Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [40]
Hardie had to concede that one. Though he wouldn’t go so far as to call himself lucky. If he had any kind of luck, it was the get-hit-by-a-car-and-discover-you-have-cancer kind of luck. You’re probably going to die from your injuries, but we’re also going to give you chemotherapy, just in case you make it through.
But still, Hardie thought about the magical secret closet and the stash of pot. Maybe Lowenbruck did a little dealing on the side.
And if so, just maybe he kept a piece with his stash.
Hardie helped Lane to her feet, then brought her into the bathroom. Her eye was swelling up pretty good. He hoped she didn’t go looking in the mirror, because she might decide to come after him with the mic stand again.
“Lock yourself in here,” Hardie said. “Don’t open the door for anyone but me. I’ll be right back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Check your magical secret closet. Maybe help myself to some grass.”
Lane giggled, despite herself. She was probably still reeling from the punch to her face. But even as he spoke the words, Hardie heard the shrill voice in the back of his head. Yeah, you’re a real clown. But that’s all you’re good for. You can’t protect her. You can’t protect anybody.
Downstairs, in the bedroom closet, was the secret room, as promised. And, yes indeedy, there was pot—three tightly packed bricks of it, as well as a box full of loose pot in tiny Ziploc bags. No guns. Not even a knife. What did this guy use to cut into the bricks of pot? His ninety-nine-cent corkscrew?
The pot was essentially useless to him—unless he could use it to barter with Topless. Maybe she could toke up, ease the pain in her eye. Hardie’s mother had been a stoner, so to rebel he became a drinker. Why couldn’t Lowenbruck have kept a wet bar or something down here? Why couldn’t this have been Prohibition, and there’d be a jug of brown lightning hidden away?
For that matter, why couldn’t this be just another gig?
Hardie wanted so badly to pop awake on a comfortable leather couch, half-empty bottle of Knob Creek resting against his crotch, and realize he was having a seriously weird fucking dream with celebrities in it.
14
I can still see!
—Rumored original final line of Roger Corman’s
X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes
THE TWO OF THEM—Mann and O’Neal—briefly reconvened in the back of the van on top of the hill. O’Neal was shocked when he saw Mann. She had blood streaked down her cheeks and seemed to be wearing her bikini top upside down. Then again, O’Neal was sure he’d looked better, too. He’d self-administered the adrenaline in enough time to counter the heart-attack special, but he felt like 160 pounds of wet shit. His skin was clammy yet warm. Sweating out of every single pore of his body. Head pounding. If this was what a heart attack felt like, then O’Neal swore to eat a bullet the moment his primary doc told him his cholesterol was looking a little high. He’d fucking mainline oatmeal if it kept his arteries clean.
“What’s our plan?” O’Neal asked.
Mann sat down on a crate, ripped open a first-aid kit, started squeezing some antiseptic into a patch of gauze.
“I want to know more about who we’re dealing with. Get Fact boy on the line and tell him I want everything in ten minutes. If he gives you an excuse, tell him we’re severing our business relationship.”
O’Neal watched Mann work on her face. More blood trickled down her cheek. The eye wounds looked hideously painful. He waited for Mann to flinch. She didn’t. Her fingers moved around her eye, flicking pieces of plastic away from the corners of her eye. Which was not easy with compromised vision and no mirror.
“Can I help?” O’Neal asked.
“Yeah. By calling Factboy.”
Factboy sat on the toilet and read about the death and life of Charles Hardie.
He didn’t need to file an electronic National Security Letter this time. The story had been all over the local paper three years ago. (He didn’t think he should mention that little tidbit to Mann just yet.) Seems Hardie