Hollywood Dead

BEFORE I GO inside there’s the matter of Roger’s cigarette. There’s no one on the street I can bum a light from, which leaves me with one option. I put the smoke in my mouth and cup my hands around it. Whisper some Hellion hoodoo. A small flame flickers up from my palm, just big enough for me to spark the cigarette. It’s a relief, and I don’t mean just getting to smoke. I haven’t done any hoodoo since coming back and I didn’t want Sandoval and Sinclair to see me in case I blew it. Now I want to try something bigger, but what I’m best at is breaking things, so I’ll wait until there’s something I want to see in pieces.

The Sherman is a decent smoke in its own way, but it doesn’t have the bite of a Malediction, the most popular cigarette in Hell. I had a whole box stashed upstairs at Max Overdrive. Wonder if they’re still there. More important, I wonder if I should even go near the place again. What if I run into Candy? The last time she saw me, I was dying with a knife in my back. I’ve been gone a year. What’s her life like now? A year is long enough to move past whatever grief she might have felt back then. The good news is that I saw her outside Max Overdrive the night I came back from Hell, so I know she and the store are still around.

The truth is, I want to run inside and see her right now. But what if things don’t work out with Wormwood? It’s almost Thursday and I could be gone again by Sunday. Is it fair to stumble back into her life when I could just as easily stumble out again? The answer is simple. Seeing her now wouldn’t even be close to fair. So, for the moment I’ll keep to myself and see how this insane fucking situation plays out. It’s a lonely feeling, but I’m almost used to that.

What’s really getting to me is that as much as I missed her in Hell, it’s a hundred times worse being back. My perfect, beautiful monster. During my last look at her she was in her Jade form, tearing Audsley Ishii apart. That’s how you know someone really likes you. Anyone can give you chocolate and flowers, but when they’ll disembowel someone for you? That’s true love.

I crush the Sherman under my heel and go inside Donut Universe.

The smell that hits me is almost overwhelming. Familiar and alien at the same time. Hellion food tastes like what a butcher shop throws in the trash and then a hobo sleeps on it for a couple of days. But what’s on the shelves in this shop …

If I have to die again, let it be in Donut Universe. Bury me in old-fashioneds and éclairs. Burn me in the parking lot and let me drift up to Valhalla on a wave of holy sugar and grease fumes.

When it’s my turn, I step up to the counter, where a pretty young woman asks me what I want. Like the rest of the Donut Universe staff, she wears little antennae with silver balls on the end. The balls bop gently as she speaks. My friend Cindil wore antennae like that when she worked here. Back before she was murdered. I can’t ever come in here without thinking of her. But I brought her back from Hell and now she has a pretty decent new life. She even plays drums in Candy’s terrible band. Or she did a year ago. Where is she now?

Goddammit. Memory is such a bastard when you don’t know if any of it’s true anymore. Candy. Cindil. Max Overdrive. L.A. That’s hard to lose and maybe harder to get back when you don’t know if you can keep it.

“Sir?” says the antennae girl. “Do you want a donut?”

Fuck me. How long have I been standing here? I can’t even interact with actual humans without looking like a lunatic. Take two.

“I’ll have an apple fritter and a cup of coffee.”

She rings them up and tells me the price. I hand her one of the twenties and when she tries to give me change I say, “Keep it. I’m just happy to be back here.”

She smiles and says, “Welcome back,” like she means it, and it kind of breaks my heart. She’s nice. I forgot what that’s like. I try to smile back at her, but I’m not sure I’m getting it right. I mean, my face does something. Whether it’s a smile or not is up to her.

The good news is that when she brings me my order she doesn’t pepper-spray me. That’s a beginning. I feel like a kid on his first date, proud he didn’t spill whiskey on his girlfriend’s dress or puke on her when he drank too much.

“Come back soon,” she says as I pick up my stuff.

“If I’m still alive next week, I’ll buy out the whole damn store.”

She laughs and says, “It’s a date then.”

I nod and get out before I blow the moment.

More than I already have, I mean.

