Hollywood Dead. Richard Kadrey
reason. But if I tell you to hit the gas or bail out or get on the floor, don’t ask questions.”
Now his heart is racing. Even though it’s Ice Station Zebra in here I can smell him start to sweat.
“Are we in danger?” he says.
“It depends on what you mean by ‘we.’”
“Am I in danger?”
“That’s the first smart thing anyone’s said to me today. And, yes, you really are. So do what I tell you.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you for the warning.”
“Just remember to duck if I say so.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’s quiet after that.
WE’RE ON THE part of Sunset Boulevard that winds like a drunk anaconda through Beverly Hills and Bel-Air. Most of the drive is a dull blur of walled compounds where good, upstanding American families debate whether their artisanally raised mutts deserve domestic or imported champagne with their prime rib kibble. But it’s the side streets that are where the action is. These Sunset flatlanders are mere paupers with millions of dollars, while the side streets lead to gated Xanadus where the toilets are gold and the trash doesn’t end up in landfills but gets a gentle yacht journey out to the open sea, where it receives a Viking funeral, complete with human sacrifice. I can’t help but wonder how many associates of Wormwood and the breakaway faction we’re passing on our way west. Odds are that some of them live right next door to each other, filling Easter eggs with thermite and hiding razor blades in apples as Halloween surprises for the unenlightened in the neighborhood. I’m trying to work up some sympathy for the big-money families that have no Wormwood connections, but it’s hard to do. Whether it’s Beverly Hills, Bel-Air, or Pandemonium—Hell’s capital city—odds are anyone living in this kind of luxury has a body or two buried in the greenhouse. No, this patch of land is a No Sympathy Zone. They don’t give it, so they shouldn’t expect it. Whether it’s death by Wormwood, a bad stock market, or Daddy’s drinking, they’re on their own. Islands of privilege in a sea of shit and bad karma. When the tide rises, they better know how to swim, because no one is tossing these gold-plated Capones a life preserver.
Which makes me wonder what kind of deal Sandoval and Sinclair will offer me to not murder them after I’m completely back in my body. Whatever it is, it won’t be enough and they probably know it, which means they’re going to fuck me over at their first opportunity. I need to focus and be ready for when it happens. I let an idiot send me to Hell once. It will be embarrassing if I do it again.
It’s about halfway between the Playboy Mansion and the Bel-Air Country Club that I spot the van behind us. Black with dark, tinted windows, no plates or brand insignia on the front. I tell the driver to turn left on Hilgard Avenue, then swing onto a side street.
“Oh god,” he says. “Is it happening?”
“What did I say about questions?”
“Not to ask them.”
“Right. Now, do you have a cigarette lighter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about a handkerchief?”
“Yes.”
“Give them to me.”
As he hands them back, I take one last slug of bourbon and stuff the handkerchief into the neck of the bottle.
The moment we turn off Sunset, the van speeds up. With luck, being on a side street will get us away from traffic and minimize collateral damage, but I’m not counting on that last part.
The van floors it and slams us from behind. The limo starts to spin out, but Philip gets control and stops us before the car flips. We’ve done a one-eighty, though, which gives us a perfect view of the van as five men in sharp suits and balaclavas pile out, shouting and waving shiny new SIG 552 rifles—very serious weaponry that makes me wonder if taking prisoners is a priority.
“What do I do?” shouts Philip.
I roll down a side window.
“Get on the fucking floor.”
I light the handkerchief in the bottle and throw it at the welcome committee. A small but satisfying fireball explodes in the street, scattering the gunmen and sending a couple of them into frantic pirouettes, beating out the flames on their suits. I don’t want to see Philip get shot over my fun, so I step outside and take a couple of badly aimed swings at the closest shooters. All of my instincts make me want to crack their skulls, but I let my punches miss by a mile. I keep reminding myself that I want to get taken hostage, so when the five of them swarm me, I go down without a fight. Two of them haul me up while another grabs my briefcase. I can’t see what the others are doing, but when I hear a single gunshot I know exactly what it means: Philip didn’t make it.
Fuck. Shooting an unarmed driver cowering on the floor, that’s just mean, even for Wormwood.
One more thing to remember for the Fuck Wormwood ledger.
They shove me into the van, bind my hands, blindfold me, and peel out. We drive for a long time.
No one talks, but I hear a lot of grunts and moans. Probably from the shooters I torched. It’s small satisfaction, but I’ll take anything right now.
Except for Philip, things are going pretty much the way I’d hoped. The faction snatched both me and the case. They could have just shot me, but they didn’t, so that means they want information, which I’m more than happy to give them. I just wish this blindfold wasn’t so tight and I could see something. If they’re wearing their balaclavas in the van it means they still don’t want me to see their faces, which means they’re not necessarily planning on killing me. At least not right away. I’m going to have to improvise from here. And I can’t use hoodoo because they’ll know I’m a ringer and that will blow my chances of getting any useful information from them.
So I wait.
The drive takes a long time. We’re not moving for a lot of it and when we are, it’s at about five miles an hour. That means we’re probably on a freeway. The closest one is the 405, but are we going north or south? And are we staying on that one route the whole way?
I slow my breathing and try to relax. Theoretically that’s a good thing, but relaxing while blind lets my mind wander and the first thing that comes into my head is, I wonder what Candy is doing right now.
Nope. None of that shit. That will make me crazy, distract me enough that I’ll miss clues, and maybe get me shot. No, anything is better than thinking about Candy right now. I move my bound hands around so I can touch my wrist and feel my pulse. Count to sixty and start again, trying to time the drive. It’s well over an hour. In most towns that would mean we’re halfway to Argentina, but in L.A. it means we could be circling the block looking for parking. Still, it keeps my mind off Candy.
Finally, the van makes a sharp right turn. The tires crunch over something for a few seconds. Probably gravel by the sound. Then we’re back on solid pavement. When we stop, there’s the sound of a motor opening a large door. As it closes, the sound echoes. We’re probably in a warehouse. Now all I have to do is narrow it down from among the other ten thousand warehouses in L.A., while not getting shot. I hate multitasking.
Someone grabs my lapel and pulls me out of the van. I stumble getting out and a couple of them grab me before I can fall. Good. They’re concerned about keeping me in one piece for now. I can work with that. Someone pulls my blindfold off and I feel even better. Everyone still has their balaclavas on. Good. They want me to live. Now I just need to give them a reason.
One of the shooters drags me to a metal folding chair in the middle of the room. He’s limping and I look down long enough to see a burned pant leg.
“I hope there’s no hard feelings,” I tell him. “I was aiming for the van.”
He shoves me into the chair