Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim #3)

Aloha from Hell (Sandman Slim #3) Page 26

Are sex and death connected? Hell yes. They’re the two things in the world you can’t explain. You only know them by experiencing them. Maybe that was my mistake. I should have asked Mustang Sally if I could trade this death trip for having to relose my virginity at the crossroads. Easy. Any fun girl would be up for that. Instead of driving to my doom in a mom’s powder-blue shit wagon, I could be back in Hollywood, stumbling down the street with a grin, a beer, and a frustrated boner, trying to lure drunken dollies into a night of black-magic freeway lust. But no, I didn’t think of that and now I’m stuck on a backed-up interstate with what Medea said about Alice banging around in my head and wondering what this steering wheel is going to taste like when my face smashes into it at a hundred miles an hour.

IT HAPPENS ON West Adams as I’m closing in on the crossroads underpass at I-10 and Crenshaw.

The light bar on top of a cop car flashes in my rearview mirror.

Maybe he’s looking for someone else.

His sirenn">His bleeps twice.

“Pull over.”

The cop’s voice comes out of the car’s bullhorn sounding like a bigger and angrier version of the robot in Candy’s glasses.

“Pull over.”

The one time I don’t steal a car this is what happens. That’s the lesson for tonight. Anytime I try to do something like a regular person, I get fucked for it. Never again.

I slow down, but I don’t pull over. Every nerve in my body is vibrating, telling me to jam the accelerator and leave these shitbirds in my dust. But I can stomp this accelerator from now until the sun burns out and there still won’t be any dust. This three-speed rowboat would lose a drag race to a crippled monkey on a Big Wheel.

I pull over and cut the engine. The patrol car stops behind me. The driver aims the car’s outside spotlight at my side mirror, blinding me. I unclamp the angel a little and its eyes cut right through the glare.

Two cops in the car. Both male. One is young and wiry with a close-cropped flattop. He’s more excited than he should be at a simple traffic stop. Probably a recent cop school graduate.

The driver, the one getting out, is heavier. A bit of a donut gut, but he’s got at least fifty pounds of muscle over his partner. The older cop showing a young pup the ropes. Shit. I’m probably one of his life lessons. Any other night, this Romper Room scene would be playing out somewhere else. I should have pulled over when I saw the lights go on.

I roll down the window. The cop comes up on me sticking close to the car. Smart. If he came in wide, I could reach for a weapon and shoot before he had a chance to get his gun out. Sidling up like he is, I’d have to turn around in my seat to get a shot off and he’d put six slugs in the back of my head before I could say, “Ouch.”

The cop has his flashlight out, held in an underhand grip so he can swing it like a club. He shines the light in my face then lowers it a few inches, leaving me temporarily night-blind.

“Evening, sir. Did you know that your left taillight is out?”

“No, I didn’t. Thank you. I’ll get it fixed first thing tomorrow.”

He’s unmoved by my diplomacy.

“May I see your license and registration, please?”

“This isn’t my car.”

“Whose is it?”

“A friend’s. He’s a priest.”

“Is he? May I see your license, then?”

Here it comes.

“I don’t have a license.”

The light goes back into my eyes. I turn my head this time so I won’t go blind. When I look back, the cop has backed away a little from the car. He’s lowered the flashlight and his other hand is resting lightly on the grip of his gun.

“Have you been drinking tonight, sir?”

“Nope.”

“Please step out of the vehicle.”

“I told you already. I don’t have a license. None. No bank account. No credit cards. No insurance. No library card. No magazine subscriptions. I’m legally dead, so technically I don’t need a goddamn license.”

His hands close on the pistol grip. His breathing and heart rate are rising, but his mind is calm and focused. I can’t read it, but I can get a feel, and he’s all concentration. The young cop could do worse than learning from this guy, but I don’t have time to compliment either of them on their keen professionalism.

“Step out of the vehicle, sir.”

He says it with a lot more gusto this time.

I say, “Listen, man.” But that’s all I get out. The cop goes flying over the hood of my car and into the weeds on the other side.

