“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I get up.
“You should go now.”
She stands, but doesn’t move.
“I know you’re not Stark anymore and none of this means anything to you, but can you please just hold me for a minute before I go?”
This is why angels find it so easy to kill you people.
“All right.”
Candy grabs me hard like she’s fallen overboard and is holding on to the side of a boat to keep from drowning.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She must have had the knife in her hand the whole time. Like me, Candy is a killer, so she gets me in the heart with the first thrust.
As I black out all I can think is, Oh hell. This again.
I PUT THE bowling bag on the bar at Bamboo House of Dolls and unzip it.
“Carlos, meet Alfredo Garcia.”
“Fuck you, man. You said you weren’t going to say that.”
“It was a long walk. I forgot.”
“I’m Kasabian. Are you the Carlos who makes the tamales?”
Carlos eyeballs Kasabian like someone seeing his first pickled punk at a sideshow.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
“They’re awesome. They’re what keep me from smothering this asshole with a pillow when he’s asleep.”
Normally I wouldn’t inflict Kasabian on a civilian, but Carlos hasn’t ever been a regular civilian. And what’s a talking head when a few days ago you had dead men in here trying to eat your customers?
“Stark’s told me about you, too.”
“Yeah? What’s he said?”
“Well,” says Carlos, looking Kasabian over, “I thought you’d be taller.”
“Very funny, beer jockey. Do you have any actual booze back there or is it just Hawaiian Punch and seashells?”
“I think we can find some booze. What are you drinking?”
“Beer. The more expensive the better. Put it on his account.”
Kasabian turns to me.
“Put my bucket under me. I haven’t been out in six months and I’m not planning on drinking responsibly. You’re the designated driver.”
I hope Carlos doesn’t mind us being here. For the time being, he’s pretty much my Plan A for not starving to death. Plan B, C, and D, too. Max Overload is dead and I don’t know if it’ll ever be back. I don’t want to think about how many thousands of dollars fixing the place up and restocking the shelves will be. It’s not like we have a dime. The insurance company canceled us after the explosion back in January. The Vigil is gone. And what are the chances that Lucifer will keep paying me a stipend after he goes home to Kansas? I’m too well known to knock over liquor stores and too ugly to be a rent boy. What’s minimum wage these days? Maybe Carlos will hire me to clean up after closing.
It’s good to see Bamboo House full of drunken monsters and crazy civilians. Maybe Brigitte was right after all. Maybe a little danger will bring in the crowds. The place still doesn’t need a velvet rope, but I don’t see business slacking off for a while. People need a drink when they survive an apocalypse. Speaking of which.