“Good luck getting any information out of him. Brush up on your sign language.”
“I was going to ask you about that. Seeing as you’re pretty acquainted with Hell—”
“No. I won’t be your carrier pigeon.”
“This isn’t a favor, like you’re always asking me to do. It’s a business proposition. You’d get paid for taking messages back and forth.”
“I don’t think Mr. Muninn would like it.”
“Right. I forgot how sensitive you are to what other people think of you. Having fun breaking thumbs?”
I tap the ash of the Malediction into an empty bottle of champagne I don’t remember drinking.
“As a matter of fact I am. I might have to pencil in a rampage or two a year. It’s like going on vacation.”
“I remember your little moods every time I look down at where the rest of me used to be.”
“You’re the one that blew up your body. I just separated you from it.”
“Right. How uncool of me to be upset.”
Kasabian finishes off a can of beer sitting on his desk. Crushes it in his metal paw.
“You still have all that money you said you hid from Saint Stark?”
Saint Stark is my angelic half. He got loose a few months ago and went around L.A. doing good deeds and generally making himself a pain. Among his many good works was giving away most of the money a vampire collective, the Dark Eternal, gave me.
“If you want it, forget it. It’s still my insurance policy in case you decide to throw me out.”
“Jesus. I saved your sorry robo-dog ass from a hit squad and brought you to the best place you’ve ever lived and you’re still going on about that shit?”
“I’m sorry. Who was the one just talking about going on rampages?”
“I just want to make sure there’s some cash around.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“I don’t need it right now,” I say. “These gangsters keep bribing me not to kill them. I should have started shaking these people down a long time ago.”
“If you don’t want money, why are you asking about it?”
“Just sort of an inventory of assets.”
He turns around in his swivel chair and drops the beer can onto the top of an overflowing trash can.
“Shit. We’re not getting the boot, are we?”
“The hotel isn’t happy having a pig head on the porch swing, but no one has said anything. Yet.”
He turns back to his laptop. Slaps the keys hard and the photos disappear.
“Why couldn’t you be a nice, boring thief like Vidocq? No one ever bothers him.”
“He doesn’t steal that much anymore. And he’s good at it. I’m good at breaking things. The difference is that people don’t always notice when their diamonds go missing, but they know when their legs bend the wrong way.”
“Think about my offer. Make some honest money. You can probably do with some more friends Downtown.”
“You might be right about that part.”