Читать книгу: «The Perdition Score»

THOMAS ABBOT IS talking about the end of the world, but I can’t keep my eyes open. The inside of my head is all Disney dancing hippos and gators going at each other with knives like candy-colored Droogs.

Ever notice how the more pain you’re in, the funnier the world gets? Sometimes it’s peculiar funny. Sometimes it’s “ha ha” funny, but it’s always funny. I remember almost bleeding to death in Hellion arenas and all I could do was laugh. I understand if that seems a little strange. That’s what I mean about peculiar funny versus ha-ha funny. It’s all a matter of perspective. The more totally fucked you are, the funnier everything gets. Right now the world is hilarious.

What was I talking about? Right. Abbot. The end of the world. At least, I think it’s the end of the world he’s going on about. Maybe someone just keyed his Ferrari. Whatever it is, I’m not listening. It’s not that I’m bored. I’m tired, my head aches, and my eyes hurt like someone’s tunneling out with dynamite. It’s been a month since I’ve slept right. At night, my dreams keep me awake. Awake, the daylight feels like someone scouring my skin off with steel wool. I laugh once and everybody looks at me because they’re not in on the joke. I’m squinting at the light too hard to explain it to them.

“You have something to add, Stark?” says Abbot.

“Not a thing. I’m hanging on every word. But I might have missed some of the last part.”

“I was saying the meeting was over. We’ve voted on everything on the agenda. I had to put you down as an abstention on, well, everything since you didn’t feel like joining in.”

The other ten members of the Sub Rosa council—the den of thieves, high rollers, and important families that run most of our little world—stare or shake their heads in my direction.

“I was with you in spirit, boss.”

“That’s what makes it all worthwhile.”

He turns from me and back to the room. People are getting up, gathering briefcases, purses, and jackets. You could feed every refugee in Europe with what these people have in their pockets.

“Thank you all for coming. It was a good meeting. I’ll see you next week,” says Abbot.

Good-byes to Abbot and general chitchat in the room. It’s like my brain is an open sore and their voices are salt. I don’t ever remember feeling this way, even Downtown.

“Hang around for a few minutes, Stark.”

I nod to Abbot. With my head like this, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon anyway.

When everyone leaves, Abbot comes over and sits down next to me. He’s a handsome fucker and that’s always bugged me. All-American boyish looks with all the power of the Sub Rosa at his disposal. We’re on his houseboat in Marina del Rey. The meeting room is trimmed in gold and exotic woods. There’s enough video monitors and other electronic gear along the back wall to launch a nuclear war. Abbot’s floating pad is like a comic-book supervillain’s orbiting death lair. Yet I kind of like the prick. He seems honest. He gave me a seat on the Sub Rosa council. And he hasn’t thrown me out for doing a lousy job. But I can’t help wondering if I’m about to get a Dear John letter. Things aren’t working out. It’s not you. It’s me. You know the routine.

Abbot laces his fingers together and leans back in his chair.

“You don’t look so good,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re missing meetings because you’re hungover.”

I shake my head and immediately regret it.

“If only. Then, at least, I’d have had a good time. This, though. It’s a Trotsky icepick.”

“Have you ever been checked out for migraines?”

“I don’t get migraines. I leap tall buildings in a single bound.”

Abbot gets up and looks through an expensive leather messenger bag.

“Let me give you my doctor’s name. He does great work. You’re aware, aren’t you, that as a council member you get health insurance?”

“I do?”

“It was in the packet I gave you when you started.”

“You gave me a packet?”

He comes back over with something in his hand.

“Maybe you lost it at home. Look for it. You even have a small expense account.”

He puts a business card on the table. It has a doctor’s name on it.

“Free money? I’ll find it. And thanks for the advice, but I have my own doctor.”

“Then go see him or her. Doctors are like aspirin. They don’t work if you don’t use them.”

“Speaking of aspirin, you have any?”

There’s something else in his hand. He sets down a small yellow prescription bottle.

“Aspirin won’t do much for a migraine. But you should try these. I get headaches myself and these clear them right up.”

