Kill The Dead Part 7

The clerk smiles like I'm a bug and he's deciding whether to step on me or hose me down with Raid.

"Unless your friend is a Saudi prince with an entourage of thirty-five, I'm afraid you're mistaken."

"Check your register again. I know he's here, Maybe the prince checked out."

"The prince's rooms are booked through the summer, so, no, there's no mistake."

I get out my phone and dial the direct line to my room above Max Overload. I know Kasabian is there, but he doesn't answer. He knows what time it is and he's probably dancing a centipede jig and laughing at me as the phone rings and rings. I put the phone back in my pocket. The clerk is looking at me. His expression hasn't changed. What I want to do is punch a hole in the front of the desk, reach through, grab his b.a.l.l.s, and make him sing The Mickey Mouse Club song. But these days, I'm working on the theory that killing everyone I don't like might be counterproductive. I'm learning to use my indoor voice like a big boy, so I smile back at the clerk.

"Are you sure you don't have another penthouse lying around here somewhere? Some off-the-books place you keep for special guests?"

"No, I'm sure we don't have anything like that. And without a name or a room number, I need to ask you to leave the hotel."

"Is needing to ask me to leave the same as telling me to leave? That's a really confusing sentence."

"Please, sir. I don't want to have to call security."

No, you don't want to call them because then I'd have to make you into a sock puppet.

"Would you like me to tell your fortune?"

"Excuse me?"

I pick up a pen from the counter.

"Give me your hand a minute."

He tries to pull both of his hands away, but I'm faster by a mile and get a death grip on his right wrist. His heart is pumping as fast as the Bugatti's engine. He wants to yell for security, but he can't even open his mouth. I don't want the poor guy to stroke out, so I draw a single h.e.l.lion character on the palm of his hand, and then ball it closed. It's a mind trick I saw Azazel use a few times on his dumber enemies. It's like sticking the magic word in a golem's mouth. The clerk's eyes glaze over and he stares past me at nothing in particular.

"Can you hear me, hotshot?"

He smiles at me. It's nice this time. Like he's a human talking to another human.

"Yes, of course. How can I help you?"

"I need you to tell me the names of your extra-special guests. Not princes or movie stars. Your really special guests."

He looks away and taps something into the computer terminal behind the desk.

"We only have one guest who sounds like the kind of person you're looking for. A Mr. Macheath."

Another point for Kasabian. Alice loved The Threepenny Opera and I played the 1930s German version at the store a few times when I was extra drunk and maudlin. Kasabian must have told Lucifer. I wonder what else I let slip that he could pa.s.s on to his boss.

"Yeah, that'll be him. Where's his room?"

"That particular room isn't a where. It's a when."

"Say that again, but use smaller words."

The clerk laughs a little. I might have to leave him like this.

"You take the elevator to the top floor. On the east wall you'll see a very beautiful old grandfather clock. Open the cabinet where the pendulum swings and hold it to one side. Count to three and step into the cabinet."

"Inside the grandfather clock?"

"Of course, you're not actually stepping into the clock, but through it. A kind of time membrane that opens into the room. I don't know if the room is forward or backward in time, but I'm sure it's one of those."

"I'll try it. Thanks."

"Thank you. And Mr. Macheath."

"How are you feeling right now?"

"Wonderful, sir. Thank you for asking."

"Yeah, that's going to wear off in a while, so enjoy it while it lasts."

"Thank you. I will."

I go to the elevator and get out on the top floor. The grandfather clock is where he said it would be. I don't pick up any hoodoo from it, so I open the front and grab the pendulum.

One. Two. Three.

I push the pendulum to the side and step through.

And come out in a room so big, so stuffed with golden statues, marble, and antiques, that Caligula would think it's tacky.

"You're late."

Lucifer stands by a marble pillar as big around as a redwood. A tailor is marking his suit with chalk, doing a final fitting.

"I would have been here early if you and Kasabian weren't playing name games with me."

"You should have noticed that little detail before or factored in more time to work it out when you arrived."

"Kas said you hated it when people were late."

"I hate when people I pay aren't doing their best work. You're a smarter boy than you act, Jimmy. You need to start taking things more seriously."

"I'm taking this room seriously. This is what Liberace's nightmares must have looked like."

Lucifer turns around and looks at me. He's an angel, so I can't read him at all.

He tilts his head slightly and says, "Love the coat. Are you on your way to the O.K. Corral?"

I nod.

