I reach into my pockets for a Malediction and remember I gave my last one away. Anyway, Cherry wouldn’t want me smoking. Dried-out corpses are perfect kindling.
“If Teddy Osterberg collects the dead, he could be connected to the girl and I know the girl is connected to Saint James. I’ll check him out. Maybe I can help both of us.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get too choked up. I’m mostly doing this for me. If I can get to King Cairo first, I’m going after him. I’m going to hurt him dead. I’m tired of people trying to kill me. Downtown. Up here. It’s getting aggravating.”
She makes the whispering sound that might be a laugh.
“You know what they say. All the birds come home to roost. The past catches up with us. And you have quite a past, Sandman Slim.”
“Philosophy from a corpse. Are you sure you aren’t Greek?”
She turtles her head back into the hole.
“I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget me.”
“That’s not likely.”
Cherry disappears into the dark. There’s a rustling and crackling of old bones as she turns around and crawls back the way she came. A homeless corpse living in a coffin squat. How desperate do you have to be to live like that?
I catch a cab at Hollywood and Sunset and have it take me to the Chateau Marmont, the traditional crash pad for showbiz and well-heeled assholes from around the world. John Belushi OD’d there. Jim Morrison crabbed around the outside windows on acid. Hunter Thompson drank by the pool, and a few months back, I played bodyguard to the other Lucifer while he stayed in his secret suite upstairs. Now that I’m the black beast of the forest, the room is mine. I think.
The cabbie whines when I hand him a hundred but is all smiles when I let him keep an extra fifty. I don’t answer when he asks if I want a receipt.
Inside, the desk clerk’s face is streaked with plenty of sin but he’s nothing special. He looks at me like I’m there to empty out the trash cans in the lobby. I still have the Glock in my pocket if things go wrong.
“Hi. I have a standing reservation. The name is Mr. Macheath. I’d like my special room.”
He frowns and types something into the computer.
“We don’t have a note saying you’d be stopping by, and according to the annotation you don’t even look like Mr. Macheath.”
I crook my finger at him. His name tag says CHARLES.
“Did you ever hear of the concept of low profile?”
He looks me over.
“That’s extremely low profile.”
I lean in closer. I’m so sick of dealing with pissants.
“You listen to me, you little fuck. The last time I was here, some people upset me. Like you’re doing right now. I locked them in my suite with a horde of zombies. I don’t know what the place looked like after I left—and it better be clean when I get up there—but I bet not good. Does that sound at all familiar, Chuck? Because if it doesn’t we can role-play
