Sandman Slim with Bonus Content (19 page)

Now it’s her turn to not talk.

“I know you must hate it.”

“Hate doesn’t come close to it.”

“I heard about your fight with Parker.”

“Everyone has, apparently.”

“Did you know Jayne-Anne is dead?”

“When?”

“Last night. Parker did it. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“That’s why you need my help. I go after Jayne and Parker kills her because she probably has information that could lead to Mason. TJ and Kasabian are already out of the picture. That just leaves you.”

“Will you help me?”

“Give me a reason.”

“I know where Mason is.”

I walk back to the bar and away from the music. I don’t want to miss any of this. “I don’t believe you.”

“The reason no one can find him is that he isn’t in this reality. He’s somewhere else. But I guess that if you got back here from Hell, you can find a way to get to him.”

“How do I know that Mason isn’t standing next to you right now, telling you what to say?”

“How do I know you won’t shoot me in the back like you did Parker, once I’ve told you where Mason is?”

Mason or Cherry. If she’s telling the truth, it isn’t much of a choice. Especially after today. I wouldn’t mind giving bloody noses to some nosy Sub Rosa hall monitors, but with Parker and Mason dogging me, it’s dumb to go begging for unnecessary trouble.

“Okay,” I say. “It’s a deal. When and where should we meet?”

She doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. “Someone’s coming. I’ll call you later.”

I put the phone in my pocket and go back to my food. Carlos has already refilled my glass.

“Let me guess. You were talking to a woman. I don’t need to hear the words. It’s all in the tone,” he says. “They call when they want something, then they’re the ones who cut you off.”

“It’s not women. It’s humans. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t kill ’em all.”

I go back to my food, and wonder about Cherry. Her breathing sounded nervous on the phone, but I can’t be sure. I guess my new Spidey senses don’t work over wires. But if she’s setting me up, wouldn’t she have suggested a time and place to meet right away? I can go round and round like this forever, looking for secret meanings in every syllable and pause in the conversation. If I am being set up, I want to go in with an edge so I don’t end up eating one of Parker’s fireballs. Normally, about now, I’d go and ask Vidocq for advice or maybe a protection charm. Today doesn’t seem like the day for that.

It takes me a minute to notice that the music has changed. It’s shifted from tiki drums and bird calls to something more somber. All slow bass and breathy sax. Then a singer.

I go to the jukebox to see what’s playing.

“Who put this song on?” I turn and look at the room. It’s early enough that the place isn’t packed yet. There are maybe a dozen people scattered at different tables. “Who put this song on?” Not a word. My heart is pounding. I go back to the bar, keeping an eye on the room, not sure what to do. I want to start throwing furniture and people, but two sets of civilian casualties in one day is probably two too many.

I ask Carlos, “Did you see anyone by the jukebox?”

“Sorry, man. No. I didn’t even know we had the song. Never heard it before. The ser vice guys change the tunes every now and then, when they come in to empty the coin bins.”

“Next time one of them comes in, tell them to take it off.”

“You got it. Here. Have another drink.” Carlos starts to pour me one, sets down the bottle, and grabs a baseball bat from under the counter.

“Get the fuck out of here
, rulacho
. You got no business here.”

I look at the door. One of the skinheads from the other day is there, black eyes and his arm in a sling. He comes inside and stands by the bar, tall and cocky, but his heartbeat says he’s scared, and he’s keeping an eye on Carlos and his bat.

“The
Blut Führer
wants to see you,” he says, nodding at me.

“The bloated what?”

“Blut Führer,”
says Carlos. “ ‘Blood leader.’ The boss to these Nazi bitches.”

“Shut up, spick. White men are talking.”

I have one hand around skinhead’s throat and I’m squeezing the juice out of him. This is exactly what I need to work off some tension. When I let go, the skinhead falls on his ass on the floor. So much for tall and cocky.

“The
Blut Führer
. . .” he rasps.

“Blood leader?” I say. “When did you guys start playing Dungeons and Dragons? Tell the blood fart to kiss my ass.”

Himmler grabs a bar stool and pulls himself to his feet. “I told him about that black knife you used on Frederic. That’s why he wants to meet you.”

