The Perdition Score. Richard Kadrey

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СКАЧАТЬ He’s an alchemist. Even if he doesn’t know what black milk is, maybe the box will be in one of his books.

      What was it Abbot was talking about at the meeting? The end of the world. Climate change. Charities. Blah blah. Then through the memory of the headache it comes to me: Wormwood. Something is up with them. Those Wormwood creeps I met a few months back hinted they had a branch office in Hell run by Norris Quay. He used to be the richest man in California, but he was dumb enough to follow me into Kill City. Now he’s the richest corpse.

      I go downstairs. Kasabian is still putting returned discs back in their cases. I go over and put a few in myself, but he takes them away when I mix up the DVDs and Blu-rays.

      As casually as I can I say, “How’s your view of Downtown these days?”

      He raises his eyes to me for a second, then goes back to putting away discs.

      “You haven’t asked about Hell in a while. Since you went white collar, I thought you’d forgotten about the place.”

      “It’s depressing not being able to see the place for myself.”

      “You’re the only person who thinks it’s depressing they can’t see Hell. Why do you care all of a sudden?”

      “I met an angel tonight. Karael. He said that Heaven is fucked. If it is, that usually means Hell is double-fucked.”

      “That’s a distinct possibility,” Kasabian says.

      “You still have access to the Codex and the peeper I gave you?”

      The Daimonion Codex is basically Lucifer’s Boy Scout manual on running Hell. Once he let Kasabian look inside, he could sneak looks all over Hell. I gave Kas the peeper. It’s a magical eye you can look through and see remote places. Sort of Hellion security cams.

      He scratches his nose with a metal claw.

      “Your angel is right. Pandemonium is falling apart. Like Berlin after the blitz falling apart. Nothing works anymore but the sewers. The buildings are falling apart. Gangs of ex-Hellion soldiers and some of your less savory damned souls run protection and control everything from weapons to food. Basically, anyone who isn’t going Wild Bunch in the city is going batshit at Heaven’s gates. You said they’re supposed to be open, but I haven’t seen it.”

      “I know. Goddammit. I wish I could see into Heaven.”

      Kasabian raises an eyebrow.

      “You never said that before.”

      “I never had a reason. If I knew Karael was telling the truth and angels were fighting each other, it would make it easier to believe him about other things.”

      “What do you care what some angel says? They’re all assholes.”

      “I met a couple of okay ones over the years. Not many. One or two. Karael gave me something. And he said no souls would get into Heaven as long as the war lasted.”

      “What did he give you?”

      “No clue. I’m taking it to Vidocq tomorrow. Do you know much about Wormwood?”

      “Only what you told me.”

      “How about Norris Quay? Do you ever see him Downtown?”

      “Now, him I’ve seen,” Kasabian says. “He’s a real player in Pandemonium. Got himself protection. A nice setup in an office building. Norris is doing fine, making bank on everything that goes down.”

      “Any new souls hanging around with him?”

      “They come and go. You know more Wormwood faces than I do. I just see creeps in tailored suits and limos with Hellion escorts.”

      I pick a DVD of David Cronenberg’s Frankenstein and Kasabian plucks it from my hand, slipping it into its case.

      “I need to get down there and see the place for myself.”

      “I need a week in Fiji with Brigitte Bardot, but that’s not going to happen either.”

      “You’re right about that.”

      “I’m always right, but you won’t admit it.”

      “There’s no Nobel Prizes around here. Just tamales.”

      “It’s time for you to call the missus. Tell her I’m going to die sorting discs.”

      “Good. More tamales for us.”

      “And once again, you’re not allowed down here. Go upstairs and stay out of my way.”

      “Yes, boss.”

      I go upstairs and pour myself some Aqua Regia.

      If Abbot is right and Wormwood is playing games up here and Quay is doing business down there, it makes sense that they’re connected. I wonder if he’s the source of black milk? But how would he make money off it? And who else could be working with him? Maybe David Moore. He’s dead and had connections through a talent agency run by the Burgess family—Wormwood heavyweights. But that wouldn’t help Kasabian. He wouldn’t recognize Moore. Fuck me. I should have brought more peepers with me when I came back from Hell that last time. Just another in a long series of mistakes. Maybe there’s some other way I can see Downtown like Kasabian. Who could help with that? Maybe go back and ask the powers that be in Piss Alley? Maybe not. When they gave me the power to sidestep for a week, it aged me enough that I’ve got a few gray hairs. Who knows what price they’d want next time?

      I go into the bathroom, strip off my clothes, and get into the shower. I need to wash the fight and as many lies off me as I can.

      When I get out, I can hear Candy and Kasabian talking downstairs. She comes up and the first thing she says is, “Kas says you have a black eye. Are you all right?”

      If Kasabian wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him tonight.

      “I’m fine. I just bumped my head getting off Abbot’s damned boat.”

      “Poor baby,” she says, and drops her vinyl eyeball bag on the kitchen counter.

      She comes over and kisses my bruised eye.

      “Maybe I can take your mind off all the pain.”

      Candy opens the eyeball and pulls out the record Alessa Graves gave her. She puts it on the stereo and cranks up the sound. The trembling rumble of surf guitar fills the room.

      Reaching under the towel, she begins to massage my cock, then kisses me hard. I lean against her, smelling her hair and neck. She pulls off my towel and pushes me down on the sofa, keeps pumping me with her hand. I pull her on top of me and start to roll her over when she says, “Wait a minute.” She throws off her short dress and underwear and pulls me inside her.

      “Fukaku hamekonde chodai,” she whispers.

      I have no idea what that means, but I don’t think it has anything to do with tamales. When she wraps her legs around me, I have the strange feeling it’s СКАЧАТЬ