mirror on the dresser falls and shatters on the floor. I’m not really sure which one of us did that.
We crawl back onto the bed. Candy crawls back on top and thrusts down on me hard enough to crack the San Andreas Fault. I swear I hear plaster falling from the ceiling in the room below us. I don’t care. All that matters is the girl and the monster thrusting down against me.
In the dim distant parts of our brains that can still form thoughts, I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
This has been a long goddamn time coming.
LATER WE LIE in the ruins of the room. We push some debris out of the way and move the bed so it’s at least flat on the floor. We lie down, wrapping ourselves in torn sheets and what’s left of the bedspread.
“I like this hotel. The rooms are simple, but kind of pretty,” says Candy.
“I think we broke this one.”
“Want to do it again?”
“Sure.”
Later, when Candy falls asleep, I put on my pants and boots and go back to the other room to get a new shirt. Kasabian hasn’t moved from the computer. Beer cans are piled under his table.
“Your shoulder is bleeding,” he says. “Let me guess. On the way over you ran into a midget with an armful of razor blades and barbed wire.”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You don’t have to. I could hear you all the way over here. The whole hotel could hear you. Everyone was out of their rooms. They thought it was a gang fight. The hotel manager called 911.”
I find a clean Max Overdrive T-shirt and put it on.
“Cops are coming?”
Kasabian shakes his head.
“Relax. I routed the call to a phone-company all-circuits-are-busy message.”
“You know how to do that?”
“I’m on this computer all day. Making it do bad things is the only fun I have. Did you really think I spent all my time looking at video catalogs and porn?”
“Yeah. I sort of did.”
His eyes narrow at me.
“See. That’s exactly the kind of thing I expect from you. No respect whatsoever. After all the research and information I’ve found for you.”
“That’s not how I meant it. I just never pictured you as the high-tech type.”
“I have to be. All my magic goes into keeping this goddamn skateboard upright. I don’t have extra for anything else, so I have to use machines.”
“That’s actually a real smart way to deal with things. You’re a credit to your race, Alfredo Garcia.”
“Hey, don’t call me that when you’re off getting laid and I’m in here keeping LAPD off your back,” he says, pissed and with a right to be.
“You’re right, man. I owe you.”
“You’re goddamn right you do.” He leans toward me and speaks in a whisper like maybe the CIA is listening. “Is she as cute naked as she is with clothes on?”
“Don’t even start.”
“Come on. I saved you both. And you just said you owe me. Get me a Polaroid.”
I crack a smile at that.
“You know, she just might think that’s funny enough to do. She’s not shy.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m not going to ask her for you. You want it so bad, you do your own begging. And I don’t want to see you Photo-shopping her head onto porn stars.”
“What’s her e-mail address?”
“I don’t even know if she has one.”
“You hick. I’ll find it myself.”
I take the Smith & Wesson out of my coat and reload it with special rounds I made with cut-down .410 shotgun shells. I might not need them, but fortune favors the prepared mind that thought to bring a really big gun.
I say, “Don’t crash out on me. I’m looking for information right now and that’ll probably lead to more questions. I might quiz you now, but I need to make a call.”
“You know where to find me.”
IF YOU’VE EVER wondered if your life has run off the rails, here’s a handy quiz.
Is the only person left in the universe you can go to for help someone even God doesn’t want to talk about?
Is the only alliance left to you with a gang that eats and shits chaos?
Are you about to drunk-dial the only guy in Creation who’s probably more despised than you?
If you answered yes to any of these, then you should seek psychiatric help. If you answered yes to all of them, you’re me.
I WALK OUT the front of the hotel and a block down Hollywood Boulevard.
On the way I get out my phone and thumb in a number I’ve had for a while but never dialed before. I let it ring once and hang up without waiting for an answer.
“It’s about time we heard from you.”
I spin around, toward a vinegar stink. When they aren’t trying to pass as regular people, Kissi have a very particular smell.
“Goddamn you’re fast.”
He’s blond, with the kind of sky-blue eyes that don’t happen in nature. His cheekbones look like they were sculpted by a fascist Michelangelo. I don’t know if he was grown in a petri dish or assembled from dead SS rent boys. I can’t stand to look at him.
I say, “I told you I didn’t want to see you wearing that Nazi face anymore.”
“I don’t remember my appearance being part of our bargain,” says Josef.
“Wear your real face next time. It’s easier looking at a burn-victim bug than Dr. Mengele.”
You can’t be subtle when you’re dealing with a Kissi, even their leader. And he’s the least psychotic one of the bunch.
The Kissi and I have one major thing in common. We shouldn’t exist. We’re both part of God’s Misfits of Nature traveling show. When the Big Bopper created angels at the beginning of time, he fucked it all up. The blowback from conjuring all those angels created both angels and their opposite. The Kissi. They don’t live in heaven with Daddy, but way out in the boiling chaos at the edge of the universe.
In their true form Kissi are fish-belly white and have a faint bottom-of-the-ocean-fish
