The Getaway God. Richard Kadrey
possession at the time. He saved us.”
“Yeah, he does that.”
“I’ve seen you around Vigil headquarters.”
“Don’t bring me any paperwork. I’m just this one’s unofficial assistant.”
“Don’t worry. If you’re not on the payroll you don’t have to take the psych evaluation.”
Candy looks at me and laughs.
“You’re supposed to pass a government psych evaluation? Oh man, I hope you like the smell of a rubber room because that’s where you’re headed, pal.”
“I can pass for normal if I have to.”
“Yeah, and I’m Nancy Reagan’s wrestling coach.”
Julie puts her hand out and I shake it.
“Listen,” she says. “If we make it through this maybe we can work together again. Believe it or not, I still have a few clients. And I don’t think you’re going to want to stay in the Vigil forever.”
“Sounds good. If the world doesn’t end, let’s talk.”
She starts to put on her raincoat.
“Don’t forget about those papers.”
“I’ll get on them first thing in the morning.”
Candy holds out the bag again.
“One for the road? I have plastic wrap upstairs.”
“No thanks,” Julie says. Then, “Shit. I almost forgot the real reason I came. Marshal Wells gave this to me to give to you. It looked important.”
It’s an envelope. Nice, crisp, expensive paper. On the inside, it’s lined with a molecule’s thickness of gold. The thing is uncomfortably familiar. I open the note inside. It’s from Saragossa Blackburn, the pope of the whole Sub Rosa kingdom in California.
The note says, Come see me tomorrow. At noon. I know you’re not an early riser. His signature is under that, signed with a fine pen using ink that probably cost as much as a lung transplant.
“Thanks,” I say, and drop the note on the counter with the papers.
“Good night,” says Julie. To Candy she says, “Nice meeting you.”
Candy gives me a look.
“Offer the lady a ride home, Sir Galahad.”
I turn to Julie.
“Want me to get you home the fast way?”
She shakes her head.
“No thanks. I have my car.”
“Drive safe.”
“Thanks.”
“She seems nice,” says Candy, biting into a jelly donut. “What else did she bring you?”
I pick up the note from Blackburn and drop it again.
“I have to go and see one of the few guys in town who can call in a hit on me. I saw a kid get crushed today. I got a phone call from Downtown. And now this.”
I look at Candy. She’s already headed for the stairs.
“These are really good donuts.”
“Thank you for your concern.”
“Don’t whine to me. You forgot the coffee. Now I have to go make some. Forget those papers for tonight. Come upstairs and have something to eat, fatty.”
I can tell by her tone she’s going to be calling me that for a long time.
Before we fall asleep I almost ask her why she never told me about the Ommahs. Almost. Maybe I’ll ask later when we’re not so tired. Yeah, then.
I CAN’T SLEEP, so I get up at the crack of eleven. Candy is still asleep, so I pull on my clothes quietly and go into the bathroom to brush the taste of lard and sugar out of my mouth. We killed most of the bag watching Barbarella and Danger: Diabolik last night. I don’t need to experience the wonders of fried dough again for a year.
I’m sick of hiding from the world, moving through the Room all the time. When I’m ready to leave I go around to the alley beside Max Overdrive and uncover the Hellion hog. It’s a little something I picked up in Hell, back when I was playing Lucifer. I wanted a motorcycle so I could get around by myself and not always in a clown-car presidential motorcade. I asked the local demon techs to throw together a 1965-style Electra Glide. They did their best. In fact they did a great job, but what they came up with was a lot more Hellion than Harley. The bike is built like a motorized rhino with handlebars that taper to points like they came off a longhorn’s head. The pipes belch dragon fire and when I kick the bike hard, the engine glows cherry red like it wants to shoot off into the sky, a panhead Space Shuttle.
But it’s not just kicks I want right now. The overcast skies mean there aren’t many good shadows to move through. Plus, I don’t want to spook any of Saragossa Blackburn’s guard dogs by appearing out of nowhere. When I get to his place, I want them to hear me coming.
I kick the bike into gear and it roars like a hungry Tyrannosaurus. At the curb, the water comes up almost to the tire hubs, but the bike doesn’t slow. The engine boils the water around us and every time I stop I’m enveloped in a cloud of steam.
The streets through Hollywood in the direction of the 101 are as snarled as ever, though some of the side streets are starting to be passable. People running for their lives 24/7—hell, even L.A. has to start emptying out sometime. I’d love to collar one of the runners and ask them why they’re going, but I know what the answer would be. Aunt Tilly is sick in Nebraska. There’s a vegan lute hoedown in Portland. Skull Valley Sheep Kill is headlining a nonexistent music festival in Houston. Lies, all lies, and they know it, but do they understand it? It’s animal stuff. Zebras don’t hang around a watering hole when the lions show up.
Maybe this parade of chickenshit civilians knows more than the rest of us Vigil and Sub Rosa types determined to tough it out until the end. I mean, why should the Angra pick L.A. to be their launching pad? Then again, why not? Maybe Zhuyigdanatha wants to do an open-mic night at the Comedy Store. Maybe the Angra want to have a drink at the Rainbow Bar & Grill like real old-time rock-and-rollers. Maybe they want to stomp us into the dirt because L.A. defines reality for three-quarters of the world. Or maybe because Mr. Muninn used to live here and they fucking hate him and the rest of the God brothers.
The brothers make up what’s left of God. See, he had a little nervous breakdown a few millennia back and split into five pieces. He’s weak, and one part of him, the brother called Neshemah, is dead. Murdered by Aelita and cheered on by big brother Ruach. Like the Ramones said, we’re a happy family.
Maybe I’m making too much of it all. L.A. is turning into Atlantis, slowly sinking beneath the waves. If the rain keeps up, those Brentwood blue bloods will be chain-sawing their mansions into arks, loading up the kids, the Pekingese, their favorite Bentleys, and heading for warmer climes. Trust-fund pirates and showbiz buccaneers, sailing the briny to Palm Springs and Vegas, where it never rains and Armageddon can’t get through the guards at the gated communities without an engraved invitation.
WHEN IT COMES to showing off, the Sub Rosa aren’t like the civilian big-money crowd. They like anonymity more than kittens and cotton candy. While civilians compete for House Beautiful trophies, wealthy Sub Rosas like their places to come across as the most miserable shitboxes outside of the town dump. If they could live in a greasy Big Mac wrapper they’d do it.
Blackburn’s mansion is downtown, in an abandoned residency hotel