Angeles

[onen...@rain.org]

Hello. Onenight here, sending another story to untold-l and
fan-fiction. The title of this story is _Angeles_, and it is a
continuation of _I Am Human_. It follows Jason Ravard on his return from
Illinois.

Keep writing, everybody. Your stories are the highlight of my day.

onenight

_Angeles_

So I flew west. Boeing took me home. The girl next to me on the
plane did her nails. I drank enough that I didn't feel like punching her
for the stink, but not enough that I was in danger of puking on her.
Self-pharmacy is a wonderful hobby. I hadn't had anything stronger than
my uncle's weak manhattans since I left LA. When I was younger I had the
balls to carry blow on the airlines; no more. The grand old age of thirty
cooks that sort of thing out of you.
The city looked shitty; overcast and cold. They're building a new
tower at LAX. It's big, right in the middle of the damn airport, waiting
to get hit by some grandpa doing touch and gos in his Cessna. I'd tell
you what it looks like, but it's rude.
I'm a freelance reporter. That means I'm unemployed. I was on the
mutant beat for the Herald before it folded. That was my last regular
job. But don't cry for me. I ain't exactly broke.

The CDC in Atlanta will tell you that at least two percent of the
American populace exhibits some evidence of "genetic drift." Drift,
hell. Los Angeles looks like a goddamn blizzard. Most of it's by
choice. The guy in the turban and the nose ring standing next to me at
the baggage retrieval obviously drifted of his own volition. Not so the
young woman at the other end of the room with the blue cast to her skin.
She was trying to stay out of the way, her long blonde hair hanging over
her face. Denim skirt, oxford shirt, the whole uniform of somebody trying
desperately to go unnoticed. I grab my bag and shrug through the crowd.
A few years ago I would have tried to interview her. Not now.

Happy days! My car's still in Lot C. The bus driver doesn't look up
when he drops me. I disable the alarm and get in. It's a nice car.
Usually I wouldn't dream of leaving it in Inglewood, but my grandfather
died without giving adequate warning. In L.A. a ride to the airport takes
at least six weeks of bribery and negotiation. A taxi takes a second
mortgage.
I head north, then east. There is only one place to go. I came so
damn close standing in O'Hare to trading in my ticket to LA. for a ticket
to New York. The fear was in me. When I was a kid I thought every person
had a tension inside them, a frequency that held them together. If you
could hear the vibration, you would go insane. What a goddamn strange
place to start hearing it. Standing in the middle of the busiest airport
in the world. I walked into the bar and had two bloody marys.
It's a Saturday and traffic on the 405 is light. Mulholland takes me
where I want to go. The hills. Mercury. My place, my club. It perches
on the side of the mountain between Coldwater Canyon and Laurel Canyon
like any other big modern monster, long thin boxes of building tumbling
down the slope. I know the guy who built it, new out of SCI-Arc. I think
it was his senior project.
Mercury is private. Very private. If you are a mutant in LA. this
is your place. An old girlfriend first brought me. I met her while I was
working on a story. She was the first person who knew; the first one to
tell me to my face that I was a mutant.
There it is. I am a mutant. Jason Ravard is a mutant. A freak.
I'll be goddamned.

I don't fly, you dig? I don't shoot death rays or any of that. I
wouldn't arm-wrestle Al Gore for fifty bucks. But I wouldn't trade my
little trick for a million, because what I do is worth more than that.
I park under the club. The lot is almost empty. But there are those
here who never leave. They are the permanent residents of Mercury.
They'll be here. Mercury is my place to go when I'm looking for my
connection. For them it's home.
Since I was in high school I've followed the clubs. Zero Zero was
the place back then, falling into this building for a week until the cops
cruised by once more than usual. Then it was the run through the streets
and dropping in here and there to apartments off Melrose trying to find
where the damn thing had moved. Warehouses, shacks, even lean-tos under
the freeways. Any place would do for the Zero Zero. This was after the
classic Zero closed, of course, where I鉅 been only once. I even met
Debra, the girl who did her makeup like a zebra's skin, working all day to
dance in the Zero all night. Now, of course, I wonder whether it was
makeup.
After I finished college Zero Zero folded and I kind of fell into a
hole. I鉅 taken an apartment in Venice, which was of course a mistake. I
was too tired to go out much at night. Then the Herald job came along,
and with money coming in I got a little place in Silver Lake where nothing
happened but I was able to turn day for night a bit more often. My hours
weren't regular. Then the clubs changed and the bpuncer era rose. Hell.
I could get in, sure, but who wanted to? Morons and tourists, that零 who.
That was about the time I met Grace. She could fly. That was all
she could do, really. No other mutations. It was great for keeping the
neighborhood kids amused, not great for earning a living. So she moved in
with me.
I had not been using my power when we met. It took a lot of tequila
for me to show her. She loved it. Better yet, she knew the people who
could make it pay. And pay it did. Before she died I bought her a new
car and we moved to Westwood. The coroner said the cocaine that killed
her was over 99% pure. Uncut. Maybe Grace's only other talent was for
making the clean connection.

