would be that amateur hour. I turn around twice, but the street is always empty.
At the corner of South Broadway, I look again. A man stands half lit under a streetlight. His posture is funny, like he needs a back brace but forgot his on the bus. He just stands there. When he tries to turn around, he stumbles on the foot he’s been dragging. For a split second, his face is in the light. I swear it’s Mason. His face is dead white and gaunt, the skin torn. But then it isn’t him. It never was. I don’t recognize him. By the time I run over to where the stranger is standing, he’s moved back into the dark and disappeared.
Hissing sounds of car tires rolling by on Broadway. Gurgle of water from the sewer at my feet. There’s nothing else. I’m the only thing alive on the street. Serves me right for turning down a ride home from a cannibal play party, even if it was with a cop.
I step through a shadow into the Room and stay there long enough to smoke a cigarette. I’m nowhere in here. I’m outside space and time. The universe crashes around me like cosmic bumper cars. Somewhere out there stars are being born while others flare out, frying planets and whole populations. A few billion here. A few billion there. Lucifer promises some pimply kid ten years at the top of the music charts for his soul. Of course, the kid is too dumb to specify which charts and is about to find himself with number one singles in Mongolia and Uzbekistan. God watches while a bus full of his worshippers spins out on a patch of black ice, flips, and catches fire, burning everyone inside alive.
The universe is a meat grinder and we’re just pork in designer shoes, keeping busy so we can pretend we’re not all headed for the sausage factory. Maybe I’ve been hallucinating this whole time and there is no Heaven and Hell. Instead of having to choose between God and the devil, maybe our only real choice comes down to link or patty?
When I got back to my room above Max Overdrive, I put Kasabian in the closet where I used to lock him up. I built him a bachelor pad in there. Padded the shelves with cabinets where he can keep beer and snacks, along with a bucket where he can slop the remains. There’s a computer inside, so he can surf the Web and watch any movies he wants. It’s soundproof so I can sleep and not hear if he’s watching Behind the Green Door. I know I’m going to dream about Springheel’s chewed-up carcass tonight and I don’t need Kasabian and Marilyn Chambers joining the party.
I DON’T WAKE up until almost two the next day. It took a fair amount of drinking to fall asleep last night. All the pillows are on the floor and the blankets are in a knot by my feet, so I know I dreamed, but I can’t remember what about. Kasabian probably knows. He’s back over on the table at the PC going through online video catalogs, pretending he doesn’t know I’m awake. I think Lucifer gave him a touch of clairvoyance so he can get snapshots of my mind. That’s okay. I’ve been playing a lot more with hexes lately so I don’t always have to go for the knife or gun. I have some tricks I’ve worked up that he doesn’t know about yet.
Losing the Bugatti has punched a car-size hole in my heart, so I steal a Corvette from in front of Donut Universe and drive to Vidocq’s. Maybe I should start thinking of it as Vidocq and Allegra’s. She’s always there when I go. I don’t think she goes back to her apartment to do anything but change clothes.
I hate Corvettes, so I leave it in front of the most obvious crack house in Vidocq’s neighborhood and walk the last few blocks to his place.
Inside, I take the elevator to the third floor and head down the hallway. I can’t find my cigarettes, so I stop in the hall to pat myself down. A gray-haired guy in a green windbreaker and worn chinos stops beside me.
“Didn’t you used to live here?”
I nod, still patting myself down. If I left the cigarettes in the car, the crackheads have them by now, dammit.
“A long time ago.”
“With a girl, right? Pretty. And she kept the place after you left.”
Why do I do this to myself? This is what happens every time I try to be a person. I do something normal, like walk in the front door of a building, and the Neighborhood Watch is on me.
“Yeah, she was very pretty.”
He gives me a just-between-us-guys half smile.
“What happened, man? She throw you out for doing her sister?”
Sometimes there’s nothing worse than the truth. It can be harder and sharper and hurt more than a knife. The truth can clear a room faster than tear gas. The problem with telling the truth is that someone then has something on you that they can use against you. The good part is that you don’t have to remember which lie you told who.
“I got dragged to Hell by demons from the dawn of time. While I was down there, I killed monsters and became a hit man for the devil’s friends. How have you been?”
The guy’s smile curdles. He takes a step back.
“Don’t let me catch you hanging around the halls anymore, okay? I’ll have to call the manager.”
“No problem, Brenda. You have an extra cigarette?”
“My name’s Phil.”
“You have an extra cigarette, Chet?”
He walks away and gets a good twenty feet before he mumbles “Fuck you,” sure I can’t hear him.
I knock on Vidocq’s door to let him know I’m there and go inside.
“Hi,” says Allegra from behind the big cutting table where she and Vidocq prepare their potions. Vidocq is in the kitchen making coffee. He holds up the pot when he sees me.
“Good afternoon. You look like you’re still asleep.”
“I’m fine, just don’t wake my brain. I think it’s been drinking.”
Allegra walks over with a shit-eating grin on her face.
“No thank you, little girl. I don’t want to buy any of your cookies.”
Her smile doesn’t waver.
“Is it true? Is Lucifer really here in L.A.?”
I look at Vidocq.
“Word travels fast around these parts.”
He shrugs.
“We have no secrets.”
I turn back to Allegra.
“I spent the evening with a guy in a magic hotel room the size of Texas and decorated like the Vatican, if the Vatican was a whorehouse. I think there’s a pretty good chance it was Lucifer.”
“You knew him down in Hell, right? What’s he like?”
Vidocq brings me a cup of black coffee, holds up his cup in a little toast.
“Girls are obsessed with bad boys, man. How can we compete with the Prince of Darkness?” I ask.
He sits on the worn sofa and shrugs.
“We’ve already lost the battle. We accept defeat and move along, sadder but wiser.”
“Well?” says Allegra.
“What do I know that isn’t in the Bible or Paradise Lost?”
“Are those right? Are they accurate?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I never read ’em, but they’re popular.”
She takes away my coffee cup and sets it on the table behind her.
“I want to hear it from you. Tell me what he’s like.”
“He’s exactly what you think he is. He’s good-looking, smart, and the scariest son of a bitch you can possibly imagine. He purrs like a cat one minute, and the next, he’s Lex Luthor with a migraine. He’s David Bowie, Charlie Manson, and Einstein all rolled into one.”
“That sounds pretty hot.”
“Of course