I get out. Josef is there with his perfectly coiffed Nazi hair.

“Why are you wasting time with these people? Kill them and go on,” he says.

“I wasn’t going to kill them. I was going to knock their heads and lock them in the trunk of their car.”

“You enjoyed killing Kissi so much before, but when you had nowhere else to go, you asked us for our help. Now we’re on the same side and you won’t kill a couple of humans who would happily shoot you.”

I flick the burning Malediction butt at him. He looks more surprised at that than he did when I cut off his head.

“You and your whole race were off floating around in the universe like dust. You wanted my deal. And I killed Kissi before because you’re unreasonable psycho fucks and you were on Mason’s side.”

I look over at the cop lying in the weeds.

“These guys I could have handled without anyone having t thone havo go to the emergency room.”

Which reminds me.

A door opens and slams. The rookie cop is out of the patrol car, his gun cocked and ready. Josef heads right for him.

“Stop where you are!” the rookie shouts. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

Josef is almost on him.

“Stop!”

The rookie fires twice. Exit wounds punch fist-size holes out of the back of Josef’s designer shirt, but he never stops moving. I can hear the rookie’s neck snap from all the way over here. I go over to the curb to check on the older cop. He’s unconscious, but his heart is beating.

“Get away from him and do what you came here to do!” shouts Josef.

He heads for me, but he’s been shot and he’s a little slow. I get to him first. Squeezing his throat with one hand and his balls with the other, I flip him up and over the front of the cop car. He rolls and smashes the windshield. Before he can scramble off, I grab his ankle and spin, tossing him into the back of the Metro. He bounces off it and takes a swing at me, but he’s off balance. I slip his blow and punch him in the throat. He falls to his knees.

“Don’t ever just walk in and take over a situation I have in hand. Understand?”

He nods, trying to remind his throat how to breathe.

“And don’t tell me how to do what I do. I invited you here, but it’s still my tea party. It might not look like it to you sometimes, but I know what I’m doing. Got it?”

Josef nods. Resting his elbows on the Metro, he pulls himself to his feet. He’s still unsteady, so I lean him back against the car, playing concerned dad now that the kid’s been put in his place. The truth is I don’t know what I’m doing two-thirds of the time, but I’d never admit that to a Kissi. What I need to do is calm Hermann Göring down.

I say, “You’re going to get to do a lot more killing soon. And against a lot more fun and interesting opponents than these two. When it’s over, you’ll have Hell and your own kingdom again. That is if you don’t get trigger-happy and Fuck. Up. Everything. Do you know where Eleusis is?”

Josef nods.

“When I get Downtown that’s where I’m heading. Wait for my signal there. Got it?”

“Yes,” he says. If his eyes could walk out of his head, they’d march over here and strangle me with my own intestines.

llsr="#000I take his hand and drop Traven’s car keys in them.

“Do you remember the hotel where you came to see me?”

“Yes.”

“Drive this car over there and leave it on the street. Leave the keys under the driver’s seat.”

He looks at the keys like I just shoveled dog shit into his hand.

“Why would I do that? I’m not your errand boy.”

“Because it’s not an errand. It’s a loose end and loose ends are what ruin plans and get people hurt. Understand?”

He takes the keys and gets into the Metro.

Before he closes the door he says, “Go to Hell.”

“Why didn’t I think of that?”

As he heads out I check on the older cop. His heart and breathing are on the low end, but steady. I take the car keys off his belt and go back to the patrol car.

Inside, I reach across the laptop bolted between the seats and unhook the mike from the dashboard.

“Officers down at the corner of Adams and Eleventh Street. One is alive but hurt and the other is pretty much dead. For the record, I didn’t do either one of them, but you wouldn’t believe me if I told you who did.”

The cop’s communication unit crackles. I look for an off button but can’t find one, so I kick everything on the dashboard until the noise stops. While I’m in Hulk mode, I punch the shattered windshield out of the way. The safety glass comes out in one piece. I shove it across the hood and let it fall on the side of the road.

