“Stark is dead. He’s gone. Maybe you should do the same. Go away and don’t come back.” She loses it and starts bawling. “I don’t want Stark to be gone. Doc is gone and I don’t want you to be gone, too.” “He’s dead. You don’t get a vote on dead.” “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I get up. “You should go now.” She stands, but doesn’t move. “I know you’re not Stark anymore and none of this means anything to you, but can you please just hold me for a minute before I go?” This is why angels find it so easy to kill you people. “All right.” Candy grabs me hard like she’s fallen overboard and is holding on to the side of a boat to keep from drowning. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She must have had the knife in her hand the whole time. Like me, Candy is a killer, so she gets me in the heart with the first thrust. As I black out all I can think is,
I PUT THE bowling bag on the bar at Bamboo House of Dolls and unzip it. “Carlos, meet Alfredo Garcia.” “Fuck you, man. You said you weren’t going to say that.” “It was a long walk. I forgot.” “I’m Kasabian. Are you the Carlos who makes the tamales?” Carlos eyeballs Kasabian like someone seeing his first pickled punk at a sideshow. “Yeah. That’s me.” “They’re awesome. They’re what keep me from smothering this asshole with a pillow when he’s asleep.” Normally I wouldn’t inflict Kasabian on a civilian, but Carlos hasn’t ever been a regular civilian. And what’s a talking head when a few days ago you had dead men in here trying to eat your customers? “Stark’s told me about you, too.” “Yeah? What’s he said?” “Well,” says Carlos, looking Kasabian over, “I thought you’d be taller.” “Very funny, beer jockey. Do you have any actual booze back there or is it just Hawaiian Punch and seashells?” “I think we can find some booze. What are you drinking?” “Beer. The more expensive the better. Put it on his account.” Kasabian turns to me. “Put my bucket under me. I haven’t been out in six months and I’m not planning on drinking responsibly. You’re the designated driver.”
