Killing Pretty

“Look, I’m still trying to get my brain around all this too. Maybe down the line it would be safe to let a ­couple of more ­people know. But we’ve got to play this out for a while. Chihiro didn’t even exist a ­couple of weeks ago. You stick out. Let ­people get used to you. Then maybe we can think about letting other ­people in.”

Candy thinks for a minute.

“I’ll give it till the end of January. Then I’m talking to Fairuza. I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

“Fine. But she’s the only one for the time being.”

“I guess.”

“Listen. If this thing falls apart, it’s not just on you and me. There’s other ­people too. Julie. Brigitte. Allegra and Vidocq.”

“Aren’t you maybe leaving someone out?” says Kasabian.

“I was getting to you, Iron Man.”

“I thought we discussed no more nicknames.”

I ignore that.

“I know you think I’m a drag sometimes, but there’s a lot at stake here.”

“I know,” Candy says quietly.

“I saw you dead once. I don’t want to see that again.”

“I wasn’t really dead, dumb-­ass.”

“You sure looked like you were.”

“That’s ’cause I’m such a good actress. Me and Brigitte are going to star in a remake of Thelma & Louise.”

“As I recall, that didn’t end well.”

“In our version the car is a Delorean time machine, so we just drive off and have adventures with pirates and robots.”

“Or Lethal Weapon,” says Kasabian. “You could do a girl-­girl remake.”

“Or Bill and Ted,” she says.

She looks at me.

“I need another drink. You have supplies upstairs?”

“You know it.”

I step aside and let her lead the way.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

It’s a man’s voice coming from the storage room.

I look at Kasabian.

“Lock the front door.”

“Sure. It’s not like we’re a place of business or anything.”

As he does it, Candy and I knock on the storage room door.

“You all right in there?”

“Where am I?”

I open the door. He squints and pushes himself back to the farthest corner of the cot I set up for him, huddling there like a bug.

He says, “It’s too bright.”

Candy and I go inside and close the door. It’s ripe in here. The guy wasn’t clean when I met him. Add an extra week to that. We’re in a cheese factory.

Candy hits the overhead light. It’s only a sixty-­watt. Candy liked the room dim when the band rehearsed.

I take a step closer, getting between the guy on the cot and Candy in case he’s as unhinged as he looks.

“Is that better?”

Slowly, he opens his eyes. He keeps a hand up, blocking the bulb. When he can focus he stares at me.

“Where am I?”

“At Max Overdrive. Do you remember coming to me at Bamboo House of Dolls?”

He sits up and leans against the wall. Candy steps around me, fiddling with her phone. Who the fuck is she calling right now?

“Who’s that?” he says.

“A friend. What do you remember?”

He looks at the blanket, his hands, and the room like he’s never seen any of it before. When he looks at me I can see the gears starting to turn in his head.

“You’re Stark.”

“That’s right. And this is Chihiro. You met her the other night too.”

He stares at Candy for a little too long.

“That’s not her real face,” he says. “Or her name.”

Candy shoots me a worried look. I hold up a hand to say “be cool.”

“You can see through the glamour,” I say. “So, you really are an angel.”

He nods.

“The oldest, known to mortals as the Angel of Death.”

“Yeah. You said that the other night.”

“And you don’t believe me.”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I’ve met my share of, let’s say, unstable angels.”

“You mean Aelita.”

“There were others but, yeah, she was the worst.”

“I’m not mad and I have no desire to be here or to be a burden.”

“Then why are you here? And why come to me?”

Death touches the gauze bandages over the hole in his chest.

“You closed the wound.”

“Not me. It was friends. And you haven’t answered my question.”

“It hurts,” he says, rubbing his chest. “Everything hurts. I’d forgotten what pain is. Do you have anything for it?”

I take out my flask, unscrew the top, and hand it to him. He takes a swig and coughs, practically spitting the Aqua Regia all over himself.

“This is Hellion brew,” he says.

“That’s right. Drink up. It tastes like gasoline, but it’ll help with the pain.”

“I’m not sure it’s permitted.”

“I don’t think anyone would hold it against you,” says Candy. “It’s not like you’re here to party.”

