Sandoval touches Sinclair on the arm.
“That’s wonderful. She has no idea who he really is. Take off that silly face, Stark, and show her.”
Marcella stares at me as I let the glamour fade.
“Hi. My name is James Stark.”
“Better known as Sandman Slim,” says Sinclair.
Sandoval says, “Bitch.”
Marcella looks from me to them.
Then she laughs, shaking her head.
“You’re as adorable as him. But Sandman Slim is dead. Everyone knows it.”
“Was,” says Sinclair. “We brought him back.”
Sandoval says, “That’s what we can do. So you can keep your threats and Day of Wrath nonsense to yourself.”
Marcella shakes her head again, not laughing this time, but still not believing.
“You’ve told so many lies you don’t know when you’re doing it anymore.”
“Make her believe, Stark.”
“That’s the idea.”
I take the blindfold from around my neck and put it over her eyes.
“Don’t mind the blood,” I tell her. “None of it is mine.”
“Where are you taking her?” says Sinclair.
“Where we can have a heart-to-heart in private.”
Sandoval points to my shoes.
“You can’t go through the house like that.”
“Watch me.”
I take Marcella’s arm and lead her inside, grinding my bloody heels into the carpet all the way downstairs to the bowling alley.
WHEN WE’RE INSIDE I turn on the lights and take her blindfold off. Marcella looks around.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. This is your torture chamber?”
“Like it? It belonged to Eva’s granddad. She lets me use it on the weekends.”
“It’s not the weekend yet.”
“This is a special occasion.”
I grab a folding chair from the back of the room, pull Marcella to the end of a bowling lane, and push her into it.
“Won’t it be hard for me to take my turn from down here?”
“I doubt you’ll live long enough for it to be an issue.”
“Come on, Boy Scout. We both know you’re not going to—”
I pull her gun from my pocket and fire at her head, close enough that she has to duck.
She says, “You missed.”
She looks cool, but I can hear her heart going like a jackhammer.
“You sure? Maybe you’re right—I haven’t done much shooting in the last year. I’m still getting the hang of it.”
“Because you’ve been dead, Mr. Sandman Slim?”
“You still don’t believe? You saw me change my face upstairs.”
She leans back in the chair and crosses her legs.
“Just because you’re Sub Rosa doesn’t make you Sandman Slim. You and the fools upstairs, you don’t scare me. This is Hollywood. Any good makeup artist could give you those scars.”
“Hey, I earned these scars.”
Marcella sighs. “When does the torture start? Or is this it?”
I fire a few more rounds, this time at her head and her feet. She has to curl up into a fetal position on the chair to not get hit.
I say, “Tell me about the faction.”
“No. Tell me about Hell, Sandman Slim.”
One of her chair legs explodes when I shoot it. She goes down on her side. It knocks the wind out of her.
I grab another folding chair and slide it down the lane to her. She opens it and sits down.
She says, “I think the woman upstairs is going to be mad if you keep shooting her furniture.”
“After what I did to your men, you really don’t think I’ll hurt you?”
“I think you’re a killer. I think you’re vicious and an animal when cornered. But, no, you’re not going to hurt me. It’s not something you do or you would be doing it already instead of playing William Tell.”
“I’m not Sandman Slim. I’m not a torturer. Damn. I don’t impress you at all.”
“Not much.”
I put the gun in my waistband and walk quickly down the lane. She tries not to react, but her shoulders stiffen when I get close.
“If I proved to you that I was Sandman Slim, would you talk?”
“But you’re not, so what does it matter?”
“But if I did?”
“Not even then, Boy Scout.”
“Let’s test that.”
I yank her to her feet and pull her into a shadow at the end of the alley.
When we’re in, I push her ahead of me into the streets of Pandemonium.
The smell hits her first. It’s what gets most new arrivals. Sulfur. Burning blood and shit. The sour fear sweat of a billion losers. I don’t like being here. I sure didn’t plan on it and now that I’ve done it, I wonder if it’s a huge mistake. But there’s one thing I have going for me. I’m used to this misery. Marcella isn’t, and so far, she’s not handling it well. She’s a few feet ahead of me, on her knees, puking into a ditch full of burned vehicles and charred Hellion bones. I sit down on the collapsed wall of a deserted building.
When she’s done, she takes off her jacket, uses it to wipe her mouth, and throws it into the ditch. She tries to stand, but her legs are too shaky.
“How are you doing this?” she says.
“Doing what?”
“The special effects. They’re good. Did you get Disney to build it?” She staggers to her feet and sweeps her arm at the ruins. “Mr. Stark’s Wild Ride, right next to the Matterhorn and the spinning Sleeping Beauty’s castle.”
I’m actually impressed at her bullheadedness.
“You don’t believe this is Hell.”
“Not for a second,” she says.
“How do you imagine Hell?”
“Two more minutes with you.”
“What would it take to convince you this really is the bad place?”
She kicks a stone away with the toe of her shoe. “You can’t. This is nothing God would make or permit.”
I walk over to her.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s all fake.”
I push her into the ditch with her puke and the Hellion dead.
“I’m going back to the bowling alley. You stay. Walk around. Explore. Enjoy yourself. I’m going to have lunch.”
I go out through a shadow and leave Marcella behind. I’ll give her five minutes. Now that I think about it, when I go back I should look around for some Maledictions. If I don’t get a real cigarette soon,