Shakedown, page 11
“As a matter of fact, I do.” Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out an amulet on a silver chain. The amulet was shaped like an eye, with a deep purple gem for the iris. He slid it across the table to Graedeker.
“Hmmm,” Graedeker said, picking up the amulet and studying it. “The Gaze of Tuskara. Where’d you come by this?”
“From my boss. He used it to send a demon back to its own dimension, so I figure it has to be pretty valuable.”
“Uh-huh. Well, let’s say I’m interested. What sort of loan do you want?”
“It’s not exactly a loan I’m interested in. Actually, what I need is some information.”
Graedeker’s eyes narrowed. He took another sip of beer before he answered. “I guarantee my customers’ privacy.”
“It’s not your customers I’m interested in—more like your competition.”
“And who would that be?”
“The Serpentene.”
Graedeker frowned. He hefted the amulet in his hand, then glanced around. “I think perhaps we should talk in a more private place. My shop’s right around the corner.”
“Fine by me.”
Graedeker’s rig was parked about a block away, in a vacant lot full of weeds and rusting junk. The semitrailer was painted a flat white, the Freightliner rig in front of it a dark brown. It was as unremarkable as Graedeker himself.
Graedeker walked around the back and rapped on the rear door. Bolts slid aside and the door swung open.
The demon on the other side was a little more impressive.
He was big, six and a half feet or so, with scaly white skin like an albino alligator. His skull was too thick and wide at the top; it looked like his brains were about to bulge out of his head. He had huge black eyes, and a thick-lipped mouth full of sharp, crooked teeth. He wore tattered jeans, army boots and a black muscle shirt. Behind him was a black velvet curtain that concealed the rest of the interior.
“This is Leo,” Graedeker said. Leo put out a massive, moon-white hand and helped Graedeker into the trailer. Doyle scrambled up after him before Leo offered to help him, too. “Leo’s my driver. He also keeps an eye on the shop when I’m not around.”
Leo nodded. Doyle nodded back. Leo crossed his arms and did his impression of a statue. Doyle resisted the urge to applaud.
Graedeker drew aside the velvet curtain and motioned Doyle in. “Welcome,” he said, “to the Devil’s Tulips.”
You’d never know you were in the back of an eighteen-wheel truck, Doyle thought. It looked exactly like a little curio shop: a row of glass-paneled display cases formed a counter on one side, while tables and stands were scattered throughout the rest of the floor space, covered with various types of merchandise: African masks, shrunken heads, non shrunken heads, jewelry, weapons, carvings, books, jars with vaguely obscene things floating in them.
The walls were paneled in wood, and light came from a large window set into one wall. Doyle hadn’t noticed the window when approaching the truck, and wondered how he could have missed it.
Then he realized what lay on the other side.
It was a scene straight out of Dickens. Snow fell softly while people in Victorian garb strolled past, down what was obviously a street in London. Some of them peered through the window curiously, shading their eyes as if the interior were too dim to make out.
“Neat trick,” Doyle said. “How d’you manage it?”
Graedeker was busying himself behind the counter. “Oh, it’s a scrying glass I picked up from an Ulgar demon. It relays scenes from wherever the glass happened to be a hundred years ago. Not much practical value, but pretty all the same.”
Doyle picked up a voodoo doll and studied it. “Well, you’ve got somethin’ for everybody, don’t you?”
“My stock depends on what’s available. The Serpentene, though . . . they’ve got something for everyone.”
“Then you do know about them.”
“Oh, yes. And I’ll even tell you what I know—but since this isn’t the kind of transaction I usually make, the trade will have to be permanent. I get to keep the Gaze of Tuskara.”
“‘Uh—okay. It’s a deal.” And hopefully Angel will think it’s a fair swap.
Graedeker opened a drawer behind the counter and dropped the amulet inside. He closed the drawer again, locked it, and looked at Doyle. He smiled.
“The Serpentene. Where to begin . . . well, what do you know about them so far?”
