Kill City Blues

“That’s too bad. I’d hoped Cherry would have moved on by now.”



Tykho holds up a finger.



“Was that your suggestion? It seems that she was considering that very thing and talking it over with another ghost. A very old one and a bit mad, according to her, though I’m not sure Cherry is the best judge of crazy. Anyway, she had almost decided to cross over with this odd ghost when he changed his mind at the last minute. She said he claimed to be guarding a great treasure, something both Heaven and Hell would kill to get their hands on and that he couldn’t desert it.”



“Did she see it? Does she know where it is?”



“Calm down, cowboy. You people always want to cut to the chase. Let me drink my drink.”



By “you people” she means mortals. People with a clock ticking and a death sentence hanging over their heads. Immortals love to play this game. And this is also me paying for Phil. Tykho might not send a hit squad after me, but now that she’s got me hooked, she’s going to take her time giving me what I want.



Above the dance floor, boys dance with boys in one go-go cage and a bunch of girls dance together in another. They’re all wearing black vests and have shaved heads. It only takes a second to see why. Invitation to a Gunfighter is playing on flat-screens all over the bar. I have a feeling the movie is a hit less because it’s a decent studio western and more because Yul Brynner looks so good in his bad-guy black hat and vest.



Tykho finishes her drink and wipes her blue lips with a napkin.



“Where was I? Yes. The crazy ghost. He started to take her to it. They got as far as his haunt when he got cold feet. He even had a little breakdown, according to Cherry. He’s supposed to be guarding some Holy Grail–like thing and here he was about to give it up to a pretty face.”



“Can Cherry take me there?”



Tykho shakes her head.



“No. He scared her too much. But she told me where his haunt is. And that he’s guarding the thing for an angel. You’re part angel, I hear. Maybe you could talk him out of it.”



I’m going to shit monkeys if Tykho drags this out much longer.



“Where’s the ghost?”



She smiles. She’s going to drag it out.



“Kill City.”



Now I wish she’d dragged it out a little longer.



“Is she sure?”



“How many Kill Cities are there?”



“One too many for me.”



“Is the great Stark afraid of a dead shopping mall?”



I finish my whiskey.



“As a matter of fact I’m terrified of shopping malls. If you’d been to Hell, you would be too. All the cute little trinket stores. Fish-eyed mannequins and ladies squirting perfume in your face. Designer toilet seats and chakra-adjusting easy chairs. It’s all so fucking pointless. People using money to run out the clock, trying to find something to occupy their time before they die. It’s exactly like Hell.”



I signal to the waiter for another drink.



“We all have our weaknesses,” says Tykho. “For us, it’s daylight. For you, it’s Cinnabon.”



“Damn. That little girl ghost about killed me last month. I hoped I was done with ghosts for a while.”



This just gets worse and worse. On top of everything else, Kill City is all the way out in Santa Monica. All those tanned tourists might be fun for bloodsuckers, but the stink of SPF 90 sends me into cardiac arrest.



“There’s something else.”



“Good. I was hoping this could get worse.”



“We’re not the only ones who know about the ghost. Don’t bother asking who the other party is because I don’t know, but we have every reason to believe that they’re going after your 8 Ball too.”



“That’s all I need.”



“That’s not all. Medea Bava might be with them.”



“No way. She’s hiding out in Hell.”



“That’s not what I heard.”



This is all I need right now. Kill City, Medea Bava, and now I have to run a footrace to find the Qomrama.



“Thanks for the information.”



“You’re welcome. See? All your muscling people, your Sturm und Drang, got you nowhere.”



The waiter brings my whiskey and I drink it in one go.



“It got people off their asses and it got me answers, which is all I ever wanted. From where I sit, my plan worked fine. By the way, why are you helping me?”



Tykho pours another thick red shot into her glass.



“For the same reason we were grateful you took care of those pesky zombies. Self-preservation. If the stories about angry old gods are true, I doubt they’ll spare the Aeternus simply because we’ve been shunned by the madman in the attic.”



“So, you do believe in God.”



“Only when convenient.”



“Okay, then. Let’s put a team together, go in there, and get it.”



She wags a finger at me.



“No. We’re not going to do that.”



“A second ago you said you had a stake in this fight. Why won’t you step up when it really matters?”



“Who says we won’t help? The problem is this: the Dark Eternal can’t enter Kill City. There’s a long-standing but somewhat fragile détente with one of the federacies inside. A clan of gray fighters. Time has passed them by, but they’re still dangerous. To enter the mall would be a declaration of war, and a pointless war is something we don’t need right now.”



“I know the feeling.”



I order a whiskey for the road.



“So, how are you going to help me?”



“We’re sending a representative with you.”



“You just said the Dark Eternal can’t go inside.”



“He isn’t one of the Aeternus. He’s mortal.”



She looks past my shoulder to a flunky lurking somewhere in the dark.



She says, “Send over Paul.”



He comes from another table across the dance floor. He gives me a friendly smile and puts out his hand. I shake it. I’m not surprised by him one bit. Okay. Maybe a little, but it makes perfect sense when I get a good look.



“Stark, this is Paul Delon.”



It’s another Trevor. An exact copy of a young Norris Quay.



“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Stark. Tykho has told me a lot about you.”



“Paul, is it? How do you know Tykho?”



“We know some of the same people.”



I bet you do. But I don’t get the feeling that Paul knows me. Probably all of Quay’s automata are drones gathering information until their master calls them home. That’s good luck for me. It means he’s on his own until this is over.



“Have you ever been inside Kill City?” I say.



“No.”



“Ever been anywhere, you know, strange? Maybe incredibly dangerous?”



He sits down across the table from me.



“Is that what you expect?”