The doorman's name is Arthur. He opens the big brass gate to the
elevator and stands aside for me to pass.
"Good evening, Mr. Ravard."
"Arthur."
"You're early this evening, sir."
"I came to speak to Ellison. He's in, isn't he?"
Arthur nodded slowly as the elevator rose. "Mr. Ellison is indeed
here, sir."
Like he'd been here for the last eighteen years. Since his parents
threw him out when he was twelve. "Good."
The elevator stopped. Arthur drew the doors open. "Have a pleasant
evening, sir."
"Thank you, Arthur."
Mercury. It is every dark color, every mirror, every hand of
leather. Perfect sound. Rooms ramble in all directions. There are guest
rooms below for the permanents. I never found out where they have the
kitchen. I stay mainly in the bar, a low slung warren of tiny booths.
Smoke rises from a few. The far wall is glass, opening out onto a broad
balcony. Los Angeles sprawls below. I walk out into the dying day.
I stand by the railing, leaning my hands heavily against the dusty
polished wood. Nothing ever made me happier than this; nothing ever
would. The sun boils into the Pacific, leaving its smoggy ruin of light
spread dense along the horizon. The desert air and sun burn in my eyes.
Music shifts in the background, and I smile.
"Ravard."
I turn, braced for the inevitable surprise. "Ellison."
"Howzit?"
Nod. "Red looks good on you, Ellison. Really. You should stay that
color."
"If I had that kind of control, would I live here?" He's red. His
skin, I mean. When I left he was blue. I'd missed purple during my
absence. He has no hair, no eyebrows, no lashes. He dresses in black.
There are some things even the good folks of LA can't accept.
"I got something for you, Ellison." I root around in my pocket. He
holds up his hand.
"Don't do it, man."
I find it, draw it out. It rests easily in my palm. "Come on,
Ellison. I need the money."
He turns out to face the ocean. We're alone here. "I can't."
"It's a good one." I put it on the railing.
"How big?"
"Three carats, clean. Real white."
He groans. "Jesus."
"Ellison, I worked four hours on it."
He can't help it. He looks over at the diamond where it rests in the
orange sunlight. It looks like a piece of glass washed up on the beach.
I can't facet them. I just create them.
"No." He passes his palm over his red scalp. "Look, Ravard, people
are asking questions. This thing has gone on too long. People under me
are getting pressured. Your little stunt is pissing folks off."
"I got bills, man. This is all I know to pay them."
"And I sympathize. I like you. But I am not going to die for you."
I pick up the stone. "Yeah. I understand. There's no diamond mine
in LA and rough diamonds flowing out of Mercury might raise some
eyebrows. But damn, man..."
"Ravard, you've been skimming the surface too long. You're
coasting." He's angry. I'm surprised. I put the diamond away. He waves
at the city. "You didn't even admit what you were until a couple of years
ago. Since then you've been hiding here. Well, enough, friend." He
turns away.
"Ellison..."
His back is toward me. His shoulders drop. "Look, you can't hide
here forever. You've heard all our stories a thousand times. It's time
you did something with them." I shove my hands deep in my pockets. We've
had this discussion before, but this is the first time we've both been
sober. "I don't live here because I want to. I live here because I don't
want to be killed because of what I am. It's happening out there, Jason."
"I know."
"There's a war coming, man." He waves his thin arm toward the
building. "We can't do anything here but be ground zero. But you can get
out." I say nothing. "You have to help us, Jason. Tell the tale. Tell
the world that if they want us dead they'll have to kill so damn many
people the whole country's gonna look like Auschwitz.
"You can do it. Find a new connection; someone stronger than me.
You can finance the kind of people who can change things for us. Please,
Jason. It's time for you to go." Ellison turns toward the sun. You know
what? His tears are pink.