“If Teddy Osterberg collects the dead, he could be connected to the girl and I know the girl is connected to Saint James. I’ll check him out. Maybe I can help both of us.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get too choked up. I’m mostly doing this for me. If I can get to King Cairo first, I’m going after him. I’m going to hurt him dead. I’m tired of people trying to kill me. Downtown. Up here. It’s getting aggravating.”

She makes the whispering sound that might be a laugh.

“You know what they say. All the birds come home to roost. The past catches up with us. And you have quite a past, Sandman Slim.”

“Philosophy from a corpse. Are you sure you aren’t Greek?”

She turtles her head back into the hole.

“I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget me.”

“That’s not likely.”

Cherry disappears into the dark. There’s a rustling and crackling of old bones as she turns around and crawls back the way she came. A homeless corpse living in a coffin squat. How desperate do you have to be to live like that?

I catch a cab at Hollywood and Sunset and have it take me to the Chateau Marmont, the traditional crash pad for showbiz and well-heeled assholes from around the world. John Belushi OD’d there. Jim Morrison crabbed around the outside windows on acid. Hunter Thompson drank by the pool, and a few months back, I played bodyguard to the other Lucifer while he stayed in his secret suite upstairs. Now that I’m the black beast of the forest, the room is mine. I think.

The cabbie whines when I hand him a hundred but is all smiles when I let him keep an extra fifty. I don’t answer when he asks if I want a receipt.

Inside, the desk clerk’s face is streaked with plenty of sin but he’s nothing special. He looks at me like I’m there to empty out the trash cans in the lobby. I still have the Glock in my pocket if things go wrong.

“Hi. I have a standing reservation. The name is Mr. Macheath. I’d like my special room.”

He frowns and types something into the computer.

“We don’t have a note saying you’d be stopping by, and according to the annotation you don’t even look like Mr. Macheath.”

I crook my finger at him. His name tag says CHARLES.

“Did you ever hear of the concept of low profile?”

He looks me over.

“That’s extremely low profile.”

I lean in closer. I’m so sick of dealing with pissants.

“You listen to me, you little fuck. The last time I was here, some people upset me. Like you’re doing right now. I locked them in my suite with a horde of zombies. I don’t know what the place looked like after I left—and it better be clean when I get up there—but I bet not good. Does that sound at all familiar, Chuck? Because if it doesn’t we can role-play right here. I’ll be the zombie pulling out your intestines while you watch. Then, and only then, when you’ve gotten a good look at your guts decorating the lobby like Christmas ornaments, only then will I kill you.”

To seal the deal I take off my glove and put my Kissi hand over his. He yanks his hand away. I swear, this gimp arm is turning out to be the best party trick in history. Better than chasing girls around when you’re five, trying to make them touch your scabs.

Charles edges over to the computer and types in something.

“Very good, Mr. Macheath. And how long will you be staying with us?”

“Until I leave.”

“Of course. You remember the way to the room?”

“Second star to the right, then straight on till morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“Top floor. Grandfather clock.”

I take the elevator up. I’m a little surprised to see that the hall is exactly the way it was the first time I saw it. Since the night I locked Koralin Geistwald and her clan in here, I’ve always pictured the place as a Playboy Mansion slaughterhouse. I hold my breath, open the front of the grandfather clock, and step through.

The suite is perfect. Like nothing ever happened. Clean and bright and full of brand-new Architectural Digest furniture. The kind that under any other circumstances would reject me like a dime-store kidney in a billionaire’s back. I guess they gave up trying to clean brains and eyeballs out of the old furniture and brought in new stuff. And I have the place all to myself until Amanda and her demonic brownnosers get here. Saying the place is a step up from the Beat Hotel is like saying Jean Seberg was pretty. I should take some phone shots and send them to Kasabian. THANKS FOR KICKING ME OUT. DON’T WORRY. I’VE LANDED ON MY FEET. But even I’m not that much of a bastard.

Samael was alone a lot when he was up here the last time. I don’t know how he did it. The place is so huge it echoes when I walk around. I need to treat it like that library Downtown. Build myself a little vacation home in one part of the room and stay there. Over by the giant flat-screen. I’ll bet my hooves and horns this place has every channel and every movie ever made on tap. With a little fixing up I could get used to the place. Maybe there are some earthly perks to being Lucifer after all.

I wonder if they miss me in Hell yet? And if enough people know about it to matter. Semyazah can hold things together, and if he has troops rounding up red leggers, it’ll keep them too busy to think about offing themselves. Or me. I’d still like to know who made those crank calls. But I’m not worried. There’ll be more. Maybe the hotel can tap my phone so I can trace them. I’ll have to remember to ask.

Watching my back has left me exhausted. I want to find Saint James and I want to kill King Cairo and Aelita. Not necessarily in that order. After shooting Carlos and spilling good whiskey and the stunt on the freeway this afternoon, I want to put the hurt of all time on someone. Saint James included. Throw Blackburn in too in case he switched the hit from Saint James to me.

I take a couple of pictures with my phone and e-mail them to Candy. Let her see what she’s missing. So much for not being a bastard.

I dial Traven.

“Hey, Father, with all the diabolical stuff you studied, have you ever met real-life, honest-to-God devil worshippers?”

“No. I don’t think I have.”

“You should come over. I have some stopping by. You’ll see how lame the Devil’s minions are. Maybe it’ll make you feel better about Hell and things.”

“I’m not sure about that but it would be good to talk about what you showed me in the bar. Your hand, I mean.”

“I’ll send a cab for you. When you get to the hotel, call me from the lobby and take the elevator to the top floor. I’ll come out and get you.”

“All right.”

I pick up the house phone and dial room service.

“Yes, Mr. Macheath?”

“Hi. I’d like some food sent up.”

“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”

“I don’t know. What do you have?”

“Our steaks are very good. And we have a chef’s special salmon today. It’s grilled and rubbed with a—”

“That sounds good. I tell you what. I don’t know what my guests will want, so send up a little bit of everything. Whatever you think is good. And not too many frilly dishes with mango-chutney goddamn glaze or diarrhea chilis. You don’t have to tart up meat to make it good. Make sure there are some ribs and a porterhouse steak medium. And desserts. Send a bunch of those. And black coffee.”

“Will there be anything else?”

Drunk on power, I say, “Yeah, a bottle of Aqua Regia.”

“Just one?”

I move the phone to the other ear to make sure I heard him right.

“You have Aqua Regia?”

“We have several bottles left from the case in your private stock.”

Goddamn Samael was smart. I have a lot to learn about the evil game.

“Just one bottle for now but stand by for a possible drinking binge.”

“Yes, sir. The first dishes will start arriving in thirty to forty minutes.”

“You’re my hero.”

Hell yes, it’s good to be king.

Father Traven and the first round of food arrive around the same time. All he says as I take him through the grandfather clock is, “Oh.” Then, “Oh my” on the other side.