Kill The Dead Part 25

"Cool. See you there."

"Who was that?"

"Speak of the devil. He's out at the studio. Wants me to swing by and squint menacingly at the help."

"Next he'll have you doing his taxes."

"I've never been to a movie studio. How many guns do you think they'll let me take inside?"

"You? All you want."

The .460 pistol is too big to carry in my waistband, so I wear it on my hip in a tool belt I colored black with a Sharpie and modified into a speed rig. I can have it out and c.o.c.ked before an angel can say "amen."

The knife and na'at hang snug inside the coat lining.

"Does the Codex say anything about Lucifer having a family?"

Kasabian gives me a curious little smile.

"Like is there a Mrs. Lucifer?"

"Yeah. Or kids."

"Not that I've ever seen, but the Codex isn't exactly easy to use. It's all stories and allusions, not a PowerPoint presentation. But I can look if you want. Of course, Lucifer has been f.u.c.king around on earth since the Fall, so he probably has a load of sprogs earning their keep as warlords and priests. You looking for a cage match with the Antichrist?"

I shake my head and go into the bathroom. I check myself in the mirror to make sure I look presentable and that the weapons don't show.

"No. It's just more trivia. I'm going to go and find a ride."

I'm closing the door when Kasabian says, "Can you imagine him for a father?"

"Uh. No."

"He's such a jerk, it would be torture ninety-nine percent of the time, but, come on, parent-teacher night would be fun. 'Little Bobby took half the cla.s.s's lunch money.' 'Only half?'"

I nod at him.

"I'll pick up some cigarettes while I'm out."

THERE'S A VINTAGE car lot on North La Brea. Big gla.s.s showroom up front. A lot full of cla.s.sics and a service bay right around the corner. Cars come out of the lot, make a quick right, and are double-parked by the garage until another car pulls out. A situation like this is all about shopping and timing. I don't love T-birds or Corvettes. However, when a mechanic double-parks a red '67 GTO, I start across the street.

I mumble a little h.e.l.lion spell. There are boxes stacked around the side of the garage waiting for garbage pickup. The oil- and gas-stained cardboard goes up fast. It takes about thirty seconds for the crew to clear the garage, some to gawk and others to hit the flames with fire extinguishers.

The moment they're out, I'm behind the GTO's wheel, knife jammed in the ignition and the V-8 engine growling like a Tyrannosaurus rex. I aim the beast out into traffic and take the corner as white smoke from the dying fire drifts into the street.

I pull onto the Hollywood Freeway, heading north toward Burbank. The time on my phone is 3 P.M. Should I give Brigitte a call? There's a better-than-even chance that she'll be at the studio with Ritchie, so I wait.

It's not a long drive. I'm kind of sorry when I see the exit for the studio. For a second I think about not turning. Just hitting on the accelerator and heading north until there's nowhere left to go. What would stop me first, a moose, an oil pipeline, or a glacier? I'd sit on the sh.o.r.e of the Arctic Ocean and let the snow pile up around me in my GTO igloo. Curl up in the backseat with a radio, turn on a news station, and listen to the world ending.

There's a guard station at the studio gate. A tired-looking guy in a blue rent-a-cop uniform leans out of the guardhouse as I drive up.

"Sweet ride. We don't get many V-8s on the lot anymore. It's all rice-rocket hybrids."

"L.A. is going to be under water in twenty years. As an American, I figure I should do my bit to help out."

He eyes me before deciding I'm joking. He takes a clipboard from the wall inside his hut.

"Name?"

I have no idea what name Ritchie or Lucifer gave the guy.

"Stark."

The guard scans the list and nods. He hands me a plastic parking permit about the size of a hardback book.

"Keep that on your dashboard in plain view."

He pulls a white paper map of the lot from the back of the clipboard and hands it to me, pointing to landmarks with his pen.

"Follow the outside road around the edge of the lot. The soundstage you want is all the way on the far side. There are some producers' bungalows nearby. That's where you can park."

"Thanks."

"Looks like there's a h.e.l.l of a production going on out there."

"That's the idea."

I follow the road around the outside of the lot. On my left is the freeway. On the studio side, there are forklifts and sweaty guys putting up scaffolding outside soundstages. Men and women in khakis and b.u.t.ton-down shirts cruise by them on golf carts. The stages look like blimp hangars, giant humpback Quonset huts with huge posters of the studio's new releases. The place is about as glamorous as dental surgery.

I park the car outside the bungalows, take the knife from the ignition, and slip it back inside my coat.

There's a soundstage across the road. Outside, a hundred people are unloading trucks, telling other people how to unload trucks, or sitting in trucks waiting to be unloaded. Ritchie and Lucifer are at the edge of the chaos, with Ritchie pointing at some papers and then at the stage, where they're building something huge. Old women in elaborately decorated robes carry incense among the workers. Others walk around the perimeter with bottles in each hand. From one they sprinkle sacred oil on the ground. From the other they sprinkle what smells like animal blood.

