The Everything Box (17 page)

On their way out, Salzman said, “Thanks, boys. See you Saturday for softball.” He looked at Coop. “You haven't even been in the abracadabra wing of the building yet, have you, Mr. Cooper? We'll get you over there in due time. My point in calling in the West boys is to remind you that there are worse things than jail. Herbert and Jimmy had a little accident recently. But the thing is, in Peculiar Science, accidents happen all the time. And they can happen to anyone.”

Coop nodded. “I get it. I say no and I'm back in jail or I'm a cup of clam juice. Point made. But Phil is trouble. And I'll need a Marilyn if I'm going to do your job. You should let me call Sally Gifford. I don't have to tell her that I'm working for Cobra Command.”

Salzman waved a finger at him. “Sorry, but that's a no. We have someone much better in mind.”

“Who?”

A side door that Coop hadn't noticed earlier opened and a woman in red came in. She smiled, and Coop's heart missed a step and fell down the stairs.

“I believe you know Giselle,” said Salzman.

She smiled a big wolf smile. “Hi there, Coop. You miss me?”

He smiled back. “Like chicken pox.”

THE ROOM WAS CROWDED AND HOT. EVERYONE WAS
shoved into one corner of the construction site office because Steve hadn't moved the furniture out of the way like he did during normal Caleximus services. Even Jerry was uncomfortable, and he'd managed to find a clear spot in a far corner of the room next to some filing cabinets.

“I hope all of you are proud of yourselves,” said Steve.

Jerry started to say something, but he knew he'd just be flapping his lips.

“Not only didn't we get the summoning box, but you trampled my boy. About killed him, too.”

People shuffled their feet, coughed. It was the first time the congregation had all been together since the running, screaming flameout at the Blackmoore building. Jerry knew that leaving the furniture out was Steve's way of spanking the whole room. And there wasn't a thing he or anyone else could do about it. He looked at the floor, as uncomfortable as anyone. It was nice his dad was sticking up for him, but when he got this way Jerry felt like he was five years old and was never going to get any older.

“Sorry,” said Tommy.

“Hope you're okay, man,” said someone else. There were other mumbled apologies.

“Don't worry about it. I'm okay. Really,” he said.

“The kid's got broken ribs. He's living on Vicodin.”

“Dad . . .”

“You're a brave boy, son.”

“My poor baby,” said Susie.

Jerry didn't say anything.

“What happened back at the building?” said Leonard, the head cement man at the site.

“Where's Lloyd?” said Jorge.

“What were those horrible bugs?” said Clarice, Janet's mother.

Steve held his hands up. “I already had a heart-to-heart with young Lloyd. And after much, sometimes loud, consultation . . .”

People around the room laughed quietly.

“I don't think he knew anything about those other people in the building.”

“What about the bugs?” said a woman from the back of the room.

“Lloyd said the exterminator had just been through the building, so there shouldn't have been any bugs.”

“Well, there were.”

“I think Kevin peed himself a little,” said Tommy.

“I did not!” said Kevin.

“So what, you dropped a Mountain Dew down the front of your pants?”

“Fuck you, Tommy.”

“All right, everyone. Let's try to focus,” said Steve.

“The bugs weren't in the building. That guy had them,” said Clarice. “The one the big biker called Coop.”

“Which one was the biker?” said Susie.

“The biker-looking one.”

“The guy with the beard?” said Tommy.

“Yes, the guy with the beard,” said Clarice.

“I think he looked more like those guys you see in Silver Lake. What do you call them?” said Jorge.

“Assholes?” said Kevin.

“Hipsters,” said Jorge.

“I thought he was kind of cute,” said Janet. “He had a kind of Jeremiah Johnson thing.”

“Who's Jeremiah Johnson?” said Susie.

“I think he was the bass player in Lynyrd Skynyrd,” said Tommy.

“That biker guy played in Lynyrd Skynyrd?” said Kevin. “Cool.”

“Who's Lynyrd Skynyrd?” said Clarice.

“They did that song. ‘Free Ride.'”

“That was the Edgar Winter Group,” said Tommy. “Lynyrd Skynyrd did ‘Free Bird.'”

“That's an awesome song,” said Leonard. By the generally positive tone of the murmurs, most people seemed to agree that “Free Bird” was awesome.

“It might be the best goddamned song ever written, but that biker we saw did not play bass in Lynyrd Skynyrd,” said Steve.

