The Getaway God (32 page)

I set down a Desert Eagle .50 that some Satanists gave me a while back.

“That will shoot through a wall and still kill anything on the other side. Don't be shy about using it.”

Vidocq picks up the gun and weighs it in his hand. Sights down the barrel. He nods.

“I don't like these things, but times like this force us to reconsider our prejudices.”

“Call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

“I know it will sound lame, but tell Allegra I'm sorry and I'll try to find out who did it.”

“I'll tell her.”

I ride the hog home. It's morning, but no brighter than it was the night before. I change my route when I see a ­couple of patrol cars in the distance. A big vehicle—­maybe one of the Vigil's ASVs—­shoots across Hollywood near Western.

I park the bike next to Max Overdrive and go in the side door.

Kasabian is hiding in his room. Delivery food boxes and beer bottles are piled up outside his door. Money is the magic anyone can do, and Kasabian always has a little stashed away no matter how broke he claims to be. Only he could find someone still delivering food. I wonder how much a burger costs these days.

When Howard Hughes went crazy, he locked himself in a room and watched
Ice Station Zebr
a on a loop. With Candy it's
Spirited Away
. Kasabian has the original
Dawn of the Dead
going in his room. The jagged Goblin sound track fills the whole first floor. I go upstairs and close the door.

I wonder about the cops that watched Allegra's clinic burn. Was that official policy or hillbilly street justice? Maybe the cops and the arsonists were working together to take out a Lurker safe haven. That's just with the city needs. A bunch of righ­teous vigilantes.

I suppose the existence of Lurkers couldn't be a secret forever. It was hard enough for the Sub Rosa plants in the police department to keep them off the books. Now that everything's falling apart, the few assholes in power who knew something or suspected something are free to shake whatever tree they like and see what falls out. How long before someone pays a visit to Bamboo House of Dolls? It's a good thing the city is deserted. What Lurkers don't need is having all of L.A. going ballistic when they find out that monsters have been living among them since forever.

I walk around the apartment. Look at Candy's things and wonder if I found something that might make her feel better, would Wells let me give it to her? I doubt it. He doesn't want to look like he's doing me any more favors than he's already done.

I keep hoping for a call that Mason wants me to come in early so we can get things over with. After yesterday's crash-­and-­burn, I don't want to lose my cool again. He's going to try another one of his nonsense games and I can't let it get to me. Follow Muninn's advice. Go with whatever Mason wants. Don't fight back. Watch him. Go total Zen on the little prick and see what happens.

Sometime in the night Kasabian stuffed towels around the bottom of the front door when water started leaking in. They're soaked through. I go down and replace them. There. That used up a whole two minutes. I keep checking the time.

Kasabian watches the news sometimes. I should ask him if things are this crazy in the rest of the world. But do I really want to know?

My phone rings. I grab it without bothering to check the number.

“You didn't think I was going to leave him to the vultures, did you?” says Deumos.

“Vultures. Worms. Hellhounds. It's all the same to me, as long as he's dead.”

“You could've joined us, but that moment has passed.”

“I guess so. Anything else on your mind?”

“Enjoy what's coming.”

“Nothing is coming. I'm going to stop it and you're going to live a good long miserable life in Hell with all your idiot followers. Assuming they don't lynch you.”

“When will your friends turn on you? Your lover is in jail. Your friend's hospital is burned. Your benefactors at the Golden Vigil are losing faith in you. You'll long for Hell and then oblivion before this is over.”

“What kind of cell contract do you have? Are these calls from Hell expensive or do you have a good roaming plan?”

“Enjoy the games.”

I pick up a Malediction and light it.

“Enjoy watching your precious Angra eat shit and die.”

The line goes dead.

Kasabian pushes my door open.

“Who was that?”

“No one.”

“It sure sounded like someone. Like someone from Downtown. You don't get calls from there, do you? That could have helped my swami business. When I had one. That's as dead as the store.”

“You can't blame me for that.”

“Maybe. But it makes me feel better to do it.”

I tap some ash from the Malediction into an empty wineglass with Candy's lipstick on the rim.

“What do you want? If you came up here to panic, I'm not in the mood.”

He comes into the room and leans against the wall, crossing his metal arms and legs. He looks like a nervous lawn ornament.

“I was flipping by the news. There was a fire last night. From the shots it looked like Allegra's place.”

“We still have local news? How about that?”

“Was it the clinic?”

“Yeah.”

“Is Fairuza all right?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you know?”

“Go downstairs and watch your movie. There's nothing you can do.”

He comes over, looking like a tin toy John Wayne.

“Where is she?”

“LAPD and the feds are rounding up Lurkers.”

“What's going to happen to her?”

“I don't know. They still have Candy at Vigil headquarters, so maybe they're just holding everyone until Washington decides what it wants.”

“You're not going to let them hurt her, are you?”

“I don't even know where she is.”

He takes a beer from the fridge, but he doesn't open it. Just stands there holding it.

“I have some of her stuff. We could do a locator spell.”

I nod and smoke.

“Tell you what. You do it and tell me what you find. I'll see what I can do after that.”

“Can't you help? You're the better magician.”

“Am I? I'm not feeling so good hoodoo-­wise right now.”

“Mason's really getting to you, isn't he?”

“No. I just can't get these soup stains out of the drapes.”

“You want some advice?”

“Not even a little.”

“Kill him. He beat you once and sent you to Hell. He's going to beat you again and it'll be worse for everyone this time.”

“I can't. He has information I need.”

“He'll never give it to you.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you doing it?”

“ 'Cause these are my last cigarettes and there's nothing good on TV.”

Kasabian shakes his head and looks out the window.

“Don't talk like that. Even if you're kidding.”

“I told you. I'm not in a comforting mood right now.”