Ritchie waves me over. He nods at the car when I get close.

"She's a beauty. How long have you had her?"

"A half hour, give or take."

"You know, if you leave the windows down like that, the sun is going to bleach the upholstery."

"That's okay. I only drive cars once."

Ritchie looks from me to the car and back. It takes him a minute, but he finally gets it.

"I see."

"Keep it, if you want. It drives like a dream. There aren't any keys, but I'm sure someone around here can change the VIN and slap in a new ignition."

Lucifer watches the old women make their rounds. Ritchie's eyes flick down to my waist. He's spotted the gun and smiles.

"Have you ever been on a movie lot before?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Then this ought to be pretty interesting for you."

"Okay."

"Let me give you a tour. We're shooting all the Heaven sequences first, so that's what's being built right now. I guess you'll have to take my word for that since you're better acquainted with the other place."

"Heaven for the weather and h.e.l.l for the company."

"Who said that?"

"Mark Twain. Or Jim Morrison. Or Stalin. One of them."

Lucifer turns to me.

"When did you start quoting Twain?"

"It was in a fortune cookie. I've been saving it up."

Lucifer stops and looks at Ritchie.

"Simon, why don't you let me show James around. We need to discuss some work details."

"Yeah, we do."

"Sure. Good seeing you. Stop by and say good-bye before you take off. I still want to pick your brain about life down in the hot country."

"Before you go, let me ask both of you something. What exactly is my job right now? Am I here all day every day you're shooting? How is this going to work?"

Ritchie shakes his head.

"We won't need you all the time. Mr. Macheath won't be on set every day. Unless he wants you, you don't need to be here the whole time. I'm sure you noticed that we've brought in a planeload of Chinese nyu wu witches to work special security. Mean old b.i.t.c.hes, but they know tricks and charms older than dirt. Stuff most of the local talent has never even heard of."

"I'm well protected here," says Lucifer. "Mostly, I want you anytime I'm in public and not at the hotel or the lot."

"Maybe when you're not here, you should stay at the hotel. I mean you're pretty much royalty. People can come to you."

"Considering the drama after the party, I have to show my face around. I don't want people thinking I'm Howard Hughes."

"Okay. Just be smart about when and where."

Ritchie checks his watch and looks around with a sour expression.

"You two have fun. I need to find someone and see if these G.o.dd.a.m.n union guys can possibly unload my f.u.c.king trucks any slower."

Lucifer heads for the soundstage and I follow him inside. The Heaven set is pretty skeletal, but it's still impressive. The floor is fake marble inlaid with complex star patterns. There's a gold vaulted ceiling encrusted with jewels and subtly shifting lights. In the middle of the fake room is a throne decorated with intricate celestial, animal, and plant shapes.

I ask, "So, is this what it looks like?"

"Not in the slightest. But for the purposes of the movie, it's uncannily accurate."

"You trust Ritchie and his imported Golden Girls with security?"

"Simon knows what he's doing. He's been protecting himself and his stars for a long time. And he knows that his soul is at stake."

I follow him as we circle the interior of the stage.

"Did he ever have to protect anyone from Drifters?"

Lucifer raises his eyebrows.

"Zombies here?"

"Last night. Three of them came into the Bamboo House of Dolls. What's worse is that one of them was Spencer Church, a guy I heard about at your party and had been asking about since. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that wasn't a coincidence. That means that not only do we have Drifters, but someone is running them."

"A situation like that right now could be very bad publicity. With something that extraordinary happening while I'm in town, I'll end up being blamed for it."

"Then hire me to go after them. Take what you've paid me so far, tack on a bonus, and I'll find them and get rid of them for you."

"You killed three of them?"

"Actually, I only took out one. A friend killed the other two."

"Maybe I should hire your friend."

"Ritchie wouldn't like that."

"Why?"

"It was Brigitte. Turns out the aspiring actress and p.o.r.n things are her playing Clark Kent. The rest of the time, she's a trained Drifter killer."

Lucifer nods.

"I noticed that you two were getting along well at the party. When you're not killing zombies together, you aren't doing something reckless and stupid, are you?"

"When have I ever done that?"

"You don't want Simon for an enemy. He has a lot of resources at his disposal and a bad temper. There are bodies buried all over this lot and he's responsible for more than a few of them."

"Don't worry. No one is running to Vegas for an Elvis wedding."

"Be smart for once. Remember, you're still under contract to me."

"About that. What's really going on? Why did you hire me for the job? Is there something I should know? Or am I still your science project, like Jesus in the desert?"