Sandman Slim

My ears are still ringing, but I'm pretty sure there aren't any sirens headed this way (the crackheads aren't going to call it in and who else hangs out here at night?). But some passing Joe Citizen could call in the noise. And the morning crew will be opening the place at eleven tomorrow. I can't leave Kasabian's corpse lying here. First, I have to find something.



I find it under the splinters of the bedside table. Alice's magic box. It's been crushed a little by the blast. Inside, the bloody cotton has come loose, but it's still in one piece. I put it under the bed, near the wall.



I pull the blanket off the bed, roll up the body, and use some duct tape I get from behind the counter to hold the blanket tight. I take Kasabian downstairs and out the back way. Also grab a couple of cinder blocks that the day crew uses when they're on a cigarette break. I'm trying very hard not to think about anything I'm doing. Of all the iffy things I've ever done in my life, I've never had to ditch a body before. While it's giving me a migraine right now, I think the fact that I'm not an expert on corpse disposal says a lot of good things about me and my life choices.



About a block away, I find a shiny new BMW SUV, which is way too many random letters strung together. It makes me feel less guilty about stealing it.



I drive it around the block, pull up to Max Overdrive, and load the body and the cinder blocks in the back. Then I drive to Fairfax and turn south. At Wilshire, I make a left and hit the gas until I see mammoths.



Animals have been falling into the La Brea Tar Pits since the last ice age. Not so much recently, since the pits are fenced in and part of a pretty slice of upscale urban green called Hancock Park. There's a big museum. A lot of wolf skulls and bird bones. A gift shop. And, soon, a dead video store-owning ex-magician.



There's not a lot of traffic on this part of Wilshire late at night. I hop the curb and pull the van up onto the brick walkway that leads to the museum. When I figure out which light pole I want, I gun the engine and smash the BMW into it at full speed. The van's windshield and front bumper are totaled. Steam billows from under the hood. The good news is that the pole with the surveillance camera is now a big aluminum toothpick by the museum's front door.



If you ever need to weigh down a dead body, remember that it's not hard duct-taping cinder blocks to a stiff, but it is hard getting them balanced right. I'm sure that with enough time and practice, I could come up with a corpse-cinder-block arrangement stable enough that a tightrope walker could use it, but I don't have time for that now. I'm parked on a major thoroughfare in a stolen van. I have no shirt, an expensive overcoat, and fresh scars on my wrists. And I'm dragging around a dead guy accessorized with building materials. This is not a precise or subtle situation. This is a situation for mindless violence and brute force. First good news I've had all day.



I get Kasabian's weighted body onto my shoulder and haul it out of the van. I drop him on his back a few yards outside the fence. I stoop and grab the body by the ankles, then I start spinning, holding the body like the hammer in a hammer throw. After a few revolutions, I'm dizzy, but have a pretty good head of steam up. When I release him, Kasabian goes flying. He sails through the air end over end, like some long-forgotten Russian space probe returning to Earth, off course and out of control.



The body hits the tar with a thick, dull thunk. At first, it doesn't move. Kasabian floats on the surface defiantly, a corpse burrito refusing to sink. Demanding to be eaten by one of the local dinosaurs lying at the bottom of the pit. Finally, he realizes how unreasonable he's being, and starts to go under. Slowly. Very slowly. Kasabian's head disappears. Then his gut. When all that's left of him above the surface are his shins and feet, I leave. Even if the surface of the tar lake is disturbed in the morning, I think the police will be more interested in the stolen van.



It's a long, exhausting walk back to Max Overdrive. When I get back to the room, all I can do is flip the mattress clean side up. I don't bother taking off the overcoat. I lie down in it and get some clean towels from the bathroom to use as a pillow.



All night long, the song someone played once at the Bamboo House of Dolls loops in my head.



