halfway to the door when Mike calls after me.
“Hold up. I’ve been thinking about Kasabian.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll get lesions on your brain.”
“I figured it out. If you can get me another hellhound body, then I can modify that and then put new parts on Kasabian’s body without taking him off.”
“Great idea. I’ll stop by Costco on the way home and pick up a new hellhound. Oh, wait. They only have those in Hell.”
Mike frowns.
“It was just an idea. You don’t have to be mean about it.”
“Sorry, Mike. I was just down in Hell and it wasn’t fun. I’ll see about getting another hound, but I have other things to do first.”
“Okay. Make sure Kasabian knows it was my idea.”
“Will do.”
I go out through the garage, wave to Mike’s cousins, and climb back into the Charger. By the time I’m in, I’ve already thumbed Brigitte Bardo’s number into my phone.
BRIGITTE IS MY favorite zombie hunter in the world. Except we killed off all the zombies a few months ago and she’s been kind of at loose ends ever since. She was a big-time, classy porn star in Europe and she’s been trying to get a legit acting career going. With her looks and brains in a town like L.A., she can really work the hell out of a room. Brigitte has more phone numbers and dirt on people in her little black book than Homeland Security.
“Jimmy,” she says in her sweet Prague accent. “How lovely for you to call. How are you? Have you killed anyone interesting lately?”
“Does it count if I just happened to be in the room when the bomb went off?”
“Of course not.”
“Then no.”
She sighs.
“You’ll have to do better. I live vicariously through you these days.”
She’s only half joking. We’re both trained killers. Brigitte was trained for zombie hunting since she was a kid. Being a killer is a hard thing to walk away from and have a normal life.
“Listen. I wouldn’t normally call you with something as boring as this.”
“Boring? How could a task of yours be boring?”
“I’m trying to track someone down, and the thing is, Blackburn might know the guy, but his head of security braced me the last time I was there, so I can’t ask him.”
“So we won’t be fighting monsters or kicking in doors?”
“Right now I’m just looking for a phone number and maybe an address.”
“You were right. This is boring,” she says. “Who is it?”
“A Tick-Tock Man named Atticus Rose.”
“Are you looking for a pet? I can see you strolling down Sunset Boulevard with a lovely poodle. Or perhaps a white cockatoo on your shoulder. A very butch cockatoo, of course.”
“How do you butch up a bird? Get it a little leather cap and chaps?”
“That’s your fantasy, Jimmy. Not mine.”
“Do you think you can find me a number?”
“Of course. I can get anyone’s number. But just remember that everything comes with a price.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll call you later with Herr Rose’s information.”
“What price, Brigitte?”
Too late. The line is dead. Once a killer, always a killer.
I DITCH THE Charger by the Whisky a Go Go and walk the rest of the way back to the Chateau.
When I get back to the room, Candy is just waking up. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes and stretches like a panther. She blinks when she sees me.
“Oh. I thought you were off bringing me coffee in bed. What are you dressed for?”
“I was out talking to Manimal Mike. I tried waking you.”
“Try harder next time. Where did he shoot you?”
I hold up my arms so she can see me.
“No blood. See? I made it back unmolested.”
She runs her foot up my leg to my thigh.
“Maybe we should do something about that.”
I close the bedroom door and turn up the new Skull Valley Sheep Kill album on the stereo. Kasabian doesn’t like to listen when we smash up the furniture.
AN HOUR LATER and we’ve only broken one side table. The gunshot and the blast took a little more out of me than I like to admit. I light up a Malediction and look for some Aqua Regia, but the bottle is still in the living room.
Candy is lying next to me in one of the absurdly plush hotel robes.
“So what did you and Mike talk about?”
“The 8 Ball. He says he knows who made it.”
“Great. Let’s go pay Dr. Frankenstein a visit.”
“Can’t. He didn’t have a number for the guy, so I called Brigitte.”
“She knows the guy?”
“No. But she can probably track him down.”
“Clever girl.”
“They’re the only kind worth knowing.”
“Ain’t that the truth.”
We wander out to the living room. I pour some Aqua Regia into a coffee mug and Candy picks at the remains of last night’s food. We always order too much and leave the food carts along the wall buffet style. I wish we could squirrel away all the leftovers. We’re going to miss them when they kick us out.
Kasabian calls us from across the room.
“Check it out. My first client.”
“Congratulations,” says Candy.
“I didn’t even know you had the site finished.”
Kasabian is on the landing page for Aetheric Industries Psychic Investigations.
“The wonders of the cyberspace and desperate suckers,” he says. “I put the site up an hour ago and already have three inquiries and one bona fide, already-got-his-credit-card-number customer.”
