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“Herr Rose has two rooms, 1210 and 1212. But we’ve been instructed to knock only on 1210,” says Brigitte.
“Easy to remember,” I say. “Twelve-ten. When they signed the Magna Carta.”
Both women look at me.
“Don’t look at me like that. There was nothing to do in Hell but hide and read books. Is that a crime?”
Candy says, “Marcus Aurelius and now the Magna Carta? I’m starting to think that bullet unleashed your inner geek.”
“I had an inner geek once. But a doctor lanced it and it went away.”
“Call an ambulance. It’s growing back.”
Brigitte smiles.
“You two are charming together.”
“I was plenty charming all on my own,” says Candy. “I’m just carrying the geek so he doesn’t cut himself on a bullet and bleed to death.”
“Are you two done? I knew I should never let you near each other.”
Brigitte says, “I think he just called us . . . What’s the word?”
“Brats,” says Candy.
“Yes. Brats.”
“That’s because you are brats.”
“And who’s more foolish? The brats or the man who invites the brats to a gunfight?” says Brigitte.
“No gunfights. I didn’t invite anyone to a gunfight. This is a normal everyday ambush, not the O.K. Corral.”
“If you’re going to be boring about it, at least be entertaining. Disappear into one of your shadows while we distract Rose with our wiles.”
“Yeah,” says Candy. “The wiles girls are in business.”
She loops her arm in Brigitte’s.
I walk into a shadow by a picture window down the hall, surer than ever that I should have worn body armor.
I STILL HATE walking into unknown rooms, but I’ve never heard of a dangerous Tick-Tock Man, so I’m more likely to walk in on a game of Dungeons & Dragons than bearbaiting.
I come out in a room that reminds me of Garrett’s. A generically elegant place, but a little more old school than his was. The wood looks like wood instead of veneer and the paintings look real instead of like overpriced prints.
Rose has two adjoining apartments. One for living and one for a workspace. The guy is either loaded or his rental agreement is so old it’s written on parchment and he pays for it with shells and brightly colored beads.
He must be one of those genius types, like Tesla. Guys who would rather live in a hotel than have their own home. Live somewhere they know the sheets and towels will always be clean and where they can get a grilled-cheese sandwich from room service at four A.M. Because we’re in Bel Air, I want to hate his setup, but the truth is, I understand the addiction. I love squatting in the Chateau Marmont. Plus, I never told anyone, but part of me is happy that so many of my clothes end up burned, slashed, shot up, or generally too bloody to deal with. It’s a great excuse never to do laundry. I can deal with fighting in the arena in Hell, but laundry and dishes put the fear of God in me.
I can hear Rose in his workroom, so I stay out of sight in his living quarters.
At three on the dot there’s a knock. Rose goes to open the door and I get my first look at him.
He’s an older guy but not over the hill. In his early sixties maybe. Long, salt-and-pepper hair combed back from his forehead and over his ears. I see lab coats on the wall, but he knows company is coming, so he’s wearing a pressed, old-fashioned, forties-style high-waisted blue suit and tie with a diamond pattern down the center. He could have stepped right off the set of Out of the Past.
He opens the door and there are Candy and Brigitte, carpet-bombing him with their wiles. Old Rose can’t help but smile.
“Knock knock,” says Brigitte.
