The Everything Box (10 page)

COOP HAD HOPED HE'D NEVER FIND HIMSELF IN THE
Grande Old Tyme again, but the drinks were cheap and it was easy for everyone to get to and in a bar full of career drinkers, the lightweights like the bunch at his table were generally ignored. He and Morty were there, as well as Sally Gifford and Tintin. They were at a table in the back corner of the place. Coop sat with his back to the wall, a habit he'd picked up in Surf City. But he was trying hard not to think about prison right now.

“This is a charming place you picked out,” said Sally. “You two big spenders must be knee-deep in pussy.”

Looking around, Morty said defensively, “It's not that bad.”

“Yes, it is,” said Coop. He looked at Sally. “We didn't choose the place for its ambiance. It's low key and no one we know comes here.”

“Color me shocked,” said Sally. She had short hair dyed sapphire blue and wore a gray and black Pendleton shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Too bad this isn't up in San Francisco,” said Tintin. “Those tech types? They love dive bars. You could charge them twenty bucks for a can of Pabst. Call it an ‘artisanal classic.'”

“Seriously?” said Sally.

“Seriously.”

“Fucking idiots.”

“Which is why I'm down here with you nice people, getting a breath of fresh, clean L.A. air.”

Tintin was a large, bearded man in a black dress shirt and chinos. Coop tried not to stare, but he had a hard time picturing a store where a guy as big as Tintin could find such non-comical clothing. He imagined a special boutique for giants, one where the clothes racks had elevators, the shoes could double as canoes, and eagles built their nests high up in the light fixtures.

“Did everyone have a good flight down? How's your hotel?” said Morty.

Sally and Tintin glanced at each other.

“I've stayed in worse places,” Tintin said noncommittally.

“So have I, but I didn't think it would be on this job. There's hardly any hot water and the ice machine is so old I think I found a dinosaur skull inside,” said Sally.

“Okay, so it's not the most up-to-date place in L.A. Sorry,” said Morty. “Our client is financing the job, and you know rich people. Penny-pinchers, all of them.”

Coop took a swig of his whiskey sour. It didn't taste any worse than the last time, just sadder. Like it was embarrassed to be there. He made a mental note to never let Morty order drinks for them in the future. “With luck, you won't be suffering long. The job happens tomorrow night.”

Sally frowned. “Really? What's the rush?”

“Because the client wants it before the next new moon, and we want his money, correct?”

The others nodded.

Coop handed large brown envelopes to Sally and Tintin. “These are copies of the layout of the Blackmoore Building. Take a look at them. Memorize them if you can. Getting inside looks pretty straightforward, and I'd like everyone to get out, too. Especially me.”

“Ditto that,” said Sally. “Except for the me part. I'm my me part.”

“Me, too. Me, that is,” Tintin said.

“Me—” Marty started.

“I get it,” Coop said. “Let's focus.”

“How long do you think the job will take?” said Tintin.

“In and out should be less than thirty minutes, but there's some dead time between when we go in and when we do the job.”

Tintin leaned his enormous elbows on the table. “What kind of dead time?”

“Well, there's a distraction to keep the heat off us,” said Morty.

“What kind of distraction?” said Sally.

“The loud kind. There'll be alarms going off somewhere else,” said Coop. “Once Morty gets us through the door, we'll head up the service stairway on foot.”

“How far up?” Sally sipped her martini, made a face, and pushed it away. “How can you fuck up a martini?”

“Bad gin,” said Tintin. “You ever taste the stuff that comes with a plastic top? Forget it. It's like sucking on a G.I. Joe.”

Morty raised his eyebrows. “You suck on G.I. Joes a lot?”

“When I was a kid,” said Tintin. “They didn't make pacifiers big enough for me, so mom got used action figures at Goodwill for me to gnaw on.”

“Used ones? That's gross,” said Sally. “Who knows what kind of germs they had?”

“Looking back, I'd have preferred new ones.”

