Kill City Blues. Richard Kadrey

looks over Kasabian’s shoulder at the screen.

      “What’s the weirdest porn you ever found?” says Candy.

      Kasabian gives her a serious look.

      “Unless you want to wake up screaming, don’t ever ask me that again.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      AROUND TEN, MY phone rings. It’s Brigitte.

      “Hi.”

      “Hi yourself. You have an appointment with Herr Rose at three tomorrow afternoon.”

      “Thanks, Brigitte. You’re my hero.”

      “Don’t be so hasty. Remember I said that everything has a price?”

      “Go on.”

      “The price for the address is this. I’m coming with you.”

      “You haven’t exactly been in the field lately. What if things get hot?”

      “That’s why I’m coming. If I go to another audition without at least the chance to kill something, I’m afraid my behavior will become quite drastic. So you see, Jimmy, you’re not just doing me a favor. You’ll be doing a humanitarian service too.”

      “Fine. Come along. I’m sure Candy will enjoy it. You can tell each other stories about your favorite childhood kills.”

      A pause.

      “That’s the rub, you see. Herr Rose is terribly claustrophobic and only ever sees a maximum of two people at a time. It’s a rule he breaks for no one.”

      “No problem. He’ll be tickled pink when he finds you and Candy at his door.”

      “And where will you be?”

      “Coming down the chimney.”

      “Through a shadow.”

      “Yeah.”

      “I miss seeing that.”

      “You can get an eyeful tomorrow.”

      “He’ll hear you and throw us out.”

      “Hear me? I’ll be as quiet as a cotton-candy mouse.”

      “I’m not so sure about this, Jimmy.”

      “Sure you are. It’ll be fun. Dress pretty and bring your gun.”

      “A man who knows how to speak to my heart.”

      She gives me Rose’s address. I repeat it and Candy writes it down.

      I say, “See you tomorrow, Brigitte,” and hang up.

      Candy beams at me.

      “I hope we get to shoot something. I haven’t had a girls’ day out in a long time.”

      BEL AIR IS a neighborhood that lies just west of Beverly Hills and sees its neighbor the way that neighbor sees the rest of L.A.: as a wasteland of upstarts, criminals, and wayward teens with their bongos and jungle music. If the sun ever set in Bel Air, no one would notice because its homes and residents are so luminous they’d light the night sky all on their own. It’s a land where the gold standard never died and the roads are so clean you could perform open-heart surgery on any street corner.

      Candy and I emerge from the shadow of a lamppost so pristine it could’ve been put there this morning. We’re on North Beverly Glen Boulevard, across the street from the address Brigitte gave me.

      The place is called Clear, an old upscale faux-Gothic hotel rebranded by one snotty nouveau chic chain or the other. The residents of these hotels are always the same. Oblivious executives in town for a day to make another billion because the billions they have aren’t enough. Handsome young lovers so bursting with happiness and privilege that you want to punch the DNA that created them. And old long-term residents baffled by the bright lights and excited plastic-surgeried crowds rushing in and out of the place 24/7. Clear reminds me of palaces I saw in Hell, but in worse taste.

      Brigitte is in the lobby. She’s a knockout in a short green sequin dress and pearls and a little silver clutch purse just big enough for her CO₂ pistol. She looks like a flapper ninja. Candy is in her usual too-big leather jacket and Chuck Taylors. I’m in a frockcoat with guns. Which two of us don’t look like we belong in the Clear?

      Brigitte kisses Candy and me on both cheeks. Candy says something to her that I miss and they both start laughing. They’re giddy at the idea they’re going to see some action. I’m hoping we don’t. And if something happens, fingers crossed that we don’t start it, and by “we,” I mean them.

      We ride the elevator to the twelfth floor, go left, and walk almost to the end of the corridor.

      “Herr Rose has two rooms, 1210 and 1212. But we’ve been instructed to knock only on 1210,” says Brigitte.

      “Easy to remember,” I say. “Twelve-ten. When they signed the Magna Carta.”

      Both women look at me.

      “Don’t look at me like that. There was nothing to do in Hell but hide and read books. Is that a crime?”

      Candy says, “Marcus Aurelius and now the Magna Carta? I’m starting to think that bullet unleashed your inner geek.”

      “I had an inner geek once. But a doctor lanced it and it went away.”

      “Call an ambulance. It’s growing back.”

      Brigitte smiles.

      “You two are charming together.”

      “I was plenty charming all on my own,” says Candy. “I’m just carrying the geek so he doesn’t cut himself on a bullet and bleed to death.”

      “Are you two done? I knew I should never let you near each other.”

      Brigitte says, “I think he just called us … What’s the word?”

      “Brats,” says Candy.

      “Yes. Brats.”

      “That’s because you are brats.”

      “And who’s more foolish? The brats or the man who invites the brats to a gunfight?” says Brigitte.

      “No gunfights. I didn’t invite anyone to a gunfight. This is a normal everyday ambush, not the O.K. Corral.”

      “If you’re going to be boring about it, at least be entertaining. Disappear into one of your shadows while we distract Rose with our wiles.”

      “Yeah,” says Candy. “The wiles girls are in business.”

      She loops her arm in Brigitte’s.

      I walk into a shadow by a picture window down the hall, surer than ever that I should have worn body armor.

      I STILL HATE walking into unknown rooms, but I’ve never heard of a dangerous Tick-Tock Man, so I’m more likely to walk in on a game of Dungeons & Dragons than bearbaiting.

      I come out in a room that reminds me of Garrett’s. A generically elegant place, but a little more old school than his was. The wood looks like wood instead of veneer and the paintings look real instead of like overpriced prints.

      Rose has two adjoining apartments. One for living and one for a workspace. The guy is either loaded or his rental agreement is so old it’s written on parchment and he pays for it with shells and brightly colored beads.

      He must be one of those genius types, like Tesla. Guys who would rather live in a hotel than have their own home. Live somewhere they know the sheets and towels will always be clean and where they can get a grilled-cheese sandwich from room service at four A.M. Because we’re in Bel Air, I want to hate his setup, but the truth is, I understand the addiction. I love squatting in the Chateau Marmont. Plus, I never told anyone, but part of me is happy that so many of my clothes end up burned, slashed,