"Set me adrift and I'm lost over there



And I must be insane, to go skating on your name,



And by tracing it twice,



I fell through the ice Of Alice…"





Are there people smart enough to know how doomed they are before the world crashes down on them, the way pianos fall on people in old cartoons? There must be, but I've never been one of them. Before my trip down the rabbit hole, I figured that I could joke, lie, and bullshit my way through pretty much anything. That's what's known as being a professional brat, and I was Superman at that.



Alice never liked Mason and didn't really trust the rest of the Circle. Neither did I. At least the old, sharp-tooth reptile part of my brain didn't, but that just made playing with them and being better than them more fun. Especially being better than Mason. Alice could never see the fun. She talked about the Circle like it was crystal meth and I was an addict.



"Didn't your mommy and daddy teach you that if you play with the bad kids, you're going to be kept after school?"



"My mom told me I was the handsomest boy in the world. My father taught me to shoot and how to smile while getting the back of someone's hand. That's pretty much all I remember."



She was wearing a white wifebeater and black panties. She was making coffee, but stopped, came over, and sat on my lap.



"That's why I love you. You're Norman Rockwell's perfect boy. Don't go out with those magic assholes tonight. Stay home with me. We'll eat apple pie and fuck on a flag."



"I've got to go. Mason's got something big to show us tonight. I need to be there to piss on his parade."



She got up and went back to the kitchen.



"Fine. Go, then. Go and show a bunch of losers that you're better than them. That's huge. That's a fucking accomplishment."



"This is important. You don't understand. If you had the gift, you'd know. Most of the Sub Rosa are rich dicks or Goth kids without the clove cigarettes. But I need to be around magic people sometimes. People I don't have to explain myself to."



"You need to show off to them more than you need to be with me. They're dangerous and they're going to suck you into something dangerous and stupid, like summoning the devil or something. And when they get killed or thrown in jail, you're going with them."



I grabbed my jacket and went to the door.



"I need to go. I'm late."



"You know, trying to still be the precocious one isn't that cute after you're old enough to buy beer. Grow up. Stop being such a fucking child."



Walking out, I said, "You know, sometimes you sound just like those regular jack-offs out there. You say you don't care about the magic. You say you're not jealous, but you are. You want what I have or you don't want me to have it at all. Fuck that."



Later that night, Mason played his little trick on me and I never saw Alice again.



Only now she's standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the wrecked room. She doesn't have to say a word. I know what she's thinking because it's what I'm thinking. That the mess is a kind of metaphor for my life. She sighs. Picks up small things, drops them, then picks up something else. She shakes her head in wonder at all the junk until I feel ashamed and stupid.



I know that none of this is real. This Alice is a golem. The present Parker said Mason would be sending me. This sighing ghost isn't Alice any more than the slab of meat I tossed into the tar pits was Kasabian.



The golem's eyes are milky gray. Its skin is cracked and stained with red, green, and brown lichen, like old granite. Its broken teeth ooze blood. Golem Alice's fingertips are bare bone, like something has been gnawing at them.



Unfortunately, knowing that something isn't real doesn't mean it's going to go away or that it doesn't affect you. When she isn't eyeballing the wreckage of my mini Pompeü, Alice is leaning over me and whispering in my ear.



"You wouldn't throw me into the black tar, would you, Jimmy? There's no air down there. And it's so dark. You wouldn't do that to me, would you, baby?"



THE MORNING CREW arrives like a herd of baby elephants jacked up on lattes and enough mutant energy drinks to give a rhino a stroke. The crew is an ever-shifting posse of film school hipster dudes. I don't know any of their names and I don't want to. They're just Blond Surfer Dude. Billy Goat Beard Surfer Dude. Dreads Dude, etc. They really are dudes. Sleepy eyes. IQs drowning in bong water. They invent complicated filing systems for the movies because the alphabet baffles them.



One of them knocks on my door. I open it without putting on a shirt. My wrists have healed, but there's dried blood on my hands. I hope I didn't ruin the overcoat. Time to look for a dry cleaner.



It's Billy Goat Beard Surfer Dude. He smells like he used bong water for aftershave. My lack of a shirt and the blood don't even register.