“Why do I care what he wants?”

“The
Blut Führer
says he knows the original owner.”

Azazel? A third-rate Colonel Klink impersonator knows Azazel?

“How does your boss know the owner?”

“I don’t know. He just said he wanted to meet the man with the power to have that particular knife. He promises you safe passage in and out.”

“Thanks, but I think I can find my own way in and out of your mom’s basement.”

“Don’t trust this little bug,” says Carlos. “Let me call the cops.”

“No. If he knows about the knife, I want to meet the guy.”

The skinhead says, “There’s a car outside.”

When he turns, I wrap my right arm around his neck and squeeze. I have the knife against the side of his throat.

“If you’re lying to me, I’m going to cut out your eyes and cut off your balls. Then I’m going put your balls in your eye sockets and staple your eyes in your ball sac. So, let me ask you one more time, are you absolutely sure you’re telling me the truth?”

The skinhead tries to nod. “He said he just wants to meet you and that no one will bother you.”

I take off the Veritas and flip it. It lands showing a burning cross and
Sieg Heil
in phonetic runes.

“Okay, Princess.” I put the knife back in my waistband under the hoodie. “But remember—no tongues on a first date.”

THE NEW REICHSTAG
is an abandoned furniture warehouse near Sunset and Alvarado. A dozen American junker cars with white-power bumper stickers are parked outside. Another dozen chop-shop Harleys are lined up just beyond the cars. At least now I know who rides in this town.

My Nazi best friend knocks on the door and a girl skin-head with a Luger in a shoulder holster lets us inside the clubhouse.

No one has opened a window in this place for ten years. The room stinks of beer, piss, and sweat. It’s packed with roid rage Hitler Youth, but I can’t take my eyes off the girl who let us in, fierce and skinny, sporting a wife beater, shaved head, and a gun. I want to tell her,
Baby, you’re my punk-rock dream date. Let’s get drunk and break stuff.
Then I remember that she’s not like the girls I knew way back when. Proud to be scum. She’s waiting to be swept off to Valhalla by goose-stepping Dolph Lundgren look-alikes.

She asks, “What the fuck are you staring at, asshole?”
and moves a hand to the gun.

I smile at her. “Spank me harder, Eva Braun.”

She spits at my boots but misses. My Nazi pal says, “Shut up, Ilsa.” He leads me to an office door marked private. He knocks twice and we go inside.

While the main room is a piss-soaked junkyard of broken furniture and overflowing garbage cans, the office is as clean and organized as an operating room.

Behind a gray metal desk, a blond man is writing with a fountain pen on a yellow legal pad. High forehead. Sky-blue eyes. Cheekbones like the prow of an icebreaker. A perfect Aryan wet dream. Hell, even I want to have this guy’s babies.

His desk is surrounded by neat piles of white power pamphlets, slim books on how Jews and blacks are really extraterrestrial invaders, event sign-up sheets and CDs with pictures of bare-chested bands covered in swastika tattoos. At one corner is an impressive pile of weapons, knives, knuckle-dusters, and pipes wrapped in electrical tape. Mixed in the pile of metal, I’m pretty sure I see a couple of Hellion weapons that I used in the arena.

He looks up at me and gives me a smile that would melt a car salesman’s heart. “Sorry. Just making some notes for a speech I have to give this weekend. Please, sit down.”

I sit on a padded metal folding chair. My weight makes it squeak. Only the Führer gets the good furniture. I’ve gotten used to being able to read people, their breathing and heart rate, but I can’t get a fix on this guy. He’s not even too calm to read. It’s like he’s not there at all.

“What’s the story, Siegfried?” I ask. “Why are they all shorn sheep out there, but you get to have hair?”

“In the group, I’m called Josef. I’m the face of the movement. It’s all about media these days, isn’t it?” He points to a box of recruitment DVDs and tapes. “Tattoos and shaved heads scare people. Looking like the prom king brings the newspaper and local TV around, and gets our message out to more potential recruits.”

“I know about your message and don’t want to hear more. I’ve had enough crazy talk for this lifetime.”

“I’m sure you have. They don’t think much of the human race down in the pit, do they? I know Azazel doesn’t.” He watches me when he says it, waiting for a reaction. I don’t give him one.

