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Chapters (60)
  1. DAW Books Presents
  2. HAPPY HOURINHELL
  3. Copyright page
  4. Contents
  5. Dedication
  6. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  7. prologue
  8. one
  9. two
  10. three
  11. four
  12. five
  13. six
  14. interlude
  15. seven
  16. eight
  17. nine
  18. ten
  19. eleven
  20. twelve
  21. interlude
  22. thirteen
  23. fourteen
  24. interlude
  25. fifteen
  26. sixteen
  27. seventeen
  28. eighteen
  29. nineteen
  30. twenty
  31. twenty-one
  32. interlude
  33. twenty-two
  34. twenty-three
  35. twenty-four
  36. twenty-five
  37. twenty-six
  38. twenty-seven
  39. twenty-eight
  40. twenty-nine
  41. thirty
  42. thirty-one
  43. thirty-two
  44. thirty-three
  45. thirty-four
  46. thirty-five
  47. thirty-six
  48. thirty-seven
  49. thirty-eight
  50. thirty-nine
  51. forty
  52. forty-one
  53. forty-two
  54. forty-three
  55. forty-four
  56. forty-five
  57. forty-six
  58. forty-seven
  59. forty-eight
  60. epilogue

“I’m . . . I’m so sorry . . . Bobby . . . Dollar.” Her voice was her own now, her body her own too, long and thin and weedy. The puddle around her feet was growing by the second as I stared in helpless terror. “She cares . . . so much.” She coughed, bubbled a little. “I’m sorry. He made me . . . trick you,” she murmured, her words fast becoming a gurgle. “And sorry . . . for me, too. I could have . . . lived here . . . and been happy, I think.” Her head lolled on her long, pale neck and her poached-egg eyes took in the parking garage, the skid marks on the ground and the exhaust stains on the concrete walls. Her mouth twitched in an unsteady but radiant smile. “Here is . . . so . . . beautiful . . .”

And then she simply collapsed into liquid and color, running out of my arms and onto the hard floor in splashing rivulets. The water ran in all directions until one edge found the exit ramp, and then it all flowed that way, down into the lower level.

forty-eight

accessories after the fact

SOMEBODY WAS pounding on my door in a very determined manner. Really thumping away. Every impact seemed to crash through my head like one of those super-slow-mo videos of someone shooting an apple to pieces. I groaned and fumbled around on the floor next to my bed for my automatic and clutched it against my chest. If the pounding didn’t stop soon, I was going to use it, either on the idiot at the door or on myself, whichever would end the suffering quickest. I didn’t feel that way because I was hung over, either. I mean I was, like a motherfucker, but the drinking and the aftereffects were just byproducts of how little I gave a shit about anything.

Thump, thump, thump. “Bobby! Open the door or I’ll kick it in!” It was Sam.

“Fuck you a hundred times for making so much noise,” I shouted, but that made my head hurt as much as the pounding had. I swear, even for someone who’d recently dug into his own brainbox to remove an angry intracubus, this was bad. “Go away, or I’ll shoot you in the dick.”

“What’s-his-name was right—you are a whiny little putz. Come on, get up and let me in.”

I realized that if I pulled the trigger in my present, rather impaired condition, my aim might not be good enough to get off a fatal shot. It would, however, go BLAM really loud right next to my ear. Then Sam would kick in the door, BANG BANG CRUNCH. Might as well set my own nervous system on fire and try to put it out with a tenderizing mallet. I started to crawl toward the door, got stuck behind the cheap sofa, then finally levered myself onto my feet and staggered to where I could let the noisy, heartless bastard in.