“Hey, man—I hear you, I feel ya,” he yelled.
“Seeya, A-list! Ya hack!”
“I’m just a storyteller!” he yelled back.
Then he was kind of floating down a side street to his own car, a seven-year-old Beamer. Not a Suburban. He was definitely three sheets to the wind. Happy as a pig out of a blanket—humming Jimi Hendrix’s “The Wind Cries Mary.” An in-joke that only he would get.
Until suddenly he began to sob, and he couldn’t make himself stop, not even when he was sitting on the lawn of some grungy apartment building with his head down between his legs, bawling like a baby.
And he was thinking, Just one more, just one.
One more kill and I’ll be good.
Chapter 100
THE NEXT MORNING, he couldn’t sleep, and he drove up and down Melrose—past L’Angelo, which used to be Emilio’s; the Groundling Theater where Phil Hartman got his start; Tommy Tang’s; the original Johnny Rockets; the Blue Whale. His city, man. His and Proud Mary’s.
It was around 5:30 or so when he bounced into the Starbucks on Melrose, which used to be The Burger that Ate LA back in the day. Man, he did not like Starbucks, but they were open, the greedy little Yuppie bastards. The numbers dictated that they be open, right? The numbers ran everything these days.
And here he was—proving the number crunchers right. Five-thirty in the A.M. and he was already making their day.
God, he despised these dipshit coffee places, the new McDonald’s, overpriced rip-offs. He remembered when a cup of coffee was fifty cents, which seemed about right. But “Sumatra blend”—now that was worth two-fifty if it was worth a nickel. For a tall, which really meant a small.
And the goateed schmo minding the store was too busy setting up shop to give any attention to his paying customer, his early bird, the day’s first sucker.
He let it go for a minute or so, but the jerk was starting to piss him off royally.
“Be right back,” he finally told the superbusy “barista” behind the counter, and the guy still hardly noticed him. What an ass and a half. No doubt, an actor out of work. Too good for the job, right? With an attitude—which was supposed to be a good thing these days.
A minute later, he reentered the Starbucks with a piece in his jacket pocket. He was starting to rev-up now. This was probably stupid, definitely not too smart, but God, it felt pretty good.
Hey, pal, my gun is getting thirsty.
Right then and there, the decision was made. This arrogant fuck wannabe actor was going down for the count. He was tomorrow’s headlines today.
“Hey, buddy, I’m waiting here for some coffee. You got any coffee at Starbucks?”
The barista didn’t look up from his busy work even then, just waved a free hand. “Be with ya.”
The Storyteller, the Storyteller, heard the door open behind him. Another sucker arrives.
“Hey, morning, Christopher.” A woman’s chirpy voice came from behind. He didn’t even turn to look at her. Screw her, too.
“Hiya, Sarah,” called the counter guy. And he was suddenly all chirpy, too.
Now the jackass came to the front, now he wakes up. For Sarah.
And that’s when he shot the dude in the chest, right in the Starbucks apron.
“Forget the coffee, Christopher. Don’t need it now. I’m already wired.”
Then he turned to see about the woman. First time he ever looked at her.
Chirpy-looking blonde, maybe midthirties, wearing a black leather jacket over black pedal pushers, black thongs, too.
“Hey, morning, Sarah,” he said, casual-like and friendly as a cocker spaniel off its leash in the park. “Wearing black for the funeral?”
“Excuse me—”