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“That sounds great. Around seven?”
“Great. See you then.”
I try to fit all of my gear in my pockets, but the black blade will shred my pants and the na’at is too big. Carlos gives me a canvas community-garden tote bag.
“You garden?” I say.
Carlos makes a face.
“Fuck no. That’s Ray’s thing.”
“Tell him thanks. I’ll get this back to him.”
“You better.”
My lungs suddenly feel too healthy, so I go outside for a smoke. Fuck Hollywood is down by the corner showing off my coat to her friends. She comes over and when I get a cigarette, she whips out a lighter and sparks it for me.
“Thanks,” I say.
“My pleasure.”
I take a good look at her. Her hair is shaved on both sides of her head, revealing matching dragon tattoos. She has a couple of lip piercings. A lot of ear piercings. Still, there’s something innocent about her. Not dumb, just made brittle by this city. A little punk angel. Which reminds me of something.
“Your name isn’t Zadkiel, is it?”
She gives me a crooked smile.
“No. What kind of name is that?”
“Forget it. A friend wants me to help look for her, but I don’t even know where to start. I was hoping I’d get lucky.”
“Sorry.”
We stand there awkwardly for a minute until a couple of limos stop a block or so down. People pile out in evening gowns and tuxes. Some of them limp or have casts or bandages. They have to be the freeway weirdos from the other day.
I start down toward them and Fuck Hollywood tags along.
“Friends of yours?” she says.
“Not by a long shot.”
The rear limo’s license plate reads dethslt.
I say, “What does that mean? Detective somebody?”
“Maybe it’s German. You know, ‘de’ something.”
“Hmm. ‘Deaths LT’? ‘Limited’?”
“‘Death slut,’” says Fuck Hollywood.
“It can’t be.”
Before we reach the limos, the drivers have pried up a manhole cover and the soiree is climbing down into the sewer. We watch the last giggling jackass disappear into the muck below.
I look at Fuck Hollywood and say, “What the hell is wrong with this town?”
She’s beaming again.
