Devil Said Bang (28 page)

“Thank you.”

“Don’t get too choked up. I’m mostly doing this for
me. If I can get to King Cairo first, I’m going after him. I’m going to hurt him
dead. I’m tired of people trying to kill me. Downtown. Up here. It’s getting
aggravating.”

She makes the whispering sound that might be a
laugh.

“You know what they say. All the birds come home to
roost. The past catches up with us. And you have quite a past, Sandman
Slim.”

“Philosophy from a corpse. Are you sure you aren’t
Greek?”

She turtles her head back into the hole.

“I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget me.”

“That’s not likely.”

Cherry disappears into the dark. There’s a rustling
and crackling of old bones as she turns around and crawls back the way she came.
A homeless corpse living in a coffin squat. How desperate do you have to be to
live like that?

I
catch a cab at Hollywood and Sunset and have it take me to the Chateau Marmont,
the traditional crash pad for showbiz and well-heeled assholes from around the
world. John Belushi OD’d there. Jim Morrison crabbed around the outside windows
on acid. Hunter Thompson drank by the pool, and a few months back, I played
bodyguard to the other Lucifer while he stayed in his secret suite upstairs. Now
that I’m the black beast of the forest, the room is mine. I think.

The cabbie whines when I hand him a hundred but is
all smiles when I let him keep an extra fifty. I don’t answer when he asks if I
want a receipt.

Inside, the desk clerk’s face is streaked with
plenty of sin but he’s nothing special. He looks at me like I’m there to empty
out the trash cans in the lobby. I still have the Glock in my pocket if things
go wrong.

“Hi. I have a standing reservation. The name is Mr.
Macheath. I’d like my special room.”

He frowns and types something into the
computer.

“We don’t have a note saying you’d be stopping by,
and according to the annotation you don’t even look like Mr. Macheath.”

I crook my finger at him. His name tag says
CHARLES
.

“Did you ever hear of the concept of low
profile?”

He looks me over.

“That’s extremely low profile.”

I lean in closer. I’m so sick of dealing with
pissants.

“You listen to me, you little fuck. The last time I
was here, some people upset me. Like you’re doing right now. I locked them in my
suite with a horde of zombies. I don’t know what the place looked like after I
left—and it better be clean when I get up there—but I bet not good. Does that
sound at all familiar, Chuck? Because if it doesn’t we can role-play right here.
I’ll be the zombie pulling out your intestines while you watch. Then, and only
then, when you’ve gotten a good look at your guts decorating the lobby like
Christmas ornaments, only then will I kill you.”

To seal the deal I take off my glove and put my
Kissi hand over his. He yanks his hand away. I swear, this gimp arm is turning
out to be the best party trick in history. Better than chasing girls around when
you’re five, trying to make them touch your scabs.

Charles edges over to the computer and types in
something.

“Very good, Mr. Macheath. And how long will you be
staying with us?”

“Until I leave.”

“Of course. You remember the way to the room?”

“Second star to the right, then straight on till
morning.”

“Excuse me?”

“Top floor. Grandfather clock.”

I take the elevator up. I’m a little surprised to
see that the hall is exactly the way it was the first time I saw it. Since the
night I locked Koralin Geistwald and her clan in here, I’ve always pictured the
place as a Playboy Mansion slaughterhouse. I hold my breath, open the front of
the grandfather clock, and step through.

The suite is perfect. Like nothing ever happened.
Clean and bright and full of brand-new
Architectural
Digest
furniture. The kind that under any other circumstances would
reject me like a dime-store kidney in a billionaire’s back. I guess they gave up
trying to clean brains and eyeballs out of the old furniture and brought in new
stuff. And I have the place all to myself until Amanda and her demonic
brownnosers get here. Saying the place is a step up from the Beat Hotel is like
saying Jean Seberg was pretty. I should take some phone shots and send them to
Kasabian.
THANKS FOR KICKING ME OUT. DON’T WORRY. I’VE
LANDED ON MY FEET
.
But even I’m not that
much of a bastard.

Samael was alone a lot when he was up here the last
time. I don’t know how he did it. The place is so huge it echoes when I walk
around. I need to treat it like that library Downtown. Build myself a little
vacation home in one part of the room and stay there. Over by the giant
flat-screen. I’ll bet my hooves and horns this place has every channel and every
movie ever made on tap. With a little fixing up I could get used to the place.
Maybe there are some earthly perks to being Lucifer after all.

