but that’s too easy. I always want a drink. Guess again.”
“You’re back wondering if I’m crazy or not and leaning toward crazy.”
I nod and take few steps in the direction of the Mercedes.
“Actaully, I’m not. I’m leaning toward I don’t give a goddam. I’m sick of Heaven and Hell and angels and nephilim and all the rest of it. I knew what I was doing there. And no one told me that I’m not who I am. Be a fallen archangel if you want, but leave me out of it. I don’t want to be part of your soap opera. I don’t want to be mythological.”
I start back for the Mercedes, but it looks ridiculous to me now. A brain dead cross between a giant grasshopper and a Cubist Corvette. I walk past the car and into the shadow of a lampost at the corner of the lot. Kinski watches me go. As I slip into the Room of Thirteen Doors, for just a second, some annoying part of my brain whispers, “You know that thing that you’re doing right now, going from a parking lot to the center of the universe and out again? That’s pretty seriously mythological.”
THERE’S ONLY ONE problem with L.A.
It exists.
L.A. is what happens when a bunch of Lovecraftian elder gods and porn starlets spend a weekend locked up in the Chateau Marmont snorting lines of crank off Jim Morrison’s bones. If the Viagra and illegal Traci Lords videos don’t get you going, then the Japanese tentacle porn will.
New York has short con cannibals and sewer gators. Chicago is all snowbound yetis and the ghosts of a million angry steers with horns like jackhammers. Texas is crisscrossed with ghost railroads that kidnap demon-possessed Lolitas to play strip Russian roulette with six shells in the chamber.
L.A. is all assholes and angels, bloodsuckers and trust-fund satanists, black magic and movie moguls with more bodies buried under the house than John Wayne Gacy.
There are more surveillance cameras and razor wire here than around the pope. L.A. is one traffic jam from going completely Hiroshima.
God, I love this town.
I NEED FOOD. I need booze. I need to smoke a cigarette outside a bar where you can hear people dry humping in the alley behind the Dumpster.
I walk from Max Overdrive to the Bamboo House of Dolls, sucking down stage-six smog-alert air and lingering over a sunset as bloody as the fall of the Roman Empire.
People stare and point at me as I go inside. For a second I have that anxiety-dream paranoia that I’m not wearing any pants. But no one’s laughing and I’ve got a pocket full of money and a knife tucked in the back of my jeans, so I think I’m covered on the pants thing.
More girls smile at me going into Bamboo House than have smiled at me in my entire life. There must be a scar-fetish convention in town.
An older guy in a purple velvet Edwardian jacket holds the door for me when I go inside. Scratch the scar convention. We’ve been invaded by Renn Faire rejects on acid. I stand for a minute in the alcove. Let my eyes adjust to the dim inside.
The place goes dead silent. Carlos even kills the music. My balls shrink up inside my body and my hand sneaks back for my knife. I open my eyes and about a hundred schizophrenics start applauding. In a minute, they’re all chanting “Sandman! Sandman!” There’s a banner over the bar. In silver glitter it says DING DONG, THE WITCH IS DEAD. There’s a framed picture of Mason with a black wreath around it on the bar. Someone’s drawn a mustache and devil horns on him in Magic Marker.
People rush forward and start shaking my hand. Patting me on the back. Women kiss me. Guys with funny accents kiss me, too. Some are dressed like ordinary businessmen and women, students, hipsters, and adolescent neopunks. Others look like they’re on a weekend pass from an asylum in Oz.
Holy shit. The Sub Rosa have taken over my bar.
Word must have gotten around about my cage match with Mason and the Kissi.
Fuck me. I’m a rock star. And all I really wanted was a burrito.
I belly up to the bar and Carlos beams at me.
“Your friends are a blast!” he yells over the din. “Why didn’t you bring them in before?”
“I didn’t know they were my friends.”
He keeps smiling. He can’t hear a word I say. He motions me to get closer so he can whisper something to me. I get right up to him and he says, “Some of these people, no shit, can do magic.”
“Can you magic me some rice and beans? I’m hungry enough to eat Orange County.”
Two minutes later, Carlos brings me enough food to feed the Pacific Rim. I hold up my tumbler full of Jack and Carlos and I toast each other. He looks extremely happy. The Sub Rosa might be a bunch of lunatics, show-offs, and bureaucrats, but they’re a big part of the underground economy that keeps California afloat. And they’re not shy about splashing around cash. If the Bamboo House of Dolls stays Sub Rosa central, Carlos will have enough money to retire by Friday.
I try to eat, but people keep coming up and introducing themselves. If I need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call. About fifty different women slip me their phone numbers. So do at least that many guys. I don’t remember anyone’s name. It’s one big lovefest blur, and as nice as these people are being, it’s really getting to me. I pretend that I’m going out for a smoke, but what I really need is a shadow to disappear into.
On the other hand, I really need a smoke, too.
I light up by the side of the bar. A woman walks over to me. She’s dressed like Stevie Nicks in her how-fast-can-I-burn-out-my-nose-with-coke period. When she gets closer, she becomes really interesting. She has the whitest skin I’ve ever seen. And there’s something strange about her face: it moves whether she talks or not. Her face is like the phases of the moon, going from a gorgeous bride-to-be to an old woman with a face like shattered granite.
“Are you having fun inside?” she asks.
I shrug.
“It’s nice, but it’s a little much. I’m going to finish this and sneak off.”
“I’m glad I caught you then. I’m Medea Bava. Did you get the package I left with your friend Vidocq?”
Feathers. Wolf teeth. Blood.
“I got it. And it was after Christmas, but you still cared enough to get me something.”
The young woman’s and the old woman’s faces turn serious.
“You might be a hero to those fools inside, but you’re not to me. To me, you’re a dangerous man. A criminal for sure. Possibly a wild dog that needs to be put down.”
“You’re from the Inquisition, aren’t you?”
She laughs.
“My boy, I am the Inquisition. And from this moment onward, I will be watching every move you make.”
“Isn’t that a song by the Police?”
“That’s exactly the kind of thing that will get you another package. Only this one will be a bit more, let’s say, lively.”
“Lady, I’ve seen Hell and I’ve seen Hollywood and I have a pretty good idea what Heaven looks like. So, take your threats and shove ’em straight up your deviated septum. For me to worry about your finger wagging, I’d have to give a damn about something, and I’ve pretty much reached my limit there. Anytime you want to get all junkyard dog, give me a call. You might kill me, but trust me, you’re going to have a limp and that face of yours isn’t going to move so easily anymore.”
She keeps looking at me. No reaction. Nothing. Just her stare shifting through the phases of the moon.
“Have a nice party, young man.”
“Leave a light on. Maybe I won’t wait for you to come after me.”