Sandman Slim

What's that old Sunday school warning about how if you fight dragons too long, you can become one? That's been spinning around in my head for years, long enough that I know I'd rather be a dragon than a sheep to the slaughter. Maybe, in some kinder, gentler version of the world, I could walk away from the Circle, get Zen, and forgive them for what they did to me. But I can't forgive them for Alice. Never for that. Maybe I'm not worth killing for, but she is.

"I should go. I have to meet someone," I lie. I set the guns back in the oilcloth and wrap them up. I'm feeling a little ashamed of myself, like I'm letting down the old man. Without looking at him, I ask, "Want to meet up tomorrow?"

"Of course."

I make it out the door before he can give me another French bear hug.

I STEER THE Mercedes west toward the one other place in town that makes my skin crawl almost as much as the old apartment.

I turn off Sunset and onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. The change from Hollywood to Beverly Hills is always sudden and startling, like flipping a switch. Bus fumes and strip-mall nail salons transform to trimmed green lawns and stately homes. This isn't movie-star Beverly Hills, but the older part. The homes are large, but not bloated parade floats. It looks like grown-ups might have lived here.

After crossing Mulholland, I turn right into a maze of streets all named Dona. Dona Isabel. Dona Marta. Dona Sarita. When I find the right Dona, I park and sit for a minute, thinking. I should have seen something like this coming. Things had been going too easy since I got back. Brad Pitt wasn't my fuck-you welcome back to the world. This is.

There's no need to get out of the car, but I do anyway, and cross the street to the empty lot where Mason's house - the place where our magic circle used to meet - once stood. The vacant land looks corrupt and out of place in this perfect landscape, like a starlet showing rotten teeth behind her million-dollar smile. Tall weeds grow through the sandy soil. There's a faded sign with the name of a real-estate developer and a "Coming Soon!" message on top, but it doesn't look like anyone has set foot anywhere near the lot in years.

The sun is going down fast. When a breeze picks up, I feel a chill. I know it's all in my head. Even at Christmas, L.A. isn't that cold, but it doesn't stop my teeth from chattering.

Night is coming on fast. I walk back to the Mercedes, get in, and light up one of the last few cigarettes from the pack Carlos gave me. I look at the empty lot and wonder what happened there. It doesn't look like the house burned. From what I remember, this neighborhood is on bedrock, so it probably didn't fall down in a quake. It just went away. I know I should go over and walk around to see if I can find something that could point me to Mason and the others. But not tonight. The shit and sulfur smell when I was dragged to Hell through the basement floor are coming back strong. I stay in the car, and when the last of the cigarette is gone, I flick the butt onto one of the manicured lawns and drive away.

I DITCH THE Mercedes a few blocks from Max Overdrive. At another time it would break my heart to have to leave such a brilliant machine behind, but L.A. is an all-you-can-eat car buffet, and now that I've seen what the knife does to locks and ignitions, I'm never going to starve.

I grab the oilcloth bundle with the guns and the bags with my new clothes. When I get to the store, it is closed, but I rap on the glass and Allegra lets me in.

"Damn," she says. "You clean up pretty good."

"Thanks." It feels nice being complimented by a human woman. The few kind words I'd heard in the last eleven years usually came from Hellions that looked like something a snake had just thrown up.

"Did you lose your key?"

"I forgot it. I haven't had to carry one for a while."

"Where did you live that you didn't need keys?" She looks at something in her hand that's beeping at her. It looks like a TV remote fucked a little typewriter and this is the bastard offspring. She types something on the tiny typewriter with her thumbs, and smiles.

"What's that you're playing with?"

"You've never seen one of these? It's a BlackBerry."

"Is it like a phone? But you're typing with it."

"I've got it now. You've been in a coma since the seventies. No. Abducted by aliens."

"You nailed me. Klatuu barada nikto."

"The Day the Earth Stood Still, right? That was one of my favorites when I was a kid."