I wonder if they miss me in Hell yet? And if enough
people know about it to matter. Semyazah can hold things together, and if he has
troops rounding up red leggers, it’ll keep them too busy to think about offing
themselves. Or me. I’d still like to know who made those crank calls. But I’m
not worried. There’ll be more. Maybe the hotel can tap my phone so I can trace
them. I’ll have to remember to ask.

Watching my back has left me exhausted. I want to
find Saint James and I want to kill King Cairo and Aelita. Not necessarily in
that order. After shooting Carlos and spilling good whiskey and the stunt on the
freeway this afternoon, I want to put the hurt of all time on someone. Saint
James included. Throw Blackburn in too in case he switched the hit from Saint
James to me.

I take a couple of pictures with my phone and
e-mail them to Candy. Let her see what she’s missing. So much for not being a
bastard.

I
dial
Traven.

“Hey, Father, with all the diabolical stuff you
studied, have you ever met real-life, honest-to-God devil worshippers?”

“No. I don’t think I have.”

“You should come over. I have some stopping by.
You’ll see how lame the Devil’s minions are. Maybe it’ll make you feel better
about Hell and things.”

“I’m not sure about that but it would be good to
talk about what you showed me in the bar. Your hand, I mean.”

“I’ll send a cab for you. When you get to the
hotel, call me from the lobby and take the elevator to the top floor. I’ll come
out and get you.”

“All right.”

I pick up the house phone and dial room
service.

“Yes, Mr. Macheath?”

“Hi. I’d like some food sent up.”

“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”

“I don’t know. What do you have?”

“Our steaks are very good. And we have a chef’s
special salmon today. It’s grilled and rubbed with a—”

“That sounds good. I tell you what. I don’t know
what my guests will want, so send up a little bit of everything. Whatever you
think is good. And not too many frilly dishes with mango-chutney goddamn glaze
or diarrhea chilis. You don’t have to tart up meat to make it good. Make sure
there are some ribs and a porterhouse steak medium. And desserts. Send a bunch
of those. And black coffee.”

“Will there be anything else?”

Drunk on power, I say, “Yeah, a bottle of Aqua
Regia.”

“Just one?”

I move the phone to the other ear to make sure I
heard him right.

“You have Aqua Regia?”

“We have several bottles left from the case in your
private stock.”

Goddamn Samael was smart. I have a lot to learn
about the evil game.

“Just one bottle for now but stand by for a
possible drinking binge.”

“Yes, sir. The first dishes will start arriving in
thirty to forty minutes.”

“You’re my hero.”

Hell yes, it’s good to be king.

F
ather
Traven and the first round of food arrive around the same time. All he says as I
take him through the grandfather clock is, “Oh.” Then, “Oh my” on the other
side.

“Welcome to the dark side, Father.”

Waiters wheel in cart after cart of food and line
them up neatly against the wall like a satanic buffet.

I pick up a pork rib in Texas red sauce and take a
big bite. It isn’t Carlos’s tamales but it’ll do.

“Eat up. The Christians said this much food is
gluttony and the Greeks said it’s a sign of a small mind. Might as well dive in
because we’re already fucked.”

He smiles but approaches the food cautiously, like
there might be a tiramisu-shaped pipe bomb somewhere. Traven picks up some red
grapes and puts one in his mouth. Smiles and nods.

“Weak, Father. Very weak.”

He walks over and sits on the arm of a plush light
blue sofa. He’s a little like Merihim. Out of his own space, all he can do is
wander and perch.

“Have you ever heard of Blue Heaven?” I ask.

“It’s an old song.”

“Aside from that.”

“I’m afraid not. Are you sure, whatever, it is
that’s its real name?”

“You’re right. Blue Heaven does sound a little
carefree for an extra-dimensional power spot.”

“I’ll look into it if you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

He picks a couple of grapes off the stem, sets them
on his plate, but doesn’t eat them.

He says, “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“I’ve got plenty of everything. What do you
need?”

“I reacted badly when you showed me your hand last
night. I was wondering if you’d show it to me again.”

“Sure.”

I take off the glove and roll up my sleeve. I sit
beside him on the sofa so he can get a good look.

