Kill City Blues: A Sandman Slim Novel (8 page)

The first time I met Mike he was committing slow-motion suicide, getting blind drunk and playing a game called Billy Flinch. It’s basically playing William Tell only you’re trying to shoot a glass off your own head by ricocheting a bullet off the opposite wall. Good thing Mike was such a lousy shot.

Nowadays Mike’s office looks less like a grease monkey’s alcoholic crash pad and more like a professional workshop. I take a little credit for that. I think promising Mike his soul back gave him the kick in the ass he needed to pull himself out of the bottle and do real work. Now I just have to figure out how to wrangle his soul out of damnation so I can give it back to him.

“Hey, Mike. How’s tricks?”

Mike must have been lost in his work. He lurches up from his seat like he wants to jump out of his own skin and into whatever kind of animal he’s building. It looks like a Nerf ball with spikes. Mike has always been high-strung. It takes him a second to catch his breath.

“Shit. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Then he remembers he’s talking to the guy he thinks is the Devil.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell.”

I shake my head.

“No worries. It’s about the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”

Mike’s right hand is still sort of attached to the strange Nerf animal by spiderweb-thin filaments that run from a tiny clamp in his hand to the animal’s back. The animal is gently suspended in the air in a larger web strung up between two long, curved pipes bolted to each side of a metal table. The pipes look like they might have come off a car’s exhaust system. Mike’s terrifying tools are spread out on the table. They look like things Hellions would use to perform surgery on people they don’t like very much.

Once Mike has a second to process that this is an unscheduled visit, thankfully, a smaller wave of panic sets in.

“Oh God, don’t tell me. Something went wrong with Kasabian’s hands? His legs? I swear I’ll get whatever it is working again.”

“Attempt to be cool, Mike. Kasabian is fine. What’s the story with your spiny friend?”

“It’s a puffer fish. A fugu. Some famous Sub Rosa sushi chef is in town and one of the families wants to give him a present.”

“A fish. So, if the guy made barbecue, you’d be making him a mechanical brisket?”

“No, man. Fugu is special. Like an art form. It’s loaded with this stuff called tetrodotoxin. A badass neurotoxin. Cut the fish wrong and
bam
. Everyone’s dead. You need a license to make it and everything.”

I shrug.

“And people pay brisk money for this stuff?”

“ ‘Brisk’ ain’t the word. It’s more like make-you-weep money.”

“I didn’t realize that civilians were as stupid as Hellions when it comes to the shit they’ll stick in their mouths.”

“I wouldn’t know about that and hope I never do.”

Mike detaches the clamp from his little fish and wipes his hands on his dirty rag.

“The commission sounds like a good thing for you. You’re moving up in the Tick-Tock world.”

“Yeah. Things are going okay. You didn’t come by just to check up on me, did you?”

Up until now I’ve been holding the 8 Ball under my arm like a loaf of bread. I take it and hold it up so he can get a good look at it.

“Nothing like that. I was wondering if you’d look at something for me. It’s a fake mystical object I’m guessing someone paid a lot of money for. I was hoping you’d have some idea who made it.”

Mike takes it gently, like he’s handling a baby duck.

“I’ll have a look but I mostly know animals. Those charm- and talisman-making assholes won’t give us the time of day. They talk about Tick-Tock Men like all we make are big-ass Tamagotchis. But we’re artists, you know?”

“I know. That’s why I brought it to you. I figure an artist knows an artist.”

Mike turns the 8 Ball over in his hands, looking over every inch of it. He pulls down a magnifier mounted on the edge of the table and examines every bolt and fastening.

“Beautiful work,” he says. “Incredible detail. And these materials. Brass-and-platinum skin over a core of surgical steel and cinnabar. You see these tiny sapphires by the base?”

He holds it up. There are a few blue specks on the 8 Ball’s belly.

“Someone’s charmed them. That’s what gives it a low-level magic signature. It’s gorgeous work. Does it have a name?”

“Qomrama Om Ya.”

“Never heard of it. I like animals.”

“If it helps, the guy had a raven in his room. Good work. Very convincing.”

Mike looks up from the magnifier.

“You didn’t happen to check under the tail feathers, did you?”

