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I can see Kasabian banging away on his own computer, building his Web site.
“Did Old Yeller find out anything on Moseley?”
Candy says, “Not much. He had a record but all minor stuff. He was kind of a religious nut. A couple of arrests for protesting outside abortion clinics. A fine for trashing a Scientology office and some Orthodox graves at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It looks like he’s been through every religion on the planet. There’s photos of him in a dozen getups from different religious sects and cults.”
“A lost soul in a hard city. A volatile combination,” says Vidocq.
“I got the 8 Ball and the cash,” I say to him. “You steal anything fun lately?”
He shakes his head.
“Jewelry here and there. A vase for the apartment. Helping look for your weapon puts too many temptations in my path and the old habits are the hardest to break.”
He puffs his cigarette.
“And sometimes stealing a bit helps. Not everyone who comes to the clinic can pay.”
Vidocq’s girlfriend, Allegra, runs a hoodoo clinic for down-and-out Sub Rosas and Lurkers. Doc Kinski used to run it with Candy taking care of the front desk. Then Aelita murdered him. That bothered a lot of people, myself included. Kinski was my father.>A phone on the coffee table rings. It’s not Garrett’s cell. It’s the hotel phone. I go over and pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Garrett?”
“Yes.”
“This is the front desk. A package has arrived for you. Would you like me to send it up to your room?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
I hang up.
I can’t answer the door like this. Garrett’s closet isn’t any help. He’s a lot bigger than I am. I’d look like I was wearing a tepee in one of his shirts. I toss the bloody towel in the bathroom and grab the hotel robe off the back of the door. I look at myself in the mirror. I’m pale and sweating, but I look more hungover than gut-shot. I set the pistol on the coffee table and drag Garrett to the bed, toss him on top, and cover him with blankets. The raven flutters over and stands on the lump that’s Garrett’s soon-to-be-kicked-around-the-room carcass.
There’s a gentle knock on the door. I grab the money clip and peel off a twenty.
A young, freckled woman in a hotel uniform stands in the hall.
“Mr. Garrett?”
“Yes. Thanks for bringing it up,” I say through my weak hangover smile.
“Of course.”
She hands me the box. There’s nothing on it but a tag for a local courier company.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” she asks.
“No. This is fine,” I say, and hand her the twenty. I didn’t get all the blood off my hands. There’s a line of red along one edge of the bill. But it looks more like ink than anything else. And let’s face it. This is an L.A. hotel. It can’t be the first time someone handed her bloody money.
“Thank you,” she says, and I close the door. That’s enough social interaction for now. I can feel my side starting to leak through the robe, so I carry the box to a larger table by the wet bar and set it down. I get a new towel from the bathroom and tie it tight around my waist. It burns like a son of a bitch, but it ought to stop all the annoying fucking blood for a while.
With the black blade I slice open the courier box. Inside is a leather brief bag, something like an oversize attaché case that lawyers carry. There’s another case inside that. Plastic, but heavy and substantial. Almost like a gun case. I slide it out of the brief bag, push that onto the floor, and set down the plastic one. I take a quick peek at Garrett to make sure he’s not going to sneak up on me. The raven is still standing guard over him. I pop the latches on the case and push back the lid.
Lying packed in a snug black foam liner is the Qomrama Om Ya.
Color me the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. I grab it to make sure I’m not seeing things.