He looks at Candy for a few seconds, then drinks. He keeps it down better this time, but he’d probably be happier with an aspirin. Fuck him. I drank Aqua Regia for eleven years in Hell because there weren’t any angels to help me. Death can choke down a ­couple of mouthfuls.

He hands me back the flask.

“Feeling better?”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“No.”

“You will.”

“The brew smells interesting.”

“Huh. I never thought of that. I guess it does.”

Candy gets in closer to him.

“Why did you come here?”

“I was looking for Sandman Slim.”

“Why?” says Candy.

“I need help.”

“Because you’re in a body.”

He nods.

“And someone has murdered it. Murdered me.”

I say, “Why not call one of your angel pals?”

He closes his eyes again.

“I don’t know who to trust.”

“But you trust Stark,” says Candy. “Why?”

“Because Father trusted him.”

Father. Mr. Muninn. God.

The bloody, dirt-­streaked trench coat he had on when I met him is in a pile on the floor. I pick it up and go through the pockets. He doesn’t object.

I say, “Why not go to Mr. Muninn if you need help?”

He shrugs.

“I’ve called and called to him, but all I get is silence.”

There’s a knife in one of his coat pockets. I’ve never seen one quite like it. It’s over a foot long, double-­bladed, with a black wooden grip. Sort of like an oversize athame ritual blade, but with a silver eagle on the grip. There’s what looks like a glob of tar by the pommel, maybe to hold it in place.

I hold it out to him.

“What’s this?”

“That, I believe, was what killed me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because someone pulled it out of my chest and I awoke.”

“Who pulled it out?”

He holds up a hand and gestures vaguely.

“I don’t know. I get the impression they were teenagers having some kind of party. By their startled reaction when I awoke, I don’t think they were looking for me.”

“Okay,” I say. “It’s New Year’s and some kids are out partying. They find you and pull the sword out of the stone like King Arthur. Then you came and found me. Is that pretty much it?”

“I think so,” he says.

“And you’ve never seen this knife before?”

“Not before I woke up.”

“How did you find me?”

He’s closed his eyes again. We’re losing him.

“I’m an angel. I reached out and there you were, so I walked to where I found you.”

“Where did you walk from?” says Candy.

“I don’t know. There was a concrete structure. Not quite a building, but like it once was. It was covered with painted words and images. There were trees and scrub. It was dry and warm there. And stone stairs. Yes. I had to walk up a long stairway. After that, I walked for a long time down a highway and then through the city. That’s where I found you.”

He’s looking at me and I don’t want to believe any of it, but he’s such a whipped dog I can’t throw him out yet.

“I’m tired again. You are right about the brew. It took the pain away,” he says.

“Okay. You get some more rest. But we’re going to talk again later.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to take a goddamn shower. Today.”

“Yes. Thank you,” he says, and lies down. “Would you turn the light off, please?”

“There’s just one more thing before we go.”

“Yes?”

“I’d appreciate it if you never mentioned anything about Candy’s face or name again.”

“As you wish.”

Candy turns off the light and we go back outside. It’s good to be out of the room and the dead man’s stink. I turn the knife over in my hands.

“You ever see anything like it?”

Candy shakes her head.

“Never.”

I take it over to Kasabian.

“How about you? You recognize it?”

“No, but I can look around online if it’ll get him out of here quicker. He gives me the creeps.”

“I’m with you there.”

“I think he’s kind of sad,” says Candy.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“I should have taken notes or something. I’m never going to remember everything he said.”

Candy holds up her phone.

“Welcome to the twenty-­first century, Huck Finn. I recorded the whole thing.”

“Nice job.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you forward that to Julie? You’ll make her day.”

“I’m on it,” she says, punching numbers into her phone.

I heft the knife in my hand. It has good weight and balance. With enough strength you could easily ram this through someone’s ribs and pull out whatever the hell you wanted.

“I’m going to put this away upstairs. You still want that drink?”

“Hell yes, Agent Scully.”

“Wait. I thought Scully was the woman.”

“Stop being so heteronormative. You’d look good in a dress.”

“I don’t know what one of those words means, but okay.”

“I really do have to drag you into this century.”

