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“I trust you.”
“That makes one of us.”
I strap the dead hellhound to the front of the bike and put Father Traven on the back.
“This won’t be a long trip, but it might be a little weird. You can close your eyes if you want to.”
“You just pulled me out of damnation. I think I can stand whatever it is you’re going to show me.”
“Strap in, preacher.”
I gun the bike and aim at the shadow of one of the guard towers. Traven tries to be cool, but I feel him tense against me and hear him, I can’t fucking believe it, saying a Hail Mary as we pick up speed.
I hit the brakes when we’re halfway into the Room and we slide the rest of the way in, leaving a nice line of rubber across the floor.
He gets off the bike and looks around in wonder.
“We’re at the center of the universe.”
“Yep.”
“Where nothing can go in or out without your say-so.”
“Pretty much.”
“How does it work?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. It works and that’s good enough for me.”
“That’s called faith, son.”
“That’s called not looking a gift horse up the nose. I’ll be back soon with some books. Don’t worry. I’ll let Vidocq pick them out.”
“One thing,” he says as I angle the bike to take it back to L.A.
“Yes?”
“Can you tell Brigitte that I asked about her?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, but I’m lying.
I COME OUT of the Room, as usual, by the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. I always get the copper jitters when I’m on the bike in L.A., and now I have a dead hellhound strapped across the handlebars. The only way I can attract more attention is if I was towing a Spanish galleon full of half-naked cheerleaders with flare guns. On the other hand, this is L.A. and I can just as easily be another moneyed airhead who scored a big movie prop on eBay. Why not? Ask nice and maybe I’ll trade you Gilligan’s hat for the bones of the Partridge Family’s dog.
I head up Gower Street and across Hollywood Boulevard to Bamboo House of Dolls. I think about parking the bike in the alley next to the bar, but I leave it in a space out front instead. Let the rubes get a look at a genuine hellhound. It’s not like this crowd hasn’t seen its share of funny beasts before. A few people call my name as I go inside, but it’s not a chitchat kind of night and I don’t need strangers buying me drinks in a bar where I already drink for free.
Carlos gives me a funny look when I come in.
“Is that ice in your hair?”
“Probably.”
I run my fingers through it a few times.
“Better?”
“Better. You been sticking your head in hotel ice machines again? I warned you about that.”
He gets a bottle from under the bar and pours me a shot of Aqua Regia.
