Richard Kadrey - The Perdition Score

“Now, Stark,” says Abbot. “Time to earn your money.”

We go upstairs together. The sea air is crisp when we get on deck. I take a deep breath.

“There are worse places to tail someone than Musso and Frank’s. I could use a martini.”

“Not a chance,” says Abbot. “Stay outside and watch from there. Inside, you’re a bit …”

“Noticeable.”

“Exactly.”

I head for the walkway leading to the pier.

I call over my shoulder, “You still owe me cake.”

“Go,” shouts Abbot. “Now.”

I wave and head to the parking lot. Slide into the Catalina and sit there for a minute. Charlie might have a head start on me, but if he’s going into Hollywood he’s going to get stuck in the same traffic I am. That’s going to cut his lead pretty thin. Assuming he took the freeway, if I take surface streets, I might just beat him to Musso’s.

I point the Catalina inland, away from Abbot, Willem, and all their upper-crust intrigue. They’ll be talking about me for a while. Abbot getting an employee report from his guard dog. I know what Willem’s going to say, but I wish I could hear Abbot. The guy hasn’t done me wrong yet, but sending me after the Anpu family alone, I can’t help wondering if I’m being set up for something.

THE MUSSO & FRANK Grill is legendary even by Hollywood standards. It opened in 1919 and has hosted more movie stars, literary types, producers, directors, and starry-eyed wannabes than all the movie studios that have ever existed. Back in the day, Charlie Chaplain and Rudolph Valentino raced horses down Hollywood Boulevard to the grill to see who had to pay. Rita Hayworth, Bogey, and Bacall drank there. Orson Welles wrote there in his favorite booth. Dashiell Hammett, William Faulkner, and Raymond Chandler might have scribbled something, but mostly came to get wrecked. Musso & Frank’s has always been big with star-struck Sub Rosas too. For the classier families and the hicks with money, it’s their Bamboo House of Dolls, but without the jukebox.

Parking on Hollywood Boulevard is ridiculous almost any night, but it’s deadly on the weekends. I dump the Catalina in a white zone across the street and pray the LAPD is too busy chasing jaywalkers to tow it.

Musso’s has a parking lot around the back, which is great if you’re eating there, but not so great if you want to look for a particular car. If this was any other place in town, I might be able to blend in with the crowd and wander into the back. But being called a con twice in just a couple of days is a reminder that I don’t look like most people and would stand out like a pink unicorn if I tried to get back there. Of course, I could always cause a distraction. Use hoodoo to blow something up. But this doesn’t seem like that kind of assignment. I light a Malediction and wander by the front of the restaurant a couple of times, hoping I’ll get lucky and catch Charlie waiting for a table. But I don’t usually get lucky.

Sure enough, I can’t see anything but tourists.

With nothing better to do, I go across the street and wait between an army-surplus store and a tattoo parlor, hoping to catch Charlie going into the restaurant or heading home. I check the time and settle in for a tedious wait. No matter how long Charlie sits in his backroom booth swilling martinis, I’d rather be out with the hustlers and tourists on Hollywood Boulevard than stuck watching Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous in Willem’s man cave.

I smoke a Malediction, then another. Down some Aqua Regia from my flask and start on my third cigarette when who comes staggering out of Musso’s but the birthday boy himself. Which is a little surprising. No one goes in there to have just one drink. Unless Charlie teleported here, he can’t have been inside very long. Why the hell go to all the trouble of navigating Hollywood on a weekend night just to pop into Musso’s if he wasn’t going to stay?

Charlie misses a step and staggers against a blonde young enough to be his daughter, but expensive-looking enough to probably be his mistress. When he stumbles, he drops something. Jean Harlow leans him against the restaurant’s front wall and goes to retrieve whatever he lost.

That’s when I start running. And it’s when I stop because of the bus that almost turns me into a human speed bump. But the pause actually works in my favor. When I get onto the sidewalk, Harlow is leading Charlie toward the parking lot and I get a good look at what she’s holding. It’s a box.

It’s just like the one Karael gave me.

Charlie fucking Anpu didn’t stop by for a martini. He came here to pick up some black milk. For what? Is he going to do the bacon trick for Jean?

While they head around the side of the restaurant for the parking lot, I run back to the Catalina. White zones are supposed to be for passenger loading and unloading, mostly during certain hours. Me, I chose one that’s the twenty-four-hour variety. It doesn’t matter. There’s a ticket on the windshield when I reach the car. I snatch it off and cram it in my pocket, gun the car, and pull the most idiotic, dangerous, and unsubtle U-turn since Junior Johnson was still a stone-cold rumrunner.

What the hell is a creep like Charlie doing with angel poison? And where did he get it? Are rich Sub Rosas keeping celestial beings in the backyard as pets these days? There’s no way I am letting these assholes out of my sight.

I double-park a couple of doors down from Musso’s, waiting for the Rolls to emerge from the lot. Stopping does not endear me to the other drivers on Hollywood Boulevard. People shout at me in a fascinating variety of languages. They give me the finger. Threaten to call the cops. I want to shout at the morons that I’m trying to save their souls, but all they want is for me to move my ass.

Without the Room, this is what I’m reduced to: sucking up abuse and dodging thrown coffee cups.

Soon the Rolls-Royce appears from the side of the restaurant, easing its way into traffic. I don’t want to close in on Charlie and Jean too fast. I want them to feel safe and anonymous, so I gently lift my foot off the brake and let the car roll forward.

I get about twenty feet when the Catalina slams to a stop. It feels like I hit a brick wall.

I should be so lucky.

Because it’s much worse. There’s an angel in front of me with one armored boot on my front bumper, and she looks pissed. No point hesitating. I floor the accelerator, hoping to knock her out of the way, but she leans into the car and I just end up burning rubber. I let up on the pedal, throw the car into park, but leave it running. By the time I get out, a crowd is gathering around us. Even on Hollywood Boulevard, a six-foot-plus woman wearing armored boots stopping a muscle car is something people will notice.

She slams her fists onto the Catalina’s hood and screams, “Give me the box.”

I stab a finger at her.

“Hey, sister. You dent my car, you’re paying for it.”

She punches the hood again. I look past her. The Rolls is out of sight, disappeared into the general flow of traffic.

“Return it to me,” she shouts.

“You want the box?”

I point past her.

“It’s going that way in a silver Rolls. Why don’t you puff out your wings and flutter after it? You’ll love Charlie.”

She comes around the side of the car.

“Not that one. The one you stole.”

“Guess again. It was a gift from one of your kind. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?”

I shouldn’t have said that last part. It gives her ideas. She lunges for me, but even though I’m only half angel, I’m as fast as her. I dodge her and slide across the hood of a Camry aiming for the curb. With one hand, the angel shoves the Camry out of the way, smashing it into an SUV full of kids in soccer uniforms. What sounds like all the banshees in Hell letting loose at once fills the street as the kids in the van completely fucking melt down. The boulevard crowd, who’d been digging the show up until then—probably thinking we were a publicity stunt for a shitty action movie—starts running at the sound of breaking glass and the kids wailing.