Mike does a sarcastic little laugh.
“Are you kidding? Rose is a golden eagle riding a gumdrop thermal over Candy Land. On a good day I’m a snail crawling across that grease pit out front. Eagles don’t give their business cards to snails.”
“You’re not a snail, Mike. You’re at least a ferret.”
“Thanks,” he says like he actually means it. “Anyway, like I was saying, we don’t move in the same circles.”
“Who would know him?”
“The high-and-mighties. Someone who can pay the equivalent of a Lamborghini for a parakeet. Someone like Blackburn. Maybe his government or showbiz buddies. You ever party with them? Me neither.”
I take the 8 Ball back from Mike. It’s hard for him to let go. It’s like he’s fallen in love and doesn’t want to see his girlfriend carried off by a highwayman.
“I don’t party with people like that, but I know someone who might. Thanks, Mike.”
I’m halfway to the door when Mike calls after me.
“Hold up. I’ve been thinking about Kasabian.”
“Don’t do that. You’ll get lesions on your brain.”
“I figured it out. If you can get me another hellhound body, then I can modify that and then put new parts on Kasabian’s body without taking him off.”
“Great idea. I’ll stop by Costco on the way home and pick up a new hellhound. Oh, wait. They only have those in Hell.”
Mike frowns.
“It was just an idea. You don’t have to be mean about it.”
“Sorry, Mike. I was just down in Hell and it wasn’t fun. I’ll see about getting another hound, but I have other things to do first.”
“Okay. Make sure Kasabian knows it was my idea.”
“Will do.”
I go out through the garage, wave to Mike’s cousins, and climb back into the Charger. By the time I’m in, I’ve already thumbed Brigitte Bardo’s number into my phone.
BRIGITTE IS MY favorite zombie hunter in the world. Except we killed off all the zombies a few months ago and she’s been kind of at loose ends ever since. She was a big-time, classy porn star in Europe and she’s been trying to get a legit acting career going. With her looks and brains in a town like L.A., she can really work the hell out of a room. Brigitte has more phone numbers and dirt on people in her little black book than Homeland Security.
“Jimmy,” she says in her sweet Prague accent. “How lovely for you to call. How are you? Have you killed anyone interesting lately?”
“Does it count if I just happened to be in the room when the bomb went off?”
“Of course not.”
“Then no.”
She sighs.
“You’ll have to do better. I live vicariously through you these days.”
She’s only half joking. We’re both trained killers. Brigitte was trained for zombie hunting since she was a kid. Being a killer is a hard thing to walk away from and have a normal life.
“Listen. I wouldn’t normally call you with something as boring as this.”
“Boring? How could a task of yours be boring?”
“I’m trying to track someone down, and the thing is, Blackburn might know the guy, but his head of security braced me the last time I was there, so I can’t ask him.”