Sandman Slim

And if Kasabian's boomerang corpse is here on the floor, where are Vidocq and Allegra?



My phone rings. I thumb it on.



"Boo. Fooled you with your own dead guy." It's Parker. "I bet right about now you're wondering where your friends are."



"How are you seeing me?"



"Look around you, shit for brains. There's eyes everywhere."



"The paintings."



"There's this thing called magic. Maybe you've heard of it."



"Where are Vidocq and Allegra?"



"Relax, sweetheart. They're fine. In fact, we're having a New Year's party tonight and you're invited."



"At Avila?"



"How do you walk around with that big brain? Yeah, Avila. It'll be a blast. We're gonna raise a little hell. Get your ass there before midnight."



"I'll be there."



"This is a personal invitation. No guests. No plus ones. If I see a cloud of dust behind you, Senor Frog and that little slice of cherry pie go right in the wood chipper."



"I'll be there."



"Before midnight. That's twelve. When the big hand and the little hands are straight up."



"Either one of them gets hurt, I'm going to personally teach you the Tombstone Dog Paddle."



"That another scary trick you learned in Hell?"



"No. Wild Bill told my great-granddad about it. It's where I take you down the river. Someplace the ground is soft and wet. I break your arms and legs. You fingers and toes. Your neck and back. I dig a hole in the wet, soft ground, put you inside, and fill it back up. Then I have a cigarette and wait for you to dig your way out."



"Before twelve," says Parker, and hangs up.



IF I LEARNED anything Downtown, it's this: the only real difference between an enemy and a friend is the day of the week.



I go back to where I abandoned the Jag, jam the knife in the ignition, and aim the car west, then south, heading back along the same surface streets I traveled with Wells once before. A good sense of direction can get you into or out of a lot of trouble.



Who's higher on the food chain? The Golden Vigil or Homeland Security? The feds are probably picking up the tab for the operation, but that probably has more to do to with Washington control freaks and politicians who want their names next to supersecret intelligence groups. Wanting to put Ran CIA or Busted terrorist cell on your resume when you run for president seems obvious, but would telling people that you run angels and G-men who keep the world safe from chaos creatures on the edge of the universe help your political career or get you a syringe full of Thorazine and a lifetime supply of adult diapers? What does whoever runs the Vigil back in D.C. put on their quarterly work reports? At least, the people that person reports to must know what the Vigil does. But what do you tell oversight committees and budget fascists? "We need that extra billion for a gun that will turn vampires into dog food and dark angels into the filling for Bavarian cream doughnuts." Who runs this sideshow and what do they want?



If what I'd read was right, it was all a joke anyway. Before the morning herd came into Max Overdrive this morning, I looked up the Golden Vigil on an occult encyclopedia Web site. The Golden Vigil has been around at least since the First Crusade in the eleventh century. That's when the Brits and the French started writing about it.



According to some of those stories, the Vigil was a splinter cell of the original Hashishin, the frat-house assassination cult that was the Al Qaeda of its day. While the regular Hashishin stuck to Dirty Harry jihadist political power-structure attacks, the Golden Vigil went after invisible enemies.



The French chroniclers insist that the Vigil is much older than most people realize, and that its origins might actually explain how and why some of the first tribes stopped chasing game up and down the Fertile Crescent and settled down to build the world's first trailer parks along the Euphrates. If the Kissi have been here for as long as Aelita said, it makes sense. It means that the Vigil has been around for at least eight to ten thousand years. Even longer, if the tribes were negotiating with the Kissi when they first wandered up out of Africa. That would push the Vigil's origins back to around seventy thousand years, according to another encyclopedia site.



Which brings us back to the question of who's the big meat eater along this food chain, Homeland Security or the Golden Vigil? Whoever controls the money is in the driver's seat. The gray-suit guys back east might pony up the money now, but I have a hard time believing that if Washington pulled the plug, the Vigil couldn't support itself. You can stuff a lot of loot into the cookie jar over seventy thousand years.



WHEN I PULL into the parking lot of the Vigil's warehouse, a couple of G-men dressed like rent-a-cops hold up their hands for me to stop. Being highly trained security professionals with keen powers of observation, they leap and lurch out of the way when they see that I'm not slowing down. By the time I'm up to the warehouse entrance and out of the Jag, six of them have surrounded me and each one of them has an identical Glock 9mm pointed at my head. I hate Glocks. Guys who love Glocks love Corvettes. Not because it was a hot car, but because it was cool forty years ago and they once saw a picture of Steve McQueen in one. Their dad probably had a Vette when he was young, but he was never cool. But if they have a Vette, maybe they can forget the fat man who made them mow the lawn when they should have been out with their friends sneaking into R-rated movies, and who embarrassed them in front of their first girlfriends. Maybe their dad was the guy driving fast and locking lips with Faye Dunaway in The Thomas Crown Affair. Maybe their dad was cool after all and maybe that made them cool, too. That's what Glocks are. High-precision killing machines that scream "Daddy Issues."



They come on attack-dog fierce, but no one seems eager to pull the trigger. Lucky me. I don't want to get shot. Lucky them. I know these guys are just the hired help, but right now I really want to hurt someone.



A couple of them are talking into their sleeves, nodding to the air. Another minute of the silent Sergio Leone standoff and Wells comes out of the warehouse, banging the door open.



"I ought to let these men shoot you. You drove straight here, shitsack. Did you, even for a second, think about who might be watching or tailing you?"



"Not even for a second."



He nods to his men.



"Bring him inside."



"I want to talk to you, not your Boy Scouts."



"I don't want to talk to you at all out here. Shut up until we're somewhere secure."



I keep my mouth shut. I don't need any more enemies. Well, any more enemies who want to see me turned into chum any more than they already do.