Sorry, boys. I really wanted both of you to go home tonight. But sometimes pianos really do fall from the sky and sometimes you’re the Coyote and catch it in the teeth. I’ve been there plenty of times. If I see you on the other side, I owe you a drink. If not, maybe it’ll help knowing I’m about to do something that’s really going to hurt.

I start the patrol car and the Crown Vic’s V-8 engine screams. This is what I need for a Black Dahlia. This is the right way to leave, like Vidocq likes to say, le merdier. I slam the car into drive and floor it, smoking the tires and fishtailing down the street before I get hold of the thing. Suicide is still a goddamn scary idea, but burning rubber in a cop car at least makes it a little more fun.

Crenshaw is up ahead.

Candy flashes in my head. Red-slash eyes in black ice. Mad-dog teeth in my shoulder. Yes, I’m leaving you for another woman, buacrer womat she’s dead and it’s only for three days and I’m coming back. I promise.

Shut up. Not the time for that. I push her back with the angel.

When Alice’s face rolls up, I don’t run from it. I examine it from a dozen different angles. Was Medea telling the truth? Is it possible Alice lied to me the whole time we were together? To my surprise, the angel comes up with an answer: “Who cares?”

It’s right. Even if she’s Lizzie Borden, am I going to leave Alice down there?

No.

Am I going to give up a chance to twist Mason’s head off when he sees I’ve rescued her?

No.

Don’t think. Just go. There’s no time. No thought. No consequences. Just a bright flash of pain and then I’m home. There’s nothing but the rush.

When I can see where Crenshaw passes under I-10, I stop, shift into reverse, and drive back a half a block. I can see cop lights in the distance, heading for the officer-down call.

Fuck Bava. Fuck doubt. Fuck everything.

I stomp the accelerator and aim the car for a freeway support midway under the roadway, in the center of the crossroads. I take the plastic rabbit from my pocket and hold it in my teeth.

I hope you’re up there, Mustang Sally. I never prayed to God, but I’m praying to you right now. Please know what the fuck you’re doing.

I’m doing just a hair over a hundred and ten when I hit. Time slo-mos as the car jumps the curb and takes the last few yards airborne.

It doesn’t really hurt when we hit. It’s more like a supersonic body blow as all the air and fluids in my body explode out of me like butcher-shop fireworks. My eyes can’t focus. The world is a liquid blur. I hear the scream and groan of metal as the Crown Vic pancakes against the support. The steering wheel twists upward and turns my skull to cake batter. The front of the car comes apart and a million metal and plastic razor blades rip my skin off the bones. My arms break as I flip over the dashboard and out the window. One knee catches and is torn apart on the way out. I glide over the car hood like an Olympic figure skater and into a whirlpool of flame as the engine explodes.

Time shifts again. Shoots back up to normal speed. I slide through fire and gas and come out the other side a limp ball of flame. My eyes focus long enough to see the freeway support. Funny thing. It doesn’t look like I’m flying at it. It’s like it’s coming for me.

And the world goes away.

THERE’S GidtEȁRIT IN my eyes. When I try to brush it away, I just grind it in more. I roll over so my face is to the ground and run my hand all over my face so whatever’s there falls down and not back onto me. The grit is all over me, like I’ve been rolling around in kitty litter. When my eyes are clear, I work up a little saliva and spit, clearing more grit from the back of my throat.

That’s it. That’s as much as I can do right now. Did I save everything yet? Guess not.

The world goes away again.

WHEN I WAKE up things are a little better. It feels like this thing weighing me down might be my body and not a bag of wet cement. I open my eyes.

The world is a fuzzy indistinct place, like I’m looking at it from inside a vodka bottle.

From what I can make out, I’m still under the freeway. Sunlight streams in from both sides of the underpass. I roll onto my back. My left foot rests on the crumpled front bumper of the cop car. I focus my eyes on that one image. My foot and the car. Slowly, the world comes back into focus.