Hollywood Dead (Sandman Slim 10)

“It was Bill.”

“Bill a friend of yours?”

He shakes his head again. “No. He was a real asshole.”

“When we run into each other in Hell, tell me how it feels to die for an asshole.”

I pull the trigger once and toss him in the back with the others.

As I step out of the van, blood flows out the door in a mini-waterfall—think an elevator–in–The Shining level of blood. I look at myself in the van’s side mirror. In my bloody suit, I look like the maître d’ at a Texas Chainsaw cookout. My shoes squish with each step as I limp to the warehouse. For a second I think about going back to the van and digging around for someone’s cigarettes, but they’re probably as soaked through as my suit.

At the end of the driveway I hunker down, trying to stay out of sight of any security cameras. Every part of me hurts. If I could be anywhere else right now, my first choice would be in bed with Candy. My second choice would be in the closest ER that has hot tubs in the rooms. They have those, right? Hot-tub hospitals? I should Google that. I might just have a million-dollar idea. Maybe Sandoval will back me if I don’t kill her. Scratch that. I’d rather shoot her and Sinclair. I’m just not gentry material and killing them sounds like more fun than a mansion.

I’m still mourning my hot-tub millions when the warehouse door slides open and a Mercedes coupe drives out. I can’t see who’s behind the wheel, but the car has to slow when it reaches the gravel at the end of the driveway. That’s when I step in front of it and open up with the rifle.

I blast a few rounds through the windshield—but only on the passenger side. I have a feeling whoever was interrogating me isn’t the chauffeur type. Closing on the Mercedes, I spray more rounds into the side windows, keeping the driver off balance until I can get there.

I’m at the driver’s door when the rifle goes dry. I ditch it and smash the window with the butt of the pistol. There’s a woman inside with her hand in her coat.

I put my gun to her head.

“Take out your hand slowly and put them both on the steering wheel.”

She does what I say. She has short blond hair and even sitting down, I can tell she’s built long, just like my interrogator. Plus my briefcase is sitting on the seat next to her.

I say, “Pop the trunk and get out of the car. Slow and easy.”

I hear the trunk unlock and pull the door open for her. She gets out and looks me over.

“I don’t suppose any of my men are still alive?” she says.

“We can go look. They’re just down the road. Pieces of them, anyway.”

“I’ll pass.”

When I frisk her I find a very nice Glock 17 in her jacket and a punch dagger in her pocket. I keep the pistol and knife and toss her phone into the weeds. She smiles at me.

“You had a perfect opportunity to cop a feel and you didn’t do it. What a gentleman.”

“If I put a couple of rounds through your knees would it change your opinion?”

“See?” she says. “You asked before doing it. You weren’t an altar boy, but I bet you were a Boy Scout.”

“Troop Six-Six-Six in Hell. You should have seen our jamborees.”

She nods toward the trunk.

“I’m supposed to get in there?”

“That’s the idea.”

“I guess a bribe isn’t in the cards.”

“Unless you have a pair of men’s shoes not full of blood, there’s nothing you have that interests me.”

She starts for the rear of the car. As she steps into the trunk she says, “You ruined your nice suit.”

“I’m hard on clothes.”