Philip Nutman - Cities of Night

And I wondered, in that unguarded moment, who would mourn for me?

From deep in the woods, I heard La Llorona let loose her painful lament.

Like Raymond the butler in Citizen Kane , I knew where the bodies were buried.

I eased the vintage 2010 Mercedes E-class Coupe out of the fortressed iron gates of my house on Mulholland Drive, heading east towards the Cahuenga Pass and the rebuilt 101 Freeway. There was no traffic on the road as I guided the car like a long-term lover along the snaking, sensuous curves. My wheels had caressed the tarmac here for close to forty-two years. If El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles had been my spiritual wife for over half my life, then the drive which rode the Monroe-esque ridgeline of the Santa Monica Mountains was my true mistress.

“Slow down!” Paul cried as I took a turn a tad faster than I should. “You’ll get us killed!”

“You told me that’s what you wanted, you dumb fucking cunt,” I chuckled as I turned up the theme from Shaft on the sound system. Old habits die hard, and I loved to drive with soundtrack music and twentieth-century funk tunes pounding out loud enough to almost damage my digital hearing aids. There was nothing like a dose of Isaac Hayes to get my old body movin’ and a-groovin’ in the morning, and since this was my death day, I was bloody well going to go out happy.

“Jesus! Look out!” Paul screamed as I deftly manoeuvred the Coupe around the carcass of a coyote straddling the centre line.

I pulled over at the tourist spot which gave an unhindered view of the San Fernando Valley spread out like a soiled carpet beneath us.

“Sobered you up enough have I, old son?” I frowned at Paul Pope. “Enough beating around the bush. It’s time to tell tales and spill the beans, Sunny Jim.”

The Pope of Perversity told me an inane tale which rivalled the plot of a Ray Dennis Steckler movie from the 1960s; it made no sense but I couldn’t care less. His wife had died. His mistress had left him. And Wendy, who he thought was his daughter, had stopped speaking to him and had apparently disappeared. I had been keen to get out of the house and do something on the day of my death so found all this rather amusing. Indeed, do something which might actually kill me, because, honestly, as much as I had a feel for certain future events, I could never see the actual line on the horizon where life and death intersected, as had been the case with my late brother whose fatal rampage of self-destruction had inspired my first award-nominated novella.

Then there was Blackpool and the events which led to my first failed marriage. I had loved Beth with such an intensity that when she left me for another man I nearly died. Nine months of intense drinking and drugging and fucking any snatch I could pull in to bed… shit, self-destruction didn’t work. I didn’t realize it then, and a life misspent should have taught me that trying to kill myself just wasn’t going to work either. But I wanted to be reunited with my beloved Tess. My soul cried out like Frank and Jesse James or Butch and Sundance jumping off that cliff or Pike telling the Gorch Brothers, “ Let’s do it .”

I wanted to die.

And if Paul wanted me to kill him, I was going to blow his brains out with a revelation, not a gun.

Truth is the sword of us all.

Words could be weapons, and I was about to sharpen the knives.

“She’s not your daughter,” I said.

“What?”

“She’s mine.”

“What?” Paul bleated.

“She’s not your daughter! She’s mine! I fucked Angela nonstop for eight months, you idiot!”

In ninety-three years I had never seen someone go from stark white to apoplectic beetroot in twenty seconds. Paul literally went red with rage.

Paul Pope and I had been friends for six months before he betrayed me. Then screwed me over. Paul subsequently spent twenty years badmouthing me, sabotaging business deals because he resented my successes, envied my talent. For a decade, I languished in work-for-hire Hell, either as a journalist or as a fledgling fiction writer while he won comic book awards, directed a couple of crappy music videos and went to Hollywood, riding the coattails of a mega-millionaire who had sold a stupid cartoon concept which made more money than Barney The Dinosaur .

But success is the best revenge, and that I had in spades.

His career languished. I had screwed his wife. I had fathered “his” daughter when he couldn’t get it up…

Pope then had a cardiac arrest.

He died within a minute as we passed the Hollywood Bowl exit. Once I reached North Highland, I opened the passenger door and pushed his body out.

On the day of my death I had no regrets, no worries or concerns.

My daughters were safe in other parts of the world: Cassie in New York, Cali in London. Wendy, Paul’s “daughter” was in Maui, probably drinking a salty margarita at the Hollywood Hawaiian Motel she loved to stay at.

As I turned west onto Sunset Boulevard to head towards the Pacific Ocean, the Big One hit. Beverly Hills and Bel Air rippled. The ground beneath my favourite old car crumbled.

It was more spectacular than that silly Emmerich movie from decades ago.

As Mother Earth swallowed me up, all I could think was, Tess, we will be together again.

For eternity.

There would be no more dreams.

We are dust that dreams.

This book would not exist without the vision of Brett Alexander Savory & Sandra Kasturi and CZP.

Thanks to artists Erik Mohr and Mark Maddox for making it all look so good.

Debts to Anya Martin and Helen Marshall for cleaning up my messes.

And a thank you to my screenwriting students (Class of 2009) for pushing me to think about narrative design — especially Barbara Barth, Michael Brady, and Jayson Palmer.

The book was fuelled on Guinness, Sauza Tequila, Echo & The Bunnymen (very LOUDLY), and Monty Python.

And as the Pythons would say:

“Now piss off!”

All stories are Copyright © Philip Nutman 2010 except as stated and all previous copyrights have been renewed.

Unearthly Powers , © 2010 — original to this collection.

Full Throttle , original © 1990. First published in SPLATTERPUNKS (St. Martins Press, US; Paul M. Sammon, editor.)

Pavlov’s Wristwatch , original © 1991. First published in DARKLANDS (Egerton Press, UK; Nicholas Royle, editor.)

Churches of Desire , original © 1991. First published in BORDERLANDS 2 (Avon Books, US; Thomas E. Monteleone, editor.)

Memories of Lydia, Leaving , original © 1993. First published in AFTER THE DARKNESS (Maclay & Associates, US; Stanley Wiater, editor.)

Blackpool Rock , original © 1995. First published in FORBIDDEN ACTS (Avon Books, US; Nancy A. Collins and Edward E. Kramer, editors.)

Ponce De Leon Avenu e © 2010 — original to this collection.

Still Life With Peckerwood , original © 1996, Anya Martin and Philip Nutman. First published in GAHAN WILSON’S “ THE ULTIMATE HAUNTED HOUSE” (Harper Collins, US; Nancy A. Collins, consulting editor.)

Love Sells The Proud Heart’s Citadel To Fate , © 2010 — original to this collection.

A Mother Cries At Midnight , © 1999, Mike Mignola. (HELLBOY and related characters are © and TM Mike Mignola). Originally published in HELLBOY: ODD JOBS (Dark Horse Comics, US; Christopher Golden, editor.) Special thanks to Mike Mignola for permission to reprint this story.