“Drag away. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Not without me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Will you two please go the fuck away?” says Kasabian. “You’re giving me diabetes over here.”

We go upstairs and don’t come down for a long time. My phone rings. It’s Julie. I let her go to voice mail. Who’s Huck Finn now?

I CALL JULIE back an hour later. We set up a time for the next day when she’ll come by and see Sleeping Beauty. She says she might already have a line on another case and will call me when she’s sure. I guess this is how things are from now on. Business calls and meetings with clients. Jobs we get and jobs we lose. Time to shine my shoes and carry my lunch in a brown paper bag. Soon it will be heart-­healthy egg salad on vitamin-­enriched organic free-­range whole-­wheat bread.

I’m so doomed.

Here’s the thing: once upon a time I ran Hell. I didn’t break the place, but I didn’t exactly spruce it up. I don’t have a good track record with nine-­to-­five responsibilities.

I wonder how long it will take for me to fuck up so badly that Julie gives my job to a guy selling oranges by the side of the freeway? Maybe I can swap gigs with him. He can do the surveillance and the paperwork and I’ll stand by the off-­ramp sucking fumes and selling oranges all day. It doesn’t sound like such a bad life. A little repetitive, but so was fighting in the arena. The freeway job would have less stabbing and more vitamin C, and that’s a step up in the world by anyone’s standards.

I’m on my way to the big leagues one Satsuma at a time.

KASABIAN HAS REOPENED the place when I come downstairs and a few customers are browsing our very specialized movies. Before Maria and Dash, Max Overdrive was doomed. Kasabian made a deal with them to find us copies of lost movies. The uncut Metropolis. Orson Welles’s cut of The Magnificent Ambersons. London After Midnight. Things like that. The problem was that a lot of the best of the bunch were silent movies, and in L.A. we like our gab, so those movies had a limited audience. They brought in enough money to keep the lights burning, but not enough to live on. The new, never-­made movie scheme makes a lot more sense. Maybe we’ll be able to sleep at night without worrying that the next day we’ll be running the store out of the trunk of a stolen car. It’s this possibility that makes me even more pissed about the angel tagging the front windows.

Fuck waiting for paint remover tomorrow. I get the black blade, go outside, and start scraping.

I’m at it for maybe ten minutes when I see someone’s reflection in the glass. A tall guy in a brown leather blazer.

Someone is watching me from the street. I managed to get GOD off the glass, but now it reads KILLER, which really isn’t much of an improvement.

I turn around and give the guy a “move along, pilgrim” look. He gives me an irritatingly polished smile and comes over to where I’m working.

This day just keeps getting better.

“Someone really did a number on your windows,” he says. “Any significance to the word?”

“Some to him, I guess. None to me. What do you want?”

He looks around like he’s checking to see it’s just us chickens.

“You’re James Stark, aren’t you?”

“Who’s asking?”

He reaches around his back. I make sure he can see the knife in my hand. For a second he looks nervous, but he recovers quickly and flashes me that shit-­eating grin.

He holds up his wallet and shows me an ID card from the L.A. Times. The name on the card is David Moore. I nod and he puts it away.

“Impressive. I bet you own a dictionary and a thesaurus.”

“Paper too,” Moore says. “Lots of blank printer paper.”

“And you want to print something about me. Why?”

He takes a step closer. He smells of adrenaline with a hint of fear sweat.

“We’re doing a feature—­maybe a series—­on the ­people who stayed here during the flood. The pioneers and eccentrics.”

“It sounds like you think I escaped from the Donner expedition.”

“Nothing like that,” he says.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Taps out one for himself and holds the pack out to me like he’s throwing a bone to a ragamuffin refugee in a World War II movie. I don’t like the guy, but I take the cigarette. He lights it and then his own. It’s not bad. A foreign brand that burns the back of my throat pleasantly.

“Thanks.”

I go back to scraping the window.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then, “How about it? Can I ask you a few questions?”

“Let me ask you one. Why me? Lots of ­people who stayed behind, including some of my customers. Why not interview them?”

He comes around where I’m scraping, so I get a clear view of his mug. Trying to establish eye contact and intimacy. Letting me know that even though he’s from the press I shouldn’t hold it against him. He’s one of the good guys. But he’s too eager to be convincing.

