Sandman Slim with Bonus Content (26 page)

The one remaining unopened, unbroken bottle of Jack is under the mattress with the guns. I crack it open and have a couple of long drinks. Whatever I thought of Kasabian, whatever I thought that I might do to him when I tracked him down, painting him with his own blood and wearing some of it myself was never on my original agenda. One more drink and I’m ready to hit the road.

I lie down in the Cube next to Kasabian so that our shoulders and feet are touching. I use the black blade to cut one of my wrists, deep enough to really get the blood flowing, but not so deep that I lose control of my hands. I upend the bottle for one more shot of liquid courage, and then slice the other wrist.

Nice and relaxed now. Warm and drifting. The Jack and the flowing blood are doing their job. I’ll be unconscious soon. Just before I lose consciousness, I put the second crow feather between my teeth and hold it there.

I’m standing on the floor of an empty desert. The alkali plain is cracked and glistening. There’s a shaft of light at the horizon, but it never moves. It’s always just before sunrise or just after sunset. Take your pick. The air is thick and hard to breathe. The light is a watery blue green.

Kasabian is standing a few yards away wearing the same Max Overdrive T-shirt and chinos that he was wearing the night he shot me.

“So, this is it?” he asks. “This is death?”

I walk across the packed earth to where he’s standing.

“Not really. You’re kind of in between worlds right now. There really isn’t a desert and there really isn’t a sunrise or sunset. This is just something to look at while you wait. You’re sort of on hold and this is the Muzak.”

“While I’m waiting to see if I’m going to Heaven or damned to Hell, this is the best the all-knowing occult powers that run the universe could come up with? Talk about being underachievers.”

“Be fair, man. Everyone knows where you’re headed. Maybe they just didn’t break out the A material for you.”

Kasabian nods.

“You’re right. Why bother? I fucked up my life and I even fucked up dying.”

“So we’re clear, you know that wasn’t me who killed you just now, right? It was Parker.”

“I should never have trusted those guys. Why would Mason help me after all these years? I thought it was different now. I thought that with you back, he’d need me again.”

“Where is he?”

“Listen, you were straight with me before. You know, saying you were sorry for locking me up in that closet and everything. I want to be straight with you.”

“Don’t worry about it. There isn’t a lot of time. Where’s Mason hiding?”

Kasabian looks over his shoulder to the mountains in the distance. There’s a low rumble of thunder. It won’t be long now. He turns back to me.

“I knew something was up that night. I knew Mason had something waiting for you. I thought he was just going to hit you with a leech charm or something. Suck out all your power and keep it for himself. But when those Lurk-ers showed up . . .”

“Kissi. They’re called Kissi.”

“I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

“What did you know about Alice?”

“Nothing. I’m not into doing stuff like that to women. And a civilian? That’s messed up.”

“Would you have told me if you’d known?”

He shrugs. Looks down. Shakes his head.

“Come on, man. That’s not even a real question. Going against Mason feels like you’re going against the devil.”

I can’t read a dead man like a living one. No heartbeat. No breath. Fixed pupils. But I don’t need any of that now.

“I believe you,” I tell him. “And Mason isn’t the devil. He just likes to play dress-up. Tell me where he is and I’ll get him for both of us.”

“I don’t know where he is exactly. It was sort of like here. Spooky and wrong, but a lot weirder. Somewhere far away and dark. Not regular dark, either. Dark like it had no idea what light even was. Like light was Kryptonite to the place. There was no one there, but it wasn’t empty. In fact, it was crowded. But it was full of nothing.” He holds up his hands in frustration. “If any of that makes sense.”

Thunder rolls down the mountains again. A dot of light appears at the base of one a couple of miles away. A door has opened. I take Kasabian by the arm and start walking him that way.

“Listen, when you get to Hell, look up a guy named Belial. He’s one of Lucifer’s generals. Tell him I sent you and ask him for a job. Tell him I said not to send you to the pits.”

“The pits?” asks Kasabian. “What pits?”

“When you tell him who sent you, make sure you tell him it was Sandman Slim. And remind him that the Sandman knows where he lives.”

Kasabian gives me a look.

“What the fuck is Sandman Slim? It sounds like a Japanese cartoon.”

“Just tell him,” I say, and let go of his arm. “This is as far as I go. I have things to do back in the world.”

Kasabian looks at the door and then at me.

“I know,” he says. He turns and heads for the mountain. “I’ll see you around.”

“Probably.”

Flat on my back again. I gulp and the crow feather almost goes down my throat. Rolling over, I spit it onto the floor. Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

I’m not bleeding anymore, but I’m a mess. Again. Besides getting my ass kicked, my main accomplishment on this trip has been to massacre an incredible number of completely innocent clothes. I’m the Joseph Stalin of laundry. I take off the shirt, toss it onto a pile of other junk, and slip on the silk overcoat.

My ears are still ringing, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t any sirens headed this way (the crackheads aren’t going to call it in and who else hangs out here at night?). But some passing Joe Citizen could call in the noise. And the morning crew will be opening the place at eleven tomorrow. I can’t leave Kasabian’s corpse lying here. First, I have to find something.

