Hollywood Dead (Sandman Slim 10)

I pick up part of a broken wooden idol.

“No they’re not. Given a little time, any reasonably bright magician could put them back together. You must have a hundred of them on your payroll. If you’re going to complain, complain to them.”

Sinclair picks up the remains of a golden pitcher.

“He’s right, you know. Even in such poor shape, I recognize a few of the artifacts. Our people could put them back together.”

Sandoval screws up her lips in a sour expression like she just licked the bottom of a bus station chair.

“Fine,” she says. “They’ll have to do.”

I go over to her.

“That’s it then. I’ve completed my part of the bargain. It’s time for you to pay up.”

“I know.”

“When can we get started?”

She picks up pieces of the artifacts, glances at them, and drops them again.

“Howard is still setting up. He wants you to rest up for the evening. We’ll call you when he’s ready.”

Hell.

“Fine. Do you have any painkillers lying around? And I don’t mean aspirin. Vicodin or something like that? My chest is killing me.”

Sandoval glances at me and goes back to sifting through the artifacts.

“In fact, we did have some Vicodin, but we had to give it to Roger before the ambulance came. Poor boy.”

She looks at me.

“Poor you.”

I look at her eyes.

“It’s not polite to lie, Eva.”

“Take the bourbon on the sideboard and go to your room. We’ll call you when Howard is ready.”

I’m tired and I don’t feel like starting a fight when I’m this close to home. I take the bottle and a glass and get out of there.

I SHOWER OFF chapel dust and the smell of old bones. There’s a full-length mirror in the bathroom, so when I’m done I check myself out. It’s a pitiful sight. Like my early days in the arena, before I got my scars. I’m basically one big bruise, from my shoulders down to my ankles. The bullet wound in my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore, but it’s still a little pink when it should have faded to a regular scar by now. At least when I’m fully me again, the wounds will heal quickly. I should be presentable to the world in less than a day. Maybe I’ll take the time to see Vidocq and ask about crashing with him for a while. When that’s settled and I don’t look like I went ten rounds with a stegosaurus, maybe I’ll go to Max Overdrive and Candy …

But is that the right way to handle things? Just walk in and say, Hi, honey. I’m back from the dead. Who wants tacos? I’m just not sure what else to do. Should I send a note? Do it in skywriting? I sure as hell don’t want Kasabian telling her for me. What’s the polite way to come back to the world of the living? The last time I came back from Hell I wanted to kill everyone, which made things a lot simpler. Now I have to deal with people’s feelings and worry about what’s good for the relationship. It was a lot easier being a monster. Just kill kill kill all day.

I miss it sometimes. But I miss Candy more.

I get the scroll out of my coat and look it over. It’s nothing but angular scribbles. I wish Father Traven was here. He was great with languages. He’d have this thing translated by the time I finished my first cigarette. I’ll show it to Vidocq when I go over there tomorrow. Maybe there will be something in one of his books.

Really, I should go downstairs and check on Marcella, but after what I did to Roger, I’m reasonably sure she’s all right. Besides, she has my knife. I’ll get it back from her later. Right now, I’m very tired. Fuck this body. It runs down so fast. But that will be over with soon. Everything is going to be fine.

Before I know it, I’m asleep. In my dreams, I’m back in Hell. Actually, in the Tenebrae, the wasteland just outside of Hell. I’m with the Magistrate. He ran a mad horde of marauders across Hell looking for a secret weapon he was going to use to storm Heaven. Things didn’t work out, but he was the smartest son of a bitch I ever met. When I met him, there were at least a hundred people and dozens of vehicles in his horde. Now it’s just the two of us. I’m his chauffeur. He sits in the backseat of his Charger babbling about the war in Heaven. Switching from language to language before I can recognize any of them.

Finally, he says, “What is the shortest distance between two points?”

I look at him in the rearview mirror.