“Your doctor’s Sub Rosa?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You’re one of the moneyed chosen. I always pictured you with your own hospital or something.”

He smiles.

“Just one wing. It’s all Dad could afford.”

I look at him.

“I’m kidding,” he says.

“Just give me the pills, Groucho.”

He hands me the bottle and points to the glass of water that’s been in front of me the whole meeting. If it had been a snake, I’d be taking a venom nap by now.

I pop the pills in my mouth. They taste like flowers. Like one of those goddamn violet candy bars my mother used to gnaw on with her whiskey. Very classy. Very sophisticated. I want to spit them out, then remember they’re medicine, so I don’t. Abbot pushes the water to me and I take a long gulp.

“How was that?”

I finish the glass.

“It tastes like the wreaths at a mobster’s funeral.”

He puts the cap back on the prescription bottle.

“It does, doesn’t it? Anyway, you should feel better in a few minutes. I can give you a few extra if you’d like to take them with you.”

“Thanks. But I’ll bug my doctor for something that doesn’t taste like a hobbit’s lunch.”

“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind …”

“Thanks. But I won’t.”

Listen to yourself. Stop whining. This is your boss you’re talking to. He’s given you free drugs and is offering more. That’s what people do when they see someone in pain. Shut up. Be a person.

“I feel better already.”

Abbot gets up, tosses the bottle in the messenger bag, and brings it back to the table.

“I doubt that,” he says, “but you will. Is your head clear enough to talk? I want to discuss something with you.”

“Is this the part where you chew me out for being bad in class?”

“No. I understand how awful migraines can be. But tell me next time and maybe we can do something about it. No, I wanted to talk to you about the real agenda for the meeting.”

“Going to dish about your rich friends? What do you tell them about me?”

He sits back down.

“Nothing. But trust me, they ask. What I want to talk about is the real reason for the meeting. Did you hear anything I said tonight?”

“Something about charities. Climate change. The end of the world.”

“You’re right about the charities part. What I wanted to see was who was pushing for which charities. I think some of the board members are in bed with Wormwood.”

Wormwood Investments. What can I say about that bunch? They’re into money and power. And they have a good time getting and keeping both.

Charity doesn’t really seem to be their thing, though, so I try to get my mind wrapped around that.

“You think that dicking around with charities will tell you which ones are on the take?”

Wormwood is like a mob-run bank if the mob was a Hellion horde and the bank was the world. They make money when the market goes up and currencies collapse. They make money on where and when famines kill the most people. They make money on who is or isn’t damned.

And they make money on me.

Who I kill. Who I don’t. Whether I’m a good boy or a bad boy, they make a profit, and it pisses me off.

“Wormwood has a lot of front groups,” says Abbot.

It clicks. “And the council can funnel to them through the charity fronts.”

“Exactly.”

“So, you want to see who recommends which ones.”

“You’ve got it.”

Another wave of pain gets me just behind my left eye. I close it and squint at Abbot through the right like I’m doing my best Popeye impression.

“Did you find out anything?” I ask.

“Maybe. I made sure everyone knew there was money to be spent. We batted around the names of a few groups, including two that I know have Wormwood connections. The next meeting we’ll vote and see who pushes for which groups.”

“How diabolical of you.”

“Thanks. I’m flattered.”

The wave of pain passes and I can use both eyes again. I get up and go around the table to where there’s another full glass of water and drink most of it.

“Listen. I know a guy—Manimal Mike—with a lot of power tools. Why don’t you point me at some of the shifty types on the council and I’ll show them Mike’s saws?”

Abbot raises an eyebrow before saying, “I’d need some proof before I’d let someone called Manimal Mike loose on anyone.”

“Point me at the Wormwood creeps and I’ll make them sing La fucking Traviata.”

“I hope it won’t come to that.”

“If it’s Wormwood, it will.”

“You might be right.”

I sit back down again and the light in the room stops strobing.

“Hey. I think your hamster food is starting to do something.”

“See? I told you so.” He pauses. “There’s one more thing I wanted to talk to you about.”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a white folder. He opens it on the table. There’s a photo of a young boy.

