The Sandman Slim Series Books 1-4. Richard Kadrey

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СКАЧАТЬ hadn’t noticed, I live in a store. Allegra runs the store. Stores bring in money.”

      Allegra says, “Not really.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “The store’s never really turned a profit. There’s a Blockbuster and some other big chains just a couple blocks away. The porn keeps the doors open, but most of the real money came from Mr. Kasabian’s bootleg business, and now that’s gone.”

      “Stop calling Kasabian ‘mister’ all the time. He doesn’t deserve it.” Out the window, the crack dealers are buying oranges from the old men in the truck. The cultural divide between homegrown American entrepreneurism and immigrant ambition is being bridged right before our eyes. It’s an inspiring moment. Maybe the old men will let me sell oranges with them off the back of their truck when Max Overdrive closes and I’m homeless again.

      “What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask Vidocq.

      “Mr. Muninn.”

      I nod like the name means something to me. “Okay. Let’s meet him.”

      “I want to show my new apprentice a few more things, so we’ll do it tonight.”

      “Sounds good.” I start to leave, but Allegra calls me.

      “How am I supposed to get back if you take the car?”

      “You take it. I jimmied the ignition, so you can start it with a flathead screwdriver. Vidocq will give you one. Ditch the car at least ten blocks from the shop.”

      The sound of shots comes through the window and we all turn. The two crack kids are on the ground in widening pools of blood, and a powder-blue Chevy lowrider is speeding away. Oh well. It’s like the real estate people say, “Location, location, location.”

      “How will you get back?” asks Allegra

      “I know a shortcut.” I go out into the hall, step through a shadow next to the door opposite and come out in the alley behind Max Overdrive. I go in through the back and straight upstairs. The morning crew has cleaned the place up pretty well and taped the front-door glass back together reasonably well. Some customers look at me, but I don’t look back.

      In my room—this is my room now; that other place is Vidocq’s—I put the box with Alice’s things on a shelf in the closet where I’d kept Kasabian’s head. I wish he was still here. I’d put one of Alice’s T-shirts over his head at night, the way old ladies drape parakeet cages. Sleep tight, motherfucker, with my murdered girl’s shirt for a nightcap.

      I wonder where Parker has taken Kasabian and what he’s done with him. Only one thing makes sense. Parker has killed him. After I set off the trap back at Mason’s place, he and Parker realized I was back. They checked on the rest of the Circle and found Kasabian was gone. Knowing what a rancid little worm he was, Mason would figure that he’d start blathering secrets sooner or later. It would be simpler and easier just to kill him. Sweet dreams, Kas. I might not have killed you, you know. You were just too damned pathetic. Leaving you to your little store and the dreams of the power the others swindled you out of might have been punishment enough. I could have been happy to see you live another fifty years trying to make lemonade out of your misery.

      I take the little magic box from Alice’s things and set it on the table beside the bed. I don’t dwell on it sitting on that crap table in this nowhere room. Let it go. Don’t think. It’s what you’re best at.

      I’d picked up the habit of playing movies on the monitor Kasabian used to make his bootlegs. Mostly I watched old Shaw Brothers chop socky stuff. Five Deadly Venoms. The 36th Chamber of Shaolin. Dirty Ho. Or spaghetti westerns. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. The Great Silence. Four for the Apocalypse. The sound of fighting, even movie fighting, is weirdly comforting when I’m falling asleep. Something else is playing now, and I don’t remember having left the set on. It’s Fitzcarraldo, a German movie about a crazy Irishman who tries to drag a riverboat over a mountain in the Amazon. It almost kills him. Is this a message? Did Parker leave this playing for me? After he broke in, why didn’t he wait to ambush me?

      I take the Veritas off its chain and do something I wanted to do last night. I flip the coin and ask, “Is Doc Kinski for real?” When it I catch it, the Veritas is showing a symbol it’s never displayed before. A calopus. Imagine a flying wolverine covered in porcupine quills dripping with enough poison to give God himself a sore ass. That’s a calopus. Written in Hellion script around the edge of the coin’s face is, If assholes had assholes, Kinski is the shit that would come out of that asshole. I’ve never seen the Veritas say that about anyone before, Hellion, angel, human, or beast.

      Like every sentient creature in the underworld, the Veritas has strong opinions. Using the Veritas well means being able to separate facts from its horror-show editorials. This is good news. There’s only one reason it would hate anyone like that.

      Kinski is one of the good guys. Okay. Time to take the doc’s advice.

      I leave Fitzcarraldo running with the sound off and dig around on the worktable until I find a creased AAA map of L.A. After I unfold it on the floor, take out the piece of lead the doc gave me, and start drawing a magic circle around it, I can’t remember any specific locator spells, but the idea is pretty simple and I know I can fake my way through one.

      The circle is complex. Hellion magic is always complex—either that or so simple, Fungus could do it. There’s not much in the middle when Hellions are in charge.

      When it feels like the circle is done, when the map is completely enclosed and I’ve loaded in every luck, hunting, and eavesdropping charm I can think of, I reach up for more junk off the table. A piece of string and some foil from a burrito wrapper. I wad up the foil and tie it to the bottom of the string, making a pendulum. Then I take my knife and slice across the palm of my left hand. Squeezing hard before the wound closes, I sprinkle blood around and inside the magic circle.

      Hell doesn’t run on prayers or promises. Downtown magic is about reaching out and grabbing what you want, and that requires payment. An offering. Blood. Black magic on Earth isn’t so different and it’s why so many dark magicians dress like cashiers at Hot Topic. Black is a good color anytime you’re flinging around blood.

      I start chanting, a free-form mix of Hellion and English, ordering whatever Lurkers, spirits, magical pinheads and old, forgotten gods who happen to be nearby to turn down The Price Is Right and listen up. Show me where Mason is. I paid you my blood, now give me what I want. I command you. Give me what you owe me. I have the key to all the doors in the universe. You don’t want to even dream of cheating me.

      The foil ball on the end of the string begins to move, making little circles where I hold it over the map. The movement becomes steady and strong, pulling my hand and my whole arm in circles, too. Then it stops. The foil slams onto the map like it’s magnetized. I pull the pendulum away and look at where it landed. Just a little north of Hollywood Boulevard and Las Palmas, right on top of Max Overdrive.

      Cute. I should have seen that one coming. Mason stuck a reversal gag on anyone stupid enough to look for him with magic.

      On the floor, the map wads itself up and bursts into flame. A lick of fire reaches up like a burning claw and snatches the pendulum from my hand. Both the map and pendulum disintegrate into ashes and drift away on a breeze blowing in from some other part of Creation.

      That was an Amateur Hour move. Now СКАЧАТЬ