Skeleton Crew (13 page)

Adan, Mrs. Dawson and the piskies were still at the
cemetery. Adan reclined against a tree with his eyes closed and the piskies were huddled nearby, making out. Mrs. Dawson stood clutching her purse and looking timid, as usual. It looked like they hadn't missed me much. I trotted over to them and tossed Abe at Adan's feet—this time the ghost-hunter went sprawling. Adan knelt beside him and lashed his hands behind his back with a short length of cord. The piskies hovered to either side of him, their swords drawn.

When I was sure Abe was well and truly captured, I shifted back. I was prepared for the soul-rending agony, but there wasn't any. In fact, the feeling of relief that flooded through me was almost as incapacitating as the pain. It felt like I'd finally dug out a splinter that had worked its way deep into my flesh. It felt so good I wanted a cigarette.

I stood over Abe and grinned at him, and then I kicked him in the ribs. “That's for shooting me,” I said. I kicked him again. “That's for making me chase you.”

Abe winced and shifted his position, trying to get comfortable. “I feel compelled to point out,” he said, “I wouldn't have shot you if I hadn't been assaulted by your companion.”

“Yeah, but you tried to shoot my friend,” I said, nodding to Mrs. Dawson. She sniffed.

“Right, well, it was an honest mistake given that she was chasing you and you were screaming like a lost child.”

“Yeah, that was our trap.”

“An effective one, in the end, witch. The question, I expect, is why you felt the need to trap me in the first place.”

“I really do prefer sorcerer, buddy,” I said. “You keep calling me a witch, you might hurt my feelings.”

“Very well, sorcerer, looks like I'm at your mercy. What would you have of me?”

I crouched down so I could look him in the eye and rested Ned on my knee. “I wouldn't have much of you, Abe,” I said. “Just need to know what you did with the dogs.”

The ghost-hunter nodded and smiled. “This is where I'm supposed to tell you I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Except you do and you're smart enough not to waste my time.”

“Yes,” he said, chuckling, “I am at least that smart. I was hired to take the dogs. You may not believe me, but I didn't anticipate the effect it would have on the mortal world.”

“Once you figured it out, maybe you could have stopped.”

“I couldn't stop,” Abe said. “And, as a point of fact, there weren't that many of them. By the time I realized what was happening…what I'd done…it was too late. You must believe me, Miss Riley.”

“Well, I don't think I must, but it doesn't really matter. Who are you working for?”

“Now I say, ‘If I tell you, she'll kill me.'”

“And I say, ‘If you don't,
I'll
kill you.'”

“Right,” he said. “I do believe you would.” He looked down at Ned, nodded and lifted his eyes to meet my gaze again. “She is called La Calavera.”

“La Calavera Catrina?” I said. “Like the etching?” The famous image of a skeletal woman wearing a fancy hat had been created by a Mexican craftsman in the early twentieth century. It had become an icon of
El Día de los Muertos,
the Day of the Dead. I'd had a mask of La Calavera, and a wooden doll, when I was a little girl.

“Not just any etching,” Abe said, “a portrait. It was the image of a spirit that visited the engraver, Señor Posada, and commissioned the work.”

“What would a spirit want with an engraved portrait?”

“She wanted to extend her influence in the mortal world, and thereby increase her power in this one. It was remarkably successful.”

“So why'd she want you to steal the dogs?”

“There is an underworld in this place, just as there is in your world. A criminal underworld, if you will, though there is no law. Indeed, in the absence of law, the gangs rule this world. The bosses are its kings.”

“Yeah, I met one. The Burning Man. He deals hardware out of a warehouse in Van Nuys.”

Abe nodded. “The Burning Man is small potatoes compared to La Calavera, but they are of the same breed. The Burning Man runs guns—La Calavera runs Hollywood.”

I snorted. “Maybe she runs the monochrome version. The fairy king runs Tinseltown on my side of the tracks.”

“Yes,” Abe said. “La Calavera was none too pleased with that development. Her turf has become a kind of highway and staging area for the fairies passing through to the mortal world from Avalon.”

“Okay, she's got a beef with Oberon. What's this got to do with the Xolos?”

“Nothing, so far as I know. The point is, La Calavera is a boss and she has her bony little fingers in lots of different pies. One of those rackets is a dogfighting ring.”

