It’s early evening. The streetlights have just come on. There’s a crowd in front of the Chateau. The police have the front of the place cordoned off. Techs from the bomb squad are packing up and a hazmat team is surveying the area with handheld poison detectors. It reminds me of a Vigil operation.
Someone has staked a nithing pole in front of the hotel, a little up the driveway from where it turns off Sunset.
The pole is ten feet tall, with runes carved down its sides. On top there’s a hog’s head, with the skin from the body draped underneath it. Your usual nithing pole uses a horse’s head. I guess the hog is supposed to be some kind of insult to go along with the curse, but really the little feet dangling in the air, bathed in the blue and red disco lights from the cop cars . . . it’s more funny than it is menacing.
From across the street, Candy and I watch as the hazmat team goes to work. They put up a plastic-wrapped ladder and carefully lift the head off the pole. Put it in a double-thick plastic bag and seal it like the hog is made of plutonium.
“Who uses a nithstang anymore?”
“Seriously. Someone’s in big trouble with PETA,” says Candy.
“There’s symbols carved into the pole. Can you see them?”
“It’s too far away.”
“Damn. I wonder if I can pickpocket a camera from one of the looky-loos.”
“My phone has a pretty good zoom. I’ll try to get some shots.”
We cross the street and blend in with the crowd. Candy snaps away. When she’s done I take her through the shadow at the corner and we come out in the hotel garage.
It’s a long walk through the hotel lobby. I want to slink my way through. No one says anything, but I know the staff blames Mr. Macheath and his weirdo friends for bringing a cursing pole to their front door. I almost want to apologize. Instead, I pull Candy into the first elevator that opens and we head upstairs. I know I shouldn’t order room service tonight, but seeing that hog made me hungry for pork ribs.
As soon as we get in the room Candy e-mails the photos to Kasabian.
She says, “I’m going to take a shower. I need to wash off the smell of lube and dead titties.”
I go over to where Kasabian is working. The big screen is turned to a news channel. There’s an aerial shot of the scene out front. Ghost-suited hazmat workers skulking around Hollywood with ritually slaughtered animal parts. Little starbursts as tourists snap away with phones and cameras. They came here hoping to see some movie stars and now they’re getting a full-fledged L.A. freak show.
“Candy just sent you close-ups of the pole outside. You should get them anytime—”
“I already have them.”
“Can you have a look around online and see what they mean.”
“Don’t have to. I already know.”
He opens up some photos on the screen. The first one is a group of smiling people in what look like shitty homemade Renn Faire robes.
“Recognize anyone?”
“Nope.”
Kasabian zooms in on one of the faces.
“Now?”
He has a beard but I can make him out.
“It’s Trevor Moseley. What’s he got to do with this?”
“Look at his robes, Sherlock. The symbols match the pole.”>I take out a cigarette, spark Mason Faim’s lighter, and let it fall on the table. Spilled bourbon flares up and burns with a pretty blue flame. I grab Mason’s lighter and kick the burning table at the three friends. Grab the sharkskin and drag him to the middle of the bar. The place clears out like we’re a bride and groom about to have our first dance. “Yadokari” by Meiko Kaji plays on the jukebox, all brittle guitar and her sad voice over lush strings.
Thoroughly kicking someone’s ass is a kind of statement, but it’s small-time, like a “Beware of Dog” sign. Sometimes you need to make a point that people can see from space. That kind of point is the opposite of a beating. It doesn’t come from what you do but what people remember, so the less you do the better.
I bark a Hellion hex and Mr. Sharkskin rises into the air, flushed with pus-yellow light so bright you can see his bones. His belt and shoes drop off. Jewelry and bottled souls tinkle to the floor. Another bit of Hellion and his clothes catch fire, flaming off him in an instant, like flash paper.
This is showy arena hoodoo. I used to do stuff like this to opponents in Hell who really pissed me off. It’s supposed to embarrass more than hurt.