I find it under the splinters of the bedside table. Alice’s magic box. It’s been crushed a little by the blast. Inside, the bloody cotton has come loose, but it’s still in one piece. I put it under the bed, near the wall.

I pull the blanket off the bed, roll up the body, and use some duct tape I get from behind the counter to hold the blanket tight. I take Kasabian downstairs and out the back way. Also grab a couple of cinder blocks that the day crew uses when they’re on a cigarette break. I’m trying very hard not to think about anything I’m doing. Of all the iffy things I’ve ever done in my life, I’ve never had to ditch a body before. While it’s giving me a migraine right now, I think the fact that I’m not an expert on corpse disposal says a lot of good things about me and my life choices.

About a block away, I find a shiny new BMW SUV, which is way too many random letters strung together. It makes me feel less guilty about stealing it.

I drive it around the block, pull up to Max Overdrive, and load the body and the cinder blocks in the back. Then I drive to Fairfax and turn south. At Wilshire, I make a left and hit the gas until I see mammoths.

Animals have been falling into the La Brea Tar Pits since the last ice age. Not so much recently, since the pits are fenced in and part of a pretty slice of upscale urban green called Hancock Park. There’s a big museum. A lot of wolf skulls and bird bones. A gift shop. And, soon, a dead video store-owning ex-magician.

There’s not a lot of traffic on this part of Wilshire late at night. I hop the curb and pull the van up onto the brick walkway that leads to the museum. When I figure out which light pole I want, I gun the engine and smash the BMW into it at full speed. The van’s windshield and front bumper are totaled. Steam billows from under the hood. The good news is that the pole with the surveillance camera is now a big aluminum toothpick by the museum’s front door.

If you ever need to weigh down a dead body, remember that it’s not hard duct-taping cinder blocks to a stiff, but it is hard getting them balanced right. I’m sure that with enough time and practice, I could come up with a corpse-cinder-block arrangement stable enough that a tightrope walker could use it, but I don’t have time for that now. I’m parked on a major thoroughfare in a stolen van. I have no shirt, an expensive overcoat, and fresh scars on my wrists. And I’m dragging around a dead guy accessorized with building materials. This is not a precise or subtle situation. This is a situation for mindless violence and brute force. First good news I’ve had all day.

I get Kasabian’s weighted body onto my shoulder and haul it out of the van. I drop him on his back a few yards outside the fence. I stoop and grab the body by the ankles, then I start spinning, holding the body like the hammer in a hammer throw. After a few revolutions, I’m dizzy, but have a pretty good head of steam up. When I release him, Kasabian goes flying. He sails through the air end over end, like some long-forgotten Russian space probe returning to Earth, off course and out of control.

The body hits the tar with a thick, dull
thunk
. At first, it doesn’t move. Kasabian floats on the surface defiantly, a corpse burrito refusing to sink. Demanding to be eaten by one of the local dinosaurs lying at the bottom of the pit. Finally, he realizes how unreasonable he’s being, and starts to go under. Slowly. Very slowly. Kasabian’s head disappears. Then his gut. When all that’s left of him above the surface are his shins and feet, I leave. Even if the surface of the tar lake is disturbed in the morning, I think the police will be more interested in the stolen van.

It’s a long, exhausting walk back to Max Overdrive. When I get back to the room, all I can do is flip the mattress clean side up. I don’t bother taking off the overcoat. I lie down in it and get some clean towels from the bathroom to use as a pillow.

All night long, the song someone played once at the Bamboo House of Dolls loops in my head.

Are there people smart enough to know how doomed they are before the world crashes down on them, the way pianos fall on people in old cartoons? There must be, but I’ve never been one of them. Before my trip down the rabbit hole, I figured that I could joke, lie, and bullshit my way through pretty much anything. That’s what’s known as being a professional brat, and I was Superman at that.

Alice never liked Mason and didn’t really trust the rest of the Circle. Neither did I. At least the old, sharp-tooth reptile part of my brain didn’t, but that just made playing with them and being better than them more fun. Especially being better than Mason. Alice could never see the fun. She talked about the Circle like it was crystal meth and I was an addict.

“Didn’t your mommy and daddy teach you that if you play with the bad kids, you’re going to be kept after school?”

“My mom told me I was the handsomest boy in the world. My father taught me to shoot and how to smile while getting the back of someone’s hand. That’s pretty much all I remember.”

She was wearing a white wifebeater and black panties. She was making coffee, but stopped, came over, and sat on my lap.

“That’s why I love you. You’re Norman Rockwell’s perfect boy. Don’t go out with those magic assholes tonight. Stay home with me. We’ll eat apple pie and fuck on a flag.”

“I’ve got to go. Mason’s got something big to show us tonight. I need to be there to piss on his parade.”

She got up and went back to the kitchen.

“Fine. Go, then. Go and show a bunch of losers that you’re better than them. That’s huge. That’s a fucking accomplishment.”

“This is important. You don’t understand. If you had the gift, you’d know. Most of the Sub Rosa are rich dicks or Goth kids without the clove cigarettes. But I need to be around magic people sometimes. People I don’t have to explain myself to.”

