LITMIR.BIZ

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You want Jim Morrison or Marilyn Monroe to croon “Happy Birthday” at your next party? Come up with the cash and they can do a duet with James Dean or Jayne Mansfield. It’s not just show-­biz types, though. Plenty of bankers, politicians, crooks, and cops don’t want to head Downtown too soon. A wild-­blue-­yonder contract is Heaven for mama’s boys.

      Moore looks at me, waiting to see if I’m going to answer the question. I’m not sure what to tell Jeremy.

      “It’s a death deal for chickenshits. When you die, you stay here and the company that sold you the contract can send you anywhere they want to be a performing monkey. Mostly, the contracts go to the famous so rich assholes can mingle with them over finger sandwiches.”

      “Cool,” says Jeremy. “Can I get one?”

      “Anyone can get one,” says Moore.

      I tuck the black blade in my waistband. I’m not going to need it with this band of cutthroats.

      “Yeah, but if you’re not an A-­list celebrity, you’ll probably end up being Mickey Cohen’s towel boy. Not all ghosts are born equal, are they, Moore?”

      “Oh,” Jeremy says. “Wait—­who’s Mickey Cohen?”

      “A notorious ventriloquist. His dummy worked for Murder Incorporated.”

      Jeremy and Courtney look at each other.

      “This doesn’t sound like something for us.”

      Moore looks a little uncomfortable confronted by actual ­people who see the scam for what it is.

      “Smart,” I say. “Don’t let anyone talk you into one.”

      “We won’t,” says Courtney. Then to Moore, “What did I tell you? A big sack of grump.”

      She and Jeremy take their movie and head off, leaving me alone with Moore.

      “You’re not really a reporter, are you?”

      He looks away and back and does the grin again. I wonder what he’d look like with no lips?

      “That’s not entirely true. I have friends at the Times. Sometimes I bring them stories and they slip me a little something.”

      “But that’s not what you’re really about.”

      “I work with a talent group. One of the biggest postlife artist agencies in the world.”

      “And you want to offer me a contract.”

      “Why not? A lot of Sub Rosas have them. And you’re right about A-­listers versus everybody else. But I can guarantee you that you’d be on the A-­list of A-­lists. I mean, everyone wants to meet Lucifer . . . even an ex-­Lucifer.”

      I move faster than he can react, dragging him around the side of the building and shoving him up against the Dumpster. I tap the black blade against the crotch of his jeans, right under his balls.

      “Listen up. If you really knew anything about me, you’d know that I wouldn’t sign a blue yonder if you promised me chicken and waffles with Veronica Lake. I don’t know how you know all that Trivial Pursuit stuff about me, but forget it. It’s ancient history and nothing you should be talking about. Understand?”

      “I understand.”

      “Do you? I know threatening to kill you won’t matter because you have a blue yonder and you think you’re safe. But think about this: I know how to cut off your head so you won’t die. Who knows how long I can keep you alive? You can be my lab rat. How’s that sound?”

      “I’d rather not,” says Moore.

      “Then don’t ever bother me, my friends, or my customers again. If you do, I’m going to use your head for kindling.”

      “I understand.”

      “Now shoo.”

      I take the knife away and he sidles past, not turning his back on me until he’s on the sidewalk, running down the street and across Hollywood Boulevard. I listen for the sound of squealing brakes in case he does the polite thing and scampers in front of a semi. But the sound is all just normal traffic. It’s disappointing.

      When I come around to the front of the store, Candy is standing there. She’s looking off in the direction of Moore’s sudden exit.

      “What was that all about?” she says.

      “A man tried to sell me some magic beans.”

      “Was there a giant with treasure at the top of a beanstalk?”

      “No. Just old movie stars and dead gangsters.”

      “You know the most interesting ­people.”

      “You’re more interesting than any of those bums.”

      “Aw. I’m better than a bum. You say the sweetest things.”

      She leans over and kisses me on the cheek, uses her thumb to wipe off the lipstick.

      “Listen,” I say. “I have to go see Vidocq and Allegra. Do me a favor and babysit our guest until I get back?”

      She nods. Sighs.

      “Sure. It’s not like I have anything better to do tonight.”

      “Thanks.”

      She looks at me.

      “You know, I know what you’re doing.”

      “About what, in particular?”

      “You’re trying to keep me out of sight, trying to keep me at arm’s length at Brigitte’s. This is still about what happened when I was in jail, isn’t it?”

      Candy is quick when it comes to ­people. It’s one of the things I like about her. I give her a slow nod.

      “Some. You said I was using you. I didn’t like that. I still don’t. Later, when you said you didn’t remember, I always wondered if that was true.”

      “The poison Mason gave me made me crazy and paranoid.”

      “See, Mason said the drug was like liquor. It loosened ­people up so they said things they wouldn’t normally say. Truths they were afraid of.”

      “Mason was a monster and a liar.”

      “Not about everything. That’s why he was so good at it.”

      She crosses her arms.

      “So, you believe him more than me? Why don’t you just shut up and listen when I say I’m fine. I’m here ’cause I want to be.”

      I shrug.

      “Okay. Maybe I’m pushing things a little harder than I should. But another woman I cared about got killed because of me. I’m not letting anything like that ever happen again.”

      She pats me on the arm.

      “You need to calm down, drink some tea, and hug a teddy bear.”

      “I’m serious. No one else gets hurt.”

      “Everyone gets hurt around you, but we stay anyway.”

      “And sometimes I wonder if that’s a mistake.”

      She puts up a finger and aims it at my chest.

      “You know, there’s a fine line between caring and pissing ­people off. If I say I’m okay, I’m goddamn okay. Stop playing Mr. Sensitive and trust me. You want to see things get fucked up between us? Keep not listening to how I feel.”

      I look away, then back at her.

      “I see your point.”

      “Smart boy. Stop worrying about all this relationship stuff. You’re really bad at it.”

      “You’ve got to give me points for thinking about things.”

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