Killing Pretty

“They were probably waiting for you to leave.”

“Screw your clothes,” says Candy. “I don’t have my laptop.”

I go around to the side of the building.

“Hang on, all of you. We can’t live here, but maybe I can get some of our things.”

“How?” says Kasabian.

“Are you going to do that trick again?” says Vincent.

“I’m going to try.”

“What trick?” says Candy.

“Something I learned the other night. It’s a little like shadow walking, but it’s going to wear off in a few days, so don’t go asking me to steal the crown jewels.”

“Where do you pick up this new talent?”

“At Piss Alley.”

“Really. And what did you give them?”

“Just a bottle of Aqua Regia.”

“It’s going to cost you more than that, you know,” she says.

“I know.”

“If you can do something, then do it,” says Kasabian. “I’m feeling a little exposed out here.”

“Relax. I’ll know in a minute if it works.”

I step to the right and the hurricane hits me. The outside of the store glows the same neon green I saw on Candy’s phone. I put out my hand and touch the side of the building. Nothing happens. No alarms and no counter-­hoodoo. So far, so good. I press my weight against the wall. It bends a little, but holds. The hoodoo is powerful, even against sidestepping. I back up a back a few paces, then run at the wall. And end up on my ass, thrown back to where I started. I’m not going to try that twice.

I walk around to the front of the store. Candy, Kasabian, and Vincent still stare at the place where I disappeared, moving so slowly they look like ants in amber.

The front of the store looks as solid as the side. There’s only one place the hoodoo doesn’t glow, over where the angel painted KILL. I touch the spot and don’t feel any kind of resistance. It must not be ordinary paint, but something the angel brought with him from Heaven.

I put a finger on the side bar of the K and push. My hand goes right through the wall. Slipping my other hand into the K, I pull as hard as I can, and a small gap appears in the hoodoo. If I duck down and pull my shoulders in, I can just slip through the breach.

Inside, I go upstairs and grab some garbage bags from under the kitchen sink. Toss clothes from Candy’s and my closet, then Kasabian and Vincent’s room. Before I come down, I grab Candy’s laptop and stuff it in our bag so the clothes will cushion it.

My one worry about being inside is that I won’t be able to get out again. But there’s a crack in the hoodoo at the point where I came in the front. I drag the K open again and shove the bags through, then climb out. Passersby on the street are just as frozen as Candy and the others. I grab the bags, go back to the side of the store, and step left.

The three of them stare at me and the bags.

“How did you do that?” says Candy. “You were only gone a second.”

“It felt a lot longer than that. Time is funny when I’m backstage.”

“Backstage?” Kasabian says.

“I’ll tell you about it later.”

I hand everyone a bag and we head for the car.

“Where are we going to go?” says Candy.

“Have a donut and give me a minute. I need to make some calls.”

It takes twenty minutes, but on the fifth call I get hold of the right person who understands the subtle art of the bribe. Back in the car, I gun it and pull a U-­turn, getting us back onto Hollywood Boulevard.

Kasabian leans up over the seats.

“I don’t suppose you have a secret suite at the Beverly Wilshire?”

“Better,” I say. “We’re going back to the Beat Hotel.”

He puts a metal hand to his face and slumps into the back.

“Somebody, kill me now.”