Killing Pretty (32 page)

“You're dead,” he says. “Do you fucking know who I am? My ­people, they're going to find you, cut you up, and feed your soul to those crazy French cannibals.”

“You're really that important?” I say.

He smiles big and wide. One of his canine teeth is gold.

“I'm core, man. Inner circle. You made a big mistake.”

“You're one of the White Light's magic men? Use your Vril power and Pelley superbrain tricks to deal with the dead?”

He nods.

“That's right, fuck heel. I know the teachings. I've seen the sights. I'm fucking Gandalf, motherfucker. What are you? Some little bitch thinks he's going to get a ransom?”

“Well, Gandalf, just how good is your kung fu if you can get snatched by a little bitch?”

“Fuck you. I'm going to kill you myself.”

“We'll get back to that later. Right now tell me more about your magical, mystical tricks. You a necromancer? You Sub Rosa?”

“Hell no, I'm not one of those Sub Rosa faggots. And I'm not any goddamn Dead Head. I'm a lightning rod. A strange attractor. The mystic loves my shiny ass.”

“I get it. You're a channel. Like a human wand. A necromancer or whoever can use you to concentrate their hoodoo in one spot.”

He leans back a little.

“How come you know so much about it?” he says.

“I'm one of those Sub Rosa faggots.”

“Bullshit. Sub Rosa would have hexed my ass on the spot, not thrown me in the trunk like his bitch laundry.”

Candy goes back to human.

“Stop saying that,” she says.

“Who the fuck is that?” says Crew Cut, craning his head around trying to zero in on her voice.

“Never mind,” Candy yells. “Stop saying it.”

“Saying what?”

I say, “I think she wants you to stop saying ‘bitch' all the time.”

“Fuck you,” says Crew Cut. “Fuck both you bitches. I'll say ‘bitch' anytime I want, bitch.”

Candy goes Jade again. Curls one of her claws under the edge of Crew Cut's blindfold and rips it off.

He blinks a ­couple of times before getting Candy in focus.

“Fuck me. What the fuck are you?” he says.

“Say ‘bitch' again,” I say. “I double dog dare you.”

Crew Cut looks at me and back to Candy. Her lips are pulled back from her razor teeth.

“Shit,” he says.

“Good. Now that that's settled, let's get to work. You're not a Dead Head, but you work with them for the Legion. You ever work with a vampire?”

“What do you fucking care . . . ?”

He's about to say “bitch” again, but catches himself.

“What was the necromancer's name?”

Crew Cut squirms around on the chair.

“I don't know. What do I care about Dead Heads and vampires? I don't know nothing about them.”

“Really? Because I hear a necromancer, a vampire, and a dumb fuck who looks a lot like you had a party in the woods not too long ago.”

He shakes his head.

“Don't know anything about that.”

“You sure?”

He plants his feet on the floor and looks at me.

“Why don't you untie me and we'll work this out like men, okay?”

“Two minutes ago I was your bitch. What's changed?”

He struggles with the tape on his wrists long enough to figure out it's not coming off.

Candy moves around behind him and runs her claws up his arms, his neck, and over his face. He freezes while she plays with him.

“You know a place called Murphy Ranch?” I say.

“Nope,” says Crew Cut.

Candy flicks a claw against his cheek. Draws blood.

“Fuck,” he says, and tries to shake her hands off his shoulders.

I go over and whisper to Candy. She turns human again and goes next door.

“I'm tired,” I say. “And you're boring. I've dealt with shit sacks like you my whole life. Tinhorn tough guys afraid their daddy has a bigger dick than them, so you prove you're a man by taking your bullshit out on the world. Now, your particular flavor of bullshit is this white-­power game. First you invent an enemy, which gives you and your little friends an excuse to get together and stomp ­people. Then, because you wrapped it all up in a political bow, you're not a bunch of zero-­future losers, you're big-­balled soldiers saving the Fatherland from the godless hordes. Am I getting close, Chuck? Am I in the ballpark?”

“You don't know shit about shit, bitch,” he says, drawing out the last syllable nice and long so I'm sure not to miss it.

