Kill City Blues. Richard Kadrey

faster processor. Good for games.”

      I lie down on my back.

      “So all in all a good day for you.”

      “Shut up,” she says.

      I move closer to her. Put my hand on her leg.

      “This is going to happen sometimes. It’s how my life works. You can’t always come with me and I can’t dodge every bullet. Just remember that bastards tried to kill me for eleven years in Hell and almost a year up here and no one’s done it.”

      She says, “That’s not true. You’ve died a couple of times.”

      “Not like lying-there-getting-smelly kind of dead. Just technically dead.”

      She hits the keyboard harder. She still won’t look at me. I really want one of Vidocq’s cigarettes.

      “You’ve got to understand that if this is going to work between us.”

      “I don’t want to,” she says.

      “I don’t always either. But it’s how things are. ‘Death smiles at us all and all a man can do is smile back.’”

      “Where did you hear that crap?”

      “I read it in a book Downtown. It’s Marcus Aurelius.”

      She nods.

      “Quote a dead guy. Real smooth.”

      I kiss her leg and get up. I stink from sweat and burned skin and need a shower.

      On my way to the bathroom I say, “I’m going Downtown to see Mr. Muninn. You can come with me or you can stay here and sulk.”

      I stand under the hot water for a long time, washing off the grime and dead skin. The wound has already closed, though I can feel the bullet inside me.

      I put on a robe and go back into the bedroom.

      Candy has closed the laptop. She and Vidocq are quietly watching the movie. I sit down beside her on the bed. She balls up her fist and punches my real arm.

      “Ow.”

      “I wasn’t sulking. I was mad. And not entirely at you.”

      “I know. Trust me. If I could, I’d be the most boring bastard in the world.”

      “No, you wouldn’t,” says Vidocq.

      “Okay. Tenth most boring bastard.”

      Candy says, “Sometimes you get worked up. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

      “I’m always careful.”

      “Really? How does stopping to grab money in the middle of an explosion count as careful?”

      The fake Qomrama and the cash are lying nearby on the bed. I pick up the money.

      “Did you count it?”

      “It’s just shy of four thousand dollars.”

      “Chicken-and-waffles money.”

      Along the edges, the bills are as crisp and singed as I am. I show them to Vidocq. He chuckles and leans in closer.

      He says, “That’s a strange design on the clip. It almost reminds me of the Golden Vigil. Though not entirely.”

      The Golden Vigil. God’s Pinkertons on earth. They were a Homeland Security offshoot that Vidocq and I used to work for. The Vigil worked with a special group of agents using angelic tech, supposedly monitoring and policing nefarious hoodoo-related activity. Zombies. Rogue vampires. Demon attacks. Hell, they even put Lucifer on a terrorist watch list. Mostly, though, they were just another set of bullheaded cops in better suits. U.S. Marshal Larson Wells and, more importantly, Aelita ran the show. That’s until she went on her god-killing crusade and the government shut the Vigil down. Not a tear was shed.

      “Not quite? You’re sure?”

      Vidocq nods.

      “I’m positive. Not the Vigil.”

      “But still similar.”

      “Yes. Similar.”

      I toss the money back on the bed.

      “I wish I could have talked to Garrett. All this cash. Passports. A mechanical familiar. Who the hell was he waiting for?”

      “And who was the bomb for? Monsieur Garrett or the party buying from him?” says Vidocq.

      “He had a familiar?” says Candy.

      “Yeah; a good one too. I should have grabbed the asshole’s wallet.”

      I can see Kasabian banging away on his own computer, building his Web site.

      “Did Old Yeller find out anything on Moseley?”

      Candy says, “Not much. He had a record but all minor stuff. He was kind of a religious nut. A couple of arrests for protesting outside abortion clinics. A fine for trashing a Scientology office and some Orthodox graves at Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It looks like he’s been through every religion on the planet. There’s photos of him in a dozen getups from different religious sects and cults.”

      “A lost soul in a hard city. A volatile combination,” says Vidocq.

      “I got the 8 Ball and the cash,” I say to him. “You steal anything fun lately?”

      He shakes his head.

      “Jewelry here and there. A vase for the apartment. Helping look for your weapon puts too many temptations in my path and the old habits are the hardest to break.”

      He puffs his cigarette.

      “And sometimes stealing a bit helps. Not everyone who comes to the clinic can pay.”

      Vidocq’s girlfriend, Allegra, runs a hoodoo clinic for down-and-out Sub Rosas and Lurkers. Doc Kinski used to run it with Candy taking care of the front desk. Then Aelita murdered him. That bothered a lot of people, myself included. Kinski was my father.

      “How is Allegra?”

      “Well. She has trained two competent assistants.” He looks at Candy. “She misses you working beside her.” He looks at me. “And believe it or not, she misses you.”

      Allegra didn’t take it well when she found out that I’d become Lucifer. She accused me of all kinds of nefarious shit. Mostly Sunday school stuff, which I didn’t expect from her. We haven’t spoken much since.

      “Maybe we ought to keep it that way,” I say. “Whenever we get near each other, someone says something stupid.”

      “Someone?” asks Candy.

      “Okay. Me.”

      “And yet her desire to see you both remains unchanged,” Vidocq says.

      I toss him Garrett’s cash.

      “Give her this.”

      He nods and puts it in the pocket of his greatcoat.

      “We both thank you for this.”

      Candy says, “Can I have the clip?”

      I say, “Why? We don’t have any money.”

      Vidocq takes the clip off the cash and hands it to her. Her eyes light up.

      “I just like it,” she says. “It’s shiny. I’ll find something to do with it.”

      I take off the robe. The bullet wound stings a little, but the blisters hurt like a son of a bitch. I put on my leather bike pants and boots. Find an old Maximum Overdrive video-store T-shirt that’s not covered in bullet holes or blood and put that on too.

      “I don’t suppose you’d consider taking me along,” says Vidocq.

      “To Hell? I don’t want to take her. Why would