The Perdition Score by Richard Kadrey Page A

in my favor. When I get onto the sidewalk, Harlow is leading Charlie toward the parking lot and I get a good look at what she’s holding. It’s a box.
    It’s just like the one Karael gave me.
    Charlie fucking Anpu didn’t stop by for a martini. He came here to pick up some black milk. For what? Is he going to do the bacon trick for Jean?
    While they head around the side of the restaurant for the parking lot, I run back to the Catalina. White zones are supposed to be for passenger loading and unloading, mostly during certain hours. Me, I chose one that’s the twenty-four-hour variety. It doesn’t matter. There’s a ticket on the windshield when I reach the car. I snatch it off and cram it in my pocket, gun the car, and pull the most idiotic, dangerous, and unsubtle U-turn since Junior Johnson was still a stone-cold rumrunner.
    What the hell is a creep like Charlie doing with angel poison? And where did he get it? Are rich Sub Rosas keeping celestial beings in the backyard as pets these days? There’s no way I am letting these assholes out of my sight.
    I double-park a couple of doors down from Musso’s, waiting for the Rolls to emerge from the lot. Stopping does not endear me to the other drivers on Hollywood Boulevard. People shout at me in a fascinating variety of languages. They give me the finger. Threaten to call the cops. I want to shout at the morons that I’m trying to save their souls, but all they want is for me to move my ass.
    Without the Room, this is what I’m reduced to: sucking up abuse and dodging thrown coffee cups.
    Soon the Rolls-Royce appears from the side of the restaurant, easing its way into traffic. I don’t want to close in on Charlie and Jean too fast. I want them to feel safe and anonymous, so I gently lift my foot off the brake and let the car roll forward.
    I get about twenty feet when the Catalina slams to a stop. It feels like I hit a brick wall.
    I should be so lucky.
    Because it’s much worse. There’s an angel in front of me with one armored boot on my front bumper, and she looks pissed. No point hesitating. I floor the accelerator, hoping to knock her out of the way, but she leans into the car and I just end up burning rubber. I let up on the pedal, throw the car into park, but leave it running. By the time I get out, a crowd is gathering around us. Even on Hollywood Boulevard, a six-foot-plus woman wearing armored boots stopping a muscle car is something people will notice.
    She slams her fists onto the Catalina’s hood and screams, “Give me the box.”
    I stab a finger at her.
    â€œHey, sister. You dent my car, you’re paying for it.”
    She punches the hood again. I look past her. The Rolls is out of sight, disappeared into the general flow of traffic.
    â€œReturn it to me,” she shouts.
    â€œYou want the box?”
    I point past her.
    â€œIt’s going that way in a silver Rolls. Why don’t you puff out your wings and flutter after it? You’ll love Charlie.”
    She comes around the side of the car.
    â€œNot that one. The one you stole.”
    â€œGuess again. It was a gift from one of your kind. Ain’t that a kick in the teeth?”
    I shouldn’t have said that last part. It gives her ideas. She lunges for me, but even though I’m only half angel, I’m as fast as her. I dodge her and slide across the hood of a Camry aiming for the curb. With one hand, the angel shoves the Camry out of the way, smashing it into an SUV full of kids in soccer uniforms. What sounds like all the banshees in Hell letting loose at once fills the street as the kids in the van completely fucking melt down. The boulevard crowd, who’d been digging the show up until then—probably thinking we were a publicity stunt for a shitty action movie—starts running at the sound of breaking glass and the kids wailing.
    I can’t outrun an angel, but I’m about as strong as she is, so I