“A friend’s son has gone missing. His name is Nick. He’s run away before. Mostly to his father’s house in San Diego. Everyone was assuming that’s what had happened this time, but my friend hasn’t heard anything and is worried. I remember that your lady friend, Chihiro, works for a detective agency. Do you think she could look into it for me?”

Abbot knows damn well that Chihiro is really Candy living with a new name and a new face courtesy of a powerful glamour. I have to give him points for being discreet enough, even though we’re alone, to use her cover name.

“I was heading to her office after the meeting. I’ll give it to her then.”

Abbot’s face relaxes. I hadn’t registered the worry until it wasn’t there anymore. I also notice that he’s gone far out of his way to not say who his friend is.

“Thank you. That means a lot to us.”

Okay. The friend is someone close, not just one of the council members trying to hide a family scandal. So, who is it? A childhood pal? A lover? Is Abbot married? I can’t see his ring finger, but that’s also a pretty Judeo-Christian tradition—not so much among the Sub Rosa types.

I focus back on the missing child.

“How many times has this kid run off? He looks like he’s maybe twelve.”

Abbot picks up the picture, looks at it, and sets it down again.

“Yes. He’s always been precocious. With luck, this is nothing. But there’s some worry that his father might have abducted him.”

I flip the picture over. There’s information on the back. Eye color. Hair. Height. The only contact number is Abbot’s. I close the folder and put it in my coat pocket.

“I’ll give it to Julie. She runs the agency and decides who gets what cases.”

“That’s great.”

“So, what time are we doing this charity vote thing tomorrow?”

Abbot laughs.

“Stark, it’s Friday. We don’t meet again until Monday. Take the weekend. Get your head fixed.”

“Right. Friday. How about that?”

Where the hell did this week go? I swear, it was Tuesday just yesterday.

“Okay, then. I’ll see you next week, boss.”

“See you Monday,” says Abbot.

I leave and walk back to the dock as sunset comes down over the docks. From here, Abbot’s floating Xanadu looks like a burned-out garbage scow. Sub Rosa chic. They love their mansions to look like ten-week-old shit from the outside.

One okay thing about being on the council is that I get a stipend (and apparently an expense account—really need to look at that packet Abbot talked about). Since I can’t use the Room of Thirteen Doors anymore, and since the last car I borrowed got burned by a psycho named Audsley Ishii, I got one of my own. A black ’68 Pontiac Catalina fastback. Actually bought it. Inside, the previous owner put a rebuilt 455 V-8 under the hood. Outside, it looks like a hearse and a cruise missile had a bullet-nosed baby. I get in, turn the key, and make the monster roar.

THE DRIVE FROM Marina del Rey to Hollywood isn’t as hideous as it could be. The 405 tonight is a plodding lava flow instead of a graveyard. Abbot’s gerbil-food pill tuned down my headache, but the headlights on other cars still hurt my eyes. I can’t believe I almost missed Friday. My head will be shaken back into place soon enough. I swear, having a job is half of what’s wrong with me.

I never liked being an employee. I tried it before. Signed on with the Golden Vigil—basically, a government antihoodoo spook force. It didn’t work out. The bosses—Larson Wells in particular—and I didn’t exactly get along (I fought the law and the law won). Then they threw Candy in jail and would have shipped her to a Lurker Alcatraz in the desert if I didn’t get help from a friend. Then they screwed me out of my paycheck. Then I tried playing private detective.

Don’t bother asking how that worked out.

Even though the council gig is a pretty cushy job, being a salaryman grates on me in a very basic way. It reminds me of working for Azazel, a Hellion bigwig Downtown. The relationship was simple: he was the boss and I was his slave. Pull the plow or get sent to the glue factory. This job isn’t as bad as that by a long shot, but being under the thumb of anyone who can burn down your life with a phone call makes me, let’s say, uneasy. Maybe that’s why my sleep has been shit.

