Fun and Games

“I’m the house sitter.”

“House what?”

Her long dark hair hung down in her face, and her skin was dirty in places. Lots of scratches, too, along with a stray bruise or two. She’d bandaged up both of her hands—a sloppy, rushed job. Still, she was a pretty girl. Wide, full mouth, high cheekbones, and eyes that would be striking if she could manage to keep them open all the way— and somebody hosed her off in the backyard for a few minutes.

“House sitter. I watch houses.”

“Why would a fucking house sitter go sneaking around the house, checking every room? Don’t fucking deny it—I heard you!”

Hardie had had enough standing. He carefully eased himself down to a sitting position. If he was going to pass out, he’d rather do it closer to the floor.

“Look, honey, I just got here. Question is, what are you doing here? Because I’m pretty sure my booking agent didn’t mention anything about a crackhead with a mic stand, hiding in the bathroom.”

She rolled her eyes. “Crackhead. Don’t you know who I am?”

“Sweetie, I have no idea.”

The faintest trace of a smile appeared for a moment, then vanished. Then she started trembling.

Hardie had no idea who she was, but a story started to form in his mind. Beneath all of the patches of dirt and scratches and attitude, she appeared to be a perfectly young and healthy girl—not your average skinny L.A. junkie with buggy eyes and cheekbones that could cut tin cans. This girl had been well fed and cared for until relatively recently. Like, maybe even just a few hours ago. Maybe her parents owned a place farther down Alta Brea, or somewhere else in Beachwood Canyon. Maybe she’d stayed up past her bedtime partying hard, an asshole friend suggesting a quick coke-and-H nightcap. Mellow out and party all night long!

Yeah, maybe that was it. She shoots up, she freaks. Knows she can’t go home to Mom and Dad. Not in that condition. Sees the Lowenbruck house. Finds the keys in the mailbox. Still freaking, worried about Them—parents? cops? dealers?—coming for her. Grabs a mic stand—yeah, that still didn’t make sense to him either, but he supposed a weapon was a weapon—then hit the bathroom.

Enter Charlie Hardie, Human Pincushion.

He hoped she had parents. He’d love to send them his emergency-room bill.

With every second that passed, Hardie came to believe that maybe the pole had missed all of the important bits. His sister-in-law-nurse back in Philly had told him a bunch of crazy ER stories— thugs rolling in with twenty, thirty stab wounds, yet still smoking cigarettes and annoyed to have to wait around so long even though they don’t have proper ID, let alone health insurance.

But Hardie had also heard plenty of the opposite, too. Stupid bar fights where one sloppy stab with a greasy butter knife ends up with one man DOA and another facing a manslaughter beef.

And when it came to medical luck, Hardie was reasonably confident that he’d used it all up three years ago.

Oh God.

She’d stabbed a man.

He was probably one of Them, but still… she didn’t mean to puncture his chest. She just wanted to knock him out—though her favorite stunt coordinator, Enrico Cifelli, had once told her how ridiculous that was.

Sure, you saw it in the movies all the time. But Enrico told her that blows to the top of the head almost never render the person unconscious. What it might do, however, is cause the diaphragm muscles to freak out, making it difficult for that person to breathe. Left untreated, it would kill him.

Of course, try to keep all of that in mind when you think you’re being hunted. This was not a movie set; she hadn’t gone through endless repetition, practicing a single move so that it could be filmed. When you’re being hunted, you kind of just wing it.

And now she’d stabbed a man.

Hardie struggled up off the floor, fully expecting to pass out at any second. Before that happened, the dirty psycho chick had to go. To the hospital, to the LAPD, whatever. He supposed he should involve the LAPD because —well, she’d impaled him. And broken into the house. Those still counted as crimes, even in L.A.

“Are you okay?” she asked, hand out, as if to help him up. She took great care not to actually touch him, though. She gestured as if Hardie had an invisible force field around his body.

Hardie shot her a look.

“Hey,” she said. “I said I was sorry.”

Hardie said, “Pretty sure I missed that.”

“Well, I’m saying it now.”

“Whatever. Does your cell phone work?”

“Why?”

“Well, I’d like to call nine one one, if that wouldn’t be too much trouble. Maybe we can call someone for you, too. Like your mom or dad, maybe?”

The girl’s jaw dropped. “My mom?”

“You look pretty banged up. Maybe you should go to the hospital, too. Maybe they can give us adjoining rooms, just in case you feel like ramming something sharp through my body again.”

“You just want me to go outside.”

“Unless there’s an emergency room in the basement, yeah.”

This was getting them nowhere. What was he doing, anyway? Why did he give a shit about this girl, or even this house? Hello, Earth to Charlie: You have been impaled by a steel tube. You belong in a hospital.

She was looking at him. “You say you’re the house sitter.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Charlie. And yours?”

“Last name.” This was a command, not a question.

“Hardie.”

“I’m supposed to just, what?… Believe you?”

Hardie thought about taking a better look at his wound but then changed his mind when his chest started throbbing. He took a semideep breath, wondering if he’d feel his lung collapse suddenly. It made him angry. She did this to him, and now she was giving him shit?

“You want to go upstairs and trade driver’s licenses? Because that’s all I’ve got. I seem to have left my birth certificate and Social Security card at home. Sorry.”

“That’s just what you’d want, isn’t it? Me to follow you upstairs.”

“Isn’t that what I just said?”

The girl’s eyes darted around wildly as she processed his words. Then her brain seemed to slip back into gear.

“Okay, let’s say you’re not one of Them.”

“Let’s do more than say it. Let’s believe it, because I’m fucking not.”

“If you’re not one of Them, how did you get into the house? I have the keys.”

“Ah, from the mailbox, right?”

So Andrew Lowenbruck had left the keys after all. Sorry, good sir, that I ever doubted you. Seems like this skinny, spoiled party girl went helping herself. Hardie smiled, but that just seemed to piss her off.

“I asked you,” she repeated, making sure he understood every syllable, even though her voice was trembling. “How. Did. You. Get. In?”

“Yeah. I heard. And thanks to you, I had to walk across the roof and use the sliding doors on the deck.”

“Shit—did anybody see you?”

“See me what?”

“When you walked into the house, did anybody see you? Was anybody watching?”

Hardie thought about his walk across the tile roof and almost said, Well, yeah, there was this