I let the words sink in. I felt like spitting or hissing or something melodramatic like that to express my revulsion and disgust. Blood sport hadn't exactly been unknown in my neighborhood when I was coming up. The cultural roots of animal fighting went deep and poverty tended to
harden even good-hearted, life-loving people. I'd always hated it, though. It seemed like the worst kind of perversion to domesticate animals, to tame them and then to turn them into murderous killing machines for the amusement of humans. It turned out there was an even worse perversion—doing that to a sacred animal like the Xolo. I wasn't even sure what the sacred was to me, what it meant to me. But whatever it was, the Xolos qualified.

“Why would you do it, Abe?” I said, my voice low and harsh. “What could she possibly offer you to do something like that?”

Abe swallowed and nodded once. “She has something I want. The only thing I want.”

“What's that? You don't need money. Near as I can tell, you don't need anything. You're supposed to be past needing.”

“You never get past needing, Miss Riley. You see, I'm not on some mad, eternal quest to fulfill my life's mission. It's my wife. She's out here somewhere, lost amidst the thousands, millions of ghosts that wander this city. Every night, I look for her. I will keep looking for her until I find her or until the last shred of my will falls to dust as my body did more than a century ago. La Calavera claims to know where she is, Miss Riley. She says she will take me to my wife.”

“She hasn't, though, has she? You took the Xolos and handed them over to her, but she hasn't kept her part of the bargain.”

Abe laughed bitterly. “Honestly, Miss Riley, I'm not at all sure she even knows. She says I haven't yet completed my service. I think she just wants to keep me on the string. But I haven't lost hope. Not yet.”

“I understand you must have loved your wife, Abe, but
why do you have to find her? How do you even know she's out here? She could be waiting for you on the other side.”

“I know because I killed her, Miss Riley. I put her here. She can't rest until she has her revenge and I mean to give it to her.”

“Why did you kill her?”

“‘Suffer not a witch to live,' Miss Riley.”

“She was a witch?”

“Not a powerful one, and in the end, it was that lack of power that corrupted her. She started with small things, little charms and spells meant to ease people's lives. But she was so frustrated with her limitations, so angry that she couldn't do more. In those times, things were different and even a little power was hard to come by. She pursued that power into ever more esoteric arts and her magic became blacker and blacker.” Abe blinked and cleared his throat. “Well, the darkness was stronger than she was, Miss Riley.”

“Where is La Calavera holding the dogfights?”

“I don't know. The Mocambo club is the center of her empire.”

“Wait, I've heard of that place—it was famous back in the day. But it closed a long time ago. It used to be over where Sunset Plaza is now.”

“Yes, I believe the site is a parking lot,” Abe said. “The club was torn down in the mortal world, Miss Riley, but it wasn't torn down here.”

“Okay, how often does she have the dogfights?”

“There is no set schedule. I've heard she holds them a couple times a week. They aren't widely advertised. Only the Mocambo crowd hears about them, and I'm told invitations are exclusive.”

“Does she keep the dogs at the club?”

“I don't know that, either.”

“How can you not know where the dogs are kept or where she holds the fights? You're stealing the Xolos for her.”

“I do not run with that crowd, Miss Riley. I deliver the dogs to a secluded overlook in the hills. I hand them over to her thugs. Then I leave. I do not know where they are taken after that.”

“Okay, that's a soft spot in her racket, then. Here's the plan. You set up a meet. When the mooks show up, we ambush them and get the Xolos' location out of them.”

“There will be no more meets, Miss Riley. I have already explained to La Calavera that there are no more Xolos for me to bring her. You understand, only the psychopomps are able to enter the Between.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I said, thinking of Caesar. “Still, you could tell her you missed one. The thugs wouldn't know we were hustling them until it was too late. It could work.”

“It would not. It would be…irregular. In addition to being a very old spirit, La Calavera is a gang boss. She does not like irregularities. She sees them as potential threats, because they almost always are. She would sniff out your trap before you even had a chance to spring it.”

I wasn't exactly on a roll as far as traps were concerned, so I was willing to take Abe's word for it. “How do we find the Xolos, then?”

“Perhaps you could track them the way you tracked me,”

Abe suggested.

“You can't keep using the changeling's glamour, Domino,”

Adan said. “Especially for shapeshifting. It
will
kill you—it's only a question of when.”

I nodded at Abe. “Yeah, I could probably track a Xolo if I
could get a good whiff of one. But it doesn't help me much if I have to find them before I can find them.”