“It looks like the germs didn't stunt your growth, so you're probably fine,” said Coop. “Can we get back to the job?”

“Sorry,” said Tintin.

“Like I said, once we're inside, we'll go up on foot to the ninth floor. We can't use the elevators. When the distraction happens, security might lock them down.”

“Or use the elevators themselves,” said Sally.

“That would be good for us. We can cut the electrical system and lock them inside.”

“How?”

“We'll have Jiminys with us.”

“They'll gobble up everything electrical,” said Morty.

“I know. And everything else,” Sally said.

Tintin held up his hands, palms out. “As long as someone else carries them and you keep them clear of me. Those things make my skin crawl.”

Sally made a face like she'd just tried to gargle with kimchi. “Me, too. I know they're little and all, but they remind me of those giant bug movies I watched with my dad.
The Beginning of the End
.
Black Scorpion
.”

“Earth vs. The Spider,”
said Tintin.

“Mothra,”
said Morty.

Sally stared at Morty. “
Mothra
scared you? It's about a giant moth. They're the teddy bears of the bug world.”

He shrugged. “Bears scare me too. Did you know more people are killed by bears every year than by sharks? That's what bears are: furry sharks, but with hands.”

“Them,”
said Tintin. “Giant ants under L.A.”

“Oh God. Don't get me started on that movie. I swear, I slept with my parents for a week,” said Sally.

“Tarantula,”
said Morty.

Tintin groaned. Sally shook her head as he said it.

“I'll carry them,” said Coop as forcefully as he could without shouting. The other three looked at him. “I'll carry the Jiminys. Problem solved.”

“Sorry,” said Morty.

“Touchy,” said Sally.

Coop shook his head. “We're each set to make seventy-five grand from this job. With that kind of money, we can all take vacations, watch
Attack of the Giant Ladybug,
and talk to a shrink about our various insect phobias.”

“Fine,” said Tintin. “Let's talk about me. I get that you need a Handyman on the job, and I'm as good at spotting and killing supernatural traps as anyone. But Morty made it sound like you might want more than that.”

“Not if things go according to plan,” said Coop.

“And if they don't?”

Morty swirled the ice in his glass around. “The thing is, we haven't
exactly worked with this client before. I have it on good authority that he's totally, one-hundred-percent legit, but if he isn't . . .”

“Or if there's something wrong with the plans,” Coop added. “Or if the Jiminys don't take out all the alarms and security shows up. It would be nice to have a plan B.”

“And that's me,” said Tintin.

“Right.”

“I thought I was plan B,” said Sally. “On the way out, I'm going to fog anyone's brain in the vicinity. No one will see us coming out of the building. I can do it as long as we need.”

“No. You're part of plan A. Plan B is where things mess up bad.”

Sally shook her head. “You have such a downer attitude these days, Coop. You used to be a lot more fun.”

“Jail has a way of sucking the merriment out of you,” he said.

“Then that's what you'll do on your vacation. We'll lie on the couch and talk about bugs and you can see a shrink about getting un-Scrooged.”

Coop fished the cherry out of his drink and was about to toss it on the floor, but Sally plucked it from his hand. “Waste not, want not,” she said.

“That's what they say,” Coop said. “And I'm not a Scrooge. Besides, what does it matter? It's after Christmas.”

“Yeah, but with an attitude like that who's going to be your Valentine?” said Sally.

“I thought we were leaving the shrink stuff until after the job.”

Sally got up. “I'm going to the bar to see if there's anything I can drink in this joint. The rest of you should all feel free to join me. Except for you, Coop. You don't need a drink. You need to get laid.”

Coop gave her a sour smile. “Don't worry about me. With money in your pocket, it's easy to find friends.”

“I don't mean paying-for-it laid. I mean
actually
laid. Less Scrooge. More screwed. By, like, a person you connect with.” At that, Sally turned and headed for the bar. Tintin gave the others a brief smile and went to join her.

