the only celebrity around here,” he says.
“And here I thought I was just another small businessman. Tell me, do all celebrities scrape their own goddamn windows clean?”
“We can start there. Why would someone paint ‘killer’ on your store?”
“Maybe they thought I was Jerry Lee Lewis. Look, I don’t like talking to strangers. Next thing, you’ll try to lure me into your van with promises of candy and puppies.”
He doesn’t react to the dig, so I keep on scraping. He watches me for a while before he speaks again.
“Maybe it said something else before. Maybe it said ‘Godkiller.’ ”
This time when I face him, I put the knife to his throat. There’s nothing behind him, so there’s plenty of room to move if he can get his brain and feet to function, but he can’t. That means he’s probably not one of Audsley Isshii’s crew, an assassin sent to settle a score. I don’t think he’s Sub Rosa either. That’s the first thing that would be coming out of his smug face if he was. He’s just a ridiculous civilian looking for a story or an autograph.
“Why would you say ‘Godkiller’?”
He puffs his smoke, trying to look like he’s rolling with the scene, but his hand is shaking. Not enough for most people to see, but I can.
“There are a lot of rumors about you. About your past. And what you did during the flood.”
“What do you think I did?”
“Some people say you saved the world and that it wasn’t the first time. Other people say you lost your mind and killed God, which is a big surprise to some of us.”
“You’re an atheist.”
“I guess you’re not.”
“I wish I had the luxury.”
A couple of people come out of Max Overdrive. A civilian guy and a female Lyph. Lyphs are generally a friendly bunch, but they freak out a lot of regular citizens because they look like what kids draw when they imagine the Devil. Horns and hooves. A tail. This one has rented from us for a while, but I can’t think of her name.
“What’s the matter, Stark?” the Lyph says. “He return a movie late?”
I take the knife from his throat, but keep it by my side.
“See? My customers are a lot more interesting than me.”
“Everyone’s more interesting than Stark,” says the Lyph. “He’s just a Mr. Grumpypants.”
“This guy is a reporter from the Times. He’s looking to interview people who stayed in town when it was underwater. Want to talk to him?”
The Lyph and her friend come over.
“It was awful,” says the guy. “Our whole place flooded, but our pet rats are good swimmers, so it turned out okay.”
I take a drag off the cigarette and look at Moore.
“See? Human interest. That’s what your readers want. Real stuff. Not hocus-pocus rumors.”
“Hi,” says the Lyph, holding out her hand. “I’m Courtney and this is Jeremy.”
Moore shakes Courtney’s hand. I’m not sure he can see her for what she is. When they’re in the street, Lyphs usually use cloaking hoodoo to blend in with the civilians. I try to read the sour look on Moore’s face. It’s hard to tell if he doesn’t want to touch the devil lady’s hand or if he’s pissed that we have an audience.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, and tosses his cigarette into the street. “Maybe you can give me your number and I can get back to you later for an interview.”
“Meow,” says Courtney. “I haven’t been brushed off like that since fourth grade and Father Barker realized I had a tail.”
“Really, Mr. Stark. I was hoping to talk to you specially about something besides the flood,” says Moore.
“What’s that?”
“Your wild-blue-yonder contract.”
“Why do you think I have one of those?”
He pats me on the shoulder and I consider cutting off his hand.
“Because you’re famous and L.A.’s famous always have a backup plan.”
“What’s a wild-blue-yonder contract?” says Jeremy.
What do I tell him? Just because he dates a Lyph doesn’t mean he knows how things are. How people with enough pull, fame, or infamy can get contracts that bind their souls to Earth so that when they die they don’t have to go on to the afterlife. And let’s face it, for people in L.A. that usually means Hell and they know it, and want to put if off for as long as possible. I really can’t blame them. The contracts are handled by talent agencies specializing in ghosts. You want Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe to croon “Happy Birthday” at your next party? Come up with the cash and they can do a duet with James Dean or Jayne Mansfield. It’s not just show-biz types, though. Plenty of bankers, politicians, crooks, and cops don’t want to head Downtown too soon. A wild-blue-yonder contract is Heaven for mama’s boys.
Moore looks at me, waiting to see if I’m going to answer the question. I’m not sure what to tell Jeremy.
“It’s a death deal for chickenshits. When you die, you stay here and the company that sold you the contract can send you anywhere they want to be a performing monkey. Mostly, the contracts go to the famous so rich assholes can mingle with them over finger sandwiches.”
“Cool,” says Jeremy. “Can I get one?”
“Anyone can get one,” says Moore.
I tuck the black blade in my waistband. I’m not going to need it with this band of cutthroats.
“Yeah, but if you’re not an A-list celebrity, you’ll probably end up being Mickey Cohen’s towel boy. Not all ghosts are born equal, are they, Moore?”
“Oh,” Jeremy says. “Wait—who’s Mickey Cohen?”
“A notorious ventriloquist. His dummy worked for Murder Incorporated.”
Jeremy and Courtney look at each other.
“This doesn’t sound like something for us.”
Moore looks a little uncomfortable confronted by actual people who see the scam for what it is.
“Smart,” I say. “Don’t let anyone talk you into one.”
“We won’t,” says Courtney. Then to Moore, “What did I tell you? A big sack of grump.”
She and Jeremy take their movie and head off, leaving me alone with Moore.
“You’re
