The hotel is practically empty. Even in L.A., the Apocalypse is bad for business.
The freeway north is a joke. Angelinos and tourists are fleeing the city, locking traffic in a snarl of bumper-to-bumper traffic like a university experiment demonstrating just how impossible it is to flee L.A. And it’s not like the sky is any closer to normal up here. Clouds shoot overhead at double speed, like the whole sky is on fast-forward. The volcano and ash have disappeared as cleanly and thoroughly as Catalina but it seems to have made an impression on the unwashed. If that wasn’t enough, the cabbie’s radio explains how as part of its clever plan to panic even the nonpanicked population, the powers that be have shut down both LAX and the Burbank Airport.
I have the cabbie drop us off by the office buildings at the edge of Universal City. Instead of heading back in to town, the cab gets on the freeway north with the other abandon-the-ship types.
Patty leads us into the heart of Universal City, past huge glass buildings and to a squat four-floor building hidden behind a row of trees, just off the regular tourist route. There’s a guard station but it’s empty. I get the feeling the big office towers are deserted too.>“Was Cairo trying to kidnap you back there?”
She sips and rolls her eyes. Just holding a glass in her hand relaxes her.
“Don’t be stupid. I’m King’s girlfriend. If you can call it that. When he’s not playing Gene Simmons and trying to fuck every other girl in the room. I think he’s doing that Aelita bitch.”
I wasn’t expecting that. Her face is smudged with a moderate amount of sin signs but nothing special. A lot less than I’d expect from someone involved with Cairo.
“What were you arguing about?”
She shakes her head. Stabs the air with one finger.
“Fuck him and all his coked-up crew. They’re disgusting. Have you met them? They’re like animals.”
“They can’t help it. He’s taking a drug that drives them insane. What were you and Cairo arguing about?”
“My job. What drug?”
“It’s called Dixie Wishbone. Try to concentrate.”
She finishes the glass and gives a little shiver.
“Sorry. I might be in some kind of shock, you know? Post-traumatic stress. That prick saved his own skinny ass and left me hanging, didn’t he? Fuck that guy. Okay. Ask me anything you want. If it’ll hurt that feather-wearing pussy dickbag, I’ll tell you. You know, he has the tiniest balls of any guy I ever dated. Isn’t that weird? Tiny balls.”
“That’s not really the information I was looking for. What were you arguing about?”
“I told you. My job.”
“What’s your job?”
“I’m a dreamer.”
“What is that?”
She looks at me.
“You’re that Sandman Slim guy, aren’t you? I’ve seen you at Bamboo House of Dolls.”
Blood trickles down my arm. I rewrap the towel and lean on the wound. It really should have started healing by now. Goddamn ghost wounds.
“You’ve been to Bamboo House? Do you like the jukebox?”
“Yeah.”
“Who do you like better, Martin Denny or Arthur Lyman?”
“Martin Denny.”
“Yeah. I’m Sandman Slim. What’s a dreamer?”
“I thought you were supposed to be some hot-shit rock-star superhero. How is it you don’t know about us?”
“Just because you know my name doesn’t mean I’m on the Sub Rosa clubhouse mailing list. I spent my whole life running from that world.”