Coop and Morty didn't talk. Morty finished his drink. Coop swal
lowed his as fast as he could. It tasted like gummy bears and rubbing alcohol.

“I'm no Scrooge. I'm just being cautious,” Coop said.

“Exactly,” said Morty.

Coop looked at him. “You think I used to be more fun?”

Morty looked uncomfortable. He stared into his empty glass wishing he'd gone to the bar with the others. “It's not a question of fun.”

“Then what is it?”

“It's just you're a little . . .”

“What?”

“You're just more wound up than you used to be. Sally might be right. Maybe you do need a girl. I can introduce you around to some I know.”

“I already told you. I don't want any setups.”

“Sure. Sure. But if you should change your mind. Maybe to celebrate after the job.”

“Please erase this entire line of thought from your mind. This conversation never happened.”

“You can't pine away for what's-her-name forever.”

“I'm not pining away. I'm just . . .”

“Cautious. I know,” said Morty. “Why don't you come up to the bar with us? We'll have a treasure hunt to see if they have people drinks.”

Coop leaned back against the wall. “You go on ahead. I'll be there in a minute.”

After Morty left, Coop sat alone at the table. He looked around the Grande Old Tyme. To him, the crowd had the doomed look of people buying the bargain seats at an Arkansas Greyhound station. Coop knew he wasn't a Scrooge.
I'm a goddamn Christmas elf compared to this bunch
.

As he scanned the room, he noticed a woman at a table by herself. A blonde. Not usually his type, but at least she didn't look like the funeral home had burned down and taken Daddy's corpse with it. She looked back at him and smiled. Coop tried smiling back, but the more he tried, the more self-conscious he became, until he real
ized he didn't quite remember how smiling worked. It was like his face had developed amnesia. Finally, he forced the ends of his lips upward in what he thought might be an approximation of a smile and looked back at the blonde.

She picked up her bag and walked out the door.

Coop got up and went to the bar.

“I might have to leave town soon. Maybe the state,” he said.

“Why?” said Morty, alarmed.

“I have a feeling that blonde is going straight to the police and tell them I'm a serial killer.”

Morty looked around. “What woman?”

“She left. I scared her away. I'm officially woman repellent.”

“Maybe you got lucky,” said Morty. “Maybe
she
was a serial killer.”

Coop thought about it for a minute. “Unlikely. But thanks.”

“Any time.”

“I'm not sure I should smile at people anymore.”

“Yours is a little strained these days,” said Morty.

Sally came up with a drink in each hand. “Definitely don't smile at people. You
do
look like you wonder what their liver tastes like.”

“Thanks.”

She nodded. “Any time. Get laid, Coop. Don't smile at a dog until you do.”

“Unless it's a really cute dog,” Tintin suggested.

“Not even then. It would be cruelty to animals,” said Sally on her way to their table. The others followed her. The fact that none of the others said anything told him everything he needed to know.

When he got the bartender's attention he said, “Whiskey. Neat.”

“A shot? A double? How much?”

“All you've got.”

THE ANGEL QAPHSIEL AND A MAN WHO CALLED HIM
SELF
simply Frank were sitting at a card table in room 8 at a hotel on East Sixth Street in L.A.'s Skid Row district. The bottom floor of the hotel housed an extremely questionable fish-and-chips joint (the question being the composition of the fish. It was, in fact, fish and not some clever scientific construct, like flounder-flavored packing peanuts. The chips were generally considered all right, even if their age bordered on the Jurassic). The room smelled like old grease and a chemical forest, probably from all the pine-scented deodorizers that hung from every vertical surface. It was like Eden, Qaphsiel thought, if Eden had been dipped in batter and Kentucky fried by the banks of a chemical plant. Still, even in such dismal surroundings, Qaphsiel was excited.

“So,” he said.

“So,” said Frank.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

“I'm always happy to meet another seeker of the truth.”

