Chapters (42)
- DEDICATION
- EPIGRAPH
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- ALSO BY RICHARD KADREY
- CREDITS
- ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Salzman glanced at the guards and back to Zavulon. “It sounds like Heaven. I’ll call my contact tonight.”
“Glorious.” Zavulon checked the bottle to see how much champagne was left. “Would you like to finish? It’s too good for their likes,” he said, nodding at the guards.
“Why not?”
Zavulon poured them each another round. He drained his glass and said, “Do mook people such as you, you get drunk?”
“Keep pouring and I’ll let you know.”
Zavulon laughed. Salzman smiled. The guard on the end, he thought. The one who moved his rifle first. He’s the one I’d kill. Or maybe Zavulon. Was that accent even real? Salzman wondered. He sighed. It wasn’t fair. The annoying guard had gotten him all worked up, but he needed to make the call. There just wasn’t time to stop off and strangle anyone on the way home. Salzman had another glass of champagne and thought of happier, deadlier times.
THIRTY-THREE
WHEN HE FINALLY REACHED LOS ANGELES, THE stranger took out his guidebook and walked to Griffith Park. Once inside the park grounds, he headed for a particular sycamore tree. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he picked up a stick and wandered the trails, peeking and probing under the bushes. Nothing. He went up another trail, past the observatory and the tourists taking selfies with the hazy city in the background.
Redecorating, he thought. That’s all this place needs.
Eventually, he reached the abandoned zoo. In a long-disused tiger cage, the stranger found an old sleeping bag, but nothing else. He couldn’t even smell anything. All the familiar scents were masked by the smog, the musk of long-gone animals, and the sweat of everyone else who, over the years, had used the zoo as an open-air squat. The stranger took out the guidebook and scanned the park map looking for other likely sites.
As he trudged up a long trail that wound higher into the park, a young couple strolled past him coming the other way. They were radiant. The woman was in a light summer dress and the man was in a blue polo shirt and white designer slacks. L.A. elites. Graceful and glowing in their beauty and privilege. The stranger barely glanced at them. His mind was somewhere else, rearranging buildings. That’s why he started a little when the couple approached him.
“Hi. I’m Darla and this is my husband, Christopher,” said the woman. “I was wondering, do you know the way to the Hollywood Wax Museum?”
The stranger shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m not from around here.”
“Oh. I saw you had a guidebook and thought you might know,” said Darla.
The stranger held the book out to her. “You’re welcome to look if you like.”
“That’s the problem,” said Christopher. “We lost our bags and both of our sets of reading glasses were in them. If it’s not too much trouble, could you look it up for us? Thanks.”