“You’re the only celebrity around here,” he says.

“And here I thought I was just another small businessman. Tell me, do all celebrities scrape their own goddamn windows clean?”

“We can start there. Why would someone paint ‘killer’ on your store?”

“Maybe they thought I was Jerry Lee Lewis. Look, I don’t like talking to strangers. Next thing, you’ll try to lure me into your van with promises of candy and puppies.”

He doesn’t react to the dig, so I keep on scraping. He watches me for a while before he speaks again.

“Maybe it said something else before. Maybe it said ‘Godkiller.’ ”

This time when I face him, I put the knife to his throat. There’s nothing behind him, so there’s plenty of room to move if he can get his brain and feet to function, but he can’t. That means he’s probably not one of Audsley Isshii’s crew, an assassin sent to settle a score. I don’t think he’s Sub Rosa either. That’s the first thing that would be coming out of his smug face if he was. He’s just a ridiculous civilian looking for a story or an autograph.

“Why would you say ‘Godkiller’?”

He puffs his smoke, trying to look like he’s rolling with the scene, but his hand is shaking. Not enough for most ­people to see, but I can.

“There are a lot of rumors about you. About your past. And what you did during the flood.”

“What do you think I did?”

“Some ­people say you saved the world and that it wasn’t the first time. Other ­people say you lost your mind and killed God, which is a big surprise to some of us.”

“You’re an atheist.”

“I guess you’re not.”

“I wish I had the luxury.”

A ­couple of ­people come out of Max Overdrive. A civilian guy and a female Lyph. Lyphs are generally a friendly bunch, but they freak out a lot of regular citizens because they look like what kids draw when they imagine the Devil. Horns and hooves. A tail. This one has rented from us for a while, but I can’t think of her name.

“What’s the matter, Stark?” the Lyph says. “He return a movie late?”

I take the knife from his throat, but keep it by my side.

“See? My customers are a lot more interesting than me.”

“Everyone’s more interesting than Stark,” says the Lyph. “He’s just a Mr. Grumpypants.”

“This guy is a reporter from the Times. He’s looking to interview ­people who stayed in town when it was underwater. Want to talk to him?”

The Lyph and her friend come over.

“It was awful,” says the guy. “Our whole place flooded, but our pet rats are good swimmers, so it turned out okay.”

I take a drag off the cigarette and look at Moore.

“See? Human interest. That’s what your readers want. Real stuff. Not hocus-­pocus rumors.”

“Hi,” says the Lyph, holding out her hand. “I’m Courtney and this is Jeremy.”

Moore shakes Courtney’s hand. I’m not sure he can see her for what she is. When they’re in the street, Lyphs usually use cloaking hoodoo to blend in with the civilians. I try to read the sour look on Moore’s face. It’s hard to tell if he doesn’t want to touch the devil lady’s hand or if he’s pissed that we have an audience.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, and tosses his cigarette into the street. “Maybe you can give me your number and I can get back to you later for an interview.”

“Meow,” says Courtney. “I haven’t been brushed off like that since fourth grade and Father Barker realized I had a tail.”

“Really, Mr. Stark. I was hoping to talk to you specially about something besides the flood,” says Moore.

“What’s that?”

“Your wild-­blue-­yonder contract.”

“Why do you think I have one of those?”

He pats me on the shoulder and I consider cutting off his hand.

“Because you’re famous and L.A.’s famous always have a backup plan.”

“What’s a wild-­blue-­yonder contract?” says Jeremy.

What do I tell him? Just because he dates a Lyph doesn’t mean he knows how things are. How ­people with enough pull, fame, or infamy can get contracts that bind their souls to Earth so that when they die they don’t have to go on to the afterlife. And let’s face it, for ­people in L.A. that usually means Hell and they know it, and want to put if off for as long as possible. I really can’t blame them. The contracts are handled by talent agencies specializing in ghosts. You want Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe to croon “Happy Birthday” at your next party? Come up with the cash and they can do a duet with James Dean or Jayne Mansfield. It’s not just show-­biz types, though. Plenty of bankers, politicians, crooks, and cops don’t want to head Downtown too soon. A wild-­blue-­yonder contract is Heaven for mama’s boys.