“If the shapeshifting magic is a danger to you, perhaps it will not be necessary,” Abe said. He glanced at Adan and then back at me. “You must secure an invitation to the dogfights. If you were to infiltrate La Calavera's inner circle, you will learn where the fights are held and you may be able to discover where the Xolos are kept. If not, you will have an opportunity to catch their scent so you can track them as a last resort.”

“That's not bad, Abe. Not bad at all.” I looked at Adan and cocked an eyebrow. He nodded. “So how do I infiltrate La Calavera's inner circle?”

“You're going to need an introduction,” the ghost-hunter said, “someone with enough juice to get you by security at the Mocambo.”

I knew just the person. The only question was how much it would cost me.

The piskies escorted Mrs. Dawson back to the condo. Adan and I went to call on the Burning Man at his warehouse in Van Nuys. The shapeshifting and other shenanigans had taken their toll and I desperately wanted sleep. But I wasn't sure how long it would take the Burning Man to get me in at the Mocambo club, and in the meantime, my city was being overrun by zombies. Like the man said, I'll sleep when I'm dead.

We let Abe go. Even if I'd had a mind to punish him, I couldn't think of anything I could do to him that he hadn't already done to himself.

Adan's relationship with the Seelie Court meant he had contacts in the Between, but none of them were likely on good terms with La Calavera. So it was the Burning Man or bust. We walked into the mist in the cemetery. When we came out in Van Nuys, it was full daylight—granted that “full daylight” in the Between amounted to a dim yellow illumination that suffused the air like pollution. The warehouse looked exactly as it had the last time I visited, when I'd purchased Ned from the Burning Man. The Asian gangbanger who'd been standing guard out front had been
replaced by a Latino gangbanger. The AK slung over his shoulder looked about the same. There was no challenge this time—the kid opened the office door as we approached. “Go on up,” he said in Spanish.

A small group of thugs lounged on battered vintage office furniture watching the Stooges on an old black-and-white TV. They didn't acknowledge our presence and I didn't see any reason to interrupt their show. We crossed the small room and climbed the metal staircase set into the far wall.

When we reached the upstairs office, the Burning Man was fully combusted, a human torch standing behind an ornate wooden desk. Greasy smoke twined from the curled strips of burnt flesh that still clung to his bones. He smiled as we entered, and a little tongue of flame escaped between his blackened teeth. We shook hands and the fire caused me no more discomfort than it did the Burning Man.

“You're looking fit as ever,” I said, as we took our seats in front of the desk. The Burning Man grinned wider and a thin clump of burning hair and skin fell from his scalp and drifted slowly down to rest on the desk. He brushed it aside.

“Domino Riley,” he said, “it's a pleasure as always. And Adan Rashan—it's an honor to finally make your acquaintance. Tell me, Miss Riley. I've learned of your promotion, of course. How goes the war?”

I shrugged. “Same as it ever was.”

“Yes, well, that's not what my sources tell me. The dead walking the earth, demons on the rampage—it all sounds positively delightful. In wartime, of course, one must assure that one's army is well armed. What is an army without arms, after all?” The spirit laughed, belching smoke. “I see you still carry Mr. Earp's Peacemaker… I trust you haven't forgotten our arrangement?”

“No, you're still my supplier for weapons in the Between,” I said. “I just haven't had occasion to call upon your assistance yet.”

“Until now,” said the Burning Man.

“Right, except I'm not in need of hardware at the moment. I came to see you about another matter.”

The Burning Man was whole again. He smoothed the lapels of his dark gray suit and shot the cuffs. He unbuttoned the coat, sat down and clasped his hands on the desktop. “Very well,” he said. “Tell me how I may be of service.”

“I…uh, we,” I said, glancing at Adan, “need to get into the Mocambo club. I thought you might be able to introduce us.”

The Burning Man arched his eyebrows. “To La Calavera?”

“Yeah, I understand she runs the club.”

“Oh, she does. She does indeed.” The spirit tapped two fingers against his lips, considering. “I am, of course, acquainted with La Calavera, and as it happens, I am a member at the club. I'm confident I could arrange an introduction.”

“That's great,” I said, reaching across the desk and offering my hand. “How long you think it will take to set that up?”

The Burning Man smiled and started burning again. He held one finger up and a thin line of smoke coiled from his cuff. “First, there is the question of price.”

