Hollywood Dead. Richard Kadrey
Long torso, legs, and arms. In her spare time she could be a fashion model or a basketball player. Smart. Tall is good for these situations. It lets the interrogator loom menacingly. She’s wearing the same suit and balaclava as the guys who snatched me. That’s okay.
What isn’t okay is the cattle prod she’s holding.
She takes her time coming over. Points at me with the business end of the prod.
“Who are you?” she says.
“I work for Eva Sandoval.”
She moves the cattle prod back and forth like shaking her head no.
“That’s not what I asked. Who are you?”
Oh, right. A name. That’s the kind of thing I should have thought about instead of mooning over Candy.
“Miles,” I say. “Miles Archer.”
She pulls the cattle prod back and slaps it against her hand.
“Mr. Archer, answer my questions and you’ll get to go home. Don’t and …”
She shoves the prod into my stomach and gives me a good quick jolt.
“Understand?”
I look up at her.
“I’m not sure. Can you repeat the question?”
She jams the prod back into my gut and leaves it there longer this time. I’m a little out of breath when she takes it away.
“I think I got it that time,” I tell her.
“Good. What’s in the briefcase?”
I look down and see it sitting by her feet.
I shrug.
“It’s financial papers. That’s all I know. They don’t tell me much.”
“What do you do for Eva?”
“Lots. I move things around. I talk to people. I take care of problems.”
She leans in a little closer. I could probably snap her neck from here.
“A fixer,” she says. “That’s my job, too. You ever kill anybody for Eva?”
“No. That’s where I draw the line.”
When she shocks me this time, it’s on the inside of my thigh, close enough to my balls to make them consider finding work elsewhere.
“Okay. Yes. A couple of times.”
“Who were they?”
“Just some punks. One was selling company information out the back door. The other was a dog who needed to be put down.”
“A liability.”
I take a breath. “A big-mouth drunk and meth head. He was heading for trouble and taking the company down with him.”
“What company is that?”
“Southern California International Trade Association.”
Another shock, this time back in the gut.
“What company?”
“Wormwood Investments.”
“Good,” she says. “You might wonder why I’m asking you these particular questions.”
“Actually, I was wondering when the sushi class started. I forgot my knife, but there’s tuna in the briefcase.”
Another shock.
I say, “Yeah. I was curious about the questions.”
She gets closer, staring down at me like a buzzard sizing me up for lunch.
“I’m just trying to establish a basis for trust. If you’re going to live, we have to trust each other.”
“I’m all for that.”
“Here’s my problem though, Miles. It seems to me that you’re very chatty for a man in your profession. If you are who you say you are, I’d expect a bit more discretion. And balls.”
She points the cattle prod between my legs and I flinch just like she wants me to.
I say, “You mean I should encourage you to torture me? When I can tell you already know the answers to most of those questions? No thanks. I’m not getting my teeth kicked in for that.”
“I should ask you harder questions?”
“You should untie me and I’ll spring for drinks at Chateau Marmont. Short of that, yeah. Ask me something fucking real.”
“What’s the address you are going to?”
“I don’t know. The driver did.” I turn around and shout at the guys behind me. “He could have told you, but one of these assholes shot him.”
She shocks me in the ribs and I turn back around. I’m starting not to like her.
“Focus on me, Miles.”
“I don’t know the address. It was in Westwood.”
“Was it a bank? A person? A café?”
“A law office.”
“All right. That’s something. And you say it’s just financial papers?” she says.
“That’s what they told me.”
She holds the cattle prod about an inch from my face.
“Do you know who we are?”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“Who?”
“You’re the faction. The other Wormwood.”
She moves the cattle prod like she’s going for my eye and this time when I flinch, it’s 100 percent real. Seeing that, she smiles.
“You’re wrong. We’re the only Wormwood. The Wormwood you work for is sick. A bloated tick full of diseased blood.”
“And who are you, the Salvation Army? You bring down companies like the other Wormwood. You fuck people over when they’re alive and you make money on their damnation when they die. I don’t see much difference between you two.”
She opens her hands wide.
“Because you’re part of the old system. All you see is the method. You don’t consider the reasons. The outcome.”
“Okay. Convince me. What makes you so special?”
She taps the prod against the palm of one hand like a teacher tapping a ruler.
“If the old, diseased Wormwood gets its way, you’ll barely notice a ripple in the world. They want power, money, and influence in the afterlife. We, on the other hand, will overturn existence. When we’re through, this world and the next will be clean and pure. All the old, corrupt systems washed away.”
I lean back.
“Is that supposed to impress me? You sound like every supervillain in every comic book ever written.”
She swings down the prod and gets me in the ribs. Holds it there for a while. This time when she stops I can hear the shooters behind me laughing.
“Forgive me,” she says. “It’s a real problem in this line of work. Broad goals always sound a bit like hollow threats. It isn’t until you get to the specifics that you find the true vision.”
“But you’re not going to share that with me.”
“Do you want to die right here, right now?”
“Goody. I get a choice?”
“Yes, but the window is closing. Do you want to die?”
“Not particularly.”