Richard Kadrey: Hollywood Dead

At first glance, not much has changed inside. It’s still the best punk tiki bar in existence. Old Cramps and Germs posters hang on the walls. Plastic hula girls and coconuts carved like monkeys are lined up behind the bar. And Carlos is there, solo as usual, doling out beer and whiskey to the rabble. What’s changed is the crowd. It’s still a mix of fanged and feathered Lurkers and civilians, but they’re quieter than I remember. Bamboo House of Dolls used to be shoulder to shoulder any night of the week. Tonight you could fire a cannon in here and not hit anything but the wall. Over in the back corner is a minuscule stage where Carlos has installed the death knell of any good bar—a karaoke machine. It’s good to be back inside, but the state of the place is depressing. Most of the stools by the bar are empty, so I take one at the far end away from the door. Yeah, it’s quiet now, but I’ve had enough things creep up on me in here that I know I won’t be able to relax with my back exposed like that.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the place. Have any flesh-eating High Plains Drifter hoedowns, skinhead assassination attempts, or hoodoo firefights happened here since I’ve been gone? Maybe not. And maybe people miss the danger. Maybe Bamboo House of Dolls isn’t the same if you’re not risking your life every time you walk inside. Carlos should have hired an evil clown to hide in the rafters and chase people around with a cleaver every now and then. It sure would have woken up these sad sacks.

Carlos comes down the bar and gives me a hello nod.

“What’ll you have?”

I open my mouth and—like an idiot—almost say “Aqua Regia,” my favorite Hellion brew. Instead, I clear my throat, tell myself to focus for a goddamn minute, and manage to croak, “Jack Daniel’s. A double. Neat.”

“You got it,” he says, and heads back to the bottles and hula girls.

It’s ridiculous how happy it makes me just hearing his voice. The moment I do, the bar becomes more real, the smells and sounds more solid. Who cares if I couldn’t taste a fucking donut? This is my home away from home. Literally these days. I don’t even know if I have a home here anymore. For all I know, money got so thin at Max Overdrive that they tossed some throw pillows upstairs and now rent it out on Airbnb. I wonder if they would mention that I used to keep Kasabian’s head in the closet or point out all the blood that’s soaked into the floor. I would if I was them. It gives the place character. Who wouldn’t pay a little extra to sleep in a real-life Hollywood murder flat?

When Carlos brings me my drink I put down a twenty.

“Keep it.”

He picks it up and tosses it back on the cash register.

“Thanks.”

I look around the place once more.

“It’s quiet in here. Quieter than I remember.”

“Yeah? You been in before?”

“About a year ago. It was a lot more crowded. Loud and lively.”

He looks around the place too.

“That it was. Things change though. Crowds change.”

I sip the Jack. Swirl it around in my mouth and swallow. It burns just right and washes away the last of the fritter.

“Do you ever miss the noise?”

He thinks for a minute.

“Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes it was nice. Other times, it was something else entirely.”

“I remember it used to be a little dangerous around here.”

He lays out coasters and says, “Only if you consider dying dangerous.”

“When you think of the old days, what do you miss most?”

“The people. The old regulars. Some still come in, but others … they’re gone for good.”

I take another sip of Jack.

“This is L.A. Nothing is ever gone for good.”

He smiles.

“Maybe that’s what we need. A reboot. Bride of Bamboo House of Dolls.”

“Son of Bamboo House of Dolls.”

He gives me a look.

“You a Frankenstein fan? I had a buddy who used to like old movies.”

“What happened? You’re not friends anymore?”

Carlos brings over the Jack and a glass. Pours himself a drink.

“He’s gone with the wind.”

“Left town?”

“Dead.”

“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.