“Kill him. The moment you see him.”

I crush out the Malediction.

“I need a drink. Do you need a drink?”

He sets down the beer.

“No. And neither do you. Have some coffee. Spend the day with a clear head for once.”

“That sounds incredibly boring.”

“Sit there. I'll put on a pot.”

He goes to the little kitchen. Starts running water and pawing through the cupboards looking for coffee and mugs.

“When did you learn to do anything, Susie Homemaker?”

“I could do a lot of things before some asshole cut off my head.”

He fills the coffeepot with water. Pours it and some coffee into the top of the maker, then does something mysterious with buttons that turns a red light on. I can survive Hell, but most of the coffee I drink is instant.

“I'm not going to work for a while. Want to watch something?”

“What?”

I pick up a DVD box.

“Candy and I were watching
Baron Prásil,
that Czech Baron Munchausen movie she borrowed from Brigitte.”

“Is Brigitte in it?”

“No.”

“Is there any nudity?”

“Not so far.”

“Put it on and let's cross our fingers.”

I
WALK INTO
Mason's cell a little after eight. He looks the same as usual. Sitting at his table in a prison jumpsuit, a cat-­that-­ate-­the-­canary grin on his face, and his handcuffs secured to the table. There's a little more slack in the cuffs today. The reason why is spread out in front of me, so big that the sides hang off the ends of the table.

It looks like Mason raided the Vigil's break room and didn't leave anything behind. Six or eight game boards—­right off, I recognize Monopoly, Go, Risk, and backgammon—­are duct-­taped together to form a stripped-­down version of Metatron's Cube, the mystical symbol that's part of the ritual I used to track down the meat-­locker asshole, Joseph Hobaica, on his way to Hell. The Cube is a power symbol I used a lot back when Mason and I were in the same Magic Circle. Points to you, Mason, for remembering that.

The game boards are in the shape of a six-­pointed star with a circle in the middle containing playing pieces. At the point of each star is another circle. Straight lines cut from a chessboard connect each of these outer circles. I don't bother asking how he got the boards apart or how he put them back together again because he'll lie and I don't need to start off aggravated.

“Did the trash fairy shit on your table for Christmas?”

Mason taps his fingers on the collection of game boards.

“Don't tell me you don't appreciate my work. It took me all night and all day to put this together.”

“It's very pretty in a better-­up-­the-­voltage-­on-­my-­electroshock kind of way. So what's this mess called?”

He moves his hands forward to touch the edge of the board.

“This is where you truly meet the infinite part of the Infinite Game. And being infinite, it's also extremely simple. All you have to do is move each of your pieces onto every single space on the board. You can move them in any order and go in any direction. Here's where things get really interesting. The rules change with each move and how they change depends on the previous move.”

“I can tell I'm going to love this. How do I know what the new rules are?”

“I'll tell you.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“That's the beauty of the Infinite Game. Lying doesn't matter. With the rules changing every move, the lie I tell you now could be the truth that lets you win later. And I have some other good news for you.”

“They're muzzling you before we play?”

“If you win tonight, I'll tell you everything you want to know about the Qomrama.”

I know he wants me to bring up Allegra's clinic and how he hurt me by going through a friend. I won't give him the satisfaction. Nothing that's already happened can be fixed. Concentrate on today and hope the fucker keeps his word when I beat him.

“There's still time to forget this shit.”

Mason looks over the boards.

“You're being boring. Do it again and I'll hurt another one of your friends. Now play.”

The longer I look at the board, the less sense it makes. It's hypnotic. Like heat dancing off the asphalt in the desert. I get woozy staring at the twisted thing and soon I don't care about saving the world. I want to leave. I don't want to be in this room with this lunatic. I can't breathe. I can't think straight. The harder I try to understand the board, the dizzier I feel. Finally, I have to look away. And Mason sees all of it. All my weakness and doubt. Nothing I can do about it now. Hell, maybe feeling sick is part of the Infinite Game too. Maybe if I throw up on the board I'll get a free turn.

We start with thirteen pieces in the middle. Mason tosses a coin and I call it.

“Heads.”

It's tails.

“You lose,” he says. “You have to move seven pieces around the board to win. I only have to move six.”

Naturally. I was losing before I walked in the room.

“One more thing. After each move we say . . .” He pronounces a Hellion word. It literally means “power to you,” but is really a sarcastic version of “good luck.” Something you say when you want to see someone face-­plant.

Head games within head games.

Mason makes the first move. He closes his eyes and picks up a few Go stones.

Three black and two white.

“Three times two,” he says. “I move six.”

There's a three-­inch-­tall metal Empire State Building with the game pieces. He moves it six spaces along a piece of a Candy Land board. Then he growls, “Power to you.”

It's my turn. I reach for the Go stones. He shakes his head.

“The rules change, remember? Try spinning the wheel.”

I spin a flat plastic wheel from another game. It's numbered one to twelve. I get a seven.

Mason says, “Good. The number of your players and it's a prime. Move two of your pieces, splitting the seven. Four and three. Five and two. Six and one. You get the idea.”

I move two pieces.

“What's the magic word?” he says.

I stare at him for a minute. Then remember. I bark a Hellion “power to you.” He grins and throws a set of poker dice. He gets a full house and moves the Scottie dog from a Monopoly set in the opposite direction of the Empire State.

How do I describe the next few hours? It's not a game. It's some kind of stoner Dadaist performance art. The rules shift and turn back on themselves, sometimes in the middle of a move. Mason spins a dreidel. Rolls one of the dice. Or two. Or all of them at once. He moves three of his pieces, all in different directions across the board, always careful to follow the move with “power to you” because sometimes if you forget, you have to start over and I might blow my brains out if this goes on much longer.