Page 157

Part of me feels very far from home. I’m sure as hell a long way from where this case started. From Vincent finding me at Bamboo House of Dolls, I’ve skated from Laurel Canyon to the world of old-­school mobsters right into a necromancer dead end. All the way to Himmler’s book club and séance rooms in twenties Munich, then back further to pelt-­wearing Teutonic horsemen, all the way to the Thule group’s Hyperborea. But the thing is, throughout this weird ramble, I never really left Hollywood. Once I make it through all the craziness, where do I track the source of and solution to this whole mess? To a fucking playhouse off Sixth Street where entrepreneurial Nazi shitheads are staging nightly pageants, like Andy Hardy and Betsy Booth doing a musical in a barn.

This might be the end of the world as we know it, but it’s still show biz.

SAMAEL IS WAITING for me outside the Beat Hotel eating a Pink’s chili dog. If anyone ever wondered if he used to be the Devil, all they’d have to do is watch him down that dog. The sloppiest food in the known universe, and he devours it without dropping so much as a molecule of grease or chili on his suit. That’s hoodoo of the highest order. When he’s done, he wads up the foil wrapper and tosses it into the gutter. I point to it as I come over.

“You’re messing up my city. Would you dirty up Hell like that?”

“Of course,” he says. “I invented littering. Before I was thrown out, the streets of Heaven were strewn with ambrosia containers and empty six-­packs of divine mineral water.”

“You must have been an annoying

kid.”

“No worse than you.”

“I’m not a litterbug.”

“No. You just run around shanghaiing innocent citizens.”

“There aren’t any innocent citizens in L.A., especially the ones I grab.”

He smiles.

“It’s always good to be back, Jimmy. Seen any good movies lately? Anything to recommend?”

“A few, though the thing is, we’re kind of out of the movie business at the moment. The county padlocked the store.”

“Why don’t you unpadlock it?”

I take out a Malediction, offer him one. He waves me off. I light mine.

“Because it might bring down more trouble than we need right now, what with this strange case I’m helping with.”

“Look at you, a responsible civilian. Restrained and refined. The Jimmy I knew a year ago would have torn the doors off City Hall and driven a police car through the mayor’s office.”

“You have no idea how strange this feels, thinking things through before I do them. But I’m sort of responsible for other ­people these days. Don’t want them getting hit with the shit I kick up.”

“I know what you mean,” he says. “Working as father’s right-­hand man, it gives me pause. Father wants to make peace with the angels denying humans entry into Heaven, while I think the whole thing could be solved by cutting off a few heads.”

I take a pull on the cigarette.

“When did things get so complicated?”

“They didn’t. We did. Men like us, with intemperate natures, we’re not supposed to consider our actions. We just do and clean up the mess later.”

“In other words, thinking hurts.”

“You hit the nail on the head.”

We stroll down Hollywood Boulevard, past the Museum of Death.

“I’ve never been in,” he says. “Is it worth it?”

“You’d love it. It’s like a mortuary textbook crossed with an old Hollywood scandal sheet.”

“Sold. The next time you’re taking friends, count me in.”

“Sure thing. I guess things aren’t going so well up in Heaven.”