“You mean, did I look at the bird’s ass? No. It never crossed my mind. I’d go back and try, only by now the ass is probably blown halfway to Las Vegas.”

Mike goes back to the 8 Ball.

“Too bad. Lots of people sign their work in places most people don’t look. That way if the bird changes hands and needs repairs, they can find the original builder.”

“That’s truly fascinating. I’ll look under your ass if it’ll help you tell me something I can use.”

“Wait,” says Mike. “Gotcha. Right there.”

He hunches over the magnifier, holding the 8 Ball closer.

“I know who made it.”

“You sure?”

He crooks a finger at me and I go around to his side of the table. The 8 Ball is huge in the magnifier. He uses one of his delicate tools to point to a single sapphire stud.

“You see that little mark etched around the sapphire? That’s the alchemical symbol for verdigris. Only one Tick-Tock Man signs his work with that. You’ll love him. He’s a total asshole. Atticus Rose.”

“Do you have a number for him?”

Mike does a sarcastic little laugh.

“Are you kidding? Rose is a golden eagle riding a gumdrop thermal over Candy Land. On a good day I’m a snail crawling across that grease pit out front. Eagles don’t give their business cards to snails.”

“You’re not a snail, Mike. You’re at least a ferret.”

“Thanks,” he says like he actually means it. “Anyway, like I was saying, we don’t move in the same circles.”

“Who would know him?”

“The high-and-mighties. Someone who can pay the equivalent of a Lamborghini for a parakeet. Someone like Blackburn. Maybe his government or showbiz buddies. You ever party with them? Me neither.”

I take the 8 Ball back from Mike. It’s hard for him to let go. It’s like he’s fallen in love and doesn’t want to see his girlfriend carried off by a highwayman.

“I don’t party with people like that, but I know someone who might. Thanks, Mike.”

I’m halfway to the door when Mike calls after me.

“Hold up. I’ve been thinking about Kasabian.”

“Don’t do that. You’ll get lesions on your brain.”

“I figured it out. If you can get me another hellhound body, then I can modify that and then put new parts on Kasabian’s body without taking him off.”

“Great idea. I’ll stop by Costco on the way home and pick up a new hellhound. Oh, wait. They only have those in Hell.”

Mike frowns.

“It was just an idea. You don’t have to be mean about it.”

“Sorry, Mike. I was just down in Hell and it wasn’t fun. I’ll see about getting another hound, but I have other things to do first.”

“Okay. Make sure Kasabian knows it was my idea.”

“Will do.”

I go out through the garage, wave to Mike’s cousins, and climb back into the Charger. By the time I’m in, I’ve already thumbed Brigitte Bardo’s number into my phone.

B
RIGITTE IS MY
favorite zombie hunter in the world. Except we killed off all the zombies a few months ago and she’s been kind of at loose ends ever since. She was a big-time, classy porn star in Europe and she’s been trying to get a legit acting career going. With her looks and brains in a town like L.A., she can really work the hell out of a room. Brigitte has more phone numbers and dirt on people in her little black book than Homeland Security.

“Jimmy,” she says in her sweet Prague accent. “How lovely for you to call. How are you? Have you killed anyone interesting lately?”

“Does it count if I just happened to be in the room when the bomb went off?”

“Of course not.”

“Then no.”

She sighs.

“You’ll have to do better. I live vicariously through you these days.”

She’s only half joking. We’re both trained killers. Brigitte was trained for zombie hunting since she was a kid. Being a killer is a hard thing to walk away from and have a normal life.

“Listen. I wouldn’t normally call you with something as boring as this.”

“Boring? How could a task of yours be boring?”

“I’m trying to track someone down, and the thing is, Blackburn might know the guy, but his head of security braced me the last time I was there, so I can’t ask him.”

“So we won’t be fighting monsters or kicking in doors?”

“Right now I’m just looking for a phone number and maybe an address.”

“You were right. This is boring,” she says. “Who is it?”

“A Tick-Tock Man named Atticus Rose.”

“Are you looking for a pet? I can see you strolling down Sunset Boulevard with a lovely poodle. Or perhaps a white cockatoo on your shoulder. A very butch cockatoo, of course.”

“How do you butch up a bird? Get it a little leather cap and chaps?”