“How do you know what Azazel thinks?”

“Because I’ve talked to him. He’s not happy with you killing him with his own knife. Tartarus is a bleak place compared to Hell.”

“How could you talk to Azazel? You can’t do a summoning on anyone as powerful as Azazel, and only Lucifer can walk in and out of Hell on his own.”

“Who says I’m on my own?” He opens his hands in an expansive gesture, like something a preacher would do. “What’s that old line from Luke? ‘My name is Legion: for we are many.’ ”

“Who’s ‘we’? Not those idiots out there.”

“Of course not.” Josef gets up and walks around the desk. He’s wearing chinos and a polo shirt. He doesn’t look any more dangerous than a salesman at RadioShack. “Who we are doesn’t matter.
You
matter. You got out of Hell and that makes you special. But why are you special? You don’t even smell like other humans. What are you?”

“I’m no one. I’m just me.”

“I think you’re being modest. Let’s see.”

Before I know what’s happening, Josef has one hand on my shoulder and the other inside my chest. I’m not bleeding and my bones aren’t cracked. He’s just got his hand
inside
me. I can feel his fingers moving over my ribs and between my organs. I try to throw him off. Punch or kick him. But I can’t move. He finds one of the bullets. Turns it between his fingers.

“Oh,” he says. “That shouldn’t be there. You should have that looked at.”

Josef’s human facade cracks like old paint, drops in flakes, and peels away in long sheets, falling on the floor. There’s a black void beneath his skin, but the blackness doesn’t hold and I can see what’s inside him. Josef is the hands and eyes of the operation, but he’s not alone. There are other creatures in there, too. Their outlines aren’t entirely solid. They’re vague, like ghosts. Like Josef, they glow from the inside, a pale blue white, like a slug crawling across the bottom of the ocean. They remind me of angels, if angels were candles that you left in a locked car in Texas in August. Their faces are fish-belly white and soft. Half formed. The fact that the creatures are almost beautiful makes them even harder to look at. I can’t read them the way I can a person, but I don’t have to. They remind me of insects. They might pounce on your next move, or they might wait for a million years, until they think the moment is right. It’s all the same to them. They’re patience and hunger with a side of fury.

I’m sick and freezing. It’s like I’m icing up from the inside. There’s a bitter smell and taste. Like a mouthful of vinegar. I want to throw up, but I can’t move.

“What’s this?” The question comes from far away and in a thousand discordant voices.

Josef takes my heart in his hand. His fingers glide through my flesh and touch Azazel’s key. Josef goes rigid.

All those voices again. “What is that? Is that your secret? I want it!” He leans forward and pulls on my heart. This time I scream. He’s trying to pull it out through my chest and it feels like he just might make it. But it’s not my heart he wants. It’s the key inside. He gets his fingers around it and tries to pry it out.

I don’t black out. I don’t scream. My vision collapses to a small point and settles on the floor, which opens up beneath me. I can see the outlines of Lucifer’s palace, Pandemonium, and the city around it. The smaller generals’ palaces and the arena where I fought. Individual Hellions drift up through the chaos at the edges of Hell, flying toward me. I know what this is now. I’m dying. Until now, I wasn’t even sure I could die. Now I know better.

The Hellions are getting closer. Soon I’ll fall right into their waiting arms. I hope they let me fight in the arena again. What else am I good at?

Josef screams and pulls his hand out of my chest. The human fingers are black and charred.

“What did you do to me? What is that thing? I want it.”

The floor is suddenly solid beneath my feet. He’s let go. I’m not dying anymore.

Josef grabs me with his good hand and pulls my face close to his. He looks human again. “A man couldn’t do that. Tell me what you are.”

“I’m the Gingerbread Man. I’ll run and run as fast as I can.”

Josef swings me around and throws me, one-handed, over his desk. Books, papers, and CDs scatter around the room. I slam into the wall. Some of the knuckle-dusters and knives that had been on his desk now dig into my back. I roll over on my belly knowing that I’m useless. I have a demonic knife under my shirt and I’m lying on a pile of shiny killing toys, but I couldn’t go two rounds with a kitten right now.