The Dirty Streets of Heaven: Volume One of Bobby Dollar (22 page)

As I suspected, a quick check of title deeds, county tax records, and other fun stuff confirmed what I already suspected: the landlord Grinder Guy gave me was a holding company, just a cutout for the real owner of the property. And that was only the first holding company of several, as it turned out. Somebody had buried the facts pretty deeply, but I’m a curious guy who likes to get answers, so I know my way around a tedious paper trail better than most. An hour of work in the county file dungeons, a few small bribes, and I finally had what I
wanted—the identity of the true and ultimate owner of the address listed on Habari’s Magian Society business card. It was a bit of an eye opener.

There was still some afternoon remaining so I headed to the other side of the Palo Alto district to follow up—not the garden suburbs this time, but the tall and shiny buildings of Page Mill Square along the Camino Real, just a little south of the Stanford campus. In only a couple of short decades the office towers there had climbed above even the Wells Fargo building and the other proud stalwarts of Jude’s old downtown, and the one I was headed toward was one of the tallest of them, Five Page Mill, otherwise known as the Vald Credit Building.

The most interesting thing was not that a billion-dollar institution like Vald Credit was the ultimate landlord for a little hole-in-the-wall operation like the Magians, but how much trouble someone had taken to hide that fact in a chain of ownership as long as my arm. I mean, I suppose it could have been coincidental—obviously a business empire that big must own a lot of stuff—but another thing that made it interesting was that Vald Credit was owned by one guy, and pretty much everyone in San Judas knew about him.

It wasn’t that Kenneth Vald had become rich in any unusual way: he had made a little money, then used that money to make some more, and so on and so on. He hadn’t even done anything particularly awful along the way, by billionaire standards, though nobody makes a globe-girdling fortune without stepping on a few toes. No, he was famous precisely because he and his riches were so visible. He was a man who enjoyed being wealthy in the most public possible way: parties, public exposure, expensive toys, and expensive women. Vald acted like someone who’d made a deal with the devil and was going to enjoy every instant of it until the loan came due. My colleagues and I had been convinced for a long time that there was more than a hint of sulphur to Vald’s resumé.

Of course, one of the things about powerful people like Ken Vald is that you don’t just waltz in and get an appointment to see them. In fact, I wasn’t going get an appointment no matter what I did—at least, not as long as I went about it the ordinary way. So I wasn’t going to bother with the ordinary.

Yes, the whole thing was probably stupid from the start. I should have gone back and done a full-scale prep on Vald before I went anywhere
near the place. That was what I had been taught, and if I’d sent that along with a full report to Heaven it might even have got me off the hook with my superiors. But right that moment I was curious enough to cut some corners and nervous enough about my current dangerous situation not to care if it was kind of stupid. Plus, there was also the buzz of being on to something: it seemed pretty damn significant that the Edward Walker case, which had put all of Heaven and Hell in an uproar, should be connected, however remotely, to the office of such a very wealthy and seemingly arrogant man.

Actually, that was another reason not to just walk right in, now that I think about it.

A little rain was falling when I left my car in a restaurant parking lot across the Camino Real from Page Mill Square. I knew that the underground parking lot shared by the buildings around the square could be locked down with a single call, and I didn’t want to be stuck in there if I pissed anyone off, because I was already guessing I might piss
someone
off before the afternoon was over, I just didn’t know yet how many or how badly.

A lot of both as it turned out.

The lobby of number Five was pretty much what I would have expected, workers streaming in and out, messengers with packages, maintenance guys trundling carts. A big guard desk dominated the front end of the lobby with five guys in uniforms; a smaller desk sat at the other end of the lobby, and everywhere I looked I saw security cameras. I also noticed that they weren’t letting anyone go through without an employee badge and a visual inspection. Even the bike messengers had to leave their packages at the desk, probably so they could go through an x-ray machine. Anyway, security was pretty darn tight. I loitered for a while as if I was waiting for someone, checking my watch from time to time, and wandered in and out of the sundries store that sold gum and cigarettes and checked that out too.

