“I could barely see the pole.”
“Oh.”
He calls up Candy’s pole shots and puts one beside Moseley. He’s right. A lot of the badly cut and stitched symbols on his cheap robes match what’s on the pole.
“So, what do they mean?”
“I’m not done. Look at this. You’d have saved some time if you’d paid more attention to Traven.”
He pulls up the shot I took of Moseley’s half-crushed corpse. Zooms in on a tattoo half covered in blood. It matches one of the symbols on his robes and the pole.
“Is that what I think it is?”
Kasabian nods.
“Your boy Trevor’s last walk down the Yellow Brick Road was with an Angra cult. It was right there in front of you the whole time.”
“But I’ve only been going after tinhorn bad guys. I wouldn’t know where to begin looking for Angra worshippers.”
“Maybe you spooked them, running all over town pissing in everybody’s dream home.”
He puts the three photos side by side on the screen. The answer was in front of me the whole time. But it brings up another question. Why was a clockwork Trevor Moseley playing footsie with an Angra cult? Maybe the Trevor in the photo is real—I don’t know if an automaton can grow a beard—but now I’m surer than ever that the one that stepped in front of the bus wasn’t any more human than the ones we found with Atticus. It also explains why Samael didn’t see any sin sign on him. He wasn’t human, so technically nothing he did was sinful.
I light a Malediction.
“At least I’m getting through to someone. These gangsters are getting boring. By the way, don’t look for Trevor anymore. He’s not going to be in Hell.”
“Are you saying he’s in Heaven?”
“I’m saying he doesn’t have a soul.”
“Lucky duck.”
I puff the Malediction. Something bothers me.
“When did I send you the shot of Moseley?”
“You didn’t. I took it.”
“You hacked my phone?”
He looks up at me. His hellhound body whirs and clicks quietly when his head moves.
“You ask me to hack things and then you’re surprised when I do it? By the way, your idea of online security wouldn’t stop a mollusk with a TRS-80. If you ever want to get serious about protection, ask me.”
I want to be mad, but stealing the image did answer some important questions. And if I’m going to be pissing people off, maybe I ought to learn more about security.
“What’s going on with your swami gig? You ever track down that guy’s hoarder brother?”
“As a matter of fact I did. He’s with the misers and small-time grifters.”
“Good luck getting any information out of him. Brush up on your sign language.”
“I was going to ask you about that. Seeing as you’re pretty acquainted with Hell—”
“No. I won’t be your carrier pigeon.”
“This isn’t a favor, like you’re always asking me to do. It’s a business proposition. You’d get paid for taking messages back and forth.”
“I don’t think Mr. Muninn would like it.”
“Right. I forgot how sensitive you are to what other people think of you. Having fun breaking thumbs?”
I tap the ash of the Malediction into an empty bottle of champagne I don’t remember drinking.
“As a matter of fact I am. I might have to pencil in a rampage or two a year. It’s like going on vacation.”
“I remember your little moods every time I look down at where the rest of me used to be.”
“You’re the one that blew up your body. I just separated you from it.”
“Right. How uncool of me to be upset.”
Kasabian finishes off a can of beer sitting on his desk. Crushes it in his metal paw.
“You still have all that money you said you hid from Saint Stark?”
Saint Stark is my angelic half. He got loose a few months ago and went around L.A. doing good deeds and generally making himself a pain. Among his many good works was giving away most of the money a vampire collective, the Dark Eternal, gave me.
“If you want it, forget it. It’s still my insurance policy in case you decide to throw me out.”
“Jesus. I saved your sorry robo-dog ass from a hit squad and brought you to the best place you’ve ever lived and you’re still going on about that shit?”
“I’m sorry. Who was the one just talking about going on rampages?”
“I just want to make sure there’s some cash around.”
“You’re not getting it.”
“I don’t need it right now,” I say. “These gangsters keep bribing me not to kill them. I should have started shaking these people down a long time ago.”
“If you don’t want money, why are you asking about it?”
“Just sort of an inventory of assets.”
He turns around in his swivel chair and drops the beer can onto the top of an overflowing trash can.
“Shit. We’re not getting the boot, are we?”
“The hotel isn’t happy having a pig head on the porch swing, but no one has said anything. Yet.”
He turns back to his laptop. Slaps the keys hard and the photos disappear.
“Why couldn’t you be a nice, boring thief like Vidocq? No one ever bothers him.”
“He doesn’t steal that much anymore. And he’s good at it. I’m good at breaking things. The difference is that people don’t always notice when their diamonds go missing, but they know when their legs bend the wrong way.”
“Think about my offer. Make some honest money. You can probably do with some more friends Downtown.”
“You might be right about that part.”
On TV, a reporter is trying to interview a cop, but everyone behind them is pushing up their noses into pig snouts and grunting.
“One more thing. If you ever spot Medea Bava Downtown, let me know. She’s supposed to be hiding with Deumos, but I don’t trust the vindictive hag.”
“She’s the Inquisition. Even the milk on her cereal comes from angry cows.”
“Just let me know if you see her. And stay out of my phone.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t see any of those private pictures Candy sent you.”
“Fuck you.”
THE HOUSE PHONE rings.
“Hello, Mr. Macheath?”“Yes.”
“An envelope arrived for you. Should I send it up?”
“You mean an envelope envelope? I don’t want any packages.”
“No, sir. It’s just an envelope.”
“Okay. Send it up.”