I can’t help wondering what Abbot does and who he talks to when I’m not there. Does he discuss me with whoever his personal friends and advisers are? No, that’s not really in doubt—of course he does. The question is what he says and why. I mean, he’s the augur. He’ll play whatever angles he needs to stay who he is. That means he’ll use me against the blue bloods, the blue bloods against me, then he’ll turn around and use us all against each other. None of this automatically makes him a bad guy, just a politician. For now, I’m going to assume he’s on the level with me. But if I get one whiff of nefarious unpleasantness, I’ll dump him in one of the open graves in Teddy Osterberg’s cemetery collection in Malibu and bury him alive.

Right now, though, I need to get off the road as soon as possible. The headache wants to come back down on me. It tightens the back of my skull like an anaconda wrapped around my head. But Abbot’s flower-power pills keep it at bay. I just need it to work for another hour or so. Then, depending on how things shape up, I’ll go to Allegra’s clinic or the other place.

The one I really want to get to.

BUT FIRST, MORE work.

Julie’s detective agency is on Sunset Boulevard in Silver Lake. I push the button on the front door and get buzzed in.

The office is up a flight of stairs. She’s fixed it up a bit over the last couple of months. Built herself an office with a door at one end of the space. I tap the glass gently and she gives me a quick wave. Candy’s desk is in the large open space so she can greet potential customers when she isn’t working her own cases. Small-time stuff mostly, but she’s only been at it for a few weeks. Julie fired my ass after just one case. A case I solved, I’d like to point out.

One more indication of what a great employee I am.

Candy in her Chihiro drag doesn’t look like her old too-large-leather-jacket-and-jeans self. She’s dressed in a short, tight black dress with skeleton bones printed on the front and back. Her stockings say BITCH on them about a thousand times and her bag is a bloodshot vinyl eyeball. Her only concession to her old look is that she still wears Chuck Taylor sneakers.

Candy is at her desk laughing with a redhead I haven’t seen before. Each of them has a Styrofoam tray full of noodles. Candy puts down her chopsticks and comes over to me. Gives me a big kiss and takes me by the arm to her friend.

“Stark, I want you to meet—”

“Alessa,” I say.

Alessa, the redhead, opens her eyes a little wider.

“Alessa Graves. How did you know?”

I shrug.

“It’s just this funny trick I can do.”

“See?” says Candy. “Didn’t I tell you he knew cool stuff?”

Alessa nods.

“Cool doesn’t cover it,” she says.

“Fairuza introduced us. Alessa plays guitar. Like real guitar,” Candy says.

“Nice to meet you, Alessa,” I say, holding out my hand like a gentleman or a Realtor. She takes it and we shake briefly.

Alessa looks to be in her late twenties. She’s pretty. Her red hair falls just below her shoulders. She wears a lot of kohl around her eyes, probably trying to hide the lines at their edges, lines she’s too young for. My money says she had drug problems in the past. Meth, I’d guess. Fucked up her skin some, but the addiction wasn’t so bad she lost teeth. I can tell by her smell that she’s clean now. Her heartbeat kicks up a little when our hands touch, but it’s not that she’s all excited to meet me. She’s here to see Candy and talk music. They’re just getting to know each other and suddenly the boyfriend walks in and crashes their guitar geeking. That’s easy enough to fix.

“You should hear Alessa play sometime,” Candy says. “She’s awesome. Her old band toured with Skull Valley Sheep Kill. That’s Stark’s favorite band,” she says, leaning confidentially in Alessa’s direction. She smiles.

“What’s your favorite album of theirs?” she says.

“Plan Nine from Fresno. What’s yours?”

“That’s a good one. I like Cannibal Holiday.”

“That’s a good one too.”

“Hey, maybe you saw her open one of Skull Valley’s shows,” Candy says. She turns to Alessa. “When did you tour together?”

“It was just before we recorded our album. About eighteen months ago.”

I shake my head.

“Sorry. I wouldn’t have seen you. Eighteen months ago …” A quick flash of pain in my head. I picture the arena for a second. “I was out of town.”

“Well, if you’re interested we have some live stuff on YouTube.”

“What should I search for?”

“‘Django’s Coffin.’”

I’m starting to warm up to her. “Is Django your favorite western?”

She shrugs.