“Not much. They’re originally from Ireland, they’re descended from snakes, and they seem to be as good at spendin’ money as they are at makin’ it. They keep to themselves, and sunshine puts ’em to sleep. That’s about it.” He thought for a second. “And they have excellent taste in Scotch.”
“Congratulations. That’s more than some people ever find out, even after dealing with them for years.” Graedeker rummaged around in a cabinet and brought out a bottle and a shot glass. “Speaking of Scotch—care to try a little of this?”
Doyle took the bottle and examined it. “Glen Culkhain? Don’t think I’ve heard of it.” The bottle was dusty, made of clear glass with a label that showed a dragon wrapped around an enormous pair of armored legs, with a tiny village in flames between the feet.
“I’d be amazed if you had. It’s from a parallel dimension.” Graedeker took the bottle back, uncorked it and poured a few drops into the glass. “Distilled by giants, as a matter of fact.”
Doyle tasted it carefully. “Very nice,” he said.
“It should be. It’s over a thousand years old.”
Doyle eyed his glass in disbelief. “You treat all your customers this way? Because if you do, I’m sure I can find somethin’ else to hock.”
Graedeker smiled and shook his head. “Just making a point. I obtained this bottle from someone who had dealings with the Serpentene; I think telling you his story is perhaps the best way to tell you about them.”
“I’m all ears. And tastebuds.”
“His name was Rudolpho Faranetti, known to his friends as Icepick Rudy. Rudy was a member of a New York crime family called the Corzatos, and he performed certain unpleasant but necessary jobs for them. This made him both an asset and a liability to the Corzatos, because while Rudy was very good at disposing of problems, he also knew where all those problems were buried, and who ordered them buried in the first place. So even though the Corzatos made sure he was well-rewarded, Rudy was aware that at the slightest sign of betrayal he would disappear, and someone else would take over his job.
“Needless to say, this put Rudy under a lot of pressure. As a lot of people under pressure do, he found a hobby to distract himself. Some men turn to women, some to gambling, some to food; Rudy turned to Scotch.
“Not just any Scotch, though. Rudy become a connoisseur of the finest single malts illicit money could buy. Not only did the drink lessen the tension of his existence, but searching for and sampling the very best bottlings kept him occupied.
“One day he heard an apocryphal story concerning a Scotch called Glen Culkhain. It was said to be made by a race of giants, distilled from tears of happiness and barley grown on the graves of virgins. It was said to be the rarest whiskey in existence, as well as the most expensive—and it produced a most unusual effect in those who drank it. When Rudy heard about this effect, he put the word out: he was looking for such a whiskey, he was willing to pay what it was worth, and he would personally torture to death anyone stupid enough to try to pass off a fake.
“Eventually, he was contacted by one of the Serpentene. They had such a bottle, and they were willing to sell. Would Mr. Faranetti care to sample the product to ensure its authenticity?
“Rudy said he would be delighted.
“They met in a hotel room, as is often the case in these sorts of deals. Rudy was shown the bottle, and allowed to pour his own shot. Before he sampled it, he told the Serpentene representative—a beautiful young woman—that he had heard a story about the whiskey, that it produced a certain intriguing effect. He asked if the story about this effect were true, and the young woman told him that it was.
“Rudy nodded, and took a sip.
“Rudy had done a lot of bad things in his time. For the most part, those things hadn’t bothered him; they were simply how he earned his living. But there was this one job that had been harder than the rest. A lot harder.
“Usually, Rudy didn’t know the people he . . . took care of. Occasionally he was asked to extend this service to a colleague, but these instances were rare. In this one particular case, though, he was asked to take care of someone he had known for over twenty years, someone whom he’d grown up with and in fact was very close to. Though it caused him a great deal of sorrow, he chose to accept the job rather than have it performed by a stranger.
“He had carried a heavy burden of guilt and remorse ever since that day . . . until he took that first drink of Glen Culkhain.”
Doyle stopped with his own lips an inch from his glass. He met Graedeker’s eyes over the rim. “And then what?”