The room was hot. Qaphsiel unzipped his Windbreaker halfway, careful not to expose his wings. “So, you're a religious man.”

Frank cocked his head. “More spiritual than religious. That's how I found the box.”

“Really? How?”

Frank spoke in a slightly rapturous tone. “I was in Tibet, meditating with a group of very old, very psychically powerful monks. All we'd had to eat or drink for days was yak butter tea.”

“Was it cold?”

“The tea?”

“Tibet.”

“It's Tibet. What do you think?”

“Cold then.”

“As a witch's tit on a ski lift.”

Qaphsiel smiled. “Eloquent. So, you were meditating.”

“Yes, with the monks, when my consciousness was pierced by a blinding pure white light.” Frank held up his hands like he was giving a benediction.

“And that's when you saw it?”

“No. That's when I met with my spirit guide, Flamel.”

“Nicolas Flamel? The alchemist?” said Qaphsiel.

“Yes. You've heard of him?”

Qaphsiel nodded, the tiniest hint of suspicion creeping into his mind. But he stopped himself. He'd been on the hunt for so long that it was easy to get cynical. “Of course. My, your fifteenth-century French must be very good.”

Frank looked puzzled, then nodded and gave him a good-natured smile. “Well, you know how it is in these disembodied spiritual situations. I could understand him and he could understand me.”

“Of course. I should have guessed. Please go on.”

“Anyway, Flamel took me deep into a cave in an unnamed mountain high in the Himalayas.”

Qaphsiel looked around the room. There were stacks of old books on Bible ciphers, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Tibetan Buddhism, various grimoires. Also, some vintage
Playboy
s that someone had tried to cover up with a prayer shawl. “It was darned lucky of you running into a French alchemist all the way in Tibet.”

“Wasn't it?” said Frank. “Old Nicolas, he gets around.”

“Probably cashing in those frequent flyer miles.”

Frank laughed. “You got it. Anyway, he takes me deep into a cave full of spiritual objects. The True Cross. Lost books and manuscripts. Dorjes. Reliquaries.”

“And that's where you found the box.”

“No. That's where I found a book with a map to Aghartha.”

“Aghartha?”

“Yes. It's where the ascended masters live in the center of the Earth.”

Qaphsiel turned his head slightly. “The center?”

“Yes.”

“Of the Earth?” Crossing his fingers, Qaphsiel said, “And that's where you found the box?”

“No. That's where I met a priest who took me to the lost city of Shamballah.”

Qaphsiel took a deep breath. “You know, perhaps I don't need the whole blow-by-blow.”

Frank shrugged. “I'm just making the point that it was a long and arduous journey.”

“And I feel like I've been with you every step of the way.”

Frank ticked off a list with his fingers. “I mean, there was an ocean of fire. And highwaymen and pirates.”

“Were the pirates on the sea of fire?”

Frank shook his head. “No. A different sea.”

“Then I definitely don't need the whole story.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but you're missing a good one.”

“My loss,” said Qaphsiel. He cleared his throat. “May I see the box?”

Frank hesitated. “Well, after such a taxing journey, I mean, buying a parka and supplies, flying to Tibet . . .”

“You want to see the money.”

Frank put his hands together as if in prayer. “Please. I'm planning a new journey. There's a beaver in India who can tell you your past lives through . . .”

“A beaver? In India?”

“Yes. How it got there is an interesting story, if you have the time.”

“I don't!” said Qaphsiel quickly. Then he added, “I don't usually carry cash. Will this do?” He opened a hand and gold coins cascaded onto the table.

Frank stared. “Holy shit.”

Qaphsiel smiled tightly. “Spoken with the poetry of the truly enlightened. Now may I see the box?”

“Sure,” said Frank. He went to an altar to Ganesha and brought back a cloth bundle.

Qaphsiel took out his map. Shapes and lines drifted across its surface, showing patterns of divine power. “Hmm. This is puzzling,” he said. “If this really is the box you say it is, there should be some sign on my map.”

