Hollywood Dead. Richard Kadrey
For a second I think about going back to the van and digging around for someone’s cigarettes, but they’re probably as soaked through as my suit.
At the end of the driveway I hunker down, trying to stay out of sight of any security cameras. Every part of me hurts. If I could be anywhere else right now, my first choice would be in bed with Candy. My second choice would be in the closest ER that has hot tubs in the rooms. They have those, right? Hot-tub hospitals? I should Google that. I might just have a million-dollar idea. Maybe Sandoval will back me if I don’t kill her. Scratch that. I’d rather shoot her and Sinclair. I’m just not gentry material and killing them sounds like more fun than a mansion.
I’m still mourning my hot-tub millions when the warehouse door slides open and a Mercedes coupe drives out. I can’t see who’s behind the wheel, but the car has to slow when it reaches the gravel at the end of the driveway. That’s when I step in front of it and open up with the rifle.
I blast a few rounds through the windshield—but only on the passenger side. I have a feeling whoever was interrogating me isn’t the chauffeur type. Closing on the Mercedes, I spray more rounds into the side windows, keeping the driver off balance until I can get there.
I’m at the driver’s door when the rifle goes dry. I ditch it and smash the window with the butt of the pistol. There’s a woman inside with her hand in her coat.
I put my gun to her head.
“Take out your hand slowly and put them both on the steering wheel.”
She does what I say. She has short blond hair and even sitting down, I can tell she’s built long, just like my interrogator. Plus my briefcase is sitting on the seat next to her.
I say, “Pop the trunk and get out of the car. Slow and easy.”
I hear the trunk unlock and pull the door open for her. She gets out and looks me over.
“I don’t suppose any of my men are still alive?” she says.
“We can go look. They’re just down the road. Pieces of them, anyway.”
“I’ll pass.”
When I frisk her I find a very nice Glock 17 in her jacket and a punch dagger in her pocket. I keep the pistol and knife and toss her phone into the weeds. She smiles at me.
“You had a perfect opportunity to cop a feel and you didn’t do it. What a gentleman.”
“If I put a couple of rounds through your knees would it change your opinion?”
“See?” she says. “You asked before doing it. You weren’t an altar boy, but I bet you were a Boy Scout.”
“Troop Six-Six-Six in Hell. You should have seen our jamborees.”
She nods toward the trunk.
“I’m supposed to get in there?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I guess a bribe isn’t in the cards.”
“Unless you have a pair of men’s shoes not full of blood, there’s nothing you have that interests me.”
She starts for the rear of the car. As she steps into the trunk she says, “You ruined your nice suit.”
“I’m hard on clothes.”
“You’re a fall. A little red looks good on you.”
I look up and down the road.
“Where the hell are we?”
“City of Industry.”
“That’s a long drive back.”
“If you say so.”
“What’s your name?”
“Marcella.”
“Is that your real name?”
“No, but it’s the name I always wanted.”
“Good. People should die with their true names.”
I close the trunk and get behind the wheel. Marcella’s balaclava is on the passenger seat next to the briefcase. I use it to wipe some of the blood off my face. Sure, I could take her back to Sandoval’s through a shadow, but I really want to drive this Mercedes. And I really want her to bounce around the trunk while I do it. I start the car and jam it into gear. We take the corner on two wheels and Marcella makes a satisfying thump in the back.
IT’S NINETY MINUTES back to Sandoval’s mansion. The car gets some funny looks when traffic slows, but mostly it’s smiles and waves. I’m in Hollywood camouflage, hiding in plain sight. Most people think I’m a stunt driver heading home from a movie set in my prop car. The rest think the bullet holes are decorations. Gangster chic. When anyone checks me out, I give them a cool-guy nod and a thumbs-up. I’ll end up on a lot of people’s Instagram accounts tonight.
The Mercedes is on its last legs when I get to Sandoval’s, barely creaking up the hill. I punch the intercom beside the gate and tell them who I am. Even wave at the camera so they can see my face.
A voice crackles from the speaker: “Where’s the limousine?”
“In a police impound by now. Don’t ask about Philip. He’s not coming back.”
There’s a moment of silence, then the gates swing open. The last fifty yards up to the circular drive are dicey. The car finally commits seppuku halfway around the circle. Steam geysers from the radiator. Darker things leak from below. I’m not much better. Sandoval, Sinclair, and the roaches huddle at the front door, and when I walk over I leave a trail of red footprints. Eva takes a step back when she gets a good look at me.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Is that blood?”
“On me? Yes.”
“On my driveway.”
“Yeah. Plus a little oil and gasoline probably.”
She points at the Mercedes.
“You can’t leave that there.”
I wipe my bloody hands on my suit. It doesn’t help much.
“I’m not your valet. You want it moved, get one of your roaches to do it.”
I go back to the car, pop the trunk, and pull Marcella out. She’s sweaty but in decent shape, all things considered. However, she’s dizzy enough that I have to hold her arm like we’re on a prom date as I walk her over to the welcoming committee.
“Who the hell is that?” says Sandoval.
“This is Marcella. Say hello, Marcella.”
She spits on the ground.
Sinclair says, “Is she with the faction?”
“No. She’s my fiancée. I thought I’d bring her home to meet the family.”
When she gets her balance back, she pulls away from me.
“Give them my message,” she says. “You said you would if I let you live.”
“You’re right. I did say that.”
I look at Sandoval and Sinclair.
“Dies Irae.”
Marcella laughs. “Boy Scout.”
“Hush.”
“Dies Irae? What is that?” says Sandoval.
“I’m told it’s ‘Day of Wrath.’”
Marcella takes a step toward them. I grab her arm again.
She says, “Your judgment is coming and it will be harsh if you don’t repent and come to us willingly.”
“You’re insane. We’ll kill you all,” says Sinclair.
“To