generals, most of Hell’s troops make the Beverly Hillbillies look like the Algonquin Roundtable.
Holding the big coin on my thumb and forefinger, I flip it thinking, Hollywood or home? The Veritas comes down asphodel side up. That’s it, then. The Veritas never lies and gives better advice than most people I know. I put it back on its chain and turn north for Hollywood.
It’s over a mile to the Boulevard. I’m exhausted by the time I get there, and the payoff isn’t exactly what I was hoping for. Sometime while I was gone, Hollywood Boulevard had a nervous breakdown. Vacant storefronts. Trash dissolving in the street. Nothing but ghosts here—shadows of runaways and dealers huddled in padlocked doorways. I remember the Boulevard full of wild kids, drag queens, manic Dylan wannabes, and tourists looking for more than their next fix. Now the place looks like a whipped dog.
I’m beat from walking on these stranger’s legs and I’m sweating in Brad Pitt’s jacket. I should have taken the idiot’s car. I could have left it on the Boulevard, safe and sound. Though, more likely, I’d have tossed the keys to one of the street kids slouched against the buildings, just to see if there was any life left inside some of those dead eyes.
Walking deeper into Hollywood, I pass Ivar Avenue and see a funny sign flanked by burning tiki torches. BAMBOO HOUSE OF DOLLS, it says. I remember the name. It’s an old-school kung fu movie with a women-in-prison twist. I saw it when I was Downtown. The devil steals cable. Who knew?
The Bamboo House of Dolls is cool and dim inside, and I can take off Brad Pitt’s sunglasses without wanting to faint. There are old Iggy and Circle Jerks posters on the black-painted walls, but behind the bar it’s all palm fronds, plastic hula girls, and coconut bowls for the peanuts. There’s no one in the place except for the bartender and me. I grab the stool at the end of the bar, farthest from the door.
The bartender is slicing up limes. He pauses for a second to give me a nod, the knife loose and comfortable in his right hand. That other part of my brain kicks in, sizing him up. He has close-cropped black hair and a graying goatee. He looks big under his Hawaiian shirt. An ex–football player. Maybe a boxer. He realizes I’m looking at him.
“Nice jacket,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Too bad the rest of you looks like you just dropped out of the devil’s asshole.”
Suddenly I’m wondering if this is some Hellion setup, and if I can reach Brad Pitt’s stun gun or my knife in time. He must see it on my face because he gives me this big deer-in-the-headlights grin and I know that he was kidding.
“Relax, man,” he says. “Bad joke. Looks like you had a shitty day. What are you drinking?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. Yesterday, I’d been hunting for water that sometimes dripped through the ceilings of limestone caves under Pandemonium. Mostly I drank a Hellion homebrew called Aqua Regia, a kind of high-octane red wine mixed with a dash of angel’s blood and herbs that made cocaine seem like Pop Rocks. Aqua Regia tasted like cayenne pepper and gasoline, but it was there and I could hold it down.
“Jack Daniel’s.”
“On the house,” says the bartender, and pours a double.
There’s strange music playing. Something odd and tropical, with fake bird chirps every now and then. There’s a CD case on the bar. A Hawaiian sunset on the cover and the name “MARTIN DENNY.” I put the chewed Black Black in a cocktail napkin and sip the JD. It tastes strange, like something a human might actually drink. It washes the last of the garbage taste away.
“What the hell is this place?”
“Bamboo House of Dolls. L.A.’s greatest and only punk-tiki club.”
“Yeah, I always thought L.A. needed one of those.” I’m in a bar, but something’s missing. “I forgot my cigarettes. Think I can borrow one?”
“Sorry, man. You can’t smoke in bars in California.”
“When did that happen? That’s ridiculous.”
“I agree completely.”
“At least I’m home for Christmas.”
“Close. But you missed it by a day. Didn’t Santa bring you anything?”
“This trip, maybe.” I sip my drink. So, not Christmas, after all. Just Christmas enough to keep the streets deserted so no one saw me crawl home. Lucky me.
I ask, “You have today’s paper?”
He reaches under the bar and drops a folded copy of the L.A. Times in front of me. I pick it up, trying not to look too eager. Can’t even read the headlines. Can’t focus on anything but the date at the top of the page.
Eleven years. I’ve been gone eleven years. I was nineteen when I went Downtown. I’m practically an old man now.
“You have any coffee back there?”
He nods. “That’s how you missed Christmas. A lost weekend. I’ve had a few of those.”
The coffee is beautiful. Hot. A little bitter, like it’s been brewing for a while. I pour the last of the Jack Daniel’s into it and drink. My first perfect moment in eleven years.
“You from around here?”
“I was born here, but I’ve been away.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“Incarceration.”
He smiles again. A normal one this time. “In my reckless youth, I did six months for boosting cars. What were you inside for?”
“I’m not really sure, to tell you the truth. Mostly wrong place, wrong time.”
“That’ll put a smile on your face.” He refills my coffee cup and pours me another shot of JD. This bartender might be the finest human being I’ve ever met.
“So, why’d you come back?”
“I’m going to kill some people,” I tell him. I pour the Jack into the coffee. “Probably a lot of people.”
The bartender picks up a rag and starts wiping glasses. “Guess someone’s got to.”
“Thanks for understanding.”
“I figure that at any given time, there’s probably three to five percent of the population that are such unrepentant rat-fuck pendejos that they deserve whatever they get.” He’s still wiping the same glass. It looks pretty clean to me. “Besides, I get the feeling you might have your reasons.”
“That I do, Carlos.”
He stops wiping. “How did you know my name was Carlos?”
“You must’ve said it.”
“No, I didn’t.”
I look over his shoulder, at the wall behind the bar. “That trophy on top of the cash register. ‘Carlos, World’s Greatest Boss.’”