At the corner, I take a long sip of coffee. It’s funny. I remember what they served at Donut Universe as being pretty good, but I can barely taste this stuff at all. I unwrap the apple fritter and take a bite. It’s the same thing. I feel the dough in my mouth, but I can’t taste anything. Another sip of coffee and another bite of fritter. I chew until I can’t stand it anymore and spit the fritter into the gutter. It’s not the food. It’s me. I can’t taste it. Another side effect of being only half-alive. At least the cigarette had a little kick. And I could taste bourbon the other night. This half-alive situation is getting on my nerves. I’ll do whatever it takes to get right again.

If cigarettes and liquor are all I can handle until I’m fully alive again, there’s only one place I can go. I head for Ivar Avenue and Bamboo House of Dolls. And it better be there. I swear if it’s gone, Wormwood won’t have to worry about the faction.

I’ll nuke L.A. myself.

FORTUNATELY FOR EVERYONE, I don’t have to drop even a single bomb. As soon as I spot the neon, my whole body relaxes. I need a drink more than ever to wash the last mealy remnants of the fritter out of my mouth. But I don’t want anyone here to know I’m back, including Carlos, the bartender. I step into an alley and throw on a glamour so no one will recognize me. There are still eighty dollars of Sinclair’s money in my pocket. That should be enough to get decently horizontal.

But I don’t go inside right away. Instead, I stay on the street letting the moment soak in. A day or so ago, I was standing at the pearly gates. Just a few hours before that, on the road for a year with a dog pack of psycho marauders tearing up the Tenebrae, killing and burning everything in our path. Standing here now, just a day later, all that feels like a bad dream. Mouthfuls of dust, road rash, and the kind of burning fear that’s indistinguishable from anger. But here and now it’s just cigarette smoke, couples whispering to each other, and the sound of bird chirps and horns as Martin Denny spins on the jukebox. It’s a little overwhelming, but in a good way. I take one last gulp of L.A. night smog and go inside.

At first glance, not much has changed inside. It’s still the best punk tiki bar in existence. Old Cramps and Germs posters hang on the walls. Plastic hula girls and coconuts carved like monkeys are lined up behind the bar. And Carlos is there, solo as usual, doling out beer and whiskey to the rabble. What’s changed is the crowd. It’s still a mix of fanged and feathered Lurkers and civilians, but they’re quieter than I remember. Bamboo House of Dolls used to be shoulder to shoulder any night of the week. Tonight you could fire a cannon in here and not hit anything but the wall. Over in the back corner is a minuscule stage where Carlos has installed the death knell of any good bar—a karaoke machine. It’s good to be back inside, but the state of the place is depressing. Most of the stools by the bar are empty, so I take one at the far end away from the door. Yeah, it’s quiet now, but I’ve had enough things creep up on me in here that I know I won’t be able to relax with my back exposed like that.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the place. Have any flesh-eating High Plains Drifter hoedowns, skinhead assassination attempts, or hoodoo firefights happened here since I’ve been gone? Maybe not. And maybe people miss the danger. Maybe Bamboo House of Dolls isn’t the same if you’re not risking your life every time you walk inside. Carlos should have hired an evil clown to hide in the rafters and chase people around with a cleaver every now and then. It sure would have woken up these sad sacks.

Carlos comes down the bar and gives me a hello nod.

“What’ll you have?”

I open my mouth and—like an idiot—almost say “Aqua Regia,” my favorite Hellion brew. Instead, I clear my throat, tell myself to focus for a goddamn minute, and manage to croak, “Jack Daniel’s. A double. Neat.”

“You got it,” he says, and heads back to the bottles and hula girls.

It’s ridiculous how happy it makes me just hearing his voice. The moment I do, the bar becomes more real, the smells and sounds more solid. Who cares if I couldn’t taste a fucking donut? This is my home away from home. Literally these days. I don’t even know if I have a home here anymore. For all I know, money got so thin at Max Overdrive that they tossed some throw pillows upstairs and now rent it out on Airbnb. I wonder if they would mention that I used to keep Kasabian’s head in the closet or point out all the blood that’s soaked into the floor. I would if I was them. It gives the place character. Who wouldn’t pay a little extra to sleep in a real-life Hollywood murder flat?

When Carlos brings me my drink I put down a twenty.

“Keep it.”

He picks it up and tosses it back on the cash register.

“Thanks.”

I look around the place once more.

