Devil Said Bang
Someone is knocking on the grandfather clock. Traven sets his plate down on the table. He looks like he’s waiting for the seven plagues to stroll out of the clock.
Three people come in. A trinity. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our boredom.
There’s Amanda Fischer, a high-society babe with a young woman’s face and a crone’s hands. Plastic surgery or hoodoo? Your guess is as good as mine.
With her is a man about her age carrying a briefcase. He’s balding and seems to be compensating for it by growing bushy muttonchops. He looks like her husband. Maybe muscle or an over-the-hill skinhead. The third one is a dark-haired young guy with a bland pretty-boy face and dressed so perfectly in Hugo Boss he can probably recite back issues of GQ by heart. All three of them are caked black with sin signs, like they crawled here through one of Cherry Moon’s tunnels.
The disappointment on their faces is spectacular. Samael is Rudolph Valentino handsome. When they see my scarred mug, they wonder if they’re in the right room. Maybe they stepped through the wrong magic clock.
“Hello,” says Amanda. “We’re here to see our master, Lucifer.”
“You’re looking at him, Brenda Starr.”
“I’ve seen you before. You’re his bodyguard.”
I take a bite of a rib and suck the barbecue sauce off my fingers.
“Do you think Lucifer has access to only one body? Look into my eyes. Can’t you sense my power and glory and all the other shit that makes your crowd moist?”
“Do you know who you’re talking to? Watch your mouth,” says Muttonchops. He has a high-toned British accent. The kind that says, “I’ve never opened a door for myself my whole life.”
“Why do I care who she is if she doesn’t know who I am? Doesn’t the fact I’m in here with many tasty snacks tell you something?”
“Yes,” Muttonchops says. “That you’re a clever enough impostor to fool the hotel. But you can’t fool us.”
“What’s he doing here?” squawks the pretty boy.
He points at Traven.
“He has the stink of God all over him.”
“He’s a colleague. If that’s a problem, you can all ride down the elevator shaft headfirst.”
Muttonchops says “There’s the proof, eh, Amanda?”
She nods.
“A crude threat not worthy of our lord. We’re leaving.”
They’re headed for the door when Traven says, “Which one of them carries the least sin?”
All three stop and look back like questioning their dedication to sin is an insult.
I look them over.
“The kid.”
Traven walks to him and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s your name, son?”
The kid leans back away from him.
“Luke.”
“Do you want to go to Hell, Luke?”
Luke looks at the others for help. Muttonchops takes a couple of steps in their direction but stops when the knife I throw at his feet embeds itself in the tile floor with a metallic twang.
“Do you want to go to Hell?” Traven asks.
Luke puts his hands in his jacket pockets. Stands up straight, trying to look defiant.
“To be with Lord Lucifer forever? Yes. Of course.”
“I can help you with that right now.”
Traven shoves Luke against the wall so hard his head bounces off the marble. When the kid opens his mouth to yell, Traven holds it open and leans in like he’s going to kiss him. Luke pulls back but there’s nowhere to go.
Black vapor drifts from Traven’s mouth into Luke’s. A breeze of dust. A wet, oily stream of fluid. Buzzing things like microscopic wasps. It smells like burning feathers and rancid onions. The kid’s face darkens with sin until he’s as black as Manimal Mike. When Traven steps back, Luke collapses on the floor, coughing and drooling on his designer lapels. Amanda and Muttonchops rush to him.
Traven looks down at Luke and says, “Did you think damnation would be easy?”
Amanda screams, “What have you done to my son?”
“I damned him for all eternity. Isn’t that right, Lucifer?”
“The father here gave him a black karma enema. Luke is stuffed with more sin than the entire NBA.”
I kneel down and push up Luke’s eyelids to have a look at his pupils. They’re pinpoints. Barely visible.
“You understand that there are traditions and procedures Downtown. My guess is that bloated with this much sin, there isn’t much I can do for him. He’ll end up on a paddleboat on the river of fire. Or in the Cave of the Despised, with razor crystals and flesh-eating spiders. Which do you think he’d prefer, Mom?”