Candy comes back in just as he's running out of steam. She's not alone.

“Okay, so we've established that you and some of your friends used your Wonder Twins Vril powers to help out a Dead Head ritual.”

Crew Cut laughs.

“We haven't established shit, motherfucker.”

“What was the ritual for?”

“Don't know. Wasn't there.”

“You and your friends have a real hard-­on for death magic, don't you?”

He shrugs.

“The warehouse shows?” he says. “Pays more than meth and it's easier than whores. Dead ­people aren't whining all the time about rough trade and who came where.”

“Did you know any dead ­people in particular?”

“Why should I? I told you. It's business.”

I go behind him and pull Candy's companion over into the light. Vincent has no idea what's going on. He looks as blank as a person can be and remain upright. I shove him in front of Crew Cut.

“Do you remember this dead guy?”

When Crew Cut lays eyes on Vincent, I'm a contented man. The look on his face is like Christmas all over again. He kicks out with the foot I stabbed. I pull Vincent out of the way and slap Crew Cut's injured foot. He curses and tries to get up, but Candy holds him in the chair.

“Keep that fuck away from me,” Crew Cut yells.

“So, you do know him.”

“No. Goddammit. I don't. Just . . . fucking keep him back.”

“Is it because you're afraid of Eric Townsend or because you're afraid of what's inside him?”

“Fuck you. I don't know shit about shit.”

I get the SS dagger out of my coat and put it in Vincent's hand.

“Cut him,” I say.

“What? I can't do that,” says Vincent.

“He's one of the assholes who ripped your heart out. He owes you.”

Vincent looks at the knife, at me, then shakes his head.

“I can't.”

I grab the dagger out of his hand.

“If you won't take his heart, I will.”

I slice the front of Crew Cut's shirt. He pushes back on his heels, but Candy wraps her arms around him and holds him tight.

I hold the tip of the blade to his chest, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood. The way he looks at me, the dope thinks I might really do it.

“What are you doing?” he says.

“Any last words, Gandalf?”

Crew Cut looks past me at Vincent.

He says, “How is he up and walking around?”

“How is who?” I say. “Tell me his name.”

“Death,” says Crew Cut. “How is he alive?”

“What does it matter? He is. We know you were at the Murphy Ranch ritual with Tykho and at least one necromancer—­”

“Three,” he says. “It took three to get it right.”

“Get what right?”

“To bind him in that body.”

“What happened to the other body you killed? Where is it?”

Crew Cut's eyes move to meet mine.

“Somewhere safe. A place of reverence.”

“Hell, with you geniuses, that could be a mayonnaise jar next to the chunk-­style Skippy.”

“What does it matter where his body lies in state? He's the real Death now. Not this prick. Yesterday's garbage.”

I lean on the dagger a little to remind him to be polite.

“We know Edison Elijah McCarthy has replaced Death. I guess he didn't read the handbook before he went over. It's taking him a while to figure out the job.”

“But he's doing it,” says Crew Cut. “More ­people are dying all the time. Soon it's going to be a tsunami. All the mongrels and mud ­people, faggots and assholes like you.”

“Is that it? You went to all this trouble for a hit man? You could have gone to any of the old Sub Rosa families still practicing baleful magic and cut a deal with them.”

“I told you,” he says. “We're men. White human men. We don't cut deals with pixies and fairies.”

“Owning Death, you can reach out and kill anyone you like anywhere in the world.”

“Goddamn right,” he says.

“You won't even need blue-­yonder contracts after that, will you? Death's the one who takes the souls away. He can hand the choice ones over to you.”

Crew Cut smiles.

“Maybe. Let me go and I'll tell you.”

“I'd rather cut you up.”

He laughs.

“Go ahead, asshole. Do it. I dare you. Edison'll reach down and pluck your bitch soul like a daisy and blow you away.”

“I've been dead before.”

“Not like this you haven't.”

Candy reaches over Crew Cut and uses a fingernail to draw a Valentine around the swastika tattoo over his heart. He can't take his eyes off her hand as she works, like she's tattooing him with a blowtorch.

