The Mythniks Saga Read online

  “Aren’t you?” he winked at me.

  “I don’t think so. What was number two?”

  “Take care,” he said. “I mean it.” His sincerity was arresting, and I nodded.

  I got into the Firebird. As I headed back out of the shitty neighborhood, I noticed for the first time I had a tail.

  The tail didn’t follow me into the parking lot of the Tonga Lei Lounge. Instead he passed the entrance and continued on PCH. He wasn’t ready to show his cards yet, and I wasn’t ready to see them. I was bone-tired and just wanted to go to sleep. I went into the trailer, closed and locked the door and got out of my leather pants. I wasn’t hungry, I wasn’t thirsty, and—surprisingly—I wasn’t much in the mood to get high. Like I say, I was eager to get to bed, but I stopped when I saw the contents of Pan’s FedEx box. For the first time, I wondered why he’d given me a pinecone. It was a big pinecone and it was in good shape, but it was still a pinecone. I sat down behind the desk and picked it up, rolling it over in my hands and examining it closely.

  Then something weird happened. I left Malibu and went back to ancient Greece.

  I was standing in a grove of evergreen trees, the scent of pine needles rich in the alpine air. Everything fairly glowed with primordial innocence. It was exactly how I remembered it (or the way I had idealized it in the intervening millennia). Ferns. Dark, loam-y soil. The sound of the ocean somewhere not too far away. And creatures. Lots and lots of creatures. Dryads, nymphs, satyrs, centaurs. The place looked like the “Pastoral Symphony” from Disney’s Fantasia only with less color and more depth.

  I fell to my knees and wept with goggle-eyed nostalgia.

  But then I noticed something...

  The nymphs had big, big titties. The dryads had bubble butts. The centaurs were hung like, well, racehorses. Every creature of the forest was sexualized way beyond what I remembered. Sure, nymphs were hot, and centaurs had had a certain burly charm, but this was ridiculous. When I saw how perfect everything was (or at least how perfectly suited to Pan’s tastes), I doubted this new reality.

  It was that doubt that popped me back out again.

  Pan had given me a virtual reality simulation of the past, powered no doubt by Greek magic. It was like a sexy snow-globe you could go inside. A reminder of an age now long-gone and, I’m certain, a place where Pan went to get his rocks off. For just a moment, I was amused but then I was overcome by a sudden wave of sadness. When you get a glimpse of where you come from, sometimes it makes you all the more unhappy about where you’ve ended up.

  I knew it already, but it really struck me then what a deep, deep rut I’d made for myself.

  3

  Dora Investigates

  The world was on fire. Angry volcanoes sprung up from every nation and burned cities to cinders. Mankind had nowhere to run. The conflagration killed nearly everyone. Those that lived wished they had died. A new order had come to earth. Or, rather, an old order was reestablished. Giants had come from the dark places beneath the planet’s surface to regain their former kingdom. Millenia after millennia of imprisonment had soured their already sour dispositions so they were not kindly disposed toward their new subjects.

  Pain, fear and subjugation followed in their wake.

  The worst of them was their leader, a woman with burning red eyes and flowing black hair.

  The sound of the phone startled me awake. I’d fallen asleep at the desk. I fumbled for the receiver and finally got it to my ear. “Yeah?” I said.

  “Is this Dora?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, it’s Tuesday!”

  Was it Tuesday? I didn’t wanna think too hard, so I took the guy at his word. “Hooray,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Girl, don’t you even know who this? It’s Linus from Cranium Core Collective!”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Oh, yeah. Hey, Linus.”

  “Do you know what I have for you today?”

  “I don’t.”

  “I’ve got a new Indica. Code name: ‘Optimus Prime’. Also... Are you ready for this?”

  “I think so.”

  “I got new lighters. They’re the kind that have naked girls on them, only these have naked dudes on them. We’re talking schlongs at half-mast. I figured they’d be right up your alley.”

  Well, he was right about the schlong lighters. I was halfway tempted to run up there and take a look, but, if I did that, I’d end up grabbing some Optimus Prime. (“Autobots, roll out!”) “Look, Linus. I’d love to come up, but I got a situation here. Kind of a family thing. It’s a fire that’s gotta be put out.”

