“I’m sorry.”
He looks up as the jukebox begins to play Martin Denny’s “Quiet Village.”
“Me too,” he says. “I mean he could be a real asshole sometimes, but you know?”
“I have friends like that. Pains in the ass, but they keep things interesting.”
“Exactly. But he’s gone, so what are you going to do?”
“Get yourself a necromancer?”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I get enough of those gloomy bastards on trivia night.”
I almost spit out a mouthful of whiskey.
“You have a karaoke machine and you do bar trivia?”
He nods slowly.
“Pathetic, isn’t it? But you do whatever it takes to keep the doors open.” He gives me a hard look. “What, you never compromised anything to stay alive?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“I’ve compromised plenty. More than I like to think about. But damn, trivia and karaoke?”
Carlos downs his drink in one swallow.
“I know. I sold my soul. But when I win the lottery— boom!—they’re all gone.”
“You wouldn’t quit the business?”
He chuckles and pours us both another round.
“I’m a bartender. Some people are cops or priests or movie stars. Me? I pour drinks and keep the jukebox cool.”
As the music fades away, someone behind us blows into a microphone.
“Testing. One. Two. Can you hear me?”
The crowd murmurs.
A young guy wearing a pale blue pullover and a tech-startup haircut is hunched over the mic at the karaoke machine. He points to a young woman across the room.
“This is for you, Cherie.”
I can’t help but smile when I see her. This is a taste of the old Bamboo House of Dolls. A clueless tourist slumming in a weirdo bar and he picks up a pretty young thing. Only his paramour is a Jade and if he does or says the wrong thing, she’s going to bite him and drink his guts like a milkshake. I’m almost tempted to tell him, only then he starts singing that Barry Manilow song “Mandy,” but substituting “Cherie” in the chorus. That’s when I decide to let Darwin sort out his fate.
I finish my drink and get up.
“I think that’s my cue to get moving.”
Carlos puts out his hand and we shake.
“Don’t be a stranger. You’re allowed to come back more than once a year.”
“Believe me, Carlos. I will if I can.”
He gives me a funny look.
“How did you know my name?”
Shit.
“I must have read it on Yelp or somewhere.”
He nods, not entirely buying it.
“Okay. Well, come back on a Tuesday and play trivia with those necro bores. I’ll throw in a lot of old movie questions.”
I give him a nod and leave.
Carlos, you have no fucking idea how much I want to make that happen.
I WANDER ALONG the boulevard. It’s a nothing night. Cars honk at jaywalkers. Knots of wandering tourists are disappointed at how boring Hollywood and Vine really is. The Egyptian Theatre is dark as a repair crew works on the electric lines out front. There’s more action down by the wax museum and Ripley’s Believe It or Not!, but the lights are too bright and it’s too close to the Chinese Theatre. An off-duty creep in a Spider-Man costume chats up a bored Wonder Woman who’s about two puffs of a Virginia Slim away from beating him to death with her shield. Really, I’m not ready to go back to Sandoval’s Castle Grayskull and I’m trying to distract myself from lurking outside Max Overdrive in hopes of catching a glimpse of Candy. I’ve already done that once since I got back and she almost caught me. There’s no percentage in taking a chance like that again, so of course, I do it anyway.
Lucky me, there’s nothing happening there either. Candy is upstairs or out, so I’m basically staring at a dark storefront like a tweaker trying to work up the nerve to rob the place. But unfocused staring sometimes pays off. Through the front window, I get a glimpse of Kasabian moving around inside. He’s talking to someone and smiling, and for a second I get fifth-grade giddy that I might score a look at that cute girl who sits next to me in history class. Instead, it’s Alessa— Candy’s girlfriend. Candy met her a few weeks before I died and they became lovers soon after that. I mean, I told her it was okay with me, and it was. Candy had always dated girls and the fact she was with me didn’t make her desire to be with other women magically disappear. Now, though, things are different, and for the first time I feel jealous of the two of them. They had a year together that I’ll never get back. They’re a year closer and I’m on the street like a goddamn lost dog wondering if I’ll ever find my way back home.
Thinking about it, though, maybe this is a good thing and I should shut up and not get so maudlin. Candy watched me get murdered and Alessa was there to help her through it. And Alessa has obviously forgiven Candy for lying to her about who she really was. Alessa didn’t know Candy was a Jade when they started dating. She also only knew Candy as Chihiro, the identity she had to adopt to stay out of a federal lockup. When someone gets hit with secrets like that all at once and they stick around, that makes them good people and someone who really cares about you. So, yeah, Alessa is a lot more all right with me now than she was before I died.
But none of that stops me from wanting to charge inside and see Candy right now. Instead, I step into a shadow before I do something truly stupid.
I come out in my room in Sandoval’s mansion. I want another drink, but that means going into her office, which means I might see her or Sinclair, and in my current mood I’m not sure either one of them would leave with their head on their shoulders. Instead, I throw my clothes in a heap in the corner and get into bed. I’m suddenly a lot more tired than I was a couple of hours ago.
My dreams are about bombs exploding and L.A. being wiped off the map. It’s all in slow motion, so I get a good look at the city flying apart, burning bodies tossed into the air with flaming palm trees, the fire moving up the hills, scorching everything along the way. The Hollywood sign flies apart. The Griffith Observatory explodes when the concussion wave hits it. I try to distract myself with all of this cinematic carnage, but it doesn’t work. Swirling around the center of things is everyone I know and care about: Candy, Kasabian, Vidocq, Allegra, Brigitte, Carlos, even Alessa. They’re whipped around in a sun-bright vortex, pulled down into a boiling mass of nothingness. A swirling singularity so incandescent it turns to ash not just their bodies, but every particle of their being, so that there’s nothing left of them for Hell or Heaven, meaning they just fade from existence like they were never there. And all I can do is watch and let it happen because I don’t know how to stop it.
Fuck Wormwood. Fuck the faction. If I can’t stop the ritual, no one lives. No escape jets or yachts heading out to sea for this crowd. They get swallowed in the burning madness with the rest of us. I’ll laugh and laugh as they cry and cry all the way down into nonexistence when it finally hits them that all their money and power isn’t going to hold their atoms together in the coming shitstorm. The feeling isn’t satisfaction. It’s more like revenge. And sometimes that’s as close to satisfaction as you’re ever going to get.
WHEN I WAKE up in the morning, there’s a black suit waiting for me in the closet. It’s a Hugo Boss. Of course he’d be the go-to guy for Wormwood. In World War II, he made uniforms for the SS. There’s also a dark purple shirt and a pair of Italian shoes by the bed.