“It’s just an arm, you know. Kind of an ugly one
but it’s still just an arm.”

“How did you lose your real one?”

“In a fight. I used to be a gladiator but I’m a
little out of practice. The Hellion I was fighting took it off in one clean
shot.”

“My God.”

“I killed him, so the story has a happy
ending.”

“I’m glad for you.”

He drops his grapes into an ashtray and sits on the
sofa looking shaken.

“Listen, man, I keep telling you that I’m not sure
the excommunication thing matters anymore. When I say I have an in with God, I’m
not kidding. I know the guy and at least one part of Him likes me.”

“What do you mean one part?”

“Didn’t I tell you? God had a nervous breakdown and
split into five little Gods. But like I said, I’m pretty well acquainted with
one of them.”

“You are?”

He shakes his head. Holds up his hands and drops
them into his lap.

“If any of this is supposed to comfort me, I’m
afraid it’s not working.”

I go to the buffet and get the Aqua Regia bottle
and two glasses.

“Ask me whatever’s on your mind.”

He takes a breath.

“Let’s say that I really am going to Hell with no
hope of salvation. You said you could help me. That means you know someone in
power? I guess what I mean is . . . have you ever seen Lucifer and
does he hate the clergy as much as I’ve heard he does?”

I set the bottle and glasses on the table between
us.

“Father, I am Lucifer.”

He looks at me, waiting for the punch line. When I
don’t give him one, he leans back on the sofa and laughs his weary old-soldier
laugh.

“And here I thought you were my friend. The prince
of lies is right.”

“I am your friend and I didn’t lie to you. I wasn’t
always Lucifer. Trust me. I didn’t ask for the job. The previous Lucifer forced
it on me. That’s how I know if you end up in Hell you’ll be taken care of. I run
the goddamn place.”

He gets up and goes to the buffet. Shovels fruit
and cheese onto a plate and brings it back.

“God is in pieces and you’re the Devil. You’re
right. I might as well eat.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I go back over and spoon black caviar and sour
cream onto a plate.

“You know, if anyone should be freaked out here,
it’s me. You’re like the third person I’ve told about the Lucifer thing and
everyone is taking it really well. I mean, I’d like just a little polite shock
and horror when I tell people I’m the king of evil.”

Traven spreads Brie on a cracker with the care and
attention of a sculptor.

“If people don’t seem shocked, maybe it’s because
it’s a bit much to process all at once. And you do have a colorful history.”

“So that’s what people say behind my back. That I’m
colorful.”

“Would you rather be boring?”

“Sign me up.”

T
here’s nothing sadder in this word than a true-blue Satanist. I don’t
mean the ones who dress in black, listen to Ronnie Dio, and use the Devil as an
excuse to throw graveyard key parties. I mean the ones who’ve bought the gaff
that if they pray to the baddest of the bad, he’ll drop doubloons, luck, and
hotties in their laps all the livelong day and then, when they die, they’ll get
their own castles and pitchforks and get to join the endless torture party.
They’re the ones I feel sorry for. Haven’t they figured out that Lucifer cares
even less about his flock than God cares about His? Some of these nitwits have
actually met Lucifer and he treated them like expired meat.

Career devil worshippers are Dungeons & Dragons
freaks that never grew up and still believe that if they had just one superpower
they’d be the belles of the ball or prom king. On the one hand, I want to FedEx
them hot cocoa and a pile of self-help books. And on the other hand, I want to
use them ruthlessly for whatever I can squeeze out of their service bottom
carcasses. Maybe when I have more time, I can play Dr. Phil and get them to do
an honest inventory of their collective psychoses. Right now, though, I’m on a
timetable and I don’t have time for tea and sympathy. Maybe the best thing I can
do is show them what Hell is really like. Make them copy the entire
Oxford English Dictionary
onto three-by-five cards.
Stamp them. Date them. Put each word in a separate folder and file it. Then take
all the words out, burn them, and start over. Do it until I say stop and of
course I never will. They’ll use up all the ink in the world and all the paper
in the western hemisphere. Some will slit their wrists with a thousand paper
cuts. Others will get cancer from the ink fumes or go snow-blind from the
scanner. Welcome to Hell. It’s just like high school but with more boredom and
entrails.