“My old girlfriend loved it. I like it, but I like The Furies more.”

“Barbara Stanwyck. When she takes away Rip’s derringer and points it at him.”

“It’s a good way to end an argument.”

“I’ve ended a few that way myself.”

“You should show me sometime.”

“Sure. You, me, and Chihiro can go by the L.A. Gun Club.”

She makes a fist and holds it out. I make one too and we bump.

“Alessa plays surf guitar. She totally kicks Dick Dale’s ass,” says Candy. She holds up an LP that’s a bit battered at the edges. “Look what she gave me.”

The cover is greenish, with a man holding a guitar case on a long stairway. A pagoda in the background. Printed on the front is RASHOMON. TAKESHI TERAUCHI AND THE BLUE JEANS.

“Early-seventies Japanese surf rock. She knows all about it.”

I get it now.

“And you bought her noodles to join your band.”

Candy picks up some chopsticks.

“She brought a record, so I brought noodles.”

“That sounds fair.”

Alessa says, “It’s not quite that simple. Chihiro played me a recording of her band rehearsing. They’re not bad. They need work, but they’re not bad.”

Chihiro. Good. Candy’s staying safe, using her new identity even while she’s trying to lure a professional guitarist into the clutches of her garage band. Maybe Alessa’s drug problem was worse than I thought. For a pro to want to work with Candy’s group, she must have burned some bridges with the local L.A. players.

I look at Candy.

“That’s great. You’ll be playing with Skull Valley soon yourself.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?”

Alessa picks up her chopsticks and pokes at her noodles.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she says. “We need to learn some actual songs first.”

Candy sits back down at her desk.

“Yes. Songs first. Then touring. See? She’s a total professional.”

I nod.

“Sounds like it,” I say. Alessa continues poking at her noodles. Even I can take a hint. She’s done with me being there. Candy looks at her. She’s done with me too for the moment.

“Listen, I have to talk to Julie, so I’ll let you get back to work.”

Alessa looks up and smiles, glad I figured out what’s what.

“Nice meeting you, Stark,” she says.

“You too.”

I head to Julie’s office. The moment I’m gone they’re digging into their food, Candy talking excitedly through a full mouth. Alessa laughs at her and hums a staccato surf melody.

I knock on Julie’s door. She looks up and nods. I go in.

“How’s it going?”

Julie shakes her head.

“I’m glad I got myself a door. The Bobbsey Twins out there have been yammering for an hour.”

“Chihiro gets a little nuts when the subject of music comes up.”

“‘Nuts’ is the nice word for it. What are you up to these days? If this is a social call, I have a lot of work I have to do.”

I take Abbot’s folder out of my pocket and drop it on her desk.

“Be happier to see me. I’m bringing you business.”

She opens the folder and picks up the photo.

“Is he missing?”

“That’s what Abbot said.”

“Abbot? Thomas Abbot?”

I look at her.

“Happy to see me now?”

“Happier. Do you have any background information on the kid?”

“There’s some stuff on the back of the photo. His name is Nick, Abbot says. It might be a parent abduction, but I don’t know.”

Julie turns the photo over and scans the information.

“You don’t think he’s telling the truth?”

“I don’t know that either. I just know that he went out of his way not to say what his relationship was with the kid or his parents. He just kept saying ‘my friend’ wants me to get you to look into it.”

She turns the photo over and looks at Nick’s face.

“Normally I’d be reluctant to go with a case with so little information and a cagey client, but—”

“Yeah. It’s the augur asking. He’s got money and he’s got pull. It seems like one to take.”

“And so we will. Thanks, Stark.”

I always feel funny when Julie thanks me. She’s the friend who helped keep Candy out of that Lurker relocation camp so she could become Chihiro. Then she gave her a job. We’re both a long way from paying her back for that. Any case I can throw at her, I will.

From the other room we can hear Candy and Alessa laughing. Julie holds a hand off in their direction

“Can you have a word with her? I mean, this is supposed to be a place of business.”

“Looks like she’s on her lunch hour to me.”

“Lunch hour and then some.”