I go out the grandfather clock and wait for the bellhop. He comes up in the elevator and gives me the note. I hand him a table lamp.
“My girlfriend has all the money and she’s asleep, but I think this lamp is Tiffany, so Merry Christmas.”
“Thank you, sir,” he says like this happens to him all the time.
I wait until he’s in the elevator before going back through the clock.
In the penthouse, I tear open the envelope. It’s heavy cream-colored paper and lined with thin gold foil. Very pricey. Inside, there’s a note containing three words:
Stop it.
Blackburn
Add him to the list of people who might have put up the nithing pole, though it’s not really his style. That means my game has gotten under the skin of at least two people. That just leaves four million to go.
I GET AN unexpected phone call and head for Bamboo House of Dolls. Go inside for a drink and wait. I drop Declan Garrett’s name a few times. Let people know I’m looking for him. What the hell? It’s worth a shot. Allegra shows up a few minutes later in a jean jacket over her scrubs, looking like she came straight from the clinic. I’m going to need a smoke for this. I head outside and she follows me.
We get to the end of the building by the alley. I light up and Allegra leans against the wall, arms and legs crossed. She’s nervous. So am I. We haven’t been alone together in months. Not since she found out I’d been playing Lucifer.
She says, “Thanks for meeting me.”
“No problem. So, what are we here for? Sorry if I’m blunt, but if you’re going to yell at me and call me evil, maybe you can get started? I hear there’s liquor inside.”
“If I just wanted to yell, I could’ve done that on the phone.”
She gives me a weak smile to say she’s joking, but I don’t smile back.
“I’m just trying to understand,” she says.
“Instead of telling me you have questions, why don’t you ask them?”
“Okay. You were really Lucifer? Tell me about it. What is Hell like?”
“Neither is what you think. Hell is a place like any other. I was mostly in the capital, Pandemonium. It’s a city just like this. Hellions live and work there. There are markets, bars, and restaurants. There are cops and armies. Even a church. The place is on its last legs. The new Lucifer is trying to put Humpty Dumpty back together again, but I don’t think he’ll make it.”
Allegra crosses her arms tighter against her chest.
“What about being Lucifer?”
“You think he’s all about mustache-twirling evil and temptation? Here’s the truth. He’s mostly a pencil pusher. You think Hell runs on its own? Being Lucifer is more like the universe’s shittiest middle-management job. I spent most of my time in meetings with assholes or hiding from meetings with assholes.”
“Lucifer takes people’s souls.”
I take a drag off the Malediction.
“Most people heading for Hell don’t need his help. Most of the rest are idiots who sold their souls for fame, money, whatever. Anyway, the first Lucifer gave it all up. He’s back in Heaven these days. In the loving arms of your precious Lord.”
“That means there’s another Lucifer, right? What’s he like?”
“He’s nicer than me or Samael. But he’s screwed up. I wasn’t any good at the Devil business and he’s probably only marginally better. But he’ll try harder to make Hell a better place for everyone stuck down there.”
“Who is he?”
I shake my head. Blow out some smoke.
“I can’t tell you that. It’s too complicated. But I’ll tell you this: right now the Devil isn’t the problem. It’s God. He’s not exactly growing old gracefully.”
She looks down the street like she’s trying to get her bearings, then back at me.
“It’s so strange to talk about the universe like Hell is just another little town over the hill. And the good people aren’t that good and the bad ones aren’t that bad.”
“I didn’t say that. Hell is a bad place full of backstabbing monsters that’d kill you as soon as blink. But some monsters are honorable. More honorable than some Heavenly halo jockeys.”
“What you’re saying isn’t anything that I was taught or ever dreamed of.”
“That’s how it is. In the big scheme of things we barely matter. The Devil doesn’t hate us. Neither does God, but in the end we’re just bugs on his windshield. The universe didn’t turn out the way he wanted and now he’s hanging on by his fingernails just like the rest of us.”
She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, and closes it. I flick the butt of the Malediction into the alley.
“I’m sorry about getting so mad before,” she says. “It’s hard to take it all in.”
“Forget it. This shit is hard for anyone to understand. I don’t want to.”
“This thing you’re looking for . . .”
“The Qomrama Om Ya.”
“It’s supposed to save the world from whatever’s coming?”
“If we’re lucky.”
“So you’re back to being the guy who saved the world and killed all the zombies.”
“I never stopped being him. But mostly I’m just trying to keep all my stuff from getting blown up. Can you imagine the universe without The Searchers? I can’t.”
She stands away from the wall. Brushes dust off her sleeve.
“You’re going to need help.”
“Probably.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“I’ll help.”
“Thanks.”
What do you know? People can surprise you after all. I wonder if she’s been talking to Candy behind my back. Whatever it took, it will be nice not to feel like we’re enemies anymore. But there’s something else. Something she’s not saying. She’s tenser than before. She rubs a knuckle against her lower lip.
“I have something else I have to ask you.”
“What?”
“It’s awkward. You’re going to think I invited you here and I said I’d help just because I want something.”
“That depends on what you want.”
I tap out another cigarette and light it, waiting for her to collect her thoughts.
“Remember when we first met back at Max Overdrive? I said I wasn’t always a nice person. I had this boyfriend. He was a dealer, and when he went to jail I used his money to go to school because I didn’t want to be in that life anymore.”
“And now he’s getting out.”
She nods.
“He called me.”
She holds out two fingers to ask for my cigarette. I give it to her. I didn’t know she still smoked. She takes a tiny puff and about coughs her lungs up.