The Perdition Score (Sandman Slim 8)

He says it all like the friendliest headwaiter in L.A. See, I always notice the accent because it’s such an accomplishment. Eugène Vidocq has lived in the U.S. for around a hundred and fifty years. Any normal person would lose an accent after all that time. But Vidocq holds on to his like some grandma with the family photos. Nothing in the album means anything to anyone except her, which makes her hang on all the harder.

“I need to get dressed. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“I doubt that on a weekend,” he says. “Let us say an hour.”

“Don’t rub it in.”

I used to walk across town through a shadow and come out by Vidocq’s front door in ten seconds. It feels like something that happened in another lifetime, but it’s really been less than three months.

I plow through the Hollywood traffic south and get to Vidocq’s place in just under an hour. L.A. people are obsessed with addresses, distance, and times between places. I used to worry about the first two, but now I’m just like every other asshole in this town. A clock watcher, knowing the hour I wasted getting here I’ll never see again. Everyone in L.A. is like this. It’s one of the town’s big secrets. Want to know why people drink and smoke so much weed? They want to wipe out the time slipping away from them. Want to know why people do coke and get on the pipe? They’re trying to outrun the clock. Like Superman at the end of the movie where he flies around the world fast enough to roll back time. That’s all anyone in L.A. wants. To get back the time they lost just fucking being in L.A. I can’t outrun time. I don’t even know if angels or Mr. Muninn can. Gods and regular schmucks, we’re all stuck on the same linear run from here to the end of time. Just some of us get to run a little longer. Like Vidocq. He’s immortal. He doesn’t worry about being stuck in traffic. He could spend a month waiting for a cab and not blink. Me, I have to wait eleven seconds at the bodega to buy coffee and I’m contemplating a murder/suicide pact with everyone in the store.

I take the old industrial elevator up to Vidocq’s floor in his building and knock on the door. He meets me at the door in a robe and slippers, holding a plate of crisp bacon slices. Vidocq has salt-and-pepper hair and a short trimmed beard. I put on actual people clothes and he’s just rolled out of the sack.

“I see why you wanted me to come to you.”

He looks down at himself for a moment.

“I couldn’t bear to dress myself this morning. Do you ever feel that way? One more morning, brushing your teeth, putting on your clothes. It can drive you mad. When I was alone, I went years without cutting my hair or beard. I looked like the Abdominal, Aminal . . . What do you call him?”

“The Abominable Snowman.”

“Yes. Him.”

“‘Yeti’ is an easier word.”

“Yes, but I prefer the other. It gives him a sinister dignity whereas Yeti makes him sound like just another animal.”

“He probably is just another animal. He’s got to know by now we’re looking for him. Three hot meals and a fresh pile of hay every day has got to beat running away and throwing your shit at hikers.”

“I suppose it comes down to who’s looking for you. Will the hunters study and appreciate you or do they simply want to dissect you? Likely a smart beast, he will be suspicious of us,” Vidocq says.

“Hey, don’t knock it. That’s how I feel every day.”

“As do I.”

“Then give me some coffee and let’s drink to that.”

He hands me a cup full of the black stuff. I hold it up and say, “To freaks everywhere.”

Vidocq holds up his mug.

“May you fly, walk, swim, or crawl for all eternity under the noses of our betters.”

“And if you can’t, at least get your own reality show. Sasquatch Hoarders. Or The Real Housewives of R’lyeh.”

We drink our coffee, satisfied that we’re the two cleverest people in the room.

He sips his coffee. Sets down the cup and the plate of bacon on his worktable.

“As I recall, you have something for me.”

“That I do.”

I set the box on the table near his food. Among his many interests, Vidocq happens to be a world-class alchemist. He was a good alchemist back in the day, but the extra two hundred years since then have given him plenty more practice.

He picks up the box. Looks it over top and bottom, then eyeballs it with a magnifying glass.

“Where did you get it?” he says.