Kill City Blues

“How open-minded of you.”

Declan’s eyes flicker to Samael and back to me.

“Can I ask what kind of business you are discussing?”

“I was updating their Wikipedia pages,” says Candy. “Do you have one? I can do yours too.”

Declan gives her an indulgent smile.

“I’m afraid I’m not nearly as colorful as these gentlemen. But thank you for the kind offer.”

He reaches into an interior pocket in his jacket and pulls out a business card. He sets it on the table.

“I suppose there isn’t a lot more for us to talk about here in public. If you’re interested in getting serious, you can reach me here.”

“If I find anything interesting under the sofa cushions.”

“Exactly,” says Declan. He holds out his hand. I don’t shake it. After a minute he drops it to his side.

“Good-bye,” he says and walks away.

“Bye,” Candy calls. “It was strange meeting you.”

No one talks until Declan gets outside.

Samael says, “You realize that he didn’t believe a word you said. He thinks you still have the Qomrama and that you’re selling it to me.”

“How do you know that?”

Samael pushes Candy’s hands away from the laptop and closes the lid.

“Because the man I said was a pious bore? He’s about to shoot you.”

He pushes Candy down and ducks himself.

The guy fires just as I turn. The shot is close enough that I feel it breeze by my ear. It hits Candy’s laptop dead center. Her head pops up from under the table.

“You killed La Blue Girl, you asshole!”

Samael pulls her back down.

The guy pulls the trigger again, but I’m looking at him this time. I think he’s more used to shooting people in the back because the moment we make eye contact his hand shakes and his next shot goes through the window, cracking the safety glass. He pulls open the door and takes off across the parking lot. I’m not wasting time going for the door. I go out the window, broken glass flying across the windshields of parked cars.

Samael was right that it looks like things haven’t worked out for the shooter. He’s in a tan raincoat wrinkled enough that it looks like he sleeps in it. He’s an older guy. Midfifties. A bit of a gut hanging over the top of his jeans. But he runs like a fucking demon.

I chase him across Hollywood Boulevard and down La Brea. The shooter lane-splits between the gridlocked traffic, gracefully sliding across hoods and car roofs when they’re too close to squeeze between. I chase him as hard as I can, but I’m not gaining much ground and I can run damned fast. This tubby sad sack isn’t normal. He’s potioned up or there’s hoodoo on him. I could fry the shooter’s fat ass with a hex, but I learned my lesson after blowing up Rodeo Drive. Zipping through traffic at Mach 5 isn’t exactly low profile, but it’s better than launching hoodoo RPGs at the guy. I don’t need a beef with the Sub Rosa right now. So I suck it up and run faster.

He cuts to his right, running behind a gas station. I follow him but he clears a fence in one jump. I have to climb the damned thing. He’s gone when I hit the ground. I take off after him again.

At the corner of Sunset the shooter turns and sees me. His chest is heaving like his lungs are going to blow up like Macy’s Thanksgiving balloons. His eyes are twitching in their sockets like he’s maxed out on PCP. He’s definitely on a potion or two. I don’t think anyone has ever caught up with him before. He looks scared.

Then all of a sudden he’s calm. He smiles like a kid whose mom just tucked him in and kissed him good night.

I don’t know what he’s doing until he’s already doing it.

The bus’s engine growls. Without looking, he steps back off the curb, right in its path. It takes the bus another twenty feet to stop, but the shooter has flown forty feet. All around me people are screaming. Traffic in the intersection that was moving a second ago screeches to a halt.

I muscle my way through the crowd forming around him. He’s lying facedown. I kick him onto his back, get out my phone, and photograph him. People yell at me, taking me for a gore freak looking for something hot to put on his blog. There’s a tattoo on the side of his neck. I don’t recognize it. I shoot that too. One of his shoes came off and his wallet is lying a few feet away. I shove my way over and pick it up. More people are yelling. I guess I’ve blown my low profile. For all I know there’s a traffic camera shooting everything I’m doing.

I take out the dead man’s driver’s license and photograph that too. Then toss it and the wallet back on the ground just as a cop car pulls up. They must have been right around the corner.

Voices get shrill behind me. I don’t have to look. Villagers with pitchforks are pointing out the monster to the guys with the badges. I wonder what the penalty is for pickpocketing a corpse. I can’t be the first person who’s done it. This is L.A.

I walk to a guy sitting on a Harley. He’s a big boy. His feet are planted on either side of the bike, but his hands aren’t on the handlebars. I don’t have time for subtle.

With one hand, I grab the front of his shirt and lift him off the seat far enough to toss him off the bike without hurting him too much. With the other hand, I grab the handlebars so the bike doesn’t fall. The keys are still in the ignition. I gun the engine and take off before either of the cops closing in on me can get within grabbing range.

The moment I take off they hoof it back to the patrol car. Which isn’t going to do them any good at all. The accident has turned the street into a solid mass of cars, gawkers, and now, twenty or more amateur paparazzi, phones and cameras blasting. I steer the Harley onto the sidewalk and open the throttle, laying on the horn to clear the way. I turn the corner and head back up to Hollywood Boulevard.

I ditch the bike on the sidewalk behind a pickup truck with a camper shell big enough to hide it from patrol cars rolling by.

There are six more cop cars outside Donut Universe. Patrons are out in the parking lot yammering to the uniformed cops all at once. One takes statements but the others don’t want to hear about it. They just want the cattle to wait for the detectives while putting up yellow tape around the crime scene.

I spot Candy waving to me on the opposite corner, near a Christian Science church. Samael has his hand to his ear, talking on his phone.

Candy squeezes my hand when I reach them. She worries. It’s sweet. A second later Samael closes his phone.

“Did you get him?”

“He got himself. Strolled off the curb and kissed a bus.”

“Why? You’re not that scary.”

“Yes, I am.”

“If you say so.”

“How much do you have to pay a guy to go out like that?”

“You don’t. He chose to do it himself. It’s the mark of a true believer. In what, I don’t know and I don’t care. But you should.”

I thumb on my phone and go to the picture of the shooter’s driver’s license. I read it out loud.

“Trevor Moseley. Either of you ever hear of him?”

I show them his picture.

Candy shakes her head.