“Were you stuck in those rotten American action-movie rip-offs they do over there?” “No, pornography. I’m very famous for it in Europe. In Japan, too.” Hey, at least she didn’t tell me she’s dead. “I’ve met a couple of local porn girls in clubs over the years. I’m never sure what’s worse for them—not recognizing them or recognizing them too quickly.” She smiles. “It’s fine either way. All that matters is that the person isn’t too mean or too happy to meet you.” “Good way to put it. I’ve been trying to work through something like that myself.” “I know. You may not know me, but I recognized you and your funny nom de plume.” “Don’t blame me. Hellions gave me that behind my back. I didn’t even know about it until a cop told me.” “It’s better than ‘whore.’ That’s usually what’s said behind my back.” “Most people are idiots. There’s nothing worse than idiots who tell you their opinions.” I puff my fake cigarette. It really doesn’t taste that bad, but the plastic texture is hard, like sucking nicotine through a spackle gun. “So you’re in Light Bringer. You an angel or what?” “Don’t be silly. I’m Eve, the destroyer of men and, so, the whole world.” “And here I am without a drink to toast you with.” “See? I’m much worse than you could ever be, Sandman Slim.” “People call you names behind your back, but trust me, they’d call me worse if they weren’t afraid I’d skin them and wear them like oven mitts.” “Being friends with Lucifer must help.” “I’m not stupid enough to think we’re friends, but we’re not enemies. We have some common interests.” “Then you are what people say you are?” “What’s this week’s theory?” “That you’re a bit of a vampire, but without the blood. You’re strong like a vampire. You’re fast. You heal and you can see inside people. Some believe that you were a vampire, but that Lucifer cured you and now you are his property.” Out of habit, I tap my finger on the cigarette to knock off the ashes. Moron. There’s no ash on a piece of plastic. “I’m no one’s property. I get paid for my services,” I say. “I also freelance for the Golden Vigil. They’re not exactly on Mr. Macheath’s side.” Up ahead, Lucifer is getting glad-handed by Cabal Ash. I think the guy took out his spinal fluid and replaced it with tequila. He’s epically, gorgeously drunk. If his drunkenness had legs, it would be Alexander the Great and conquer the known world. Then it would puke for a week into a solid gold toilet it stole from Zeus’s guest room. Right now, Cabal is stinking up the party with the death grip he’s got on Lucifer’s hand. He’s pumping it like he thinks he’ll strike oil. A woman dressed in the same kind of dirty rags as Cabal is trying to coax him away with more booze. Maybe I’m supposed to step in and pull the guy off, but it’s not my party and it’s too damned fun standing right where I am. Cabal’s ragged lady friend finally gets his meat hooks off Lucifer and quickly steers the drunk into the crowd and out of sight. “It’s nice to hear that no one owns you. Men, especially Americans, have quite a desire to buy and sell each
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