Aloha from Hell. Richard Kadrey

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СКАЧАТЬ laughs. “Who would send a demon for me?”

      “I don’t know. The few thousand people you’ve robbed over the last two hundred years?”

      “It’s more like a hundred and fifty. Don’t try to make me sound old.”

      “’Course, sending a demon for something like that sounds like overkill. Especially something rare enough that neither of us recognizes it.”

      “I’ll look into it tomorrow when I’m certain I’ll be able to feel my right leg again.”

      “Whiner. Your girlfriend is the best hoodoo doctor in town. She’ll give you an ice pack and conjure you some kangaroo legs. Then you can do your own second-story work.”

      Vidocq pats me on the shoulder.

      “There, there …” like he’s patting a five-year-old with a skinned knee. “I would have thought you’d be happy. You got to have a fight. Draw a little blood. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting?”

      I think it over.

      “I suppose. And you killed it, not me, so my not-slaughtering-things record is still intact.”

      “Unlike your arms.”

      “A little Bactine and they’ll be fine by the morning.”

      “Judging by the look of them, they’ll hurt in the meantime. Take this. It will help you sleep.”

      He reaches into his coat and hands me a potion.

      “No thanks. Dr. Jack Daniel’s is coming by tonight. He’s got all the medicine I need.”

      He slips the vial into my pocket.

      “Take it anyway. He might be late.”

      “Yes, Mom.”

      “And don’t forget to brush your teeth and say your prayers.”

      “Fuck you, Mom.”

      WE DRIVE ACROSS town, near what the city fathers call the Historic District, an ironically named area in a city that has no history but has seen more shit go down than a lot of countries. It’s all right to forget all the Mansons, the celebrity ODs, the brain-boost religions, the UFO religions, the tin-horn Satanists, the rock-and-roll suicides, the landgrabs, the serial killers, the ruthless gangs and even more ruthless cops, the survivalists with cases of ammo, cigarettes, and freeze-dried beans in their desert compounds, as long as we remember to bring the family downtown to grab a latte and admire the knockoff Mickey Mouse T-shirts.

      We ditch the car in the Biltmore Hotel parking lot and start the four-block walk to the Bradbury Building. This is flat-out stupid, but Vidocq insisted that he could walk off whatever happened to his leg in the fall. I’ve seen plenty of injuries. I know he can’t, but I let him hobble until he grabs my arm, huffing and puffing before falling against a newspaper box full of local porn papers. I didn’t know those things were still around.

      “Want to take the shortcut?” I ask.

      “Please,” he says.

      I put one of his arms around my shoulder and lift him off the box. We limp to the corner and around the side of a Japanese restaurant. I pull him into a shadow by the delivery entrance. We go into the Room of Thirteen Doors and I pretty much carry him out the Door of Memory and into Mr. Muninn’s place.

      Every good thief needs a fence and Mr. Muninn is Vidocq’s. Muninn’s regular shop, the one he keeps for his vaguely normal clients, is in the old sci-fi–meets–art-deco Bradbury Building on a floor that doesn’t exist. He serves a pretty select clientele—mostly Sub Rosa and über-wealthy L.A. elites. But if you ever stumbled into his store and could afford a Fury in a crystal cage, the seeds from Eve’s apple, or Napoleon’s whalebone cock ring, he’d let you in. Mr. Muninn’s a businessman.

      The really interesting stuff he keeps in a deep cavern beneath the Bradbury Building. His secret boutique for only the oddest and choicest items in the world. That’s where we come out.

      When he sees us Muninn holds his arms out wide like he’s giving a benediction.

      “Welcome, boys. What a pleasure to see you two working together again.”

      Vidocq says, “Just like the good old days. I’m limping and he was just on fire.”

      Vidocq drops into a gilt armchair that probably belonged to King Tut.

      I stamp my foot on the stone floor a few times, shaking loose shotgun pellets that have embedded themselves in the soles of my boot.

      “On fire is my best look. Ask anyone.”

      Muninn shifts his eyes to Vidocq and then back at me.

      “How may I ask did a simple robbery turn into a Greek drama? And were there any witnesses who might make things complicated later?”

      I say, “The drama started and ended with demons. One in the house and one in the street.”

      “The only witness is the man who owned the scroll you wanted,” says Vidocq. “His residence was badly cloaked and there was a guardian demon in the safe. He’ll be too embarrassed that he paid for a worthless shield to tell anyone. No doubt he knows that leaving a demon mantrap where an innocent party might stumble on it is a serious violation of Sub Rosa precepts. No, I believe he’ll lick his wounds and not tell a soul about tonight.”

      Muninn smiles and does his benediction thing again.

      “And there we are. An adventure complete with just a few scars to make the memories all the more vivid. And then there’s your reward. Not a bad night’s work, I’d say.”

      I take the box out of my pocket, then peel off the charred remains of my coat and drop it on the stone floor. If it was anyone else, I’d stomp him for his attitude, but Muninn doesn’t think like regular people. I don’t know if he’s the oldest man in the world, but I’ll bet there isn’t anyone else within midget-tossing distance who’s seen multiple ice ages freeze and thaw the world. He’s a nice guy for someone who thinks like a Martian. And he’s always fair when it comes to business. If you ask me, we could use a few more like him. You never know what’s going to come out of his mouth and he always pays on time.

      He rummages around his endless maze of shelves crammed with books, bones, strange weapons, the crown jewels of kingdoms no one’s ever heard of, and ancient scientific devices. Does even he know what they do? They could be Krishna’s gumball machine for all I know.

      He comes back with a handblown green glass bottle and three small silver cups, takes them to his worktable desk, and pours drinks. He hands us each a glass and raises his own.

      “To God above and the devil below.”

      Vidocq says something pithy back in French.

      Great. Now it’s my turn to sound smart. The angel in my head chimes in with something, but I shove Beaver Cleaver back into the dark.

      “You owe me a coat,” is all I can think of.

      He СКАЧАТЬ