my head.
I look up from the pixie girl to burning houses in East L.A. Crying mothers. Screaming kids. There’s blood in the water, so the TV reporters swim up with blank eyes and a mouthful of shark’s teeth. They stick microphones in the faces of new widows and ask, “How does it make you feel?” I love L.A.
I wonder if things have always been this way. Are the Kissi the devils on our shoulders? Or do they just like us because our devils are so loud and hard to miss? I see why Heaven and Hell want to control the Kissi. They can’t ever let regular people hear about them. After the panic, it’d be too easy to pin all of humanity’s bad habits on them. Plus, someone would have to explain where they came from. That means people finding out that God is a fuckup and the devil doesn’t matter. Neither side wants that.
I wonder if the Kissi are strong enough to jack an angel? Maybe. If they really are anti-angels. Muninn said someone was dragging angels up the hill to Avila. That sounds like urban-myth bullshit to me. Like that kid down the street who made a funny face and it stayed that way, so his family had to move away. If someone is snatching angels, it’s probably the Kissi. I don’t think even Mason could mug Aelita.
Two guys come in from the parking lot. I can feel them from all the way across the room. Heat and crazy breathing. Their hearts are going off like machine guns. But they look boring. An older guy in a gray suit. A junior high boy with a skateboard under his arm. They’re bent over the counter ordering doughnuts. I can’t get a look at their faces. They order a few dozen. A whole box full. The green-haired girl rings them up, and when she tells them the total, the guy in the suit pulls a .44 from his jacket and shoots her. And he keeps shooting her. He has to lean all the way over the counter to get off the last few rounds.
I’m up while he’s still concentrating on the girl. Junior drops his deck, pulls his own piece, and aims it at me. I stop. They’re both Kissi.
This isn’t a good time. I’m weak. I don’t want to get shot right now and they know it. They laugh at me.
The guy in the suit says, “You naughty boy.”
“You stole our na’at,” says the kid.
“And after we invited you into our home so nicely and politely.”
“Some people have no manners.”
“No manners at all. That’s all right. We’ll do you a trade.” The man points to his chest, then mine. “Hold on to whatever that is in there for us. We’ll be back with a doggy bag.”
“Happy holidays,” says the kid. There’s blood all over the box of doughnuts. The kid opens it and takes out an apple fritter. “You really ought to try these. They make ’em fresh every morning.”
They stroll out the door like they just won the lottery.
Behind me, an old lady is screaming. I hear cell phones beeping as people fumble with the keypads trying to make their fingers hit 911. I look over the counter at the green-haired girl. She’s dead. As dead as anyone I’ve ever seen.
Is that what Alice looked like?
Good-bye, green-haired girl. How many more of you am I not going to save?
THERE’S A GOLD Lexus parked around the corner. Ten seconds later, it’s mine. I pull into a no-name indie gas station and buy a pack of cigarettes, two plastic gas cans, and a T-shirt with MANN’S CHINESE THEATRE on the front. I pay for four gallons of gas in advance, fill the two cans, and get back in the car. I’ve always been pretty good with directions. Hell made me good with them even when I’m getting my ass kicked, so I know where I’m going. Fifteen minutes later, I’m parked down the block from the furniture warehouse where the skinheads party.
I slice the T-shirt in half and dip each piece into the can, letting them soak up the juice. Then I stuff them in the cans’ mouths and head for the clubhouse.
A fat man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts is walking the other way. As we pass I say, “You should call 911.”
He stops. “Has there been an accident?”
“Not yet.”
There’s no one outside the clubhouse. Why would there be? Who’s going to play games with a building full of methed-up headbangers?
I light the rags in each can with Mason’s lighter. I knock on the door politely. My other adolescent crush, Ilsa, the skinhead girl, opens up. She smiles at me like you smile at an old dog that can’t help shitting on himself.
She asks, “What the fuck do you want?”
I kick once, slamming the door open and her out of the way. I sling the gas cans underhanded, aiming at the opposite ends of the room.
They explode, one a fraction of a second behind the other. Flames splash across the walls like a flood of hellfire. It’s an instant riot inside. Screaming. Punching. Skinheads and their white power girlfriends clawing past each other for the one exit. I pull the door closed and kick a garbage can in front of it.
The first one out is the big gorilla I stabbed in the leg at the Bamboo House of Dolls. He trips over the can and face plants just outside the door. The next few drowning rats trip over him. Fall in a screaming pile of bodies, blocking the door. It’s the Keystone Kops with third-degree burns.
Eventually, enough people inside push forward that the bodies and the door get kicked out of the way. The panicked, burned, and smoke-choked master race pours outside and collapses in the street.
Josef comes strolling out last. His clothes are smoldering and his face looks like a hamburger someone forgot to take off the barbecue. Ilsa and a dozen of Josef’s steroid lapdogs get up and follow him.
Josef doesn’t even look around. He knows who did this. He comes right for me. I can see the beast under his skin. I can’t tell if he was ever human.
When he’s a few feet away, he starts to say something. It’s going to be some Kissi threat or demonic one-liner. Who cares? I slash his throat with the black blade, giving the knife a little twist. Unlike Kasabian, when Josef’s head pops off, he’s totally, one hundred percent dead.
I pick up the head by its singed blond hair and push it into Ilsa’s chest. It takes her a minute to figure out that she’s supposed to take it. I wait for one of the big boys to make a move, but they’re mostly staring at the raspberry-colored lake forming around Josef’s body.
I say, “You tell the rest of these animals and any Kissi you run into to stay away from my doughnut place.”
I go back to the Lexus and floor it out of there before they come to enough to realize that there are fifty of them and only one of me.
IF YOU DO it right, cleaning your guns is a form of meditation. There’s the precise disassembly. Attaching a cotton swatch to the end of a ramrod, soaking it in solvent, and passing it through the gun barrel from the breech end and out the front. Cleaning the nooks and crannies with a soft toothbrush. Carefully applying a few drops of gun oil. Then wiping the gun down and reassembling it before starting on the next gun, moving from smallest to largest. It’s a calm, quiet, and satisfying process. I’m ashamed that I’ve neglected the guns this long. I should have cleaned them the moment I dug them out from under the floorboards at Vidocq’s. Wild Bill would be ashamed of me.
I’d picked