“It’s quiet in here. Quieter than I remember.”

“Yeah? You been in before?”

“About a year ago. It was a lot more crowded. Loud and lively.”

He looks around the place too.

“That it was. Things change though. Crowds change.”

I sip the Jack. Swirl it around in my mouth and swallow. It burns just right and washes away the last of the fritter.

“Do you ever miss the noise?”

He thinks for a minute.

“Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes it was nice. Other times, it was something else entirely.”

“I remember it used to be a little dangerous around here.”

He lays out coasters and says, “Only if you consider dying dangerous.”

“When you think of the old days, what do you miss most?”

“The people. The old regulars. Some still come in, but others … they’re gone for good.”

I take another sip of Jack.

“This is L.A. Nothing is ever gone for good.”

He smiles.

“Maybe that’s what we need. A reboot. Bride of Bamboo House of Dolls.”

“Son of Bamboo House of Dolls.”

He gives me a look.

“You a Frankenstein fan? I had a buddy who used to like old movies.”

“What happened? You’re not friends anymore?”

Carlos brings over the Jack and a glass. Pours himself a drink.

“He’s gone with the wind.”

“Left town?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

He looks up as the jukebox begins to play Martin Denny’s “Quiet Village.”

“Me too,” he says. “I mean he could be a real asshole sometimes, but you know?”

“I have friends like that. Pains in the ass, but they keep things interesting.”

“Exactly. But he’s gone, so what are you going to do?”

“Get yourself a necromancer?”

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I get enough of those gloomy bastards on trivia night.”

I almost spit out a mouthful of whiskey.

“You have a karaoke machine and you do bar trivia?”

He nods slowly.

“Pathetic, isn’t it? But you do whatever it takes to keep the doors open.” He gives me a hard look. “What, you never compromised anything to stay alive?”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.

“I’ve compromised plenty. More than I like to think about. But damn, trivia and karaoke?”

Carlos downs his drink in one swallow.

“I know. I sold my soul. But when I win the lottery— boom!—they’re all gone.”

“You wouldn’t quit the business?”

He chuckles and pours us both another round.

“I’m a bartender. Some people are cops or priests or movie stars. Me? I pour drinks and keep the jukebox cool.”

As the music fades away, someone behind us blows into a microphone.

“Testing. One. Two. Can you hear me?”

The crowd murmurs.

A young guy wearing a pale blue pullover and a tech-startup haircut is hunched over the mic at the karaoke machine. He points to a young woman across the room.

“This is for you, Cherie.”

I can’t help but smile when I see her. This is a taste of the old Bamboo House of Dolls. A clueless tourist slumming in a weirdo bar and he picks up a pretty young thing. Only his paramour is a Jade and if he does or says the wrong thing, she’s going to bite him and drink his guts like a milkshake. I’m almost tempted to tell him, only then he starts singing that Barry Manilow song “Mandy,” but substituting “Cherie” in the chorus. That’s when I decide to let Darwin sort out his fate.

I finish my drink and get up.

“I think that’s my cue to get moving.”

Carlos puts out his hand and we shake.

“Don’t be a stranger. You’re allowed to come back more than once a year.”

“Believe me, Carlos. I will if I can.”

He gives me a funny look.

“How did you know my name?”

Shit.

“I must have read it on Yelp or somewhere.”

He nods, not entirely buying it.

“Okay. Well, come back on a Tuesday and play trivia with those necro bores. I’ll throw in a lot of old movie questions.”

I give him a nod and leave.

Carlos, you have no fucking idea how much I want to make that happen.

I WANDER ALONG the boulevard. It’s a nothing night. Cars honk at jaywalkers. Knots of wandering tourists are disappointed at how boring Hollywood and Vine really is. The Egyptian Theatre is dark as a repair crew works on the electric lines out front. There’s more action down by the wax museum and Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, but the lights are too bright and it’s too close to the Chinese Theatre. An off-duty creep in a Spider-Man costume chats up a bored Wonder Woman who’s about two puffs of a Virginia Slim away from beating him to death with her shield. Really, I’m not ready to go back to Sandoval’s Castle Grayskull and I’m trying to distract myself from lurking outside Max Overdrive in hopes of catching a glimpse of Candy. I’ve already done that once since I got back and she almost caught me. There’s no percentage in taking a chance like that again, so of course, I do it anyway.