He says, "Um, a bunch of the shelves in the porn section fell down last night. What do you want us to do?"



For a second, I wonder if he's kidding. Then I remember who he is.



"Maybe one of you should go and clean it up."



"Okay, but I'm the only one who can work the register. Bill's allergic to dust and Rudy just got born again, so he's a no-porn zone till he gets over it."



"So, none of you is capable of walking to the back of the store and picking up the movies?"



"I guess not. Plus, there's cracks in the ceiling. Looks like there's cracks in there, too," he says, pointing into the room. I pull the door closed a little.



"Fuck it. It's porn. People who want it will paw through it wherever it is. Hell, they might like it better down there. Maybe we should put the whole porn section in a big pile on the floor."



"What?"



I forgot. The only things that are funny when you're as buzzed as Billy Goat Beard are cartoon animals and seeing other people get hurt.



"Never mind. Just open the store and let me get dressed."



"When is Mr. Kasabian coming back?"



I look at the kid. Does this doe-eyed weed monkey suspect something? Am I going to have to lobotomize this twerp?



"When he's damn good and ready," I say.



"Okay." He walks away, like he's already forgotten the whole conversation.



I throw the dead bolt when I close the door. Need to start locking the room up all the time. Too many weapons in here. Too much blood on the floor. Too much residual magic in the walls. All I need is for some stoned teenybopper to take a post-weed nap in Metatron's Cube and wake up with his soul on a hook in some stalker's trading booth in the souk.



I clean up in the bathroom. There's a brownish-red ring around the drain. I need to get some bleach before all the blood I've been leaking into the sink stains it permanently. I wonder if Kasabian had any accident or maybe earthquake insurance. I saw official-looking papers in one box-I'll have to track that down. It'd be nice for Allegra to be able to get the place fixed up when I'm gone and she takes over.



The overcoat is wadded in a ball at the end of the bed. It looks pretty rough. Praise Lucifer that my jeans are black. Blood's not so obvious on them. I find a box with the last of the Max Overdrive T-shirts in my size and slip it on. The only thing I have to wear over the T-shirt that will hide a weapon is the half-burned motocross jacket. I'll look a little crazy in it, but it's still wearable. Because it's such a wreck, I don't have any regrets about tearing the lining open so I can slip the na'at inside. I'll still pack Azazel's knife for backup, but from now on, my primary weapons are the ones that will keep attackers the hell away from me. I didn't crawl back to Earth just to go bankrupt buying new shirts.



It takes me a minute to find where I stashed Muninn's money. I slipped it into the back of a Val Lewton box set that was blown against the far wall. I take a wad of bills from inside and toss the box on the bed.



With the overcoat tucked under my arm, I lock up the room and slip out the back without any of the dudes seeing me.



Aelita is waiting in the alley, standing there like the angel of death in librarian drag. I drop the coat and take a couple of steps into the alley so my back isn't pinned to the wall.



I say, "You're big on the Fortune magazine look. Know any decent dry cleaners around here?"



She shakes her head and shoots poison darts at me with her eyes. Or she wishes she could.



"The Vigil saw you last night. What you did with that man. You're disgusting."



"I'm an Abomination. What do you expect? If you clowns really did have me on your radar, you'd know I was just taking out the trash and that I didn't kill Kasabian. He was killed by someone you should have dealt with a long time ago."



"You followed the poor man into death and tormented him even there."



"I talked to him. I gave him a job recommendation. I helped him more than you ever helped me."



"I offered you help just yesterday. Help and redemption."



"You helped me so much that I had to get glued back together again by Doc Kinski."



"Don't speak that name in front of me!" she shouts. "He's the only creature alive more vile than you."



"Thanks. You hating Kinski makes me feel a lot better about the guy. Maybe I'll let him cut me open after all."



"Why wait? I can do that for you right now."



"Yeah, but when Kinski cuts me, he won't have a hard-on while he's doing it."



"You dare speak to an angel of the Lord that way?"