Killing Pretty by Richard Kadrey Page A

one-­night job that has nothing to do with the guy in my storage room. I like the sound of that. Maybe like is too strong a word. The job is a stakeout. Sitting in a car for hours without a break, so I don’t actually like it, but I do like the chance to walk away from Death’s case for a few hours.
    â€œWhile I have you on the line, I need to know something. Is there a statute of limitations for a Lurker with an assault charge?”
    She doesn’t say anything right away.
    â€œAs far as I know, there isn’t a statute of limitations for Lurkers at all.”
    â€œThanks. I had to know.”
    â€œI’m sorry, for both you and Chihiro.”
    â€œOne more thing. Do you know where I can get some brass knuckles?”
    â€œThose are illegal in California, you know.”
    â€œAnd yet I need them. Years ago, a friend bought a set off an ex-­cop. He was selling them as novelty paperweights.”
    â€œThey could have both gone to jail for that.”
    â€œSounds like you don’t have those connections.”
    â€œNo. I don’t. And you shouldn’t be asking questions like that. In the current climate, they can get you in trouble.”
    â€œUnderstood. I’m going to need a car for tomorrow night.”
    â€œSwing by the office later today. I bought one just to keep you out of trouble. You’ll love it. It’s a big, comfy Crown Vic. Retired just a ­couple of years ago.”
    â€œA retired Crown Vic. You’re talking about a cop car.”
    â€œIndeed I am. It’s in great shape.”
    â€œYou’re going to make me drive around L.A. in a cop car?”
    â€œIt’s this or you can get a Vespa.”
    â€œDon’t say that to Chihiro. If she ever got her hands on a scooter, we’d never see her again.”
    â€œThen it’s the Vic?”
    â€œYou’ve got me cornered.”
    â€œWe should see about getting you a driver’s license.”
    â€œI told you. I can’t get docs like that.”
    â€œI didn’t say it would be real. I’m sure the Vigil can put some papers together for you. Maybe you can even open a checking account.”
    â€œYes, that’s what I came back from Hell for. Overdraft fees.”
    â€œI’ll see you this afternoon.”
    S HE’S RIGHT ABOUT the Crown Vic. It’s big and it’s comfortable, painted a highly forgettable gray. With its cop suspension, it even handles well.
    It’s after dark. Candy and I are sitting in the eight-­thousand block of Wonderland Avenue in Laurel Canyon not doing a goddamn thing. I want to play a new off-­the-­board bootleg of Skull Valley Sheep Kill’s last show at the Whisky a Go Go on the stereo, but Candy got there ahead of me and we’re listening to migraine-­inducing noise from Tokyo. It’s a band called Babymetal. A trio of chirpy girl singers cheerleading their way over razor fast metal riffs. They sound like Britney Spears on helium backed by Slayer.
    I reach for the volume knob.
    â€œTouch that and you’re a dead man,” says Candy.
    â€œI just want to check in with Kasabian.”
    â€œFine. You have my permission to turn down the stereo for the duration of your call. Then it goes right back up again.”
    â€œYou’re just torturing me. It’s the singing robot sunglasses all over again.”
    She frowns.
    â€œI’d forgotten about those. They were fun to play with when you had a hangover. I wonder whatever happened to them?”
    â€œIf there’s justice in the universe, they’re in Tartarus.”
    â€œJust make your call, Pinkie Pie. The best song is coming up.”
    I dial Kasabian and he answers with his usual charm.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI wanted to know how things are going with our guest. You keeping an eye on him?”
    â€œHe’s right here talking to Maria, our friendly neighborhood witch.”
    â€œYou opened the