Moore looks at me, waiting to see if I’m going to answer the question. I’m not sure what to tell Jeremy.

“It’s a death deal for chickenshits. When you die, you stay here and the company that sold you the contract can send you anywhere they want to be a performing monkey. Mostly, the contracts go to the famous so rich assholes can mingle with them over finger sandwiches.”

“Cool,” says Jeremy. “Can I get one?”

“Anyone can get one,” says Moore.

I tuck the black blade in my waistband. I’m not going to need it with this band of cutthroats.

“Yeah, but if you’re not an A-­list celebrity, you’ll probably end up being Mickey Cohen’s towel boy. Not all ghosts are born equal, are they, Moore?”

“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Wait—­who’s Mickey Cohen?”

“A notorious ventriloquist. His dummy worked for Murder Incorporated.”

Jeremy and Courtney look at each other.

“This doesn’t sound like something for us.”

Moore looks a little uncomfortable confronted by actual ­people who see the scam for what it is.

“Smart,” I say. “Don’t let anyone talk you into one.”

“We won’t,” says Courtney. Then to Moore, “What did I tell you? A big sack of grump.”

She and Jeremy take their movie and head off, leaving me alone with Moore.

“You’re not really a reporter, are you?”

He looks away and back and does the grin again. I wonder what he’d look like with no lips?

“That’s not entirely true. I have friends at the Times. Sometimes I bring them stories and they slip me a little something.”

“But that’s not what you’re really about.”

“I work with a talent group. One of the biggest postlife artist agencies in the world.”

“And you want to offer me a contract.”

“Why not? A lot of Sub Rosas have them. And you’re right about A-­listers versus everybody else. But I can guarantee you that you’d be on the A-­list of A-­lists. I mean, everyone wants to meet Lucifer . . . even an ex-­Lucifer.”

I move faster than he can react, dragging him around the side of the building and shoving him up against the Dumpster. I tap the black blade against the crotch of his jeans, right under his balls.

“Listen up. If you really knew anything about me, you’d know that I wouldn’t sign a blue yonder if you promised me chicken and waffles with Veronica Lake. I don’t know how you know all that Trivial Pursuit stuff about me, but forget it. It’s ancient history and nothing you should be talking about. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Do you? I know threatening to kill you won’t matter because you have a blue yonder and you think you’re safe. But think about this: I know how to cut off your head so you won’t die. Who knows how long I can keep you alive? You can be my lab rat. How’s that sound?”

“I’d rather not,” says Moore.

“Then don’t ever bother me, my friends, or my customers again. If you do, I’m going to use your head for kindling.”

“I understand.”

“Now shoo.”

I take the knife away and he sidles past, not turning his back on me until he’s on the sidewalk, running down the street and across Hollywood Boulevard. I listen for the sound of squealing brakes in case he does the polite thing and scampers in front of a semi. But the sound is all just normal traffic. It’s disappointing.

When I come around to the front of the store, Candy is standing there. She’s looking off in the direction of Moore’s sudden exit.

“What was that all about?” she says.

“A man tried to sell me some magic beans.”

“Was there a giant with treasure at the top of a beanstalk?”

“No. Just old movie stars and dead gangsters.”

“You know the most interesting ­people.”

“You’re more interesting than any of those bums.”

“Aw. I’m better than a bum. You say the sweetest things.”

She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, uses her thumb to wipe off the lipstick.

“Listen,” I say. “I have to go see Vidocq and Allegra. Do me a favor and babysit our guest until I get back?”

She nods. Sighs.

“Sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do tonight.”

“Thanks.”

She looks at me.

“You know, I know what you’re doing.”

“About what, in particular?”

“You’re trying to keep me out of sight, trying to keep me at arm’s length at Brigitte’s. This is still about what happened when I was in jail, isn’t it?”

Candy is quick when it comes to ­people. It’s one of the things I like about her. I give her a slow nod.

“Some. You said I was using you. I didn’t like that. I still don’t. Later, when you said you didn’t remember, I always wondered if that was true.”