I'd yet to run into a spirit—with the possible exception of Honey—who didn't want their pound of flesh for every little favor you asked of them. They were worse than gangsters. “The price, of course,” I said. “Yeah, okay, what can I do for you? You've already got my gun business, when I need it.”

“Well, you and I are alike, Miss Riley. The business
we can do need not be limited to conventional trade in merchandise.”

“Spit it out,” I said.

“I need you to make a problem go away.”

I laughed. “You want me to kill somebody.”

The Burning Man burned and smiled. “With occasional rare exceptions such as Mr. Rashan and yourself, Miss Riley, those of us who inhabit this world are not, strictly speaking, alive, and therefore I would hesitate to describe what I'm asking as a killing. Think of it as…an exorcism, if you like.”

“Yeah. So who do you need clipped?”

“A competitor, of sorts,” said the Burning Man. “Not a true threat to my operation, you understand, more of a…nuisance.”

“A nuisance you apparently can't get rid of yourself. Who is he?”

“He is called Dedushka,” said the Burning Man. “You would not believe how many tired, old spirits there are in the Between called Grandfather, in a thousand tongues and local variations. It's as if they lack even the rudiments of creativity or imagination.”

I didn't think “the Burning Man” was a real dazzler in terms of creativity, all things considered. “Sounds Russian,”

I said, thinking of Anton. I wondered how he was doing.

Was he still alive…or undead, or whatever the fuck he was?

Had he gone mad?

“Yes,” said the Burning Man. “Dedushka is a vodyanoy.

He is supposed to be a river spirit, as I understand it, but the Los Angeles River apparently holds no appeal for him.

Perhaps this is because the river is so often dry, or perhaps he simply lacks an aesthetic appreciation for concrete.
In any event, he has a home in Malibu.” He gave us the address—an exclusive little enclave on Carbon Beach.

The Burning Man was having trouble with a river spirit. Fire and water. It was the kind of thing that might count for something in the Between. “Well, what's he done, exactly? I guess I'm not eager to gun down some old grandpa.”

The Burning Man laughed. “This old grandpa drew his power from drowning mortals and taking them as slaves. That was a long time ago, but still you'll discover that many of his enforcers have a certain sogginess about them.”

I looked over at Adan. “Sounds like a bad guy…” I remembered a time not too long ago when I'd promised myself I was going to change the game. I wasn't going to murder people anymore just because they were bad guys. I was going to be a real soldier. Somehow I'd imagined looking at my enemies across a battlefield and killing them fair and square. I was still waiting on some sign this was going to be that kind of war. So far, it was pretty much business as usual for the underworld.

“I know the vodyanoy,” Adan said. “We'll be doing the world a favor.”

I nodded. It was so easy to agree. This guy was a monster. He was in the war and he was my enemy. I wouldn't be breaking any promises if I put him down. “We can take this guy at his house in Malibu?”

“I wouldn't advise it,” said the Burning Man. “A certain history, you see, has brought us to this point, and his security is tight. He does have a vulnerability, though, one of which I cannot easily take advantage. It should, however, present you with a perfect opportunity.”

“What's the vulnerability?”

“He goes for a swim every evening. He strolls along the beach in front of his house for a spell, surrounded by
bodyguards. But they wait for him while he swims. None of them, you understand, have any real enthusiasm for entering the water with him.”

I didn't have any real enthusiasm for it, either, but at least he'd be out in the open. “Okay,” I said, “I'll kill this Dedushka for you. But it's a heavy lift just for an introduction.”

“You think perhaps I should sweeten the pot?” the Burning Man asked.

“Yeah, I want you to set up my compadre here with a firearm. Something good, like Ned, only a long gun.”

“Ah, yes, I noticed that he is somewhat lightly dressed. If he is to aid you in your mission, I suspect a rifle might come in very handy, indeed. Of course, I have just the thing.” The Burning Man opened the cage and retrieved an old rifle from a rack bolted onto the wall. He placed it carefully on the desk and nodded to Adan.

It was a simple bolt-action rifle with a wooden stock and black hardware. The weapon looked somewhat crudely made. The grain of the wood was rough and I could even see tool marks and shoddy finishing in several places.

“This is the Mosin-Nagant used by Vassili Zaitsev at Stalingrad,” said the Burning Man.

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” I asked.

