Candy takes me into the bedroom and gets a box down from the top shelf of the closet. It’s flat and square, sealed with packing tape.
“I didn’t wrap it yet because it’s only Thanksgiving.”
“Remind me which one that is.”
“You don’t know what Thanksgiving is?”
“I’m aware of its existence but I don’t remember the details. We had different holidays in Hell.”
“It’s the one with turkey and stuffing and pumpkin pie and everyone eats and drinks too much and people fall asleep watching football or making fun of people watching football.”
“Right. The one where my father broke things because he bet on the games and always lost. Always. My whole childhood, I don’t remember him winning once. Shouldn’t a man win once, just out of sheer statistics?”
“He wasn’t your father. Doc was,” says Candy.
She’s right, but what difference does it make? I don’t want to think about it or get into an argument about it. Doc Kinski means a lot more to Candy than he does to me. He took care of her. Got her started on the potion that makes it so she doesn’t have the hunger to drink people. She loves him and I only met him after the point in my life when meeting your real father isn’t much more than a technicality. Something to check off a life list. Smoke your first cigarette. See your first porn flick. Meet your real father.
Candy sees I’m not happy with her bringing it up. She picks up the box and puts it in my lap.
“I was keeping this for Christmas, but saving the world is a good time for presents too.”
I unwrap the box and take out a gun.
“Do you know what it is?”
“I think so. I’ve seen pictures of them. It’s a presentation pistol.”
“It’s from Tiffany’s, the old jewelry place. They made fancy pistols since before the Civil War. I couldn’t find one of those. This one is, like, from the eighties.”
It’s a Colt, with a matte-black finish and gold filigree on the cylinder and golden eagle wings along the barrel. The ivory grips are carved with talons.
“Does it work?”
“I don’t know. Test it.”
I pull back the hammer and dry-fire it several times. The action feels good. I know these things are supposed to be for show, but it feels like a good piece of hardware.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s great. Where did you get it?”
“Doc had it. A civilian gave it to him when he fixed him up on the sly.”
Now I see why she brought him up. Don’t get me wrong. Doc was a good guy, considering he was a deadbeat dad and, worse, a goddamn angel. He’s the one who filled me in on my background. Told me I was a nephilim, an Abomination in both Heaven and Hell and the only one of my kind left alive on earth, so, you know, lucky me. Back in Doc’s prime he was known as Uriel, one of the warrior archangels. He fought in the Heavenly war against Lucifer and the other rebels. Knowing all that, I still find it hard to picture him with a gun in his hand, even if he was just stashing it in a box, never to be fired.
“Is that okay?” says Candy.
“Yeah. It’s great. You’re great. Thanks.”
I kiss her and put thoughts about where the gun came from out of my head. I’m good at that. And I’m damned sure not going to let a good gun’s origins stop me from using it.
She smiles and sits up straight.
“So, where’s my present?”
“What makes you think I have one? It’s only Thanksgiving.”
“People have been bribing you all over town, and not just with money, I bet.”
I look at her. She’s still smiling, but there’s something in her eyes.
“You didn’t give me this because I’m trying to save the world. You did it became you don’t think we’re going to make it to Christmas.”
She lets her shoulders fall.
“So? What if I did?”
“Assuming I have anything for you, you’re not getting it now.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m more optimistic than you. You can wait for Santa.”
She throws a pillow at me.
“You dick.”
“If I have to twist the head off every Angra freak in L.A., we’re going to make it to Christmas.”
She takes the Colt and levels it at objects around the room. Snaps the gun back each time she pretend-shoots it.
“Head twisting. You know how to sweet-talk a girl. At least give me a hint.”
“It’s red and it doesn’t fit in your pocket.”
“Fuck you. That’s not a clue.”
“It’s all you’re getting.”
“I repeat, you’re a dick,” she says, setting the gun back in the box.
We call downstairs for food. Order a real spread, like we did when we first got to the penthouse. Ordering one of pretty much everything on the menu. But not the duck. The waiters line the food carts along the wall, and because this is the Devil’s room, they don’t ask questions. When I sign the check, I always add a nice tip after one of these blowouts. I still don’t know who pays the bills here, if anyone. Maybe Lucifer having a room on standby is just part of the cost of doing business in L.A. For all I know, there could be other hoodoo penthouses where Odin, the Easter Bunny, and Amelia Earhart are living as large as we are and not paying one red shekel.
PEOPLE START COMING through the clock around three. First Vidocq and Allegra, then Brigitte and Father Traven. I want to grab them and start talking right away, but I keep my mouth shut. There’s plenty of food and wine and beer for everyone, though I notice that Father Traven is just drinking coffee. Brigitte stays close to him. Smiling. Talking to him. Making sure he remembers to eat. She’s not watching him to keep him off the booze. You can see it in her eyes. She’s trying to protect him from the world.
I pass the Tiffany pistol around and everyone tells Candy about what great taste she has. She loves it. Then I can’t stand waiting anymore.
“I’m going on a ghost hunt in Kill City.”
That gets people’s attention.
“I’ve been looking for the 8 Ball for over a month. All it’s gotten me is tall tales that I have the shitty thing. Yesterday, the Dark Eternal told me that there’s a ghost hiding in Kill City that might know where the 8 Ball is, so I’m going in to check it out.”
“Do you believe what they said?” asks Vidocq.
“I have to go in and find out.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean do you trust them? You have not harassed the Dark Eternal the way you have other gangs, but what’s to stop you from doing so?”
“If they think you’re coming for them, they might be sending you into a trap,” says Brigitte.
“I don’t think so. The Dark Eternal and I have steered clear of each other for a while.”
“Is it true that’s because they paid you a large sum of money?” asks Traven.
“Yes. And because they mostly feed on crooks and the fools that come crawling to them and I don’t have a problem with that.”
Traven nods. I don’t know if he exactly understands, but he seems to accept that I’m not a simple sellout. I’m a complicated sellout.
“If the Dark Eternal wanted me gone, they could have sent an army. What I think is really going on is that Tykho knows the 8 Ball is valuable and that it gives whoever has it power, so she wants it. She’s sending me in with a Dark Eternal rep, a guy called Paul Delon. He’s the one with the map.”
“Tell me about this Paul,” says Vidocq. “Do we really need him? Couldn’t we take his map and use it ourselves?”
I shake my head.
“First off, Paul isn’t human. Candy and Brigitte would recognize him. He’s another Trevor. An automaton built by a Tick-Tock Man named Atticus Rose.”
“What?” says Candy. “The last two tried to kill you.”
“And we killed them. There’s no choice here. Robby the Robot has the map in his head. Without him I could wander around the place for weeks. All I want is to find the 8 Ball and make sure Paul never even touches it. I think I can handle that, but having more people would help. Is anyone willing to come into Kill City with me?”