“Yeah, that was Ed King,” said Janet.

“Thank you. Now, may we get back to the other night, please?” said Steve. “Clarice was right. The guy with the bugs was called Coop. Does anybody recognize that name?”

“Besides from the other night?” said Leonard.

“Yes. Besides from the other night.”

“Then no.”

“Anyone else?”

People just shook their heads.

Steve said, “I had a feeling. Well, the biker didn't walk out with the box and the rest of you were too busy trampling Jerry to get it. My guess is that guy Coop got it.”

“What are we going to do?” said Jerry.

“We're going to find him.”

“How?”

“Good question. Jorge?”

Jorge took a very small step forward in the very tight space. “I know a private detective. He helped me with my first divorce.”

“There might be something else we can do,” said Jerry.

“What's that?” said Steve.

“Did anyone notice that those people with Coop were sort of invisible when we first got there? If that big guy hadn't fallen, they might have walked right past us.”

“Yeah. They weren't there, then they were,” said Janet.

“Right. I was thinking that maybe they were using, you know, magic.”

The congregation laughed quietly.

“Son, you're on a lot of Vicodin. There's no such thing as magic,” said Steve.

“But isn't Caleximus magic?” said Jerry.

“You're mixing things up. Gods don't use tricks and hocus-pocus. Our lord Caleximus has powers that are so much more powerful than any magic that they transcend our mere mortal understanding.”

“Okay, but maybe there are a few people who
can
do magic. There's a place I heard about. People call it Jinx Town. They say there's magic stuff and strange people there.”

“Who told you that?” said Steve.

“Charlie, the drywall foreman.”

“Charlie? That guy is higher than a Rastafarian koala. Dumber, too.”

“Okay, but I've heard stuff from other people.”

Steve came over and put a hand on Jerry's shoulder. “There's no such thing as magic, son. Those people used some kind of trick to be invisible.”

“I bet it was mirrors,” said Leonard.

“They carried a bunch of mirrors with them to a robbery?” Jerry said.

“That's how David Copperfield disappears ladies in his show.”

“This isn't Vegas, dumb-ass,” said Tommy. “It was an office building.”

“Okay. How do you think they did it?”

“Gas. Some kind of hypno gas.”

“That's as stupid as magic,” said Clarice.

“It is not. The government uses it all the time to get us to buy stuff and make people gay.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Janet.

“Listen,” said Steve. “I don't care if it was mirrors, gas, or if they
grew feathers and flew away on wings of song. None of that's going to help us find them. That's why we need a P.I.”

“How are we going to pay for that?” said Tommy.

“The money comes out of the general fund.”

The congregation groaned.

Steve shook his head. “Relax. I have a feeling that Coop guy is a big deal and won't be hard to find. And we can make up some of the cost of a P.I. with a good bake sale.”

“Dad, I want to help,” said Jerry.

“You will. You'll be working with your mom rounding up the pies and cakes and whatnot.”

Jerry's stomach tightened, like it wanted to kick his dad in the head.
No,
he thought.
No.
He started to say something.
Oh, forget it.

Susie came over and brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. “Don't sulk, dear. It will be fun.”

“Yeah. Sure it will, Mom.”

“I guess that's it for now,” said Steve. “Be sure to get with Susie and let her know what you're bringing to the sale. We don't want to end up with fifty Bundt cakes. Is there any other business?”

“Let me just be one hundred percent about something,” said Leonard. “The biker wasn't in Lynyrd Skynyrd?”

“No. He was in the Edgar Winter Group,” said Kevin.

“Then who was in Lynyrd Skynyrd?”

“Your mom,” said Janet.

Before Leonard could reply Steve said, “Meeting adjourned. Hail Caleximus.”

“Hail Caleximus,” said the congregation.

As people talked with his mother or went outside to smoke, Jerry stayed by himself in the corner by the filing cabinets.
No one is sticking me with a bake sale. Not this time. I'll show all of you something you've never seen before.

The map was acting strangely again. It was old and sometimes seemed like it was starting to get senile. The lines of force and stars grew fuzzy, stuttering across its face. Sometimes they stopped com
pletely and the map turned to static like an old TV screen. Then Qaphsiel had to bang it against something hard to get it working again. Still, it had brought him here, and he could feel that it was the right place to be. Only a couple of days too late.