Lucky me, there’s nothing happening there either. Candy is upstairs or out, so I’m basically staring at a dark storefront like a tweaker trying to work up the nerve to rob the place. But unfocused staring sometimes pays off. Through the front window, I get a glimpse of Kasabian moving around inside. He’s talking to someone and smiling, and for a second I get fifth-grade giddy that I might score a look at that cute girl who sits next to me in history class. Instead, it’s Alessa— Candy’s girlfriend. Candy met her a few weeks before I died and they became lovers soon after that. I mean, I told her it was okay with me, and it was. Candy had always dated girls and the fact she was with me didn’t make her desire to be with other women magically disappear. Now, though, things are different, and for the first time I feel jealous of the two of them. They had a year together that I’ll never get back. They’re a year closer and I’m on the street like a goddamn lost dog wondering if I’ll ever find my way back home.

Thinking about it, though, maybe this is a good thing and I should shut up and not get so maudlin. Candy watched me get murdered and Alessa was there to help her through it. And Alessa has obviously forgiven Candy for lying to her about who she really was. Alessa didn’t know Candy was a Jade when they started dating. She also only knew Candy as Chihiro, the identity she had to adopt to stay out of a federal lockup. When someone gets hit with secrets like that all at once and they stick around, that makes them good people and someone who really cares about you. So, yeah, Alessa is a lot more all right with me now than she was before I died.

But none of that stops me from wanting to charge inside and see Candy right now. Instead, I step into a shadow before I do something truly stupid.

I come out in my room in Sandoval’s mansion. I want another drink, but that means going into her office, which means I might see her or Sinclair, and in my current mood I’m not sure either one of them would leave with their head on their shoulders. Instead, I throw my clothes in a heap in the corner and get into bed. I’m suddenly a lot more tired than I was a couple of hours ago.

My dreams are about bombs exploding and L.A. being wiped off the map. It’s all in slow motion, so I get a good look at the city flying apart, burning bodies tossed into the air with flaming palm trees, the fire moving up the hills, scorching everything along the way. The Hollywood sign flies apart. The Griffith Observatory explodes when the concussion wave hits it. I try to distract myself with all of this cinematic carnage, but it doesn’t work. Swirling around the center of things is everyone I know and care about: Candy, Kasabian, Vidocq, Allegra, Brigitte, Carlos, even Alessa. They’re whipped around in a sun-bright vortex, pulled down into a boiling mass of nothingness. A swirling singularity so incandescent it turns to ash not just their bodies, but every particle of their being, so that there’s nothing left of them for Hell or Heaven, meaning they just fade from existence like they were never there. And all I can do is watch and let it happen because I don’t know how to stop it.

Fuck Wormwood. Fuck the faction. If I can’t stop the ritual, no one lives. No escape jets or yachts heading out to sea for this crowd. They get swallowed in the burning madness with the rest of us. I’ll laugh and laugh as they cry and cry all the way down into nonexistence when it finally hits them that all their money and power isn’t going to hold their atoms together in the coming shitstorm. The feeling isn’t satisfaction. It’s more like revenge. And sometimes that’s as close to satisfaction as you’re ever going to get.

WHEN I WAKE up in the morning, there’s a black suit waiting for me in the closet. It’s a Hugo Boss. Of course he’d be the go-to guy for Wormwood. In World War II, he made uniforms for the SS. There’s also a dark purple shirt and a pair of Italian shoes by the bed.

When I try everything on, they’re a perfect fit. That’s unsettling. I’m going to assume that Sandoval or someone figured out my size by eyeballing me. It’s either that or someone sneaked in here while I was asleep and measured me like they were getting me ready for a coffin.

Normally I don’t like playing dress-up, but Sandoval, Sinclair, and their roaches look startled enough when they see me in James Bond drag that it’s worth it.

“You look very convincing,” says Sinclair.

“Except for the face,” says Sandoval. “Really, Stark, you’re much too ugly to be a Wormwood associate.”

I whisper some hoodoo and put on the glamour I used last night. Again, Sinclair and the roaches are startled. To Sandoval’s credit, she just looks me over like she’s selecting which lobster in the tank to eat for dinner.