Frank held his hand over the bundle as if blessing it. “It's wrapped in a magic, protective cloth.”

Qaphsiel smiled. “Ah. That must be it.” It looked like a knockoff Gucci scarf with the tag clipped off.

Frank stacked the coins on one side of the table while Qaphsiel carefully unwrapped the box on the other. He frowned when he saw it, bent his head down, and opened the lid just a crack so he could look inside. He closed it quickly.

“Nope. That's not the box,” said Qaphsiel.

Frank looked up from his piles of coins. “You sure? You should check again.”

“Trust me. I know what's in the box, and this isn't it.”

Frank shrugged. “Sorry, man. This is the only box like it in the world. I brought it all the way back—”

“Yes, from where a monk and a Frenchman and a pirate and probably a sphinx and a talking beaver named Mr. Waffles told you it was hidden.” Qaphsiel turned the box over.

Frank looked up from his horde. “Hey, I went to a lot of trouble to find that.”

Qaphsiel turned the box over in his hands. “Really? Was the first Pier One closed?”

Frank's eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a crook?”

Qaphsiel pointed to a spot on the box. His shoulders sagged. “It clearly says ‘Made in Japan' on the bottom.”

“No, it doesn't.”

“Someone did a good job of rubbing it out, but it's there. I have better eyes than most mortals.”

Frank pushed his chair back from the table. “Who are you?”

Qaphsiel set down the box. “It's my own fault for looking on Craigslist. But that's where Gabriel found the Holy Grail, so it seemed worth a try.”

“Hey, pal, I asked you a question. Who are you?” said Frank. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. Qaphsiel hadn't noticed the suspicious bulge of a pistol there before.

He sighed deeply. “You're the thirteenth mortal who's tried to sell me a false box.”

Frank stood and backed away. “Okay, buddy. You wanted a box. I brought you a box. Now I'm taking my gold and leaving.”

“You're half right,” Qaphsiel said. “You know, I used to have great powers, but most were taken away by the archangels after my . . . indiscretion.”

“Archangels, right,” Frank said, moving slowly away.

Qaphsiel pushed the box off the table onto the floor, where its cheap hinges snapped off. “In the old days, I would have just turned you into a worm and let you live out your final days contemplating your sin.”

Frank angled his way around the room, heading for the door. “A worm? Sure thing, nut log. I'm going now.”

“I don't have that kind of power anymore, but I can still do this.” Qaphsiel pointed a finger at him like a gun and said, “Bang.”

Frank exploded like a piñata full of beef stew.

Qaphsiel went to the Ganesha altar and found a roach clip next to an old bong serving double duty as a flower vase. Stepping carefully around fresh Frank chunks, he sifted through the man's possessions trying to find out who he really was.

The first thing he found was a medallion on a chain. Qaphsiel picked it up with the clip, expecting to find a yin-yang symbol or
maybe an ankh. When he held the medallion up to the light he gasped and dropped it on the floor. It was the sigil of Abaddon, the Destroyer.

A folded piece of paper lay nearby. He picked it up with the clip and shook it open. It was a flyer for a bake sale. Someone had drawn rather obscene sketches on all the pastries. A glazed donut seemed to be sodomizing a carrot cake. Qaphsiel was about to toss the flyer aside when something in the bottom corner caught his eye. It was small. Almost hidden.

The symbol for Caleximus, the Ravager.

This is it,
Qaphsiel thought. Abaddon and Caleximus worshippers? Those Doomsday nitwits. He understood now that it was a race for the end of the world. He had to find the box. And soon.

He picked up his map from the table. Lines of force drifted north and west toward a spot in Hollywood. Fountain Avenue.

Fountain Avenue?

Qaphsiel dropped the roach clip and the flyer and tiptoed carefully out of the room, whispering what had now become his eternal Earthly mantra:

“Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap . . .”