My left shoulder is wet. The places where I pulled out splinters aren’t even trying to heal. More good news.
I open the storage door as qui
etly as I can and move stacks of porn out of the way. At least things aren’t completely screwed. Howard is still curled up like a sleeping kitten in the corner. I grab his arm and pull him into a fireman’s carry, then push the storage door closed with my boot.
When I turn around, Kasabian is staring at me from the door of his little apartment in the corner of the store. He doesn’t say anything. Just sighs and slowly closes the door again, watching me until the door is completely shut. I almost feel like apologizing, but I don’t have time. Plus, he hasn’t exactly been sympathetic about my current situation. And he has a home. I have a Sub Rosa squat in a nail salon. Fuck it. Let him sweat a little.
I leave through a shadow and come out on Cahuenga near the In-N-Out Burger. There’s a minimall next door, so I hustle Howard over there as quickly as possible. I can do without being mistaken for a body snatcher by some solid citizen itching to dial 911.
The mall is pretty much as Abbot described it. A dull slab of commercial concrete with a liquor store, a sandwich shop, and an auto parts place. The nail salon is in the center of the mall. I don’t bother with the key when I get there. Just shadow-walk through the windows. The glass is covered with white paper and a FOR RENT sign with a dummy phone number at the bottom. I haul Howard to the supply closet in the back of the salon. When I get there, I have to set him down and catch my breath. I’m getting weaker. I should be able to throw Howard’s limey ass like a shot put halfway down a football field. Now I’m sweating after only fifty feet. Maybe I should have eaten something at the safe house. Can I even digest food anymore? The bourbon went down all right, but that’s God’s own medicine. If there are any chili dogs in here, I’m going to have to fire one up.
When my legs stop shaking, I find the shelf with three bottles of skin lotion. Pick up the first one. Nothing. This porridge is too hot. I try the one in the middle. This porridge is too cold. One more try. If I’m wrong, then Abbot set me up and a Sub Rosa SWAT team is going to burst in here with flash-bangs and grenades laced with hoodoo poison.
Only one way to find out.
What do you know?
This porridge is just right.
A seam in the cheap wood paneling splits open and a narrow section of wall swings back out of the way. I don’t bother picking up Howard this time. With a fistful of collar, I drag him through the door.
It’s dark inside. I feel on the wall for a light switch but come up with nothing. It occurs to me that I’ve been living in cars and civilian homes too much lately. This apartment is a pure Sub Rosa product. Switches are beneath them.
I say, “Lights,” and the place is suddenly like premiere night at the Egyptian Theatre.
How can I describe the place? The walls and ceiling are rounded, like we’re living in a goddamn UFO. The tables and cabinets have rounded backs to fit against the walls. There’s an orange shag carpet and an avocado-green sofa covered with enough plush pillows that you could break a leg if they ever avalanched. The place is ringed by oval windows, and I can see lights beyond them. Aside from the sofa, the rest of the furniture is all smooth molded white plastic with the same warm seventies hipster colors on the chair seats and backs. The apartment is basically a Hugh Hefner bachelor pad in a Star Trek swingers’ resort.
When I go to one of the egg-shaped windows, I’m looking out at around forty years ago. Sub Rosa homes can be pretty much anywhere in time and space. This one is high on a hillside looking down over L.A., only it’s not current L.A. It’s the city when disco ruled the legit clubs and early punk shows were blasting away in warehouses and little spaces that were only clubs in the sense that you could pack in too many people and sell them shitty beer. It’s almost tempting to climb out one of these windows and go down into the city. Breathe in that prime seventies L.A. smog. Maybe steal a Mustang and head down Sunset to see who’s playing at the Whisky A Go Go and the Roxy. Hell, the Masque club might even be open. I always wanted to see that place, but it was long dead before I was in diapers. On the other hand, when you’re leaking black blood all over yourself with a passed-out necromancer on the floor, it isn’t the best time to plan a road trip. But if I don’t die, I swear I’m going to see what’s down that hill. I prop Howard up on the sofa and go looking for the bathroom.
Everything in there is round too, even the mirrors. The bathroom counter is wave shaped and trimmed in wood like I’m in a goddamn Hobbit house. I drop my coat on the floor and check the bathroom cabinets. There are bandages and peroxide in the back of one. In theory I ought to be able to stop the bleeding with a healing spell, but I’ve never been good at those, and in my current state, I might get the thing backward and turn myself inside out.
I clean my shoulder as well as I can but find that I have a few splinters and some shrapnel in my side. I pull the pieces out and I start bleeding there too. I use up all the bandages wrapping my shoulder and midsection.
I rinse out my bloody T-shirt and leave it hanging in the bathtub. I don’t want to give Howard anything to gloat about, so I need to cover my rotting body. Luckily, there are some clothes in the master bedroom closet. The only shirt that fits is a blood-red button-down number. On the same hanger is a blue seventies kerchief. That I throw in the trash.
Howard is still upright when I go back into the living room. I mumble some Hellion hoodoo, and in a few seconds, he starts to come around. As his eyes try to focus, I get hit with another wave of fatigue. I pull over one of the plush plastic chairs and sit down while he tries to remember what words are.
Finally, he’s conscious enough to see me and the crazy room.
“Where am I?” he says.
“In Bilbo Baggins’s spaceship.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“What did you do to me? My neck and back hurt.”
“You were in cold storage for a little while, but you’re fine now. It’s time for us to have a talk.”
He looks at the pile of colorful pillows on the other end of the couch.
“No. I’m not performing the spell,” he says.
“Why not?”
“I told you earlier, I don’t trust you. Even if you took an oath not to hurt me, you’re tricky enough to find a loophole where you could get someone or something else to do it.”
“You mean, find a loophole just like Sandoval did to me?”