“Jude Law,” Adan said. “
Enemy at the Gates.
” He hefted the rifle and worked the action. He seemed pleased. I wondered how he kept up-to-date on movies growing up in fairyland.

“That's right,” said the Burning Man. “Zaitsev killed two hundred and twenty-five enemy soldiers with this weapon at Stalingrad.”

That was more than Wyatt Earp ever killed with Ned. I shrugged. “There was a war on.”

“That was his confirmed count during a single five-week
period in the winter of 1942, Miss Riley. And, if I do say so myself, there would be a certain delicious irony in it if you were to use this legendary Russian rifle against the vodyanoy.”

“It'll work,” said Adan. He set the butt on the floor and leaned the rifle against his thigh. Boys.

“It's like Ned, then?” I asked. “He doesn't have to worry about ammo or anything?”

“It is just the same,” the Burning Man agreed, “with, perhaps, a bit more ‘muscle,' as you say.”

“I doubt that,” I said, scowling.

“The terms of the weapon's possession must be the same, too, of course. Should Mr. Rashan die—”

“No. When he's done in the Between,” I said, “Adan gives up the gun. That was our agreement.” I hadn't fallen for the Burning Man's little trap-clause the first time. I wasn't sure why he thought it'd be any different now.

“Done,” said the Burning Man, and we shook hands again. “I will make the necessary arrangements with La Calavera. Once your business for me is concluded, I will be most pleased to introduce you.”

“Okay,” I said, “we'll be in touch. Let's go, Adan.” We rose and went to the door.

“Just one more thing,” the Burning Man called from behind us. We turned to see him sitting behind the desk again, blazing merrily. “I know I didn't specify in the course of our negotiations, but if it wouldn't be too much trouble…”

“Get on with it already,” I said. “What do you want?”

“Once you've killed Dedushka, bring me the motherfucker's head.”

 

The clock radio by the sofa—the one that had previously been on my bedside table—said it was just after nine in the
morning when we got back to the condo. There was no sign of Mrs. Dawson or the piskies. I assumed Honey and Jack were taking a little private time in the Enchanted Forest, and the ghost was wherever. Adan wanted to plan the Dedushka assassination, but I wasn't up for anything except lying down. I needed sleep. If I didn't get it, there was no way I'd be able to clip a spirit, rescue some dogs, save the world from a zombie apocalypse or even speak coherently.

Adan gave up the argument shortly after my ass hit the couch and it became obvious I wasn't listening to him. I felt his weight settle on the other end of the sofa and I opened one eye. He tucked his hands behind his head and stretched out. One of his feet was touching mine. I wondered what would have happened if I hadn't given up my bedroom to Mrs. Dawson. Would he have jumped in bed with me? Or would he be out here on the couch while I was in the bedroom? Did it matter? There was nothing you could do on a bed that you couldn't do on a sofa. Whatever had happened at Oberon's party had happened on a couch.

That had been pretty good, probably. Whatever it was. Adan was kind of a pain in the ass, but he really wasn't so bad. He was real nice to look at—the changeling had copied him well—but he had a brain on him, too. He had juice, though I hadn't decided if that made him more appealing or just a bigger pain. He had a good sense of humor when he wanted to…which wasn't often enough, but he probably had a lot on his mind. He had a great smile. What was it about dimples, anyway? Why did just thinking about what amounted to dents in his face make me as frisky as a schoolgirl? And why was I asking myself all these stupid fucking questions?

Adan was a distraction. I was thirty-five years old. I was wise to his evil ways and immune to his charms. No way
I'd let him work me over again, even if it hadn't really been him the first time. I had better things to think about than some guy—like zombies, and ghosts and Russian spirits that lived in Malibu.

His foot was still touching mine. He shifted on the couch and it rubbed against my ankle. I hoped my feet didn't smell.

 

Adan had me pinned to the teacher's desk in my fifth grade homeroom when the alarm woke me. “Come on,” he said, “it's almost three o'clock.” He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, tying his shoe. I sat up and shook the lascivious dream images out of my head.

“Three? I set the alarm for two.”

“You kept snoozing. You must have hit the button at least five times. I don't think you even woke up. It was kind of freaky.”

“Yeah, I do that.” I hoped I hadn't been talking in my sleep. Or making any noises. “You want a burrito? I'm cooking.” I got up and walked into the kitchen.