Kill City Blues
I know the voice. It’s U.S. Marshal Larson Wells, late of the now-defunct Golden Vigil, the outfit he ran with Aelita. If the drawl didn’t give him away, the way he said “pixie” would. Just the way a redneck says “faggot.”
“How’s tricks, kid? Been keeping busy?”
“I have a feeling you know that.”
“Some. You’ve been making friends with the best of the best. I hear you had high tea with Norris Quay.”
“I ran away from some gunmen into Quay’s arms, if that’s what you mean. The guy was a real piece of work.”
“Isn’t he just? That’s the privilege of being a billionaire.”
“Don’t tell me you’re mixed up with the guy.”
“Not mixed up. He’s just a concerned citizen who wants to do right by his state and his country.”
“Was.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s dead.”
“How?”
“He followed me into Kill City and thought he could buy off all the crazies inside.”
“Damn. He was going to be quite an asset.”
“For what?”
“For the new project. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I want you to come work for me again.”
“ ’Cause it worked out so well the first time?”
“I seem to remember you bringing in your share of rogue magicians and miscreant pixies.”
It’s true. I did some bounty-hunter work for the Golden Vigil a while back. I was at loose ends after killing most of the people involved in Alice’s murder and sending Mason Faim to Hell. I was still pretty full of unfocused rage and needed something to vent it on. Hoodoo fuckups seemed like a good idea at the time. It was while working for Wells that I killed the young vampire Eleanor Vance. Just a dumb teenybopper. Yeah, she tried to burn me with a flamethrower, but in the end, she was just as screwed up as I was.
I say, “Are you going to recruit Aelita for the dream team?”
“No. She’s gone way off the reservation. This holy vendetta of hers, it’s made her useless for any Marshals Service work.”
“I’m glad to hear that. She’s dead too.”
Wells doesn’t say anything for a minute. Once upon a time he was in love with Aelita. That was when she was just a zealot and not a batshit holy terror.
“Did you do it?”
“I wish I could take credit. But I saw it happen and I’m not sorry it did. On a personal note, you’ll be happy to hear that the person who killed her is also dead.”
“Who was it?”
“Medea Bava.”
He laughs.
“They’re both really dead? Where are the bodies?”
“At the bottom of the Pacific.”
Another cold little laugh.
“It’s a funny world, huh?”
“That it is. Now riddle me this, why should I work for you? I’m the one with the Qomrama. Really, you should work for me.”
“But you don’t know how to use the thing, do you? That’s not easy information to come by, even for someone with friends like the Frenchman and Father Traven.”
“Don’t talk about Traven.”
“Oh, so he’s gone too? You’re getting soft. Dead people didn’t used to bother you so much.”
“Well, he had my copy of Cat Ballou and I never got it back.”
“Funny. You’re still a funny guy.”
Candy is giving me a what-the-fuck look. I hold up a hand, telling her to be patient.
“I used the 8 Ball a couple of times, you know. I can figure out how to use it again.”
“Well enough to fight a horde of angry Devil gods?”
I don’t say anything since we both already know the answer.
“Let’s let bygones by bygones. We need each other now. You have the power and I have the infrastructure to fight these unholy bastards coming for our world. Work for the new Golden Vigil. We’re back together and fully funded by Homeland Security.”
“If I say yes, you’re going to pay me.”
“Of course. Same deal as before.”
“Wrong. I have the 8 Ball in my back pocket. I figure that makes me kind of a defense contractor. And I ought to get paid like one, meaning grossly overpaid.”
“There are rules to these things.”
“I’m sick of hearing about everyone else’s rules. Break the rules. You have no idea what getting back the Qomrama cost.”
“You’re going to let that pretty girl of yours die if you can’t blackmail the U.S. government out of a few more dollars?”
“Pay me or you can fight the Angra with pitchforks and torches.”
“How much do you want?”
“Someone offered me a million dollars for it. Match the offer and we’re both yours.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I’m the weapons guy. Tell them I invented a nuclear water balloon or something.”
“You mean this, don’t you? You’d kill the world for money?”
“The more people like you tell me I can’t have things, the more I want them. And you’re forgetting something.”
“What’s that?”
“I have the key to the Room of Thirteen Doors. My girlfriend that you’re so worried about . . . we can hide in there. God can’t get in there. Lucifer can’t get in there. I bet the Angra can’t either. We can drink champagne in my own little bomb shelter while the rest of you are snacks for demon dogs.”
Wells doesn’t say anything. Candy winks at me. Matthew doesn’t know what the fuck is going on.
“I might be able to do a hundred-thousand-dollar consulting fee.”
“Not even close.”
“One and a half.”
“Nine.”
“Two and a half.”
“Eight.”
“Four.”
“Seven.”
“Five.”
“Six and a half.”
“Five and a half.”
“Deal,” I say.
“I’ll have to confirm with back east.”
“Tell them if anyone tries to lowball me, the Qomrama disappears with me and mine.”
Matthew yells, “Let me talk to the man.”
I put the phone on speaker and hold it out to him.
“Mr. Wells? It’s Matthew.”
“Matthew? You’re still alive? Stark really is getting soft.”
Matthew frowns. He’s not getting the sympathy he was hoping for.
“Listen, Mr. Wells, this psycho set me up. He robbed a drugstore and left my wallet behind.”
“And a gun,” I say.
“A gun? Matt, you know you’re not supposed to be carrying firearms. You just violated your parole.”