Muttonchops looks at the kid. Takes out a silver coin and puts it on the kid’s tongue. Black tarnish creeps over its face. In a few seconds it looks a hundred years old. He looks at Amanda.
“He’s telling the truth. I’ve never seen so much sin in one body.”
He turns to me and bows his head.
“Forgive us, Lucifer. We were blinded by your outward appearance and couldn’t see the real you.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to nose-polish my ass Downtown. Right now I want the answers to my questions.”
“And my son?” says Amanda.
“Answer my questions and I’ll see what I can do for Little Lord Fuckitall.”
“Praise to you, my lord.”
“He wishes to only be addressed as Lucifer,” Amanda says to Muttonchops.
“Forgive me.”
Luke opens his eyes and tries to push Amanda away but he’s too weak. She and Muttonchops help him to the sofa and leave him slumped like a jellyfish on a rocking chair.
“You asked about Blue Heaven,” says Muttonchops.
He takes a piece of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket.
“It has many names but its real name translates roughly as ‘the Dayward.’ It doesn’t exist in any one location. It exists in time. It’s said that in 1582, when Pope Gregory switched from the old Julian to the Christian calendar, fifteen days were lost. Those fifteen days, existing outside of our space and time, are the Dayward. Blue Heaven.”
“And how do you get there?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out, Lucifer.”
“Not a good start, Lemmy. What about the little girl?”
Amanda touches the back of her hand to Luke’s forehead. Brushes back some hair that’s fallen over his face.
“We don’t have her true name but we believe that her living form was a child known as the Imp of Madrid. She actually lived in Sangre de Sant Joan, a trading village outside of the city. The story is that she killed and mutilated travelers along the nearby road. When people stopped traveling there, she killed the inhabitants of a nearby town. When they called in priests and wolf hunters for protection, she killed them and turned on her own people. After she murdered and mutilated half the village, the men managed to corner her in a barn and lock her in. They burned her alive. When they found her body, a priest dismembered her corpse, down to the individual bones. They believed that if you left bodies inhabited by evil spirits intact, they could reanimate. By separating the bones, she couldn’t revive. A child’s body has two hundred and eight bones. They buried each one in a separate grave. The Imp of Madrid’s body takes up an entire cemetery. No one else has ever been buried there and the ground remains unconsecrated.”
“So, a typical Valley girl.”
No laughs. Even Traven won’t give me a polite smile. Bunch of stiffs.
“Have you ever heard of something called the Qomrama Om Ya?”
“No,” says Amanda.
“What about you, Wolverine?”
Muttonchops shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, Lucifer.”
I go to the buffet and pick up a piece of rumaki. Hold it up for the room.
“Dig in. There’s plenty for everyone.”
Amanda glances at Luke.
“Thank you, no.”
I bite the rumaki and talk with a full mouth.
“How about you, Father? You just had a workout.”
Traven comes over, pours himself some mineral water, and goes to sit by the window.
“You ever hear of a guy named Teddy Osterberg?” I say.
Amanda brightens.
“Yes. Teddy is part of the family. That is, he’s part of your temple in Los Angeles. He’s not terribly observant but his family has honored you for three generations.”
“What about King Cairo? Any of you know him?”
Luke rolls over in his chair and kicks his feet, trying to get them flat on the ground.
“Cairo,” he says. Of course the little shit knows him. Rich kids like him love hanging around criminals. Slumming to the rich is like NASCAR to tobacco chewers.
“Write down his address and phone number.”
Luke gets his phone from inside his coat. Fumbles and drops the thing. He sits up and pats himself down for a pen and paper. I grab the phone from his hand and type KING CAIRO in the address book. A phone number and address come up. I copy them down on hotel stationery. Toss the phone into Luke’s lap. He’s coming around. Still obsidian black. Still silted up with sin.
“Amanda, does Teddy know who Mr. Macheath is?”