“The guilt vanished. That’s what this whiskey does. If you take a swallow while holding in your mind that one image from your past that causes you the most regret, it will cease to bother you. It will grant you peace. It will forgive you.”
“Really? Hang on a second.” Doyle’s brow furrowed in thought, then he brightened. “Ah.” He tossed back the rest of his glass, closed his eyes, and sighed.
“Ah, Bridget,” he said softly. “Whenever I see a parole officer, I still think of you . . .”
Doyle set his glass down on the counter. “Bottled absolution. How long does it last?”
“As long as whiskey ever does.”
“And what did Rudy pay for this miracle?”
“That I can’t tell you, because I don’t know. I can, however, tell you what I paid for it: three-quarters of a million dollars.”
“And why did Rudy sell it to you?”
“He ran into trouble of a more pragmatic nature, and needed to get out of the country fast. I understand he’s no longer employed by the Corzato family.”
Graedeker drained his own glass, and returned the bottle to the cabinet. He picked up a jeweler’s loupe and fitted it to his eye, then began to examine a ring lying in a small tray. Doyle couldn’t help but notice the ring was still around a finger.
“So,” Doyle said, “the Serpentene can get hold of some pretty esoteric merchandise. Considerin’ their tastes, that’s hardly surprisin’.”
“It’s not just that they can get such merchandise—it’s the people they sell it to. Politicians, celebrities, CEOs. They move in some very powerful circles.”
“Yeah? They make any powerful enemies?”
“As a matter of fact, I understand there was some unpleasantness recently over a real estate deal. Seems the Serpentene refused a very lucrative offer for some land.”
“Oh? I don’t suppose you’d happen t’know who made the offer?”
“Of course. It was a law firm—Wolfram and Hart.”
“Look,” Cordelia said, “I don’t care what you do to me. I won’t betray the people I work for.”
The handsome blond man with the scar on his face moved closer, out of the shadows and into the light. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”
Cordelia glared at him. “I know plenty. Who do you think I am, some dumb sexetary? I mean, secretary—”
“Cut!”
“Sorry!” Cordelia said. “I’ll get it this time, I promise!”
“That’s fine, Ms. Chase,” the director said. “We’ll just splice together a few of your other takes. We have all we need.”
“Okay, then. Thanks!” Cordelia said.
“Clear the set, please,” a production assistant said. “We’ve got another audition to do.”
“Oh, right,” Cordelia said. She hurried over to where Maureen was sitting at the edge of the set.
“You did great,” Maureen told her.
“You really think so?” Cordelia asked.
The Serpentene woman rose from her chair and gave Cordelia a big hug, saying, “Of course! Come on—I’ll buy you lunch.”
They took Maureen’s car to Spago, where they got a booth in the corner. Maureen ordered a double espresso through a yawn.
“Hey, your tongue looks normal,” Cordelia said.
“That’s because I have two of them,” Maureen said. “The forked one is underneath. It doesn’t show unless I want it to.”
“Huh. So, like, does it give you any special demon abilities?”
“Well, it is sensitive to changes in temperature. Some snakes have what is called a pit organ, which does the same thing. It comes in useful, sometimes; I can tell when my espresso is too hot to drink without actually tasting it, or adjust a hot tub to the perfect temperature without getting in.”
“Wow. A demonic power that’s useful instead of painful or icky. That beats Angel’s whole bag of tricks.”
Maureen scanned the menu. “I think I’m in the mood for the turkey ravioli . . . what are Angel’s tricks, anyway?”
“I think I just want a salad—maybe a lobster salad. Angel’s what?”
“His tricks. You know, what he can do.”
“Oh, the usual vamp stuff. Really strong, can only be killed by direct sunlight or a stake through the heart, that kind of thing.”
“Ah.” Maureen’s espresso arrived. She thanked the waiter with a smile, then flicked the tip of her forked tongue out over the top of the cup. “Still too hot. I just thought that since he’s a different sort of vampire, he might have different powers. Different strengths and weaknesses.”