“From what I hear, Kill City is the last stop for the lowest of the low-life Sub Rosa families and Lurker clans that can’t make it out in the world. It’s a whole society of losers and they’re just looking to take it out on everybody else in the world.”



Paul nods. A waiter comes over.



“White wine, please,” he says. Then to me, “I’m up to speed on that. I’ve also memorized a map of the complex and their clan territories. I’ve never been anywhere like Kill City, but I’m not afraid.”



“You should be. If the thing the ghost is guarding is the 8 Ball, that makes Kill City the most dangerous place in L.A.”



Delon frowns. I can’t get a read on him. If he’s like the other windup clones at Rose’s studio, he’s a mix of meat and machine. He has a heartbeat that’s steady and mechanical. Same with his breathing. Rose’s Trevors bled, so I’m betting this Paul does too. Still, to fool a mob of blood freaks is a pretty neat trick. Atticus is worth whatever Quay is paying him.



I say, “Why don’t you just give me the map and you don’t have to go at all? The fewer people, the faster I can move.”



“No,” says Tykho. “Paul is our representative. He goes with you or you can go in alone. They don’t call it Kill City for nothing. You add up the acreage aboveground and what’s below, without a guide it will be like wandering the Amazon jungle blind.”



“She’s right,” says Paul. “You’ll never find what you’re looking for. That’s assuming the families and the Lurkers don’t kill you. I know what families are there. I’ve studied the Lurker federacies and how to pay them off for safe passage.”



“It’s the Wild West in there,” says Tykho. “You’ll love it. What do you say?”



Tykho might not breathe or have a beating heart, but her type I can read.



“I get it. The boy is our guide but he’s your man on the inside. You’re afraid I might run off with the 8 Ball and take over all of Never Never Land.”



Tykho leans her elbows on the table.



“Like you people say. Trust but verify.”



I turn to Paul.



“I’ll meet you at Bamboo House of Dolls at eight P.M. tomorrow. Don’t wear those stupid loafers. Go get yourself some heavy boots. Maybe some climbing gloves.”



For the first time he looks a little concerned.



“Thank you.”



I stand and nod to Tykho.



“Thanks. With any luck we’ll send Chuck here back with good news.”



“Paul,” he says. I ignore him.



“How many people know about the Kill City situation?”



Tykho shakes her head.



“Only a few among the Aeternus. Why?”



“If too many people know, it might leak back to Aelita and she’ll move the 8 Ball. Don’t mention this to anyone else.”



“Of course.”



I start to leave, when she says, “When are you reopening Max Overdrive?”



“There’s not much point reopening if the world is going to end. You better hope your boy knows his stuff or the Dark Eternal is going to be another bunch of suckers streaming whatever movies the corporate big boys want you to watch.”



Tykho looks up at Yul breaking windows and generally busting up the tinhorn town that hired him.



She says, “Save the world and we might find another suitcase of money so you can reopen.”



“Do that and it’s free rentals for as long as we’re around.”



“Done. Try not to die.”



I take one last sip of her good whiskey.



“By the way, do you know a guy named Declan Garrett?”



“He comes in sometimes. He’s always trying to sell the Crown Jewels or some such nonsense.”



“If he comes in tonight tell him I’m waiting for him at Bamboo House of Dolls. We have something to settle.”



“Is he selling you the Brooklyn Bridge?”



“Yeah, but I’m paying in pennies. Think he’ll mind?”



Someone starts this way, sees me, and heads in the other direction. I take off after him and, when I’m close enough, grab his shirt collar and pull him back.



“Mike. What are you doing here?”



Manimal Mike looks like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. He has a fluffy tortoiseshell kitten in a pet carrier.



Mike holds up the cat.



“Trying to earn a living. Someone’s kitten’s on the fritz. What, you think I only work for live people? That’s racist, man.”



“Calm down, Mike. I was just surprised to see you.”



“Me too.”



His heart is going a million beats a minute. The smell of fear sweat pours off him.



“Is there something you’re not telling me, Mike? Another reason you’re here?”



I let go of his shirt and he shrugs his shoulder back into place.



“Okay. Sure. You still haven’t come across with my soul. These guys. They’re my backup plan. I buy my way in, let one of them bite me, and I don’t die and I don’t go to Hell. And if I’m dead like them, I can still work.”



It actually makes sense, which is more than I expect from Mike.



“I understand. It’s smart to have a Plan B. Just don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone. Don’t let any of these guys put the fangs to you.”



Mike takes the kitten and walks away.



“Give me a reason.”



SOMETIMES YOU GET lucky. Or maybe the angel in my head is a little psychic. Though not nearly psychic enough. If it was, I’d see the shitstorms coming down the road and have a chance to jump in a ditch or hide in a little country church. Let the hellfire-and-brimstone preacher cleanse me of my sins. With a little luck maybe it would be near a roadhouse with local swill on tap and watered-down whiskey behind the bar. The kind of place that would at least let me smoke a goddamn cigarette while I have my drink. But with my normal run of luck, I’ll shelter from the storm in a dry county where the only good times are judging the pigs at a 4-H show or chicken-fried steak at a Cracker Barrel. Like I said, my angel might be a little psychic but he’s not psychic enough to do me a damned bit of good. Probably there’s nothing psychic about him at all. Probably it’s as simple as he talked to Tykho, but an hour after I get to Bamboo House of Dolls, Declan Garrett walks in. Candy sees him first. She elbows me.



“Salesman of the year twelve o’clock high.”



He comes right over and starts in. Not even a “Hi. Sorry about interrupting your donut with gunfire.” I wonder if he knows his gunman was a windup toy.



“I heard you wanted to see me.”



“I’m fine, Declan. How are you?”