a real dinner party. Is it Thanksgiving yet? That’s like a party. But no. It’s too early in the year. Maybe I can pay someone to cook a turkey for me tomorrow. I’ll have to remember to check into that.

  I put the yule log in the refrigerator and go into the living room to clear all the guns off the table. When that’s done, I check the walls to make sure I didn’t punch any more holes in them while I was asleep. Lucky me, they look good. I don’t have to clean. Whatever little elves refill the fridge do that.

  What else do people do for parties?

  Fuck, I’m useless.

  Maybe I should polish my boots? Will people even look at my feet?

  Holy shit. How do people even have parties?

  I wander around for a few minutes, picking up books and clothes. Toss them all in the bedroom. With the door closed, the place doesn’t look half-bad. But I’m still skittish after being run out of the grocery. It’s humiliating. I mean, I’ve killed every kind of hellbeast imaginable. I’m related to Wild Bill Hickok. Yet, all I could think of to do for revenge at the store was steal a shopping cart. I’m keeping it too. That will teach them not to screw with a natural born killer.