LITMIR.BIZ

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Maybe we’ll be able to sleep at night without worrying that the next day we’ll be running the store out of the trunk of a stolen car. It’s this possibility that makes me even more pissed about the angel tagging the front windows.

      Fuck waiting for paint remover tomorrow. I get the black blade, go outside, and start scraping.

      I’m at it for maybe ten minutes when I see someone’s reflection in the glass. A tall guy in a brown leather blazer.

      Someone is watching me from the street. I managed to get GOD off the glass, but now it reads KILLER, which really isn’t much of an improvement.

      I turn around and give the guy a “move along, pilgrim” look. He gives me an irritatingly polished smile and comes over to where I’m working.

      This day just keeps getting better.

      “Someone really did a number on your windows,” he says. “Any significance to the word?”

      “Some to him, I guess. None to me. What do you want?”

      He looks around like he’s checking to see it’s just us chickens.

      “You’re James Stark, aren’t you?”

      “Who’s asking?”

      He reaches around his back. I make sure he can see the knife in my hand. For a second he looks nervous, but he recovers quickly and flashes me that shit-­eating grin.

      He holds up his wallet and shows me an ID card from the L.A. Times. The name on the card is David Moore. I nod and he puts it away.

      “Impressive. I bet you own a dictionary and a thesaurus.”

      “Paper too,” Moore says. “Lots of blank printer paper.”

      “And you want to print something about me. Why?”

      He takes a step closer. He smells of adrenaline with a hint of fear sweat.

      “We’re doing a feature—­maybe a series—­on the ­people who stayed here during the flood. The pioneers and eccentrics.”

      “It sounds like you think I escaped from the Donner expedition.”

      “Nothing like that,” he says.

      He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Taps out one for himself and holds the pack out to me like he’s throwing a bone to a ragamuffin refugee in a World War II movie. I don’t like the guy, but I take the cigarette. He lights it and then his own. It’s not bad. A foreign brand that burns the back of my throat pleasantly.

      “Thanks.”

      I go back to scraping the window.

      He doesn’t say anything for a minute, then, “How about it? Can I ask you a few questions?”

      “Let me ask you one. Why me? Lots of ­people who stayed behind, including some of my customers. Why not interview them?”

      He comes around where I’m scraping, so I get a clear view of his mug. Trying to establish eye contact and intimacy. Letting me know that even though he’s from the press I shouldn’t hold it against him. He’s one of the good guys. But he’s too eager to be convincing.

      “You’re the only celebrity around here,” he says.

      “And here I thought I was just another small businessman. Tell me, do all celebrities scrape their own goddamn windows clean?”

      “We can start there. Why would someone paint ‘killer’ on your store?”

      “Maybe they thought I was Jerry Lee Lewis. Look, I don’t like talking to strangers. Next thing, you’ll try to lure me into your van with promises of candy and puppies.”

      He doesn’t react to the dig, so I keep on scraping. He watches me for a while before he speaks again.

      “Maybe it said something else before. Maybe it said ‘Godkiller.’ ”

      This time when I face him, I put the knife to his throat. There’s nothing behind him, so there’s plenty of room to move if he can get his brain and feet to function, but he can’t. That means he’s probably not one of Audsley Isshii’s crew, an assassin sent to settle a score. I don’t think he’s Sub Rosa either. That’s the first thing that would be coming out of his smug face if he was. He’s just a ridiculous civilian looking for a story or an autograph.

      “Why would you say ‘Godkiller’?”

      He puffs his smoke, trying to look like he’s rolling with the scene, but his hand is shaking. Not enough for most ­people to see, but I can.

      “There are a lot of rumors about you. About your past. And what you did during the flood.”

      “What do you think I did?”

      “Some ­people say you saved the world and that it wasn’t the first time. Other ­people say you lost your mind and killed God, which is a big surprise to some of us.”

      “You’re an atheist.”

      “I guess you’re not.”

      “I wish I had the luxury.”

      A ­couple of ­people come out of Max Overdrive. A civilian guy and a female Lyph. Lyphs are generally a friendly bunch, but they freak out a lot of regular citizens because they look like what kids draw when they imagine the Devil. Horns and hooves. A tail. This one has rented from us for a while, but I can’t think of her name.

      “What’s the matter, Stark?” the Lyph says. “He return a movie late?”

      I take the knife from his throat, but keep it by my side.

      “See? My customers are a lot more interesting than me.”

      “Everyone’s more interesting than Stark,” says the Lyph. “He’s just a Mr. Grumpypants.”

      “This guy is a reporter from the Times. He’s looking to interview ­people who stayed in town when it was underwater. Want to talk to him?”

      The Lyph and her friend come over.

      “It was awful,” says the guy. “Our whole place flooded, but our pet rats are good swimmers, so it turned out okay.”

      I take a drag off the cigarette and look at Moore.

      “See? Human interest. That’s what your readers want. Real stuff. Not hocus-­pocus rumors.”

      “Hi,” says the Lyph, holding out her hand. “I’m Courtney and this is Jeremy.”

      Moore shakes Courtney’s hand. I’m not sure he can see her for what she is. When they’re in the street, Lyphs usually use cloaking hoodoo to blend in with the civilians. I try to read the sour look on Moore’s face. It’s hard to tell if he doesn’t want to touch the devil lady’s hand or if he’s pissed that we have an audience.

      “Nice to meet you,” he says, and tosses his cigarette into the street. “Maybe you can give me your number and I can get back to you later for an interview.”

      “Meow,” says Courtney. “I haven’t been brushed off like that since fourth grade and Father Barker realized I had a tail.”

      “Really, Mr. Stark. I was hoping to talk to you specially about something besides the flood,” says Moore.

      “What’s that?”

      “Your wild-­blue-­yonder contract.”

      “Why do you think I have one of those?”

      He pats me on the shoulder and I consider cutting off his hand.

      “Because you’re famous and L.A.’s famous always have a backup plan.”

      “What’s a wild-­blue-­yonder contract?” says Jeremy.

      What do I tell him? Just because he dates a Lyph doesn’t mean he knows how things are. How ­people with

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