She says, “Much better. Almost human.”

I adjust my tie in a mirror on the wall.

“Thanks. You’re looking pretty Maleficent yourself. Curse any kids today?”

“No, but Sinclair and I punched a lovely hole in the Japanese stock market.”

“It seemed a good time to bring down some Yakuza-controlled companies that have aligned themselves with the faction,” he says.

Sandoval grins broadly.

“There’ll be blood flowing in Tokyo tonight.”

“Sounds like fun,” I say. “Me, I prefer a good thriller. Ever seen The Usual Suspects?”

“Stop it. We don’t have time for your nonsense. And neither do you.”

I close in on her and Sinclair.

“I only bring it up because the whole story hinges on a huge lie. You see my point?”

Sinclair scratches his ear. A nervous tic.

“We did what we talked about. All of us.”

“So, everyone knows that a courier is going out?”

Sandoval says, “Calm down. We said as much as we could without being too obvious. If there’s a traitor in our organization, he or she knows that you’ll be moving an important package.”

There’s a briefcase lying on the pool table.

“What’s in it?”

“Random financial records,” says Sinclair. “Nothing the faction can use against us.”

I look at them both.

“You better not have fucked this up because my only other alternative is to start killing your staff and hope someone squeals.”

“Why don’t you just do that now?” says Sandoval. “That sounds more efficient than this courier scenario.”

“Sure. I could start with you and Barron. How do I know that this whole thing isn’t a setup? Maybe you two are the rats and you just want to see if anyone can get through to your faction pals.”

“Don’t be absurd. We’re the injured party.”

“Then don’t tell me who to kill and when. It unsettles my tranquil disposition.”

“We’ve done our part. Now you do yours,” says Sinclair.

Sandoval glances at her watch.

“The car will be here soon.”

I pick up the briefcase.

“Nice. What is this? Rattlesnake?”

“Alligator,” Sinclair.

“I knew it was something cold-blooded.”

Sandoval’s cell phone rings. She exchanges a few words and hangs up.

“The car is here. The driver knows where to take you. It’s one of our law offices in Westwood.”

“Do you know the driver?”

Sandoval gives me a look.

“Philip? He’s worked for me for years. I trust him.”

“I mean, if I get snatched, he might not be in shape to be your driver anymore.”

She looks at Sinclair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

She looks back at me.

“That’s why we wanted you. Your sick little mind.”

“You have any spare drivers lying around? Ones you don’t like as much?”

“No. Do you, Barron?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve known my driver for years.”

“Just one big happy family,” I say.

I weigh the briefcase in my hand. It’s very light. That means there aren’t any bombs in case they change their minds about me.

“I’ll do my best to keep him alive. But if it comes down to him or me, well, you know.”

Sandoval glances at her roaches.

“Just do your job and leave the rest to us.”

Before I start for the door I say, “Where’s Howard?”

“In the library. Why?”

“I’ll try to keep the driver safe. You do the same with Howard.”

“Why do you think he might not be safe?” says Sinclair.

“No reason. It’s just that I’ll be very cranky if anything happens to him.”

Sandoval looks back at me.

“The car is waiting.”

Sinclair says, “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

As I reach the front door Sandoval calls after me.

“Don’t get any grand ideas about betraying us or running off. The spell Howard used to bring you back is very specific and not something just any necromancer can duplicate.”

I open the door but pause. “That reminds me. Does Howard like movie trivia?”

“I don’t know. Who cares? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just curious. If he brings me back right, I know the place to take him for a drink.”

IT’S A HOT day, even for L.A. The sky is clear, but the cat-piss smell of Sandoval’s eucalyptus trees makes the air feel heavy. The driver is holding the limo door open for me at the head of the circular driveway. I get in and it’s twenty degrees cooler. Is the driver from the Arctic or does he know about my not-quite-alive situation and think he needs to keep me on ice so I won’t stink? Or maybe he knows what’s going to happen next and he’s trying not to sweat. There’s nothing I can do to help that, so he better buckle up tight.

As he pulls away from Sandoval’s house and takes us out through the gates of the estate I say, “You’re Philip, right?”

He glances in the rearview mirror.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Philip, do you know who you work for?”