We pass through the electric Jell-O interior barrier and the work floor appears. It's different inside. Like Vegas on the Fourth of July. All lights, machine noise, a din of voices, welding sparks like fireworks. Vigil members are trying out new weapons. Some look like modified guns. Others are like metal parasites attached to their backs, wrapping around their arms and waists. Across the warehouse, they're prepping vehicles. I don't see Aelita, but then, there's no reason she'd want to see me.



Wells says, "We're kinds of busy right now, so talk fast."



"I thought you'd like to know that a couple of civilians have been kidnapped and dragged up to Avila."



"Friends of yours? Then I doubt they're civilians, in the true sense of the word. I mean, in the sense that anyone gives a rat's ass about."



"You're going to leave a couple of innocent people hanging because you have a beef with me?"



"I don't think you'd know innocent if it rode up and bit you in the balls. And, for your information, I don't leave innocent people hanging."



"Then what are you going to do about it?"



Wells sweeps his arm around at all the activity.



"I'm going back to work. We're a little busy right now. Thanks for stopping by."



He turns away, but I put my hand on his shoulder. Hard. Come up right behind him, close enough to snap his neck. When I feel him tense, I know he knows it. I say it all quietly and evenly.



"I can go up there and tear Avila apart on my own. I'm far from bulletproof and they have enough firepower that I'm pretty sure they'll kill me, but I'm going to take a lot of people with me, including every magician in the place. A fight like that, it can't be helped if some of Avila's rich clientele gets burned, including the richest, most important ones. Imagine the shitstorm when all those old-money families and the Sub Rosa find out that you knew what was going down and did nothing about it. Or, you and your Mouseketeers can come with me and we can take the place down together."



"You're a day late and a dollar short, Chuck. What do you think all this is? We're hitting Avila tonight."



"If you're not going for the civilians, what are you going for?"



"We're trying to stop the end of the world, asshole. Which, by the way, is entirely your fault."



I let go of him. He turns around and faces me, rubbing where I held him. He's not lying. I can see that right away. His heart is hammering like a car running third at NASCAR. He smells like anger with a little fear mixed in, but no lies.



"Keep talking," I say.



"You know why you piss me off? It's not that stunt on Rodeo Drive, your schoolyard threats, your pixie friends, or even you wanting to kill every living thing in sight. It's that you think you're alone in the world and that there's nothing going on except for you and your problems."



"Enlighten me. What, are you and your cowboys going up there with your Flash Gordon toys to make them turn down their music?"



He looks over his shoulder, then back at me.



"Do you even know what Avila is? What's going on up there?"



"I've been there. It's the best little whorehouse in Purgatory. So what?"



"Yeah, to the college boys and businessmen in the dumb-ass front rooms, but Avila is a lot more than that to insiders. Avila is a dark-magic power site in a city that's one big power site. What's today's date?"



"I have no idea."



"That's what I mean. You don't know anything. It's New Year's Eve. It's not just another frat party. Tonight is a ritual night. The ritual. At midnight, you know all those angels they've been fucking in the back room? They're going to sacrifice each and every one, and when they do, they're going to open up the gates of Hell and let your pal Lucifer and all his Hellion armies stroll through L.A. like it's the goddam Easter parade."



"That doesn't make any sense. Mason runs Avila; why would he want to destroy the world? It could be the Kissi. They'd love the chaos, but why would they want competition from Hellions?"



"Avila was built for this one purpose. They've been kidnapping and turning angels into whores for as long as anyone can remember."



"And how is this any of my fault?"



"Because you wouldn't stay put. Because you were in Hell, which is the only place that damned key you're carrying around is safe. But Mason got you back here by killing your girlfriend, the one thing he knew you couldn't let go of."



"Would you have let him get away with that?"



"It's not me or my girl we're talking about. You bringing that key to Earth is like opening a tiny crack in the universe. The ritual tonight is going to kick that crack wide open. That's why he killed your girl now. He needed you to get the key to Earth before New Year's."



"So, let's go up and hurt some bad guys."



This time, he puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me to look round the room.



"Wait. There's more, sunshine. Do you see Aelita? No, you don't. You know why? Because some hothead fucked her up and left her in an alley where the Kissi could find her, and they carried her on up the hill. That's right. Aelita's in Avila right now and they're going to kill her in a few hours. So, pardon me if I don't get all choked up about you and yours. I've got my own people to worry about."



I nod, a little numb. I have absolutely no reason to feel bad about what happens to someone who's tried to kill me twice. But I don't like the idea of throwing anyone, even a crazy, homicidal angel, to Mason. Besides, anything Mason wants, I don't want him to have.



"Okay, Tex. You wanted me, you got me. And before you call me an asshole and tell me to get out, listen: I can give you something that no one else in the world can."



"What?"



"I can walk you and your troops straight inside Avila. Past security and alarms, magicians, and whatever goblins or devil dogs they've hired as lookouts."



Wells looks at me. I can practically see the hamster wheel turning in his head. He so wants to tell me to get out, but he's read my file and knows that I've gotten to some of the best-protected Hellions Downtown. It's fun watching a cop squirm.



"You'll use the key? How? I need to know that my people will be safe."



"I'll walk them straight in. If there's a shadow anywhere, I can get in through it."



"Show me."



"I'm not going to do magic tricks for you. Do you want my help or not?"



He stares at me. Chews the inside of his cheek. He wants a cigarette. He's a secret smoker. I can smell it in his sweat.



"Know what, Tex? I don't need you giving me the pig eye. You need me a lot more than I need you. I can wait until you and the cavalry charge in through the front door and get blown to rags. I'll stroll in after and use your corpses for shields. Have fun getting slaughtered."



"Okay," he says. "This one time."