“None of this'll matter come tomorrow anyway,” he says, trying to sound like feral women sketch on him every day. “A few hours and it's all over. We'll own Death, the whole soul trade, and there's nothing anyone can do about it.”

“What's tomorrow?” I say.

“That's when you suck my dick and pray for mercy.”

He's so fucking dumb I want to hurt him, but that's even dumber. I can't kill this idiot no matter how much of my time he wastes because he knows something I don't.

“It's a new moon,” says Candy.

She's holding Crew Cut with one hand and thumbing her phone with the other. Holds it up to show me an app with the phases of the moon. Tomorrow is going to be a dark night.

“That's it, isn't it?” I say. “So, what happens tomorrow?”

“Nothing. That's the beauty of it. That's why I'm Gandalf and you're an ant. Ain't nothing is going to stop what's coming. The sun rises tomorrow. The sun sets. And when it comes up the next day, we own the whole fucking afterlife. Who dies and when you die is up to us. How much will you pay for that kind of protection? How much you willing to pay for Death to even let your soul pass on to Heaven or Hell and not end up doing shows for us? How much?”

I look at Candy.

“We've got what we need.”

I look at Crew Cut.

“You know, as soon as we stop your plan, your friends are going to wonder what happened and they're going to look at you. The one who disappeared and came back slapped around and cut up. It won't take them long to figure out that you're the one who talked. Ask me nicely and I'll kill you quick before your friends deliver you to a pissed-­off McCarthy.”

For a ­couple of seconds I think he actually considers it. He's smart enough to know I'm right about him getting blamed, but stupid enough to think that when the time comes, he'll be able to talk his way out of it.

“I'm not asking you anything,” he says.

I get out the duct tape, blindfold and gag him again.

“Let's take a ride,” I say.

C
ANDY HELPS ME
manhandle him back into the trunk. We get in the car and drive north on the 101 to the 5 and over the steep five-­mile grade of the Grapevine. Along a dark stretch of road between nowhere and nothing, we dump Crew Cut into a ditch. Maybe a trucker will find him. Maybe the coyotes. Who cares which?

It's an hour back to L.A. Plenty of time to smoke and think.

“Is this all there is?”

“Isn't it enough?” says Candy.

“I mean, for these White Light knuckleheads to come up with a plan like this. To put all the pieces together. They had help from someone. I swear, there's something we're missing.”

“Worry about that later, Sherlock. We have to figure out what's happening tomorrow night.”

“I know who can help us.”

“Who are we kidnapping next?”

“No one. I'm talking about civilized ­people.”

Candy doesn't say anything for a while.

“What am I suppose to tell Julie about tonight? I want to be like her, but . . .”

“But you keep ending up more like me?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe that's more my fault than yours. I keep bringing you into these things.”

“And I keep letting you. I'm a big girl. I make my own choices.”

“It won't always be like this.”

“How do you know it won't be like this again? How many knives are you carrying these days? Plus a gun and a na'at.”

“This case is kind of a big deal. Later, we'll probably do a lot of divorces and guard celebrities when they go kale shopping.”

“Just drive. I need to think.”

I
N THE END,
Candy stays home. No need for her to get caught up in more trouble if things go sideways for me.

I drive to West Hollywood and dump the car, walking the last few blocks to Death Rides a Horse.

The usual eager, desperate crowd is waiting outside, dressed to the nines, tens, and elevens.

When the doorman sees me he takes a step back. I hold up my hands to show him I'm in friendly mode. He looks me over, not quite convinced. He's a slight guy in a dark suit and white shirt. Hasidic
payot
curls hang down near his ears.

“What do you want, Stark?” he says.

“Tell Tykho I'm here, and for the last time.”

He stares for a second more, then says something into his walkie. Touches his earpiece like he's having trouble hearing over the street noise. He nods.

“Wait here,” he says.

While I wait, he checks IDs and looks over the crowd, deciding who's worthy enough to get inside the club. A ­couple of minutes go by, long enough that I'm rethinking my peace and love approach to the situation. I don't want to ambush Tykho by sidestepping into her office, but I'm not standing here all night while apple-­cheeked tourists and drunk bachelorettes get past the velvet rope.