“I needed protection. You said you’d take care of me.”
“I said to get in touch with your ex and use her to get to Stark. Not to stalk and terrorize the girl. As far at the Marshal’s Service is concerned, you invalidated the terms of our agreement and we have no further obligation toward you.”
“You can’t hang me out to dry like this,” says Matthew.
“I think he can,” Candy says.
“We’re done, Matthew. Stark, take me off speaker.”
I push the button and put the phone back to my ear.
“It will take me a few days to work things out with Washington on the payment situation.”
“Take your time. It’s only the end of the world. Anyway, you have my number.”
“I sure do, pal.”
“Call me back before the Christmas sales start. I want a new flat-screen for the bedroom.”
“Are you sure you didn’t kill Aelita?”
“I wish I could say yes, but no, I didn’t.”
“Pity. I’d have respected you more if you’d had the wherewithal.”
“That reminds me. If I work with the Vigil, you’ll square me with LAPD, right?”
“If you’ll stop stealing so many goddamn cars.”
“Marshal Wells. I’ve never heard you take the Lord’s name in vain before. Shame on you.”
“You let me worry about me and the Lord.”
“Maybe you can get me a company car. Or maybe you can get the Hellion hog declared street legal.”
“The what?”
“Call me when you have an answer on the money. If things work out, maybe we’ll get to spend the holidays together.”
“Imagine my glee.”
“I’m going to cut this idiot loose now. That okay with you?”
“Do whatever you want with the scumbag.”
“Good night, Marshal.”
The line goes dead.
“Matthew,” I say. “I think you’re about fresh out of friends. If I were you, the first thing I’d think about is getting out of California. Sorry I took your wallet and all your money.”
“I’ll pay you back for this,” he says.
“Careful, son. I’m about to become a federal law enforcement officer. They send you to Guantánamo for threatening fine upstanding types like me.”
I nod to Candy and turn off the lamp. Drop the wire cutters on the tarp next to Matthew.
“Feel free to let yourself out,” I say. “And you’ll want to be quick about it. The cops will be at the pharmacy by now and I kind of left a trail of pills from there to here. See you in the funny papers, Matt.”
We leave and I pull the broken door shut.
Candy says, “You didn’t really leave a trail of pills to the apartment, did you? Allegra could get in trouble.”
“No, but Brainiac back there doesn’t know that. Anyway, even if he cuts himself out of the wire, I give him forty-eight hours before he’s back in county.”
The rain has slacked off a bit. Just a slow drizzle. Maybe global warming will wash L.A. away before the Angra get a chance to.
Candy says, “I’m sleeping with a G-man.”
“A rich G-man.”
“Let’s go home, J. Edgar. We have money to break furniture again.”
I DUMP THE Escalade across from Donut Universe and Candy and I walk home in the rain like a stock photo on a greeting card.
When I open the front door to Max Overdrive, Kasabian gimps over to us like his tail is on fire, glancing upstairs and talking quietly. The rain has cooled down the city, but he’s pale and sweating.
“What’s going on?”
He looks over his shoulder.
“They’re upstairs. I told them that’s your room.”
“Who is it?” says Candy.
Kasabian goes back behind the video racks that form the walls of his bedroom shanty.
“You deal. I don’t want any part of this shit.”
Candy and I look at each other. She gets out her knife and I pull the Colt. We walk into the bedroom.
Samael is sitting on the bed drinking one of Kasabian’s beers. Mr. Muninn is in the swivel chair by the desk drinking coffee from a ceramic Max Overdrive mug. I hope to hell Kasabian washed the thing before giving it to him.
“Hi, Samael,” I say. He raises his beer to me in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Muninn.”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. I turn to Candy.
“Why don’t you go downstairs and keep Kasabian company for a while?”
“You’ll be all right?”
“No, he won’t,” says Mr. Muninn. “Nothing is all right, young lady.”
Candy stands in the doorway.
“Go on. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I tell her.
Mr. Muninn says, “Don’t worry. There won’t be any floods or lightning bolts tonight at least. We’re just going to talk like reasonable beings.”
“That leaves out at least one of us,” says Samael, glancing at me.
Mr. Muninn sets down his coffee cup.
“You’re not helping the situation.”
“Just trying to clarify which side each of us is on,” says Samael.
“I presume you’re here because you’re on my side.”
“Of course, Father. But I think I know some of Stark’s argument, and for once it’s not entirely dismissible.”
“Fine. Then let’s hear what he has to say for himself.”
I say, “I’m not giving you back Father Traven.”
Muninn looks at Samael.
“That’s not an argument. That’s a statement. Where’s the argument in that?”
“Stark, would you mind elaborating a bit for Father?” says Samael.
“I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry I had to do what I did the way I did it, but I’m not letting Traven go back to Hell.”
“And you think that’s your decision?” says Mr. Muninn.
“As long as he’s in the Room it is.”
Mr. Muninn crosses his legs. Laces his fingers together.
“What I meant,” say Samael, “is that perhaps you’d state your reasons why you took Father Traven in the first place.”
I try to put the whole thing together in my head before saying anything.
“It’s not fair,” I say. “The father published a book. Big deal. Your book’s gotten a lot of people in trouble over the years. Do you deserve to be damned for that?”
“You forget, Stark. I am in Hell. You sent me there.”
“And you agreed to it.”
“More fool me. I thought I could trust you. You’re a great disappointment.”
“What do you want? I’m an Abomination.”