“Hell yes.”
Atticus Rose is the king of Tick-Tock Men in L.A. He makes mechanical familiars for the richest Sub Rosa in the city. I tried to shut him down more than once.
“Where can I find him?”
“He runs an antique store in West Hollywood,” she says.
“Familiars and mystical objects for Wormwood?”
“Something like that. I don’t remember the name of the place,” Marcella says.
“I’ll find it.” Before I get up I say, “Why the change of heart? Why give me the information now?”
“Because you didn’t try to hurt me.”
“That’s not enough. Why?”
“If you find Rose or kill him it won’t make any difference, you know. What’s happening won’t be over. It’s never going to be over until our side wins. If it takes forever, the people at the top will never let up. They’re not looking for power but salvation.”
“You still didn’t answer my question. Why?”
“Maybe when this is over you can be the one to kill me. I know you’ll do it fast so it doesn’t hurt, Boy Scout.”
“We’ll see. Thanks for the name.”
“Thanks for the shirt,” she says. “And tell those bastards upstairs to bring me a damn sandwich. I’m starving.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
ANGELIC BAZAAR IS on Sunset Boulevard near La Cienega in West Hollywood. From the outside, there’s nothing special about it. Look through the window and you’ll see the usual big-ticket trash that litters most antique and decorator shops in this pricey part of town. Old dressers and armoires. Stand mirrors. Beds and adorable little side tables, perfect for a Waterford crystal vase full of dead flowers. It lives up to its name though. There are more angel sculptures, figurines, and paintings here than at a Vatican garage sale. Enough that it feels like the place is trying to overcompensate for something. Like maybe a connection to the Wormwood faction. A BE BACK SOON sign hangs on the front door, so there’s not much for me to do but wait for Rose to get back.
Across from the Bazaar are a café and a bar. It’s just after noon and I wouldn’t mind a drink, but I’d rather get it at Bamboo House. So, I head to the café. It’s not bad inside. The decorations are what I think they call midcentury. Kidney-shaped tables and bright fake-leather swivel chairs. Lighting fixtures that look like stars and UFOs. The Jetsons would feel right at home here. The place is so ridiculous that even I don’t hate it. I’m dressed in the young-executive Beverly Hills clothes Sandoval’s people gave me, and I’ve disguised my low-rent face with a glamour, meaning there’s a reasonable chance that the café will let me stay.
I still have some of Sinclair’s money in my pocket so when a waitress comes over and doesn’t throw me out I order coffee. That seems to confuse her and she starts naming alternatives.
“Maybe you mean an Americano? Maybe a flat white or a macchiato?”
“Those all sound like wrestling holds. I just want coffee.”
“Maybe an espresso?”
“Wait. I know what that is. It’s the one in little cups, right?”
She laughs. I think she thinks I’m flirting. I guess that’s better than thinking I’m crazy and giving me the bum’s rush.
“Yes,” she says, still smiling at me. “It’s the one in the little cups.”
“Great. I’ll take four of those.”
She raises one eyebrow at me.
“Let me guess. You’re a late riser or you tied one on last night.”
“Yes and yes. I had a little accident and my hosts didn’t have Vicodin, so I had to make do with bourbon.”
“Sounds a lot like my house. Only we always have Vicodin around.”
“If I’d known that I would have come in earlier.”