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He leans back in his chair.
“Suit yourself, but it’s a funny story.”
“I bet. Can you think of anybody who might know more about Chris toward the end? Maybe even the party scene itself?”
“That’ll cost the hundred you’re holding and one more on top.”
I take out a second bill but don’t give him that either.
“Avani Chanchala,” he says. “You heard of her? Famous real estate developer. She was heavy into the scene and she liked Chris a lot. Or at least his cock. But don’t tell her I sent you. She owns the building and might evict me.”
I give him the two bills and a third one besides.
When I say, “Thanks,” he doesn’t say anything back, just sticks the money in his pocket with the rest. I want to be annoyed, but the last thing I see on my way out of the apartment is that plastic Academy Award, and I can’t help but feel sorry for the guy.
That night, Janet gives me an address way the hell up in the Hollywood Hills. It takes nearly an hour of driving around those endlessly winding roads to get there. Then, when I see the place I want to turn the Hog around and head down again.
Where we’ve arrived is one of those overdesigned glass-walls-and-a-pool L.A. houses that sticks fifty feet out over the canyon below, supported by nothing but a couple of steel beams. Ridiculous, defiant architecture. Who spends a few million dollars on a house that’s guaranteed to collapse into a pile of kindling one day? Adrenaline junkies, I guess. Which makes a stupid kind of sense, because that’s who we’re here to see.
The front door is unlocked, so we go in. Janet shows me around, points out the view, the expensive Architectural Digest furniture, the art on the walls. I’m thinking, This is all going to look very pretty on fire one day, but I smile and keep my mouth shut. After the grand tour upstairs, they take my hand and lead me down a steep flight of stairs into a basement cut into the granite hillside.
There are maybe twenty people downstairs. They all give me the once-over when we come in. But they aren’t what interests me. What gets my attention are the smells and the one lone Gloomy Gus in the corner. The Zero Lodge has its own trash wizard. It’s the stink of his potions that grabbed my attention. Trash wizards are civilians with no real hoodoo power who taught themselves some tricks from old books and maybe a few hexes they bribed from a dumb Sub Rosa kid. Trash wizards are generally harmless, except this one has a Black Sun wheel on the wall behind him. The Black Sun is ancient, hard-core hoodoo that supposedly gives mystics power over the physical world. Nazis love Black Sun garbage, but this bunch doesn’t look political. They’re dummies just out for a good time, and I bet the junkyard Merlin is right there with them.
On the wall to the left of Merlin is what looks like hunting trophies mounted on plaques. Skulls of some hellbeasts and even a few Lurkers. I’m getting a bad feeling about what these creeps are really into.
Janet is holding my arm and feels me get tense.
“What’s wrong?”
I nod in the direction of Merlin.
“The trash wizard in the corner and the dead stuff on the walls. Either someone here paid a lot of money for that stuff or you shouldn’t be around these kinds of kicks.”
Janet squeezes my arm.
“Relax. It’s just some heads. It’s like you said, Dan and Juliette probably just bought them. I mean, do you even know if they’re real?”
“I guess not.”
“Then don’t take everything so seriously.”
They kiss me on the cheek.
“Okay.”
The rumpus room walls are bare stone scraped smooth. On a set of shelves in the corner are what look like excursion supplies. Blindfolds. Barbed wire. Bolt cutters. Medical kits. A few guns. Next to all of that is an impressively well-stocked bar. Recessed lights in the ceiling give the room a soft glow, but there are candelabras all over the place, like it’s a TV séance show. For ten bucks a minute you can talk to your dead grandma or George Washington. I’m thinking of leaving again when a familiar face comes at me from out of the crowd.
“Hi, Stark. What are you doing here?” says Manimal Mike.
I look at the cast on his arm.
“Hi, Mike. It’s good to see you in one piece.”
It’s his right arm that’s injured, so he puts out his left to shake, but I already have my right hand out, so it’s all an awkward mess. The silliness of the moment cuts through my mood.
Manimal Mike is a Tick-Tock Man. A craftsman who builds intricate mechanical familiars for rich Sub Rosa. I have a feeling his broken arm is costing him a lot of money in lost work.
Mike points a finger of his broken mitt at me.