Number Five appeared to be your average office tower in most ways, although the employees seemed a little more reserved than what you’d usually see in a big company, more like the kind of vibe you’d expect from workers in a foreign embassy in an unfriendly city. Still, as I’ve mentioned, I was pretty hyped up so I told myself I might be imagining things. Then something happened that I most definitely
didn’t
imagine: a group of obvious security guys emerged from one of the
service elevators in matching dark glasses, ear-pieces, and suits with gun bulges. The desk guards greeted them respectfully as they went past on their way to the main entrance. They obviously worked there and looked like the usual collection of muscle unleavened by sense of humor, but something about the one in front was extremely familiar, especially his unibrow and thick, close-cropped dark hair. He glanced in my direction without seeing me as he led his men through the front doors, and suddenly I recognized him even in his people-skin. He had just too much beast in his face to look one hundred percent human, his hairline too low, his nose too wide across the bridge. It was Howlingfell, the guy who had been Grasswax’s muscle the night Clarence saved the Martino lady from getting sent to Hell. The guy whose neck I had sort of kneeled on.

I watched him disappear out onto the sidewalk and decided that there was no way coincidence could be stretched
that
far. I definitely needed to learn more about Vald Credit, and the best way might be paying a visit to the executive suite while Howlingfell and his security team were out of the building. I knew it wasn’t the most subtle play, but as I may have told you, when I get stressed I tend to drop back into old habits. I wanted answers, and failing that, I wanted people to know I was pissed.

I decided my best bet would be the smaller guard station at the less-used back entrance, where only two men were on duty. I stood around a few minutes more until one of the guards had gone off to the restroom, then I walked up to the other one just as he finished running his barcode reader over someone’s badge.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I think you’d better come look at this elevator. Something’s seriously wrong. Someone could get hurt.”

He hesitated for a second, glancing around to see if his partner was coming back, but then grunted in a bad-tempered way and got up from his booth. He looked like he might have been an athlete about a decade ago, but he’d been sitting down too much since then.

“Which elevator?” he said as he followed me toward the rear elevator bank, one hand resting on the butt of his taser in a very impressive way.

“This one,” I said, punching a button.

It opened, and he peered inside. It was empty. “What’s wrong with it?” he asked.

“Well,” I said, pressing the barrel of my .38 against his spine, “it’s going to have your guts all over it in a second if you don’t get in.”

He grunted again, this time in shock. I nudged him forward. As the elevator door closed behind us he said, “What the hell is…?”

I clocked him behind the ear with the handle of my revolver. The butt was rubberized so I hit him pretty hard, and he slumped to the floor without another word, though I did my best not to cause permanent damage on the slim chance he was an innocent patsy instead of accredited Hell-minion—which was far more likely if this place was as important as I was beginning to suspect. I slipped his ID card into the elevator slot, pressed the 40th floor button, and we started up. I looked at his name badge then took the walkie-talkie off his shoulder and keyed it on.

“This is Daley in the lobby,” I announced, trying to sound like an excited nine dollars an hour. “Somebody just ran out the back to the rear parking lot carrying a woman’s purse. I think it’s a robbery! I’m in pursuit!” I keyed it off and attached it to his belt again.

Luckily no one was waiting for an elevator on the 40th floor. I dragged Daley down to the restroom, then into one of the stalls where I propped him up. I dumped his walkie-talkie into the toilet of the next stall so it wouldn’t disturb his slumber, and also so he wouldn’t be able to alert anybody too quickly if he came to before I left. I also checked to make sure he was breathing okay, just in case he turned out to be an actual person. Yeah, I’m that soft—I’m an angel, remember?

And this is where you came in.

I already explained what happened next. I reached the top floor of Five Page Mill and encountered Vald’s demon-secretary, who flaunted most versions of expected business etiquette by leaping across her desk and trying to rip me apart with her claws and teeth. I shot her twice in the face, which caused a lot of damage but didn’t slow her down much, and I also broke her jaw so badly that it swung like a door coming off its hinges, but she was still coming after me. It was when she got me down on the floor and began trying hard to tear my head right off the body it belonged on that it became clear I was losing the fight.

