Richard Kadrey: Killing Pretty

“Sounds like she likes you.”

“She just likes my movie collection.”

“I’m sure that’s what it is.”

A new song comes on the jukebox, a fifties cha-­cha version of “Jingle Bells.” I’m going to have to speak to Carlos about how his Santa fetish is curdling his taste in music.

“I have some good news,” Julie says. “I think I found a real office. On Sunset, near Sanborn. It’s a little two-­story building that used to have a dentist on the first floor and a telemarketing company on the second. The woman who owns it left when the floods started. There’s some water damage in the lobby, but it’s not bad and she has insurance. Best of all, after all the craziness, she doesn’t want to come back to L.A. and will sell me the whole place for a song.”

“That’s great. Congratulations.”

Julie smiles.

“I mean, it’s not much to look at. It’s between an El Pollo Loco and an empty garage, and across the street from a used car lot.”

“A car lot? That’s convenient. I’m going to need to steal a lot more cars now that I can’t shadow-­walk anymore.”

“Don’t even think about it,” says Julie, suddenly serious.

“Fine. I’ll get around on a Vespa. See how much your clients like that.”

“Can’t you ride your motorcycle?”

“I brought it back from Hell. There’s no way it’s street legal and I’m not looking for any more run-­ins with LAPD.”

“And you think stealing cars will help you avoid that?”

I’m not a huge fan of other ­people’s logic.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “we’ll figure out something. Just no stealing anything in the neighborhood.”

“Cross my heart.”

“With luck I’ll sign the papers next week. I’m putting my condo up for sale. That will cover most of the costs.”

“I’ll cross my fingers and toes too.”

“Thanks.”

Julie shuffles the printouts until they’re straight. She riffles through them one more time and puts them in a soft-­sided leather attaché case.

“I really think we’re onto something,” she says.

“I hope so.”

I look at the last dregs of cold coffee in my cup.

“I need another drink. You?”

She drains the last of her beer. Shakes her head.

“I’m good. You’re sticking with coffee, right?”

“While you drink beer?”

“I don’t have a drinking problem.”

“You think I do?”

She starts to say something, but stops, like she doesn’t want to get into it.

“Just stick to coffee for now.”

“Yes, boss.”

I head back to the bar. Carlos sees me coming and has the coffeepot ready.

“How’s the sober life treating you so far?”

“It’s been ten minutes of sheer hell.”

“I hear it gets better.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Fuck you.”

Carlos puts a hand to his ear.

“Sorry. I can’t hear you over the music.”

I give him the finger as he moves on to other customers.

“You heard me just fine.”

Someone says, “Drink up, cowboy. I’ll get the next round.”

It’s a woman’s voice, but when I look there’s no one there. Someone taps me on the shoulder. I have to turn to see her.

She’s wearing shades. Round and deep black, so her eyes are invisible. Her hair is buzzed to maybe an inch long and dyed cotton-­candy pink. Black lipstick and a bomber jacket over a “Kill la Kill” T-­shirt. Black tights with thigh and shinbones printed in white down the sides. Shiny black boots with pointed studs on the toes and heels.

“So,” Candy says. “Different enough?”

“Plenty. Perfect. Still got your knife?”

She opens her jacket and shows me where she’s had someone at Lollipop Dolls sew in a leather sheath.

“Think my lunch-­box gun will go with the ensemble?”

“I think you’d look naked without it.”

She grins and gets a little closer.

“Naked. I like the sound of that. I checked out my reflection on the way in. I’d do me. How about you?”

I shake my head.

“Careful. Out here in the world we’re still getting to know each other.”

She purses her lips and pulls the jacket around her.

“You’re goddamn paranoid. You should see someone about that.”

“I tried, but she kept writing things down. It made me more paranoid.”

Candy looks away at the bottles behind the bar.

“I went to all this trouble and I can’t even kiss you.”

“Grab a drink and come back into the corner. Julie and I are just about done with our meeting.”

“Fine,” she says.

I can hear the disappointment in her voice. She went way out of her way to change her look and all I can do is nod and smile like a tourist admiring the view. Truth is, even before Candy became Chihiro I’d been feeling funny about the two of us. When she was locked up in a Golden Vigil jail cell for attacking a civilian, she said some things. Like I was using her. Like I thought she was sick. Later, she said it was just poison talking after someone spiked her anti-­Jade potion. She said it made her crazy and suspicious. Maybe. Because some of what she said hit close to home and I’ve been wondering about it ever since. There’s a lot of unspoken stuff between us. I used to think that was a good thing. Now I’m not so sure.

When I get back to the table, Julie says, “Who was that?”

“Guess.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“You’ll see for yourself in a minute.”

Candy comes over with a shot of whiskey. I swear I can smell it all the way across the bar.

She takes off her sunglasses and hooks them over her shirt. Grabs a chair and sits down at our table.

“What do you think?” she asks Julie.

“I can’t believe you’re the same person.”

“That’s the idea,” I say.

“Admit it, I look like a superhero, don’t I?” she says.

“I don’t know many pink-­haired superheroes,” said Julie. “But if there are any, you’ll be stiff competition.”

Candy looks at me.

“See? She likes it.”

“I told you. I like it fine. We just have to be cool.”

Candy rolls her eyes.

“He thinks if I stand too close to him we’re going to get nuked.”

“He might have a point,” says Julie. “About playing down your relationship.”

Candy sits back in her chair.

“You two should start a band. The Buzzkill Twins.”

“Julie is going to have a new office soon,” I say, trying to change the subject.

That gets Candy’s attention. She sits up.

“Cool. If you’re hiring this scaredy cat, can I have a job too?”

“What are your skills?” says Julie.

“I was afraid you’d ask that.”

I say, “You used to run the office for Doc Kinski.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“I might need a receptionist at some point,” Julie says.

“Swell.”

I look at Candy.

“You really want to be a receptionist?”

“No,” she says. “I want to kick down doors like you, but apparently I’m not allowed.”

“I never said that.”

I want a drink and a cigarette. I want zombies, dinosaurs, and flaming giraffes to come crashing through the door so I don’t have to talk anymore.

“Look,” I say. “Maybe I am being a little paranoid. It’s just, we faked your death once. I’m not sure we can get away with it again. What do you think, Julie?”

“I think the U.S. Marshals Ser­vice isn’t dumb,” she says.

Candy sips her drink.

“So, I should hide out at Brigitte’s forever and learn to knit?”

I take her shot glass, drink half, and hand it back.

“It would probably be okay if we partner up, but you have to do it as Chihiro, not Candy. Pretend it’s the first season of X-­Files.”