"Me, too. So, why are you typing on your BlackBerry thing?"

"Just BlackBerry. Like you, Just Stark." She turns the little device so I can see it better. "You can talk on it or you can send text messages. It's like e-mail, only it's instant. You've heard of e-mail, right."

"Sure. But why would you type something to someone? Why not just call them?"

"Sometimes texting is more fun. Or, like now, if you're sending someone an address, it's nice to have it in writing."

"What's that on the screen?"

"It's Google Maps. I looked up the address so I could give Michelle directions." She clicks and the little screen changes. "See, you just get on the net and enter the address."

"You have the Internet on that? If I got the Internet, I could look things up on it, right? Names, places, history?"

"First off, you don't get the Internet. It's the Web, and you don't get it. You use it. And, yeah, you can look up anything you want."

"Can I get one of these?"

She looks at me like I really have spent a decade with Martians.

"Of course. You just have to figure out what kind you want." She types a few more words into the BlackBerry and puts it in her coat pocket.

"Thanks," I say.

"No problem. I've got to go and meet some friends. Can you lock up after me?"

"Sure. Good night."

"Night."

I haven't used keys for a while. What a stupid damn thing to say. I could see it in her eyes. She's wondering if I'm flat-out crazy or a recent jailbird. Worse, she's wondering if I've done something to Kasabian. Plus, she's wondering about what's wrapped in the dirty oilcloth. I'll have to start locking the upstairs door. I'll have to do something about her suspicions, too, but I don't know what, and I'm not going to figure it out tonight. I take my bags and the bundle with the guns upstairs and drop them on the bed. Tomorrow I'll check into the BlackBerry thing. Having the Internet or Web or whatever with me will help me catch up on the world and keep me from sounding like a newly landed Martian.

I go over and open Kasabian's closet.

"Morning, sunshine. Sleep well?"

There's a cheesy infomercial playing on the TV. Some guy in a chef's uniform is waving kitchen utensils around.

"You ever see these knives, man? I just might have to get a set. They cut right through soda cans and bricks."

"If I ever start eating bricks, I'll come by and borrow them. You had any thoughts about our conversation last night? Like, where I can find some of the old crowd?"

Kasabian doesn't look at me, but keeps staring at the TV. "They never rust, you know. And you never have to sharpen them. They're amazing. They're almost magic."

"You're really not in a position to be fucking with anybody right now."

He finally aims his eyes up at me. "Think so? See, I think I'm in exactly the position where I can do any goddamn thing I want. You want to kill me? Go ahead. I wasn't exactly having an E ticket life before and now I don't even have that."

"You're not getting back your body. Someday maybe, but not right now."

He turns back to the TV. "Did you meet Allegra? That is one sweet little piece of art girl scooter pussy. It's not like I fucked her yet or anything, but New Year's is coming and I figure some champagne, a couple of roofies, and I'll finally know if the carpet matches the drapes."

"Whether you mean any of that or not, you really are just puke on two legs."

"I don't have any legs, asshole." He nods toward his body. "Aw, did I offend the serial killer? I'm so sorry. Murder anyone today? Cut off any friends' heads?"

I recognize the pose, the B-movie defiance. I tried the same thing in Hell. It's hard to scare someone who thinks he has nothing to lose. The trick is to remind him that there's always something left to lose. For some, it's family or friends. For a creep like Kasabian, demonstrating the possibility of future loss is easy.

I get his gun from the bed, wrap it in a towel from the bathroom, and fire off three shots in the direction of his body.

"Are you fucking crazy?" he screams. "I need that!"

"All of it? You've got two knees, two kidneys. That's a spare for each."

"Fuck you, you fucking fuck."

"You want to answer some questions or do you want me to play William Tell?"

"You know, this, right here, is why it was so easy for Mason to sell you out and why the rest of us didn't really care."

"Why was that?"

