LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

eleven seconds at the bodega to buy coffee and I’m contemplating a murder/suicide pact with everyone in the store.

      I take the old industrial elevator up to Vidocq’s floor in his building and knock on the door. He meets me at the door in a robe and slippers, holding a plate of crisp bacon slices. Vidocq has salt-and-pepper hair and a short trimmed beard. I put on actual people clothes and he’s just rolled out of the sack.

      “I see why you wanted me to come to you.”

      He looks down at himself for a moment.

      “I couldn’t bear to dress myself this morning. Do you ever feel that way? One more morning, brushing your teeth, putting on your clothes. It can drive you mad. When I was alone, I went years without cutting my hair or beard. I looked like the Abdominal, Aminal … What do you call him?”

      “The Abominable Snowman.”

      “Yes. Him.”

      “‘Yeti’ is an easier word.”

      “Yes, but I prefer the other. It gives him a sinister dignity whereas Yeti makes him sound like just another animal.”

      “He probably is just another animal. He’s got to know by now we’re looking for him. Three hot meals and a fresh pile of hay every day has got to beat running away and throwing your shit at hikers.”

      “I suppose it comes down to who’s looking for you. Will the hunters study and appreciate you or do they simply want to dissect you? Likely a smart beast, he will be suspicious of us,” Vidocq says.

      “Hey, don’t knock it. That’s how I feel every day.”

      “As do I.”

      “Then give me some coffee and let’s drink to that.”

      He hands me a cup full of the black stuff. I hold it up and say, “To freaks everywhere.”

      Vidocq holds up his mug.

      “May you fly, walk, swim, or crawl for all eternity under the noses of our betters.”

      “And if you can’t, at least get your own reality show. Sasquatch Hoarders. Or The Real Housewives of R’lyeh.”

      We drink our coffee, satisfied that we’re the two cleverest people in the room.

      He sips his coffee. Sets down the cup and the plate of bacon on his worktable.

      “As I recall, you have something for me.”

      “That I do.”

      I set the box on the table near his food. Among his many interests, Vidocq happens to be a world-class alchemist. He was a good alchemist back in the day, but the extra two hundred years since then have given him plenty more practice.

      He picks up the box. Looks it over top and bottom, then eyeballs it with a magnifying glass.

      “Where did you get it?” he says.

      “A dying angel brought it to me. Didn’t say what it is. Said he didn’t know. All I do know is that some angels like what’s inside it. He said the war in Heaven won’t end unless someone destroys it.”

      “Dying angels. Wars. This does not fill me with joy.”

      He sets the box back on the table and pushes back the lock. When that goes all right, he gets a long steel rod and carefully pushes open the top. I don’t blame him. I’ve been known to bring him things that catch fire.

      When nothing explodes, he takes the vial from its padded case and holds it up to the light.

      “The fluid is almost opaque, but not quite. As if there is some shifting something inside. I can’t tell what. Some debris? Sediment?”

      He looks at me.

      “Is it safe to open?”

      “I have no idea. But if it blows up I don’t think the angel who gave it to me knew it would.”

      “That will be a great comfort to the other residents if I set the building on fire or fill it with poison.”

      I hadn’t thought of that last bit.

      “You have any gas masks?”

      He reaches under his worktable and comes out with something rubbery that looks like it’s a couple of wars past its prime.

      “Just the one, I’m afraid,” he says.

      “Story of my life. Fuck it. Let’s go. I’ll hold my breath.”

      Vidocq gets a small, stumpy candle down from the top of a set of wooden shelves behind the table. He lights the candle with a paper match and the flame flickers a light green.

      “As long as the flame stays this color, we’re safe,” he says, and puts on the gas mask.

      I lean in close and shout, “You’re still wearing the mask, even though I don’t have one?”

      He nods vigorously.

      “Thanks,” I say. “It’s good to know you’re always there for me.”

      I take the vial and unscrew the top. “The angel called this stuff black milk.”

      And suddenly I know why. It smells like the curdled insides of a lizard-skin Hellion bovine with shit for blood and fish guts for bones. Even in the gas mask, Vidocq is choking. I get the top back on the bottle fast. Last night’s tamales are seriously considering making a break for it onto Vidocq’s nice rug.

      Vidocq shakes his head. Takes the vial from my hand.

      “No.”

      He points to the candle. The flame is still pale green.

      “See? The smell is unpleasant, but not deadly. We must persevere.”

      With his other hand, he opens an old medical cabinet on his worktable. The cabinet doors swing apart like bird wings, revealing racks of potions and drawers for instruments.

      He takes off the gas mask and pulls some potions from the cabinet. Pours a little of the black milk into a shallow Pyrex dish and screws the top back on. I put the vial back in the box, hoping it will kill some of the smell.

      “Mind if I open a window?”

      “Mmm,” he mumbles, already lost in the experiment, barely noticing I’m there. I crack a window, letting in the smoggy L.A. breeze.

      Much better.

      Vidocq uses a dropper to add tiny amounts of a purple potion to the black milk. I take one of his bacon slices and wait to see what happens next.

      After almost a minute, he says, “Interesting.”

      I look at the mess on the table.

      “What’s interesting? I don’t see any difference.”

      “That’s what’s interesting. Look closer. The two liquids remain separate. They won’t mix.”

      “What does that mean?”

      “I have no idea. Yet.”

      He pours the mixture into a flask that’s connected to a series of glass tubes and other glass receptacles. As the liquid moves through the tubes, it separates back into black milk and the purple potion. He pours out the potion in the kitchen sink and swirls the milk in its flask.

      “I would like to test it with red mercury,” he says. “But I’m out of it and it’s not easy to find these days.”

      “What are you going to do?”

      He sighs.

      “Make some phone calls. Ask a few favors.”

      “Did the test tell you anything?”

      He crosses his arms, staring at the mystery goo.

      “The potion I used is a very simple one. It separates

Скачать книгу