  The line went silent for a moment. “I hear you, girl. Last month my little bro back in Illinois ruptured his spleen. Bad scene. Bhang was the last thing on my mind. Do yer thing. We ain’t going nowhere.”

  “Okay, yeah. Thanks, Linus.” I hung up. Turns out Linus was a square g.

  I looked around the trailer, still trying to get my bearings. Hope was gone, and all I had to show for it were a few commemorative plates. If I was gonna get anywhere, I needed to find the runner. The Kenyan in the sexy shorts.

  Finding someone or something begins with a checklist. Go down the list, answer the questions, and you’ll find what you’re looking for. What were my questions? One: Who was the girl? Two: Did she really have a background in track and field? Three: Was she local? Four: What was the girl’s motive? (We already know she had opportunity, so we can skip that one. Hell, let’s be honest: she manufactured the opportunity.) Which brings us to number Five: How had she manufactured the opportunity? I’ll admit I’m off my game but Hope most definitely was not. Girlfriend could spot an Evil, minor or no, from way off. That meant she was duped. Probably by the driver of the car. But I had zero data on him or her, so I assumed that, if I found the thief, I’d find her accomplice. Six: What would happen to me if I went back to Long Beach to snoop around and I didn’t have some kinda cover? That one was easy: LBPD would pick me up, and I might not get another white knight from Hermes.

  As I showered, I had a dim recollection of a dream I’d had. The whole earth was ruined, and a bunch of giants were laying claim to what was left. Weird shit, especially since I hadn’t been drinking or smoking beforehand. Was this one of the portents or signs Tiresias had promised? I hoped not. Anyway, I grabbed some new clothes, and pointed myself up Santa Monica Boulevard toward Beverly Hills.

  I had an itch Donatella could probably scratch.

  When I say “Donatella”, I do not mean “Donatella Versace”. Donatella Versace is sixty-three years old and looks every day of eighty. I know that sounds catty (I mean, I’m sure Versace is a nice lady and a helluva businesswoman), but I just wanted you to know I have better taste than that. No, I’m talking about Donatella Padovano. You’ve probably never heard of her. Her father’s in the footwear business, but not sexy footwear. Just run-of-the-mill footwear, made in Italy, sold mostly within the EU. Still, you don’t gotta sell sexy to become rich as fuck. Thus, the Padovano’s summer home in Beverly Hills.

  When I used the word “taste” above, I was using it exactly the way you thought I was using it. I am, as the saying goes, AC/DC. The truth is, I have a preference for dudes, but a pretty girl can still turn my head. Donatella is definitely a pretty girl. She’s full DC (or is it AC?), so she was into me something fierce. Spoiler alert: I’m unusually attractive—particularly without my layer of winter fat. Just to give you a picture, I’m about five ten, I have short black hair, big almond-shaped eyes and I’m curvy in the classical sense. (That’s a nice way of saying I’ve got big Mediterranean hips and big Mediterranean titties.) The nice thing about Dona, though, is she’s not one for relationships. In fact, she’s dead-set against them. She likes her playtime, but she’s not the marrying kind. Fine with me since I never told her I was a mythological figure, and I’m not in the market for a shack-up. Hot as fuck, not looking for commitments, and reliable to a fault. Those were Dona’s best qualities.

  If anyone would do me a solid, it was her
.

  The Padovanos lived in the 90120. The toniest of the tony. I pulled up in front of the house and parked the Firebird on the street. Jacopo, Dona’s dad, was in the driveway washing one of his cars. Just a normal suburbanite giving his ride a rinse. Except his ride was a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster, a car that runs—wait for it—four point five million dollars. Jack saw me headed up the driveway and threatened to squirt me with the hose. Of course, he was grinning ear to ear when he did it. Jack and I had spoken on several occasions, and I really liked him. He really liked me too. He didn’t seem to mind that his daughter was a lesbian. Not much of anything seemed to bother him. “Dora and Dona,” he said, his accent thick. “Sitting in a tree. Kaye eye ess ess eye en gee.”

  “How you doing, Jack?” I was grinning. Jack had that effect on people. It was the first time I’d felt like smiling in at least twenty-four hours.

