Free City of the Lost by Stephen Blackmoore

money. Do your job. Forget about this.”
    “Looks like a monster did this,” he says.
    “Yeah,” I say and leave.

Chapter 9
    I lit a guy on fire once.
    He thrashed around a good twenty minutes before he died. Screaming the whole time until the smoke from his own body choked the air out of him. Then he just gurgled as his skin turned black and crackled like old paper.
    I used a nailgun to pin his wrists to a chunk of new drywall at a construction site outside of Bakersfield so he wouldn’t roll around. Then I lit him on fire, and I watched him burn.
    Until tonight that was at the top of my Worst Things I’ve Ever Done list.
    I scrub myself raw. Brush my teeth until my gums shred. Go through two bottles of Listerine. I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.
    It’s almost midnight. I’ve been dead almost twenty-four hours. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
    I’m still not tired. Guess that’s not really a surprise. Been going all day like I’m buzzing on a tank of coffee. Not feeling any signs of slowing down. So much for resting in peace.
    My cell rings while I’m getting dressed. Danny calling from Simon’s club. Guess it’s his now.
    “Yeah,” I say.
    “You’ve heard, right?” Danny says, a thudding techno bass line in the background. “Tell me you’ve heard.”
    “I heard,” I say. “This afternoon. It was on the news.”
    “Shit’s moving fast, man. I got calls in from the Armenians, the Israelis, some guy I think is Yakuza. I can barely understand him. You gotta come in, man. We need to have a heart-to-heart.”
    “The fuck are you talking about?”
    “The future. The future that’s happening right the fuck now. Simon’s gone, man. What, you want to work for the fucking Armenians? ’Cause that’s what’s gonna happen if we don’t have a powwow and get our shit together.”
    “Christ, Danny, the corpse isn’t even cold, yet.”
    “That’s my point,” he says. “The buzzards are out in force, and I need to establish things now.”
    “What do you want from me? It’s over, Danny. All things considered I’d just as well hang it up. I got other shit going on.”
    “Look,” he says. “I get it. The old man was your friend, we’re all buddy-buddy, but all I’m asking is that you come in, and let’s have a conversation. Face-to-face. Is that too much to ask?”
    I haven’t thought about my job prospects. Had more pressing things on my mind. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll swing by.”
    “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” I can hear the relief in his voice.
    “Sure. That it?”
    “Yeah,” he says. “No. Wait. Some guy came in looking for you. Something about a stone. Said it was important. I told him to fuck off but he said he’d be by later. This something I should be worried about?”
    I think about that for a minute. Somebody’s looking for Giavetti’s stone? I’m not sure if this is good or bad.
    “Yo, earth to Sunday. You there?” he asks.
    “It’s cool.” I say. “Side gig. Didn’t know I’d get a caller at the club is all. He say who he was?”
    “No,” Danny says. “Didn’t leave a name. So, this isn’t some leftover job for Simon? Because if it is . . . .”
    “No. Personal. He say when he was coming by?”
    “Just later tonight.”
    “All right. I’ll be out there before you guys shut down.”
    “Thanks man. I owe you.” He hangs up.
    I figured somebody else had to know about the stone. Some shit you just can’t keep secret. And if they know about the stone, maybe they know how to use it.
    I reload the Glock, slide it into its shoulder rig. I’m pretty sure I can convince them to tell me.

    I make it up to Hollywood Boulevard in a few minutes. It’s a weird place at night. Homeless guy pissing on Marilyn Monroe’s star, Scientologists waving their pamphlets around and screaming at people about their engrams. Simon’s club is off a side street between Highland and Vine.
    There’s a line outside the door that stretches twenty feet down the