“You need to show off to them more than you need to be with me. They’re dangerous and they’re going to suck you into something dangerous and stupid, like summoning the devil or something. And when they get killed or thrown in jail, you’re going with them.”

I grabbed my jacket and went to the door.

“I need to go. I’m late.”

“You know, trying to still be the precocious one isn’t that cute after you’re old enough to buy beer. Grow up. Stop being such a fucking child.”

Walking out, I said, “You know, sometimes you sound just like those regular jack-offs out there. You say you don’t care about the magic. You say you’re not jealous, but you are. You want what I have or you don’t want me to have it at all. Fuck that.”

Later that night, Mason played his little trick on me and I never saw Alice again.

Only now she’s standing at the foot of the bed, staring at the wrecked room. She doesn’t have to say a word. I know what she’s thinking because it’s what I’m thinking. That the mess is a kind of metaphor for my life. She sighs. Picks up small things, drops them, then picks up something else. She shakes her head in wonder at all the junk until I feel ashamed and stupid.

I know that none of this is real. This Alice is a golem. The present Parker said Mason would be sending me. This sighing ghost isn’t Alice any more than the slab of meat I tossed into the tar pits was Kasabian.

The golem’s eyes are milky gray. Its skin is cracked and stained with red, green, and brown lichen, like old granite. Its broken teeth ooze blood. Golem Alice’s fingertips are bare bone, like something has been gnawing at them.

Unfortunately, knowing that something isn’t real doesn’t mean it’s going to go away or that it doesn’t affect you. When she isn’t eyeballing the wreckage of my mini Pompeii, Alice is leaning over me and whispering in my ear.

“You wouldn’t throw me into the black tar, would you, Jimmy? There’s no air down there. And it’s so dark. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, baby?”

THE MORNING CREW
arrives like a herd of baby elephants jacked up on lattes and enough mutant energy drinks to give a rhino a stroke. The crew is an ever-shifting posse of film school hipster dudes. I don’t know any of their names and I don’t want to. They’re just Blond Surfer Dude. Billy Goat Beard Surfer Dude. Dreads Dude, etc. They really are dudes. Sleepy eyes. IQs drowning in bong water. They invent complicated filing systems for the movies because the alphabet baffles them.

One of them knocks on my door. I open it without putting on a shirt. My wrists have healed, but there’s dried blood on my hands. I hope I didn’t ruin the overcoat. Time to look for a dry cleaner.

It’s Billy Goat Beard Surfer Dude. He smells like he used bong water for aftershave. My lack of a shirt and the blood don’t even register.

He says, “Um, a bunch of the shelves in the porn section fell down last night. What do you want us to do?”

For a second, I wonder if he’s kidding. Then I remember who he is.

“Maybe one of you should go and clean it up.”

“Okay, but I’m the only one who can work the register. Bill’s allergic to dust and Rudy just got born again, so he’s a no-porn zone till he gets over it.”

“So, none of you is capable of walking to the back of the store and picking up the movies?”

“I guess not. Plus, there’s cracks in the ceiling. Looks like there’s cracks in there, too,” he says, pointing into the room. I pull the door closed a little.

“Fuck it. It’s porn. People who want it will paw through it wherever it is. Hell, they might like it better down there. Maybe we should put the whole porn section in a big pile on the floor.”

“What?”

I forgot. The only things that are funny when you’re as buzzed as Billy Goat Beard are cartoon animals and seeing other people get hurt.

“Never mind. Just open the store and let me get dressed.”

“When is Mr. Kasabian coming back?”

I look at the kid. Does this doe-eyed weed monkey suspect something? Am I going to have to lobotomize this twerp?

“When he’s damn good and ready,” I say.

“Okay.” He walks away, like he’s already forgotten the whole conversation.

I throw the dead bolt when I close the door. Need to start locking the room up all the time. Too many weapons in here. Too much blood on the floor. Too much residual magic in the walls. All I need is for some stoned teenybopper to take a post-weed nap in Metatron’s Cube and wake up with his soul on a hook in some stalker’s trading booth in the souk.

I clean up in the bathroom. There’s a brownish-red ring around the drain. I need to get some bleach before all the blood I’ve been leaking into the sink stains it permanently. I wonder if Kasabian had any accident or maybe earthquake insurance. I saw official-looking papers in one box—I’ll have to track that down. It’d be nice for Allegra to be able to get the place fixed up when I’m gone and she takes over.

The overcoat is wadded in a ball at the end of the bed. It looks pretty rough. Praise Lucifer that my jeans are black. Blood’s not so obvious on them. I find a box with the last of the Max Overdrive T-shirts in my size and slip it on. The only thing I have to wear over the T-shirt that will hide a weapon is the half-burned motocross jacket. I’ll look a little crazy in it, but it’s still wearable. Because it’s such a wreck, I don’t have any regrets about tearing the lining open so I can slip the
na’at
inside. I’ll still pack Azazel’s knife for backup, but from now on, my primary weapons are the ones that will keep attackers the hell away from me. I didn’t crawl back to Earth just to go bankrupt buying new shirts.