  “I am doing well. It is nice to see you. Such a beautiful girl.” He came in for the requisite hug, being sure to point the hose down. “When are you going to sell me that car?”

  “That car? Why do you want that car? It’s an old junker.”

  He seemed offended. He even stamped his foot. “No! That car is a classic. A classic American muscle car. I want to buy him from you and restore him. He will have an honored place in my collection.”

  “Not today, Jack. Momma still needs wheels.”

  “You change your mind, you know where to find me. Right here. In this house. Dona is in the back by the pool. Get away now, before I squirt you.”

  “Alright, alright. You don’t gotta tell me twice.” I headed for the brick arch leading to the back yard. Once I was a little ways away, I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, Jack raised his hose one last time to show he meant business.

  As soon as I passed under the arch, I heard a screech. I was startled but then I saw Dona coming toward me wearing a bikini and a pair of mules. “Dora! Dora, Dora Dora, Dora, Dora!” She threw her arms around my neck and pulled me in tight. Even in the mules, she was shorter than me.

  I pushed her back a foot to take a good look at her. She looked perfect. Her skin was sun-bronzed, her black eyes were huge, and her copper-colored hair caught the light just right. “Damn, girl. You been taking care of yourself.”

  She reached over and gave my roll of fat a painful twist. “You,” she said. “Have not.”

  I swatted her hand away. “I know, I know. It’s been a weird winter.”

  “Then why did you not come see me? I could’ve made it less weird maybe.”

  “You definitely could have.” I decided not to tell her about my long-term funk. That would just lead me to telling her I was the Pandora of legend and I’d lost my jug. I didn’t have that kind of time. “Listen, Dona, I need a favor. Two favors, actually. I’ll owe you big time.”

  Dona took two steps back and scrunched her face. “You want something? And you don’t even have the decency to lick my gnocca?”

  Another voice broke in. A loud, distraught voice. “Dona! Shut your whore mouth!”

  I looked over the hedge and saw Mrs. Padovano. Who could blame her? The poor woman just wanted to sit by the pool and sip her piña colada. She didn’t wanna hear about cunnilingus. “Hi, Mrs. Padovano!” The older woman smiled and waved. I love Italians. They’re usually so cheerful—and when they weren’t, they let you know why. No guessing games with the Italians. I pulled Donatella down the brick walkway away from the pool. “Listen,” I said. “I really need your help right now. I’m in a pickle. Once I get my shit squared, I promise to come back and lick your gnocca.”

  She considered for a moment, making me sweat. “You’ll do the swirly thing I like?”

  “I’ll do the swirly thing you like.”

  “What do you need?”

  The first thing was easy. I needed a car and, of course, Jack had several. Dona had to ask his permission, but he couldn’t have been more agreeable. He gave me my choice of several—all American muscle cars. I chose the 1968 Dodge Charger 440 Magnum and he dropped the keys into my waiting hand.

  The second thing was a little trickier. I needed a disguise. Donatella was excited about that one because it meant she got to play dress-up—and I was the doll. “What do you want to look like?” she said.

  I shrugged. “Just make me look Italian, I guess.”

  “Well, that won’t be hard. We’re practically cousins.”

  “Don’t say that. Cousins aren’t supposed to scissor fuck.”

  She laughed and raided not only her own closet but her mother’s as well. When she was done, I was wearing a thigh-length dress, pretty sandals and one of her mom’s wigs. I looked like a young Monica Bellucci, the Italian film star. “Where are you going dressed like that?” she said. “A party? Should I be jealous?”

  “No, I am most definitely not going to a party. I’m going to Long Beach to roust a perp.”

  She pursed her lips. “A perp? What is a perp? Is that like a perv?”

  “No, it’s not like a perv, although the two are, often, not mutually exclusive. I had something stolen from me. I’m going down there to see if I can get it back.”

  “Why do you need to look hot to do that?”

  “I guess I don’t, but the whole ‘more flies with honey than vinegar’ thing ain’t gonna hurt.”

  “Okay. Hey, can I say something to you?”

  That was an odd request coming from Dona. “Sure. You can say something to me.”