“Look, you made it clear you didn’t want me involved with the agency. I’m not about to go out there and scold Chihiro for a noodle break.”

“Point taken. Just do me a favor and look at your watch on the way out. Maybe she’ll take the hint.”

“I don’t wear a watch.”

“Right. Well, pretend. Stare at your wrist for two seconds.”

I get up.

“I’ll wrestle them to the ground and give them detention.”

Julie gives me a curdled smile.

“Late at night, if you ever wonder why you don’t work here anymore, remember this moment.”

I open the office door.

“I’ll tell Abbot you’re on the case when I see him Monday.”

“Tell him to call me. It would be nice to discuss a fee.”

“I’ll give him your number.”

“Good night, Stark.”

“Good night.”

I walk over to Candy’s desk and make a big show of looking at my wrist.

“What are you doing?” says Candy.

“Looking at my watch.”

“You don’t have a watch. You barely have socks.”

“I’m supposed to be hinting about the time. Julie’s request.”

“Oh.”

Candy glances at Julie’s office.

“I guess I lost track of time.”

“It’s cool,” says Alessa. “I don’t want to get you in trouble with your boss.”

She gets up. Candy comes from around the desk and gives her a hug.

“Call me tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Let’s figure out a time to get the whole band together.”

“Great.”

Alessa tosses her noodles into the trash and heads for the stairs.

“See you around, Stark.”

I give her a wave.

“You too.”

Candy comes over and kisses me hard.

“Isn’t this the best thing ever? We might be an actual band with an actual guitarist.”

“You’re a guitarist.”

“I’m a guitar player. I know three chords. Alessa is a guitarist. Big difference.”

“Well, I hope it all works out and you get to work together.”

“Me too.”

“You need a ride home?”

She shakes her head.

“I have tons of reports and paperwork to do. I’ll be here late.”

“Okay. I might stop by Bamboo House myself. I’ll see you at home.”

She sits down at her desk.

“Tell Carlos hi for me.”

“I will.”

I start for the stairs and she blows me a kiss. I wink at her.

I head for the Catalina parked around the corner and see Alessa smoking a cigarette on the corner. She turns and sees me.

“You need a ride or something?” I say.

“No thanks. I have a cab coming.”

“Okay. Chihiro is pretty excited about working with you. I haven’t seen her this happy in a while.”

“Chihiro’s cool. And her band is all right. I can work with them.”

“Good luck. They’re a handful.”

She takes a drag on her cigarette, blows out the smoke.

“So am I.”

“I don’t doubt it. Well, I’ll see you around.”

“Good night.”

I go back to the Catalina and get in. Candy is working late. My head is mostly better, but not one hundred percent. I can get drugs for it or I can do the other thing. A stab of guilt gets me in the gut. I don’t like keeping secrets, especially from Candy, but I don’t know if she’d understand this and I need it right now. Just until I can get myself together again. I’ll stop by Bamboo House later and bring home some food so the evening won’t be a total lie.

In the rearview mirror, I watch Alessa get into a cab. It swings around and its headlights reflect into my eyes. Icepicks again.

That settles it. I start the car and wait for whoever is hiding in the backseat to do something. When they don’t, I pull out and head south.

About two blocks on, I hear a moan and pull over into the parking lot of a Spanish Evangelical church. I don’t say anything, waiting for the moaner—it sure sounded like a guy—to show himself. He doesn’t and I slip the black blade out of my coat.

“Anytime now, sunshine. Kill me or get out.”

Someone rustles around and slowly sits up. I turn halfway in my seat.

He’s pale. Thin. Unshaven. Three days or more. He doesn’t smell that great either. He leans against the side of the door where his face falls into line with the blinking sign in front of a bodega. There he is, yellow one second, then swallowed in black the next.

“How long did you know?” he says.

I hear it in his voice. Now that I’m looking for it, I can smell it under his stink. “Fuck me. You’re an angel.”

He purses his lips, half smiling and half embarrassed.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Get out.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’m a nephilim, pal. Half angel and half pissed off. I knew you were there the whole time, but I was waiting for you to do something interesting.”