“No, he’s pretty much the same as a factory model. Doesn’t show up in mirrors, can’t stand garlic or crosses or holy water, can’t enter a house unless he’s been invited in first. You know, there’s an awful lot of restrictions to being a vampire, considering the few things you get in return. If I were Angel, I’d complain.”
“Well, there is the whole eternal youth thing.”
“I suppose—hey, don’t you have that, too?”
“Sort of. We live a long time, and we know a few tricks to keep looking young. But once a skin finally wears out, it deteriorates pretty fast.”
“So you go wrinkly all at once?”
“More or less. Then we shed the skin and start over.”
“You know, if you could teach people how to do that? You’d put every plastic surgeon in this town out of business.”
Maureen chuckled. “Well, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. It itches like you wouldn’t believe, for one thing. I’m not looking forward to the next time.”
The waiter came back and took their orders. Maureen ordered another double espresso.
“So—if you don’t mind me asking—how old are you?” Cordelia said.
“Seven hundred,” Maureen said.
And then burst out laughing at the look on Cordelia’s face. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist. I’m twenty-eight—this is only my second skin. It’s about three years old.”
“Snake humor. Right,” Cordelia said with an embarrassed grin.
“No, just humor,” Maureen said. “We’re not really that different from you, you know.”
“No, you’re not—except you know people at Paramount. I can’t thank you enough for getting me that audition.”
“No problem. When people help us, we help them. . . .”
“This is not helping,” Associate Rome said.
He was talking to the man seated on the other side of his desk. The man was small, round, and nervous. His hairless brown head glistened with perspiration, even in the air-conditioned office. He had a habit of rubbing his mustache when he talked that Rome found extremely annoying. His name was Emilio Maldonado.
“Look,” Maldonado said. “Seismology isn’t an exact science. I can’t tell you the exact effects of a large-scale quake, because we haven’t had a really big one yet. What I can do is tell you what we learned from the ’94 quake, and make some projections.”
Rome stared at Maldonado. He had an imposing stare; deep-set, intense black eyes under a heavy, overhanging brow. It was the only heavy thing about him. The rest was as sharp as the suit he wore: a thin, sharp face, sharp cheekbones, a sharp widow’s peak of glossy black hair on a high forehead. A sharp nose and chin above a body as strong and slender as a scimitar. The fingers he steepled together in front of him could have been a concert pianist’s.
“I suppose that will have to do,” Rome said quietly. His voice rasped like a nail file on prison bars.
There was a large map of the Los Angeles area spread out on the expanse of Rome’s desk. Maldonado pointed to the San Fernando Valley with a chubby finger. “On January nineteenth, at 4:31 A.M., there was a seismic event approximately nineteen kilometers below Northridge, around thirty-two kilometers from downtown L.A. It had a moment magnitude of 6.7, as compared to the 6.9 of the one that struck San Franciso in 1989.”
Maldonado tapped a spot at the edge of the map. “Now, this was a thrust-fault earthquake. That means that where the tectonic plates meet, one suddenly shifts up and the other shifts down. This type of quake can be the most destructive, generating extremely strong ground motion. The Armenian quake in ’88 was a thrust-fault, and it killed 80,000.”
“Tell me about property damage.”
Maldonado cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, I was getting to that. The Northridge quake, even though it only killed 57 people, was the most expensive disaster in U.S. history—the final toll was in the neighborhood of 40 billion dollars. The severe shaking characteristic of a thrust-fault quake caused massive destruction to the insides of buildings—especially plumbing and gas pipes. Many buildings that survived structurally intact were still rendered unusable by internal damage.”
“You don’t have to break someone’s back to incapacitate them,” Rome said. “Soft tissues are much more vulnerable.”
“Yes, I—I see the analogy,” Maldonado managed. “Uh—” he consulted his notes. “Of the 66,546 buildings inspected afterward, 6 percent were severely damaged, and 17 percent moderately damaged. There was, of course, major damage to many roads and freeways as well. I suppose you could view that as injuries to arteries and veins.” He gave Rome a quick, nervous smile.