Qaphsiel stood at the corner of Fifth Street and Flower, with a view of the Blackmoore Building and the Ketchum Insurance Tower. None of the streetlights were working. A PG&E crew stood around a hole that looked like it had been gnawed in the street. A few cricketlike bugs hopped around the repair crew's truck tires, hungrily eyeing the engine wiring.

This close to the buildings, flaring lines moved across Qaphsiel's map from one structure to the other. The box had been here, and recently. A triangle signifying a mortal presence moved along the line and off into the void. Qaphsiel touched the triangle and willed it larger. The image grew, but the map stuttered and lost the image, though not before he caught a glimpse of a sandy-haired man in his thirties.
Finally, after all these years, a face.
Where the man had gone after being near the box, Qaphsiel couldn't say. But the map had been pointing to Hollywood for days. That's where he'd find the sandy-haired man. He was certain.
Oh, good. How many people are there in Hollywood? Not more than a million or so.
Still, it was the best news he'd had in a long time.

The afternoon was warm and Qaphsiel was hot in his Windbreaker. His wings were pressed tightly against his back, and they held in every degree of heat. Years ago, he'd had a little green plastic fan. It worked on batteries and if you put it near your face it created a tiny breeze.
What did I do with that?
He checked all his pockets. No. It wasn't there. There were a couple of tourist shops on the bottom floor of some of the nearby hotels and office buildings that probably carried them, but he was stuck with the eternal dilemma: the only currency he could produce was gold. That had been fine a few thousand years ago. Even a hundred years ago it hadn't been so bad. But in this modern world no one trusted anyone.
I need to find a new pawnshop.
He couldn't go to any one shop too often. The first couple of times he'd wander into a shop, the proprietors were usually happy
not to question how a guy in a dirty Windbreaker and sneakers could come up with a pile of gold coins. But once or twice was all he could get away with at any one shop. Qaphsiel had pretty much worked the local shops to death. He'd have to go farther out to find cash.

The real problem was that he never seemed to be able to hold onto mortal money even when he had it. That was the whole conundrum with sleeping outdoors. Paper currency always seemed to flutter right through his hands. He'd wondered many times if clerks in various shops were shortchanging him. The one time he accused a clerk to his face, the guy started to call the police. Qaphsiel had panicked and run away. Over the years he'd dealt with sword-wielding warriors, Praetorian guards, knights, Cossacks, Magyars, Huns, gendarmes, Redcoats, Johnny Rebs, corrupt constables, and every shape, size, and manner of mugger. But he did not want to deal with modern American police. They had too many cars. Too many guns. DNA databases. Fingerprint databases. Photo databases. And considering that his DNA wasn't human, he had no fingerprints, and he couldn't be photographed, it seemed best to steer clear of police altogether.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. It was an old woman in sunglasses and a Disneyland T-shirt. “Excuse me. Do you know the way to the La Brea Tar Pits?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Qaphsiel.

“Oh. I saw your map and thought you might.”

He shook his head. “It's not that kind of map. It charts the past, the present, the forces of nature, God, and probability, but not the way to tourist attractions.”

“That sounds useful,” said the old woman. “Where can I get one?”

“You can't.”

“Where did you get yours?”

“From the archangel Gabriel.”

The woman frowned. “Is that a Web site?”

“No. Well, maybe he has one these days. I'm not sure,” said Qaphsiel. “I don't use computers.”

“You sound like my mother,” said an old man with the old woman. “She took a course down at the library and now she's on my machine all the time.”

“Thank you. I'll certainly consider taking a course.”

“Can I have just a peek at your map?” said the old woman.

“It's not for mortal eyes,” Qaphsiel said.

“Just a peek?”

Qaphsiel looked past her. “I'm sure they sell maps in one of the malls across the street. Why don't you check there?”

“Does your map show the bus lines?” said the old man.

“No.”

“Just a peek?” said the old woman.

“Fine.” Qaphsiel turned the map around and held it up where the woman could see. She cocked her head to the side.

“There's nothing on it.”

“I told you it's not for mortal eyes.”

“Maybe you need to talk to someone about medication,” said the old man. “My cousin used to see little lawn flamingos crawling up his legs. Now they've got him on the lithium and he's doing fine.”

“Let's go across the street,” said Qaphsiel. “Maybe they'll take gold for a map. My treat.”

“That's not necessary,” said the old woman. “Is there anything interesting to see around
here
?”