“That’s your fantasy, Jimmy. Not mine.”

“Do you think you can find me a number?”

“Of course. I can get anyone’s number. But just remember that everything comes with a price.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’ll call you later with Herr Rose’s information.”

“What price, Brigitte?”

Too late. The line is dead. Once a killer, always a killer.

I
DITCH THE
Charger by the Whisky a Go Go and walk the rest of the way back to the Chateau.

When I get back to the room, Candy is just waking up. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and stretches like a panther. She blinks when she sees me.

“Oh. I thought you were off bringing me coffee in bed. What are you dressed for?”

“I was out talking to Manimal Mike. I tried waking you.”

“Try harder next time. Where did he shoot you?”

I hold up my arms so she can see me.

“No blood. See? I made it back unmolested.”

She runs her foot up my leg to my thigh.

“Maybe we should do something about that.”

I close the bedroom door and turn up the new Skull Valley Sheep Kill album on the stereo. Kasabian doesn’t like to listen when we smash up the furniture.

A
N HOUR LATER
and we’ve only broken one side table. The gunshot and the blast took a little more out of me than I like to admit. I light up a Malediction and look for some Aqua Regia, but the bottle is still in the living room.

Candy is lying next to me in one of the absurdly plush hotel robes.

“So what did you and Mike talk about?”

“The 8 Ball. He says he knows who made it.”

“Great. Let’s go pay Dr. Frankenstein a visit.”

“Can’t. He didn’t have a number for the guy, so I called Brigitte.”

“She knows the guy?”

“No. But she can probably track him down.”

“Clever girl.”

“They’re the only kind worth knowing.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

We wander out to the living room. I pour some Aqua Regia into a coffee mug and Candy picks at the remains of last night’s food. We always order too much and leave the food carts along the wall buffet style. I wish we could squirrel away all the leftovers. We’re going to miss them when they kick us out.

Kasabian calls us from across the room.

“Check it out. My first client.”

“Congratulations,” says Candy.

“I didn’t even know you had the site finished.”

Kasabian is on the landing page for Aetheric Industries Psychic Investigations.

“The wonders of the cyberspace and desperate suckers,” he says. “I put the site up an hour ago and already have three inquiries and one bona fide, already-got-his-credit-card-number customer.”

“Who are you supposed to find?”

“The guy’s idiot older brother. Get this. Big brother was a hoarder and hid their dad’s gold coin collection somewhere in the house. My client doesn’t want to spend the next ten years spelunking under old pizza boxes and soggy newspapers looking for Daddy’s swag.”

Candy says, “I didn’t think you could get that kind of information. All you can do is look at things.”

“That’s right. But get this. My client thinks if I can find big bro in Hell, he can get another psychic to do a kind of Vulcan mind meld and they can talk over old times.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” I say.

Kasabian nods and smiles.

“I know. Isn’t it great? See, being online so much, I learned that normal desperate people are sad and boring, but stupid desperate people are a fucking riot. And some of them have money.”

“That’s not very nice,” Candy says.

“If my life was any lamer, I would have taken a nap in a trash compactor a long time ago, so forgive me for not farting kittens and rainbows.”

“I didn’t know you were that unhappy.”

“I’m not. I’m realistic about my situation. And I’m honest with my clients. I spell out exactly what I can and can’t do in the site’s disclaimer. If someone comes along and wants to pay me to do what I said I can’t, I’m not turning him down. Stupid people’s money is just as green as everyone else’s.”

“I might have been that desperate after Doc died,” says Candy. Doc Kinski was the guy who took her off the street and gave her potions to calm her Jade bloodlust. I think he was as close to a real father as she ever had. Kind of like Vidocq for me.

“Yeah, well. You might have been desperate but you’re not dumb, so it wouldn’t be the same thing,” says Kasabian. “And goddammit, can I have just one minute of happiness here before one of you points out what a monster I am and tries to shut me down? What do I have left then? I go back to finding weirder and weirder online porn just to keep my brain cells from imploding.”

“Sorry. Of course,” says Candy.

She puts a hand on his hellhound shoulder. Says, “Good luck in the Hellovision business.”

Kasabian’s eyes open a little more.