When you’ve only got seconds to live you don’t fuck around with etiquette. If you’re fighting a guy you hit him in the nuts as hard as you
can. If you’re fighting a she-demon who is wrapped around you like a constrictor and trying to bite off your face, and you can’t reach anything else, you punch her in the tit. It caught her by surprise just enough to make her rear back with a snort of rage, at which point I got my hand free, reached up, and yanked hard at the strings of bloody flesh hanging from her wounded face, peeling them most of the way down. Thank goodness that even borrowed mortal bodies have nerves, because the pain was enough to distract her long enough for me to fight my way free, panting and covered with blood, some of it hers but not all. I’ve had fights that made me feel better about myself.

I scrambled my way back across the outer office as she lurched after me, still trying to locate me through the tatters of flesh blocking her vision. When she realized I must be trapped against the floor-to-ceiling window she leaped toward me, arms wide and snarling, a faceless, hateful thing. I didn’t want those red nails sinking into me again, so I shoved my gun against the plate glass and fired twice before I spun out of her way. The safety glass spiderwebbed, then leaped outward in a sparkle of little irregular pieces as she hit it and crashed through.

I waited a few seconds, then leaned out into the cold air to check out the body in the tasteful silk power suit lying motionless on a rooftop about a hundred feet below. She was about as dead as demons get, or at least her real-world body was, and that was the part that would get me arrested.

Shit, Bobby Dollar
, I thought,
what have you got yourself into now?

It was way too late to turn back. I shouldered through the door to the spacious inner office, gun held high. I couldn’t remember exactly how many times I’d shot the she-demon, and even if I was lucky there couldn’t be more than one bullet still left in the chamber, but I was damned if I was going to let anyone know that. Not that the man waiting for me looked very scared of my .38. He turned slowly away from the window where he had been looking down at the remains of his secretary. Kenneth Vald was handsome as a Spanish grandee out of a Velasquez painting.

“So, you couldn’t make an appointment like anyone else?” he asked.

“Very funny.” I moved sideways until I had his huge teak desk between him and me. He was maybe in his early forties at most, dressed in the casual-est of business casual, a blue Lacoste polo shirt and khaki
slacks, expensive loafers without socks. He was pleasantly tanned, had white-blonde hair that was less sticky but just as impressively full as Young Elvis’s, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He looked like a talent agent who would represent the Hitler Youth.

“What do you know about the Magian Society, Mr. Vald?” I asked him.

He frowned just a little bit. “Just like that? Get you, you come in and kill my assistant—do you know how long it takes to train a really good executive PA?—then demand information. Why should I talk to you? I’m sure you’ve arranged some little diversion but it’s only a matter of time until security gets here. Oh, and if you think you’re going to scare me with that toy gun—well, go ahead.” He pointed right to the alligator over his heart. “Put a couple right there. See if it even slows me down while I twist your head off.”

He took a step toward his desk. I didn’t want him getting anywhere near it, so I steadied my revolver. “Fine. But if I shoot you in the face, at the very least it’s going to ruin your weekend, Ken. And I have another even better reason you should behave yourself.”

“Oh? What might that be?”

“Because I don’t think you want everyone in Pandaemonium to know about your connection to the Magian Society.” I watched him carefully (I still didn’t know if he was a sold soul or an actual, paid-up member of the Opposition) but his face gave nothing away. “See, my guess is that you’ve got more than a few friends downstairs, Ken—and I don’t mean in the lobby of number Five. Oh, and the Celestial City might be interested in your activities too, so remember, if anything happens to me they’re
all
going to know, because I arranged things that way.”

“What, that old
if my lawyer doesn’t hear from me he’ll go to the authorites
wheeze?” He looked me over for a long, speculative moment. “Cute,” he said at last. “And what do you think this is going to get you? Wings? Because you must be an angel, or at least an ex.”