The Getaway God. Richard Kadrey
talk to.
“I should go up there, rip the fucker’s door off, and stuff him in the back of the van.”
“And you could take a brass band so no one misses the show. Your boss would love that.”
“He wants discreet, but he knows I’m not good at discreet. I swear he did this to me on purpose.”
I reach for the Maledictions in my coat pocket. Drop them and the lighter on the floor on Candy’s side. She picks them up and taps out a cigarette.
“Marshal Wells is a man of God,” says Candy, grinning. “He only has your best interests at heart.”
“Abraham was a man of God and he almost did a Jack the Ripper on his kid to prove it.”
“See? You get off light. Your father figure just sends you out in the rain to drown.”
Candy flicks the lighter and sparks a cigarette. Hands it to me and rolls down her window to let out the smoke.
I say, “Wells is a father figure like I’m one of Santa’s elves.”
“There you go. You’re getting into the Christmas spirit. I’ll have to get you a pointy hat with a bell so you feel like a real elf.”
“You already gave me the Colt. I thought that was my present. And I gave you the guitar.”
“That was different. Those were ‘We might die tonight’ presents. And it was November, so they don’t count.”
“This is just you angling to get another present.”
“It’s the end of the world, sweetheart. Crack open the piggy bank.”
“We spent the piggy bank on Max Overdrive.”
She shrugs.
“That’s your problem. I already have something picked out for you, so don’t try to weasel out of this. I want a real damned present on real damned Christmas morning.”
I puff the Malediction. Brake lights go dark in the distance.
“Yes, ma’am. Anything else? Eight maids a-milking maybe?”
“Are they hot maids? ’Cause I never had a nine-way before, so, yeah.”
Somewhere far away a car moves. More brake lights go off ahead of us. In the distance, I actually see a truck inch forward.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” shouts Candy. “God bless us every one.”
Like some great wheezing machine no one has fired up since D-Day, cars around us begin to creep tentatively forward. I take my foot off the brake and let the Escalade roll.
At that moment the sky opens up. I hit the windshield wipers, but a second after the glass goes clear, it’s drenched again. I roll down my window and stick my head out. The Malediction is instantly soggy. I spit it out. The sky has gone dark gray, dulling the colors on all the cars. In the downpour I lose sight of the Charger.
“Do you see it?”
Candy has her head out her window.
“It’s about a block ahead,” she says. Then, “Wait. It’s got its signal on. I think it’s turning. Yeah, there it goes.”
Traffic lurches to a stop. Horns honk. People shout at each other.
“Wait. He’s gone?”
“Yeah, around the first corner.”
It’s a sea of brake lights again. No one is going anywhere.
“Know what?”
“What?” says Candy.
“I’m about to call in that brass band. Get your head back inside the car.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Traffic is ass to nose again. I put the Escalade in reverse and ram the car behind me. Put it in drive and ram the car ahead. Reverse again, then drive the van up onto the sidewalk. I hit the horn and floor it.
Angelinos are used to desert heat and chocolate-colored smog skies. Rain is kryptonite to these people, so there’s hardly anyone outside. The few rain birds hear me coming and jump out of the way. The only casualty of my sidewalk Le Mans is a sign outside a café and a bench outside a Chinese restaurant. No one’s used the damned thing in weeks and no one will until the world ends, which means it shouldn’t even be there, so fuck it.
I turn hard at the corner. The rear end of the van fishtails and hits a mailbox. Letters explode like New Year’s confetti over the stalled cars.
“Jerk,” says Candy. “Now people’s Christmas cards are getting wet.”
“Will you shut up about Christmas and help me look for the car?”
Traffic is a little lighter on the side street, so the Charger could still be ahead. Or have pulled off into a parking lot or another side street.
“Shit. Shit. Shit.”
On the next block is a row of warehouses. Distribution points. The kind of places that get goods from big warehouses and parcel them out to regular stores.
“There,” says Candy. “By the open loading dock.”
I look to where she’s pointing and spot the Charger. It’s sideways to the dock and the driver-side door is open; not parked, but abandoned. I stop the Escalade and get out. Instantly, I’m soaked. My frock coat, motorcycle pants, and boots weren’t made for this Noah’s ark bullshit. It feels like I’ve gained twenty pounds before I take a step.
Candy comes around the van. I start across the street.
“You got your gun?”
She holds up her Swiss folding pistol. Unopened, it looks kind of like a skinny lunch box. She’s covered it with stickers from some of her favorite animes. FLCL. Ghost in the Shell. Blood. Appleseed. She pushes a button and the lunch box unfolds like a matte-black Transformer into an extended 9mm pistol with a shoulder stock. She grins. She always grins when she gets to use her gun because she thinks she’s Modesty Blaise and who am I to tell her she’s not?
“I’m going in the front. Go around the side and see if there’s a back way in. If you can’t get through it, make sure no one gets out.”
As she starts away she says, “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“Right. That’s how you got all those scars. From being careful.”
I wait for her to disappear around the side of the building before I go in. I jump up onto the Charger’s hood and from there onto the dock platform.
It’s at least twenty degrees colder inside the warehouse. I spot maybe fifteen people working. Carrying boxes and driving forklifts. It’s a meat-packing plant, prepping orders to take to butcher shops. I can see my breath in front of my face.
Wells gave me a photo of the man I’m supposed to follow but I don’t see him among the faces up front. I head into the back of the plant to the big freezer. The entrance is covered with a thick plastic curtain with slits every couple of feet so forklifts can pass in and out. I grab a clipboard off a nail on the wall and stroll past a forklift coming the other way.
Inside the freezer the real cold hits me. This isn’t muggy L.A. showers weather. This is penguin country. I swear my wet clothes start freezing to my body.
They must be doing good business at the warehouse. The freezer stretches away in both directions, full of sides of beef on nasty-looking meat hooks. I don’t want to go in unarmed, but I might as well try the discretion thing as long as I can. I take out the na’at instead of my gun. The na’at is a weapon I picked up in the arena in Hell. It collapses to no longer than a cop’s riot baton, but can extend like a spear or a whip. It isn’t always a quiet weapon because of all the screaming, but it’s more