Richard Kadrey - Hollywood Dead

Lucky me, there’s nothing happening there either. Candy is upstairs or out, so I’m basically staring at a dark storefront like a tweaker trying to work up the nerve to rob the place. But unfocused staring sometimes pays off. Through the front window, I get a glimpse of Kasabian moving around inside. He’s talking to someone and smiling, and for a second I get fifth-grade giddy that I might score a look at that cute girl who sits next to me in history class. Instead, it’s Alessa— Candy’s girlfriend. Candy met her a few weeks before I died and they became lovers soon after that. I mean, I told her it was okay with me, and it was. Candy had always dated girls and the fact she was with me didn’t make her desire to be with other women magically disappear. Now, though, things are different, and for the first time I feel jealous of the two of them. They had a year together that I’ll never get back. They’re a year closer and I’m on the street like a goddamn lost dog wondering if I’ll ever find my way back home.

Thinking about it, though, maybe this is a good thing and I should shut up and not get so maudlin. Candy watched me get murdered and Alessa was there to help her through it. And Alessa has obviously forgiven Candy for lying to her about who she really was. Alessa didn’t know Candy was a Jade when they started dating. She also only knew Candy as Chihiro, the identity she had to adopt to stay out of a federal lockup. When someone gets hit with secrets like that all at once and they stick around, that makes them good people and someone who really cares about you. So, yeah, Alessa is a lot more all right with me now than she was before I died.

But none of that stops me from wanting to charge inside and see Candy right now. Instead, I step into a shadow before I do something truly stupid.

I come out in my room in Sandoval’s mansion. I want another drink, but that means going into her office, which means I might see her or Sinclair, and in my current mood I’m not sure either one of them would leave with their head on their shoulders. Instead, I throw my clothes in a heap in the corner and get into bed. I’m suddenly a lot more tired than I was a couple of hours ago.

My dreams are about bombs exploding and L.A. being wiped off the map. It’s all in slow motion, so I get a good look at the city flying apart, burning bodies tossed into the air with flaming palm trees, the fire moving up the hills, scorching everything along the way. The Hollywood sign flies apart. The Griffith Observatory explodes when the concussion wave hits it. I try to distract myself with all of this cinematic carnage, but it doesn’t work. Swirling around the center of things is everyone I know and care about: Candy, Kasabian, Vidocq, Allegra, Brigitte, Carlos, even Alessa. They’re whipped around in a sun-bright vortex, pulled down into a boiling mass of nothingness. A swirling singularity so incandescent it turns to ash not just their bodies, but every particle of their being, so that there’s nothing left of them for Hell or Heaven, meaning they just fade from existence like they were never there. And all I can do is watch and let it happen because I don’t know how to stop it.

Fuck Wormwood. Fuck the faction. If I can’t stop the ritual, no one lives. No escape jets or yachts heading out to sea for this crowd. They get swallowed in the burning madness with the rest of us. I’ll laugh and laugh as they cry and cry all the way down into nonexistence when it finally hits them that all their money and power isn’t going to hold their atoms together in the coming shitstorm. The feeling isn’t satisfaction. It’s more like revenge. And sometimes that’s as close to satisfaction as you’re ever going to get.

WHEN I WAKE up in the morning, there’s a black suit waiting for me in the closet. It’s a Hugo Boss. Of course he’d be the go-to guy for Wormwood. In World War II, he made uniforms for the SS. There’s also a dark purple shirt and a pair of Italian shoes by the bed.

When I try everything on, they’re a perfect fit. That’s unsettling. I’m going to assume that Sandoval or someone figured out my size by eyeballing me. It’s either that or someone sneaked in here while I was asleep and measured me like they were getting me ready for a coffin.

Normally I don’t like playing dress-up, but Sandoval, Sinclair, and their roaches look startled enough when they see me in James Bond drag that it’s worth it.

“You look very convincing,” says Sinclair.

“Except for the face,” says Sandoval. “Really, Stark, you’re much too ugly to be a Wormwood associate.”

I whisper some hoodoo and put on the glamour I used last night. Again, Sinclair and the roaches are startled. To Sandoval’s credit, she just looks me over like she’s selecting which lobster in the tank to eat for dinner.

She says, “Much better. Almost human.”

I adjust my tie in a mirror on the wall.

“Thanks. You’re looking pretty Maleficent yourself. Curse any kids today?”

“No, but Sinclair and I punched a lovely hole in the Japanese stock market.”

“It seemed a good time to bring down some Yakuza-controlled companies that have aligned themselves with the faction,” he says.

Sandoval grins broadly.

“There’ll be blood flowing in Tokyo tonight.”

“Sounds like fun,” I say. “Me, I prefer a good thriller. Ever seen The Usual Suspects ?”

“Stop it. We don’t have time for your nonsense. And neither do you.”

I close in on her and Sinclair.

“I only bring it up because the whole story hinges on a huge lie. You see my point?”

Sinclair scratches his ear. A nervous tic.

“We did what we talked about. All of us.”

“So, everyone knows that a courier is going out?”

Sandoval says, “Calm down. We said as much as we could without being too obvious. If there’s a traitor in our organization, he or she knows that you’ll be moving an important package.”

There’s a briefcase lying on the pool table.

“What’s in it?”

“Random financial records,” says Sinclair. “Nothing the faction can use against us.”

I look at them both.

“You better not have fucked this up because my only other alternative is to start killing your staff and hope someone squeals.”

“Why don’t you just do that now?” says Sandoval. “That sounds more efficient than this courier scenario.”

“Sure. I could start with you and Barron. How do I know that this whole thing isn’t a setup? Maybe you two are the rats and you just want to see if anyone can get through to your faction pals.”

“Don’t be absurd. We’re the injured party.”

“Then don’t tell me who to kill and when. It unsettles my tranquil disposition.”

“We’ve done our part. Now you do yours,” says Sinclair.

Sandoval glances at her watch.

“The car will be here soon.”

I pick up the briefcase.

“Nice. What is this? Rattlesnake?”

“Alligator,” Sinclair.

“I knew it was something cold-blooded.”

Sandoval’s cell phone rings. She exchanges a few words and hangs up.

“The car is here. The driver knows where to take you. It’s one of our law offices in Westwood.”

“Do you know the driver?”

Sandoval gives me a look.

“Philip? He’s worked for me for years. I trust him.”

“I mean, if I get snatched, he might not be in shape to be your driver anymore.”

She looks at Sinclair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

She looks back at me.

“That’s why we wanted you. Your sick little mind.”

“You have any spare drivers lying around? Ones you don’t like as much?”

“No. Do you, Barron?”

He shakes his head. “I’ve known my driver for years.”