After I crawled to my feet, nimbly avoiding the circle of puke, I looked out the window. The Catalina was safe and parked at the curb. It was parked straight and there weren’t any trees, signs, or bodies smashed in the grill, so wherever I went, I must have walked home afterward. There are about thirty dive bars in Studio City. For all I know, I hit every one. It wouldn’t be the first time. I tended to stick to the BC, but I liked to go to other bars to scan for freaks.

I touched my face and it stung like a motherfucker. It felt swollen and suddenly it all started coming back to me in slow, stomach-turning flashbacks. I remember popping some pills. Then I had a few shots. From there—and I was still home at this point—things get a little fuzzy.

I know I got into a fistfight with just about everyone in the place. They threw me out. I went to another bar, and started another fight with some Zeppo Marx–haired L.A. slickster in a red satin pirate shirt who bumped into me. He gave me some attitude so I dragged him into the bathroom and slammed his head into the urinal until I was tackled from behind and thrown out.

The phone rang and rang, louder than I ever recall hearing it. It sounded like a cathedral bell was right next to my head with a little hunchback swinging and yelling. My head was about to split open, and it wouldn’t stop. I took out my revolver, gave the phone one warning, and then shot it.

The bang hurt even worse. I’m a fucking retard.

Besides, the phone wasn’t dead, even with a slug through its mechanical body. It still rang. I had to stop it. I was Baretta. The living room was the hood of a car. I lunged across the room, almost slipping in the puke, and reached for the cradle before it could squeeze off another brain-crippling ring.

“What in god’s name do you want?” I said.

There was a long silence. Whatever dickhead was on the other end knew they were playing with their lives.

“Cal, it’s me, Mo’Lock.”

It was the ghoul. He had a knack for calling at exactly the wrong time. But he had done me right too many times for me to blow him off. He’d pretty much set himself as my partner when he followed me from the East Coast out to Los Angeles. That was one dedicated dead guy. You hadda love him.

Well, at least tolerate his weird ass.

“Where are you?” I said, glancing around the house looking for clues, still trying to figure out how I got home. All I had was; drinking, drugs, fight . . . blank.

The ghoul said, “I’m right around the corner.” He sounded excited, which, coming from a creepy-ass ghoul, was kind of scary.