"Yeah, it's a little Doc Holliday, but it's called a rifle coat for a reason. I can hide a double-barreled shotgun under here. Or do you want me in slippers and a sweater vest, fighting off your enemies with a hot cocoa?"

"Not now, but when you come back down below, I hope you'll fight that way in the arena."

"Is that why you're here? To take me back?"

He frowns.

"No, no. That was just a terrible joke. Forgive me."

He turns to the tailor.

"We're done for tonight."

The tailor gives him a small bow and helps Lucifer take off the half-finished jacket and pants. Suddenly I'm alone in a room with the Prince of Darkness in his underwear. I wouldn't have pegged him for a boxers guy.

Actually, he's still wearing a silk maroon shirt and he slips on a pair of pressed black slacks folded over the back of a chair. I can't get into Lucifer's mood or mind the way I can with humans, but I can see him move. As he pulls on pants, he makes the tiniest imaginable move with his shoulders. He flinches, almost like he's in pain. I look over at a statue of a headless woman with wings before he turns around.

"Would you like a drink?"

I don't turn right away.

"That sounds great."

"I have some Aqua Regia, but I hear that's not such a rare thing for you these days."

"No. Are you the one sending it up?"

"Don't be stupid. I pay you enough to take care of your own vices. I'd like to know who is importing the stuff."

"You don't know?"

"I have a fairly full plate at the moment what with your friend Mason trying to turn my armies against me. Or hadn't you heard?"

"Tell the truth, the revolution was already going when he got there. He just jumped on the crazy train."

"And I have you to thank for that."

"I didn't plan it, if that's what you're thinking."

"I would never accuse you of planning things. Come over and sit down."

I follow him to an area where chairs and sofas are grouped together, facing one another. I sit on a leather easy chair. It's the most comfortable piece of furniture in the universe. My a.s.s wants to divorce me and marry it.

"So, Jimmy, killed anyone interesting lately?"

"No. The ones I killed today were already dead and just needed reminding."

"I'm sure they appreciated that."

"No one complained."

"What flavor of undead were they?"

"Vampires."

"Young ones? G.o.d, I hate them."

Lucifer lights up a Malediction. I know he wants me to ask for one, so I don't.

"Why are you up here? Shouldn't you be Downtown spanking the guilty and slaughtering your generals? Or are you taking early retirement so you can spend more time with the grandkids?"

"Nothing so dramatic. I'm in town doing some consulting work."

"What kind?"

"Why does anyone come to L.A.?"

"To kill people."

"No, that's just you. Normal people come here to get into the movies."

"You're in a movie?"

"Of course not. I'm here as a technical adviser. A producer friend is in preproduction for a big-budget film of my life story."

"Please tell me you're bringing Ed Wood back from the dead to direct it."

"This is strictly an A-list project. I'm disappointed, Jimmy. I thought you'd be more excited. You love movies."

"Why do you need a biopic? About half the movies ever made are horror flicks and aren't all horror flicks really about you? So, you already have about ten thousand movies."

"But those are metaphorical. Even the ones where I'm depicted, it's never really me. This will be the real thing. The true story. My side of the story."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but who f.u.c.king cares? Are there really enough Satanists and girls in striped stockings to pay for a flick like that?"

"It's a prestige picture, Jimmy. Sometimes a studio makes a movie it knows won't show a near-term profit because they know that it's the right thing to do artistically."

"You own the head of the studio, don't you? Someone sold you their soul for fame and power and hot and cold running starlets and this is them paying you off."

"It's only a partial payoff. I still own the soul."

Lucifer goes to a desk and comes back with a framed piece of black velvet, like something a jeweler would have. It's covered with small shiny objects. A pocketknife. A pair of wire-rimmed gla.s.ses missing one lens. A pair of Shriner cuff links. A sleeping netsuke cat. He picks up a small gold necklace.

"I take something from everyone whose soul I hold. Not take. They choose what they want to give me. It's a symbolic act. A physical reminder of our deal. These are trinkets from Hollywood friends."

He holds the gold necklace higher so I can get a good look.

"This is Simon's. Simon Ritchie. The head of the studio. Simon imagines that he's very clever. Very ironic. The necklace belonged to his first wife. It was her First Communion gift. A rosary necklace with a pretty little cross. Of course, she was just a girl when she received it, so at some point she added a gold unicorn charm. A darling thing, though I'm not sure the Church would approve."

"What does he or she get for all this?"