Killing Pretty. Richard Kadrey
push him upright. His eyes have rolled back in his head. He’s completely out. I take out a flask full of Aqua Regia, everyone’s favorite drink in Hell, and pour some down his throat. The angel gasps and his eyes snap open. He looks up at me and sputters.
“You’re trying to poison me.”
“You were unconscious. If I wanted you dead, I could have drilled a hole in your skull and tea-bagged your brain. Now shut up and go home.”
The angel crawls away and lurches to his feet. He’s covered in blood and booze and his hands are sticking out at funny angles, like he just fell out of a Picasso. He takes a breath and hauls himself upright, trying for a last little bit of dignity. I walk away.
“This isn’t over,” he yells.
I open the door to Max Overdrive.
“Yeah it is. See? I’m going inside. Bye.”
I close the door and wait a second. When I open it again, the angel is gone. But he left blood and mucus all over the front steps. Something else to clean up.
Inside, Kasabian is behind the counter. He looks at me as I come in.
“What was that? I heard shouting.”
I wave it away with my hand.
“Nothing. Some idiot rented Bio-Dome and wanted his money back.”
Kasabian shakes his head.
“Fuck him. We’re not paying for some schmuck’s bad taste.”
“That’s pretty much what I said.”
“Did you say it with your knees? You’ve got blood on them.”
I look down. He’s right. I’m hard on clothes.
“I’m going upstairs to change.”
Here’s the thing. Most angels aren’t like the idiot outside. They’re annoying, but a necessary evil, like black holes or vegans. Most angels are gray-suit-yes-sir-no-sir-fill-it-out-in-triplicate company men. Someone you wouldn’t remember if they shot themselves out of a cannon dressed like Glinda, the good witch. A few angels, not many, go rogue and have to be put down like dogs. No tears shed for them. Still, as annoying as angels are, they keep air in the tires and gas in the tank so the universe can go on dumbly spinning. The only angels anyone is happy to see take a powder are Death and the Devil, one of whom is currently asleep in the storage room at Max Overdrive.
But I’ll get to that later.
So, the angels are fucking off and God’s away on business. What do the mice do when the cat’s not looking? They drink. And if they’re smart they do it at Bamboo House of Dolls. Candy and me, we’re mice with PhDs. I’ll meet up with her at the bar.
Chihiro, I mean. Not Candy. I have to remember that. Chihiro. Candy is dead. So to speak. Dead enough that the feds and the cops aren’t looking for her, and that’s all that counts. Now she’s Chihiro, with a different face and name and, well, everything. Everything we can think of. I just hope it’s enough. I’m sure we’ve missed a few things. I hope not so many that anyone is going to notice. I might have to kill them.
I change and go back downstairs, my na’at, knife, and Colt under my coat.
“I’m going to Bamboo House. Want to get a drink?”
Kasabian shakes his head, carefully putting discs in clear plastic cases with the tips of his mechanical fingers.
“Nah. I’m waiting for Maria. She’s coming by with a new delivery.”
“Anything good?”
He looks up and shakes his head.
“Don’t know. She said it’s a western.”
“Fingers crossed it brings some goddamn customers into this tomb.”
“Patience, grasshopper. This new deal with Maria is our stairway to Heaven.”
“It better be. There won’t be room for you, me, and Candy in a refrigerator box if this place closes.”
“Chihiro,” he says.
“Fuck. Chihiro.”
“Later, Mr. Wizard,” he says.
“Yeah. Later.”
Outside, I wonder if I can scrape GODKILLER off the windows with the black blade instead of spending money on paint remover.
A week ago I saved the whole goddamn universe from extinction and now I can’t afford the hardware store. I need to have a serious talk with my life coach.
I LIGHT A Malediction, the number one cigarette Downtown, and walk the few blocks to Bamboo House of Dolls, the best punk tiki bar in L.A. People are hanging around outside, talking and smoking. I get a few “Happy New Years” on the way in. I give the crowd a nod, not in the mood for chitchat.
Carlos, the owner of the place, is behind the bar in a Hawaiian shirt covered in snowmen and wreaths. The little plastic hula girls by the liquor bottles on the wall still wear doll-size Santa hats. There’s a lot of this going on in L.A. I feel it a little myself. Hanging on to the last few shreds of holiday spirit after a flood-soaked, apocalyptic Christmas.
What did I get under the tree? A fugitive girlfriend. An LAPD beatdown. A last dirty trick from Mason Faim. And one more thing: I lost the Room of Thirteen Doors. It’s not gone, but I can’t use it anymore to move through shadows. Now I’m just like all these other slobs. I have to walk or drive everywhere. That’s not such a bad thing considering L.A. is still half ghost town, but what happens when it fills up again? I don’t deal well with things like traffic and other people.
Inside Bamboo House, I head straight for the bar. Martin Denny is on the jukebox playing “Exotic Night,” a kind of gamelan and piano version of “Greensleeves,” like we’re on some mutant holly jolly tropical island.
“Feliz Navidad,” says Carlos.
“Same to you, man.”
I look around the place. It’s a nice crowd. A mix of civilians, Lurkers, and even a few brave tourists.
“What do you think? How long do you figure you can get away with the Father Christmas thing?”
Carlos adjusts a piece of holly on a coconut carved like a monkey’s head.
“As long as I want. My bar. My rules. Maybe I’ll do it all year-round. Crank up the a/c. Rent customers scarves and gloves. It’ll be the holidays twenty-four/seven.”
“I think you shouldn’t put so much acid in your eggnog.”
He raises his eyebrows and points at me.
“That could be the house drink. ‘El Santo Loco.’ ”
“You and Kasabian, always looking for new business plans.”
“That reminds me. You get anything good over the holidays?”
“Maria is supposed to be coming by today with something. A western.”
“Cool. I’ll stop by.”
I’m not sure I want visitors. Not with the strange guy asleep in the storage room.
“Don’t worry about it. If it’s any good, I’ll burn you a copy and bring it by.”
“De nada,” says Carlos and clears away some empty glasses. He slides a shot of Aqua Regia across the bar to me.
“Can I have some black coffee instead?”
He looks at me, surprised.
“A New Year’s resolution?”
He goes to the pot and pours me some coffee. Brings it back to the bar.
I say, “I don’t know. Just after all the shit that went down at