"Because you're such a dick." He raises his eyebrows at me, hoping I'll react. I don't. "Back with the Circle, Christ, you were just a punk kid and you had all this power. More than any of the rest of us, including Mason. But did you care? Hell no. It all came too easy for you. The rest of us had to kill ourselves studying to get the simplest spell to work. Most of the time, you didn't even pretend to study the books. You'd just make up something on the spot and angels would fly out of your ass. Do you know how that made the rest of us feel?"

"So, you sent me to Hell because I hurt your feelings?"

"No, because you hurt Mason's. You never let up on the guy."

"If I gave Mason a hard time it's because he deserved it. Always going on about being a great dark magician. He didn't want to learn anything from magic. He didn't even want to have fun with it. He just wanted to be Lex Luthor. I might not have given him so much grief if I'd known what a little hothouse flower he was."

"See? You're still doing it. But for all your bullshit and your show-off magic, Mason beat you, didn't he? You could pull magic out of the air, but he ended up with real power and you ended up blowing demons for eleven years. Every night, before I go to sleep, I cherish the look on your face as they dragged your ass down to Hell."

Without looking where I'm aiming, I pop off a couple more rounds in the direction of his body.

"Stop it! Stop, goddammit! What do you want to know?"

"Same thing I wanted yesterday. Where's the rest of the Circle?" I toss the gun onto the bed. God, I want a cigarette. "Let's try a different approach. You're right here, so where's Jayne-Anne?"

If Donald Trump and the Wicked Witch of the West had a kid, it would be Jayne-Anne. She looks like a librarian with some money and good taste in clothes, but underneath the Versace, she's Godzilla with tits. She isn't as powerful a magician as Mason, but next to him she's the most focused and ruthless and, in her way, scarier than bad dog Parker.

"I don't know. I heard she's got some kind of movie-business gig."

"What about Cherry Moon?"

Crack open a pedophile's pinata and Cherry Moon is the candy that falls out. She's a Lollipop Doll, one of a gang of girls who take their manga and anime a little too seriously. They all want to grow up to be Sailor Moon and Cherry had the magical skill to do it. Last time I saw her, she was in High Gothic Lolita drag, radiating rough sex and looking all of twelve years old.

"Also don't know about her. Someone said she's running some kind of spa or plastic surgery thing for rich assholes."

"I'm glad to hear that everyone's using their new power for such worthy causes."

"We've all gotta eat. Not me right now, but generally."

"Where's TJ?"

He rolls his eyes when I say the name. "That fucking hippie. After the Lurkers grabbed you, he bawled like a little girl for days. Some people aren't cut out for real life."

"Lurker" is what the Sub Rosa call any secretive magical, mystical, or monstrous freak that isn't them. A naiad is a Lurker. So are zombies and werewolves. Undercover cops are secretive and sometimes monsters, but they aren't Lurkers. They're just pricks.

"Where is he?"

"Sucking dirt in Woodlawn. The little faggot hung himself a week after you went bye-bye. Guess he couldn't get the monsters out of his head."

Poor dumb kid. TJ was even younger than me. He would have been sixteen or seventeen back then. But Kasabian is right about one thing; some people aren't built to see the dark side of magic or deal with the vicious parts of life. TJ never belonged in our little wolf pack. In a way, I was glad he was gone. I hadn't been looking forward to hunting him down.

"I guess we covered Mason and Parker last night. Mason's gone and he took Parker with him. Do I have that right?"

"Yeah. And don't ask me about them because I don't know. People see Parker around town sometimes. Usually right before some other nosy magician gets his neck broken."

The thought of an attack dog like Parker and a Darth Vader wannabe like Mason running wild with heads full of Hellion hoodoo does not take me to a happy place. And the two of them could be holed up anywhere, from Glendale to Bhutan.

"You been out to the old house yet? Pretty, isn't it?"

"What happened to it?"

"Don't know. Maybe Mason took the house with him. Did you find anything good when you went inside?"

"Inside what? The house is gone. What's there to find?" ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">