The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“If we make it, I’ll think about it.”

Blackburn stands. He and Tuatha come around the desk.

He says, “I have every confidence that you and Marshal Wells will get us through this.”

“I wouldn’t put too much money on that horse.”

“You don’t think Marshal Wells is confident?”

We start walking to the front door.

“Wells is a believer. In God and the feds. He’s morally obligated to believe that we can win. But I don’t think he’s any more confident than I am.”

Tuatha says, “You saved me once. You can do it again.”

“Why not? There’s not much else to do in L.A. these days.”

Blackburn and Tuatha shake my hand and a second later I’m back in front of the ruined building with the moist, surly guards.

I head for the bike, but Ishii gets in front and stops me.

“Just a minute,” he says, and we stand there in the rain like a ­couple of dummies.

“Are we waiting for something?”

“A phone call,” he says. “Telling me you misbehaved.”

“I was a perfect gentleman. Freddie Bartholomew in Little Lord Fauntleroy.”

He keeps his hand up between us.

“We’ll know in a few seconds,” he says.

His crew stays put, trying to keep out of the rain, but ready to move when the ringmaster says “jump.”

Ishii’s phone doesn’t ring. He looks more disappointed than a tiger at a vegan luau.

He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

“You know, one of these times you’re going to show up and there’s going to be an accident,” he says. “It won’t be anyone’s fault. Shit just happens sometimes, right?”

I get on the Hellion hog and kick it into life. It roars and the water around us steams.

“You’re right,” I say. “Here’s some shit that just happened. Your boss offered me your job.”

I pop the clutch and haul out of there before Ishii can say or, more importantly, do, anything.

It’s nice to be wanted, but it’s unsettling to see the boss of bosses rattled. As much as the mansion-­on-­the-­hill crowd bugs me, it’s weird seeing them actually scared. You want them dumb and arrogant. When they’re scared it means that however bad you thought things were, they’re worse.

I TAKE BACK streets all the way home. A lot of street-­ and stoplights are out, drowned in the endless rain. Whole neighborhoods—­almost the entire length of Franklin Street—­are dark. No lights on in the houses. No cars on the street or in driveways. The city really is emptying its guts onto the freeways. I wonder how many of us there will be left in the end. And who’s going to be top of the food chain? Civilians, Sub Rosas, or Lurkers? I can deal with any kind of supernatural asshole playing King of the Hill, but civilians make me nervous. In times of stress they tend to grab pitchforks and torches. I don’t know how many staying behind even know about L.A.’s hoodoo world, but based on history, I hope it’s not many.

When I get to Max Overdrive, I park the Hellion hog around the side and let it sit for a while to cool off. If I throw the cover on now, it’s likely to melt.

As I walk inside, I’m hit with a blast of noise that makes my ears ring. It’s like a 747 having rough sex with a skyscraper on a pile of exploding transformers. The sound doesn’t let up, but settles into a steady beat. Steady enough that I can identify it as a warped version of a song. “Ace of Spades.” Candy is practicing guitar again.

“Tell me again why we built her a soundproof practice room?” says Kasabian. He’d like to stick his fingers in his ears, but they’re modified hellhound paws and ungraceful enough he’d probably put an eye out if he got them near his head.

“The practice room is to make us grateful for all the times she doesn’t do this.”