“I don’t believe so, Lucifer.”
“Good. I want you to tell Teddy that Mr. Macheath, a bigwig from an out-of-town temple, is coming to see him but don’t tell him anything more about me.”
“You should know that Teddy has always been a bit of a recluse and even more so since he was mugged a few months ago. He hardly sees anybody.”
“I promise not to touch his toys. Will you call him for me, Amanda?”
“Yes, Lucifer.”
She smiles. Finally something she can do without a roomful of minions.
“Swell. Okay. I think we’re done here for now.”
“Lucifer, what about Luke?” says Amanda.
“What about him? He’ll be fine.”
“What about his soul? After all he’s done in your name, it’s unfair that he should be tortured in Hell and not standing at your side.”
“What part of my CV gave you the idea that I’m fair?”
“Please,” pleads Amanda. She puts her hands over her mouth for daring to ask Lucifer a favor.
I nod at the attaché case Muttonchops brought in.
“Are those the guns?”
“Yes,” he says.
“You brought ammo too?”
“Of course.”
I go to the table and pour two glasses of Aqua Regia. Set one down on the table and give a small one to Luke. He sips and spits it out like I gave him a mouthful of hot coals. He’s not happy but he can stand and his pupils have expanded to something like normal size.
“Tell you what,” I say. “You leave the guns, see what you can find out about the Qomrama Om Ya, and fuck off out of here. I’ll see what I can do to keep Richie Rich here out of the meat grinder Downtown.”
“Thank you,” says Amanda, grabbing my hand. I pull it away when she pulls it to her mouth like she’s going to kiss it. She helps Luke to the back of the clock.
Muttonchops makes several small bows on his way out.
“Praise you, Lucifer.”
I shut the door behind them and take the attaché case to where Traven is sitting. Pop the locks.
“Are those what you were hoping for?” Traven asks.
“Oh yeah.”
What’s in the case is a bit like the buffet. A smorgasbord of firepower. It’s good stuff too. Not as flashy as I was afraid it might be. There’s a silver Sig Sauer .45 and a little .38 Special derringer. A nice pistol to have in your pocket for when you’re feeling not so fresh. There’s also a Desert Eagle .50, a gun I hate even more than the Glock. It’s a pistol you see in movies because it’s as big as a turkey leg and shiny as a silver dollar polishing a mirror. When we see it we’re supposed to admire the guy who has it because he can handle something so manly and powerful. What we should be thinking is that unless he’s whale-hunting, the only reason anyone has a gun that size is because he can’t aim worth a damn, so he has to blow garbage-can-size holes everywhere hoping he hits something important. I set the Desert Eagle aside.
There’s a completely impractical but heartwarming .40 mare’s-leg pistol. It’s like a short rifle with a lever action to chamber each shot. I don’t know if I’ll carry it but I’ll definitely keep it around. The last gun is a Swiss 9mm folding pistol. It’s the flashiest piece in the case but still semipractical. When it’s closed, the folder looks like a black lunch box, but hit a switch and it springs open into a 9mm pistol with a rifle stock. Candy would die and go to Heaven and Houston and back if I gave it to her. I might do it but I’m not sure I’m going to give her any bullets. She might like the bang-bang sound too much to be trusted. I’ll take her shooting and see how it goes.
I get the Glock out of the duffel and put it on the table with the pistols.
“Want a gun, Father? These are troubled times.”
“We’re always living in troubled times. It’s why we have religion.”
“Is that why? I thought it was so I could get rid of all the change people gave me that week.”
“You have a very practical view of the divine.”
“I’ve seen how the sausage is made.”
Traven picks up the Sig, weighs it in his hand, and sets it down gently.
“Is that boy really going to be tortured in Hell?”
I shrug.
“I was just giving them something to think about. I can send anyone anywhere I want. And don’t get too weepy about the kid. Everyone has a lousy time Downtown. Even Lucifer. I’ll tell you about my recurring lost-toner-cartridge nightmare sometime.”