Kill the Dead

BACK IN FRONT of Max Overload, Brigitte leans over to kiss me, and this time I’m not shy about kissing her back. Cabal’s act sucked the paranoid jitters right out of me. Sometimes annoyance will keep you going when booze and fear and hope are as dead as the Big Bopper. Brigitte says, “I could come up for a while if you like.” “I would like, but you wouldn’t like. I have a roommate.” She smiles. “Does he like to watch?” “He’d love it. But he’s a kind of a spy and that means Lucifer would be watching us, too.” “What do I care? Lucifer probably has my calendar in his office in Hell.” “It would be awkward for me.” How do you tell someone you want to fuck that you can’t do it in front of the devil because you don’t want your dad spying on you? “All right. I should probably be getting back anyway. But you owe me.” “Before I forget, my roommate loves you more than beer and cigarettes. Would you sign these for him?” I hand her the DVDs. She smiles and takes a pen from the glove compartment. “Who do I make it out to?” “Aldous.” “What a lovely old name.” “I’ll tell him you said that. It’ll make his week.” “There’s something for you under the seat.” I reach down and feel along the carpet until I touch a box. I pull it out and open it. Inside is a collapsed metal weapon. “The gift that keeps on giving.” Brigitte hands me the DVDs. “I want to go back to Springheel’s house and look around soon. Want to come with me?” “Is there a bedroom?” “I didn’t see one, but you can help me look.” “Then count me in.” She blows me a kiss, pops the clutch, and burns rubber back onto Hollywood Boulevard.