  She took a breath. “Okay. You are different. And I don’t just mean you are fat. I mean you are sad. And confused. I... know we are just partners in fun, but I don’t like to see you like this.”

  I flushed. It was a side of Ms. Padovano I’d never seen before. The expression on her face was the most sincere one I’d ever seen her wear. “I... When you’re right, you’re right. I’ve got a lot of complicated stuff on my mind. I’ll work through it. I guess I will, anyway.”

  She nodded, probably not knowing what else to say. “Okay. Be sure not to wreck that car or you will see my papa not be jolly.”

  I kissed her lightly on the lips. Since Jacopo never did anything halfway, I’m sure he could be not jolly with the best of them. It was good advice.

  I parked the car in the LBC near Acres of Books and Manuel Nieto Elementary School. Returning to the scene of the crime and all that. For just a second, I worried about the Dodge. It was vintage, shiny and black, a ripe target for boosting (or, at the very least, a hubcap job). I didn’t wanna be on the hook to Mr. Padovano for a classic American muscle car. More important, I didn’t wanna be there when he wasn’t jolly. That and the fact my tail was back were getting me down. This time I took note of the make and model. A hybrid. Easy to ditch if it ever came down to a chase. I couldn’t make out any detail on the driver. The sun was high, and it lit up his or her windshield.

  I’d brought my bag with me. I went around to the trunk and opened it. From the bag, I took my brass knuckles (on which was engraved the word “Peekaboo!”), a bottle of pepper spray and set of handcuffs. I tucked all three into my shoulder bag and looked around. Not much in the immediate vicinity. There was the school and the defunct bookstore, but what I needed was a bar or similar gathering place. I decided to walk in the direction of Broadway and hung a left. As I walked, I got several lingering stares from male pedestrians (and a couple of females, too). Mama was looking fine. Good thing it was the middle of the day or mama might’ve needed the pepper spray. Finally, I came to what is now my new favorite bar on the West Coast—maybe even the whole wide world.

  Tricky Dick’s is, I kid you not, a Richard Milhous Nixon-themed bar. There’re campaign posters on the wall, framed batches of buttons, and a huge map of Yorba Linda, California. There’s even one of those mechanical fortune telling booths only, instead of a robot gypsy with a crystal ball, there’s a robot Nixon with a crystal ball. Investigations could wait. I needed to get my fortune from number thirty-seven. I dropped in a quarter, swirling lights filled the glass booth, and R
ichard waved his plastic hands over the ball. Then there was a ding and a little white card dropped out of a slot. I picked up the card and read it. It said, “Death will have his day”. Okay, that was just creepy. I looked around the nearly empty bar. Was I being punked? The bartender saw my confused expression and said, “Need some help?”

  He seemed like a pleasant enough guy. Millennial. Tattoo sleeves. Shaved head. I went over to the bar and sat down. “Scotch, neat.”

  He threw his towel over his shoulder and poured the drink. “I would’ve pegged you more as the white wine spritzer type.”

  “Don’t let the get-up fool you,” I replied. “I’ve got a hollow leg and fists of fury.”

  He laughed as he put the drink in front of me. “I believe you. Now that I’ve seen you up close I’m tempted to hire you as a bouncer.”

  “I’m tempted to take that offer. You the owner?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “First of all, I gotta say, ‘Bravo’. This is the weirdest bar I’ve ever been in and I’ve been in every bar everywhere.”

  “I take that as high praise.”

  “Please do. I’m in the presence of genius here. Can you walk me through your process? Why Richard M.?”

  “I’ve always had a taste for irony,” he replied. “One day it just occurred to me, ‘Why not have a bar dedicated to the worst rat-fuck of a president we’ve ever had?’ Present presidents excepted, of course.”

  “Of course. Well, succeed or fail, just know you’ve done a great thing here. A’salut.”

  He brought up a bottle of seltzer and we clinked.

  “I’m looking for someone. Maybe you can help me out.”

  He pulled the towel down off of his shoulder and started polishing the bar. “Okay but be specific. A lot of people come through here, and a certain sameness starts to creep in.”

  “How’s this for specific? Female, black, late twenties or early thirties, tight afro, tall, pretty, built like an Olympic athlete—in fact she’s got walnut-crusher thighs.”