Free The Getaway God by Richard Kadrey

won’t be able to invade. They’ll laugh themselves stupid and wait for us to die off pretending that nothing is wrong.
    I STEP THROUGH a shadow and come out in front of Bamboo House of Dolls. It’s my Sistine Chapel. My home away from home. The best bar in L.A. The first bar I walked into after escaping from Hell. It’s a punk tiki joint. Old Germs, Circle Jerks, Iggy and the Stooges posters on the wall. Plastic palm trees and hula girls around the liquor bottles. And there’s Carlos, the bartender, mixing drinks in a Hawaiian shirt. On the jukebox, Martin Denny is playing an exotic palm-­tree version of “Winter Wonderland.”
    It’s a small, damp afternoon crowd in the place. Smaller than usual. Few civilians. Mostly Lurkers. Three gloomy necromancers play bridge with a Hand of Glory filling the fourth seat. A ­couple of blue-­skinned schoolgirl Luderes play their favorite scorpion-­and-­cup game. A table of excited Goth kids throw D&D dice and cop discreet glances at the crowd from the back of the room. Games for everyone. A necessary distraction when the sky is falling. Still, it’s Christmas and the mood isn’t bad. It’s a Wonderful Life crossed with Night of the Living Dead .
    Carlos serves drinks wearing a Santa hat.
    â€œThe salaryman returns,” he says when I sit down at the bar. “How’s life behind a desk?”
    â€œIf anyone ever actually gets me to sit at a desk you have my permission to shoot me.”
    Carlos pours me a shot of Aqua Regia from my private supply.
    â€œIt’s not so bad,” he says. “Take me. The bar is sort of my desk. I come in at pretty much the same time each day. Do my prep. Serve my bosses—­you ungodly things—­and go home tired and satisfied knowing that I’ve kept America watered and prosperous for one more day.”
    â€œYou’re a saint. When you die they’ll name a junior high after you and your reliquary will be full of shot glasses and lime wedges.”
    â€œDon’t forget a boom box. I need my tunes.”
    â€œThe difference between us is one, you’re the boss. Two, you can throw out anyone you want anytime you want. And three, you have a jukebox by your desk. Me, all I have is a dead man in Liberace robes and a cowboy with a stick the size of a redwood up his ass.”
    Carlos pours himself a shot and leans on the bar.
    â€œWhy don’t you have a drink and listen to the carols? That always makes me feel better.”
    Someone comes in and Carlos stands, looking serious.
    â€œBe cool,” he says, and goes to the end of the bar, where two uniformed cops have come in. The three of them speak quietly. Too quietly for me to hear over the jukebox. After a minute of chatter, Carlos hands one of the cops a Christmas card. The card is misshapen. Bulging. There’s something inside it. The three of them nod to each other and shake hands. One of them glances at me and stops like he thinks we might have gone to high school together. A second later, he turns and heads out with his partner.
    â€œWhat was that?”
    Carlos says, “Exactly what it looked like. Protection. But for real. Do you know how many cops are left in the city? They’re splitting town just like everybody else. The cops that are left, they need a little extra motivation to answer the phone if there’s trouble.”
    â€œA nice racket.”
    Carlos shakes his head and throws back his drink.
    â€œThe price of doing business in L.A.”
    He pours us both another round and holds up his glass for a toast.
    â€œMerry Christmas.”
    We clink glasses and drink. I shake my head.
    â€œI can’t believe it’s Christmas again. How do you ­people stand having the same holidays over and over? In Hell they only have holidays when Lucifer feels like it, so it’s always a surprise and all the little goblins are giddy as kindergartners.”
    â€œYou