A Dirty Job (Grim Reaper #1) (41 page)

Charlie disconnected, having no idea what he was going to do, but feeling like he had to do something. He called Jane’s house to say good night to Sophie.

“I just want you to know that I love you very much, honey.”

“Me, too, Daddy. Why did you call?”

“What, you have a meeting or something?”

“We’re having ice cream.”

“That’s nice. Look, Sophie, Daddy has to go do some things, so I want you to stay with Aunt Jane for a few days, okay?”

“Okay. Do you need some help? I’m free.”

“No, honey, but thank you.”

“Okay, Daddy. Alvin is looking at my ice cream. He looks hungry, like bear. I have to go.”

“Love you, honey.”

“Love you, Daddy.”

“Apologize to Aunt Cassie for calling her an anti-Semite.”

“’Kay.”
Click
.

She hung up on him. The apple of his eye, the light of his life, his pride and joy, hung up on him. He sighed, but felt better. Heartbreak is the natural habitat of the Beta Male.

Charlie took a few minutes in the kitchen to sharpen the edge of the sword-cane on the back of the electric can opener he and Rachel had received as a wedding present, then he headed out to check on the store.

As soon as he opened the door to the back staircase Charlie heard strange animal noises coming from the store. It sounded as if they were coming from the back room, and there were no lights on, although he could see plenty of light filtering in from the store. Was this it? Sort of solved the problem of what he was going to do.

He drew the sword from his cane and crept down the stairs in a crouch, moving along the edge of each step to minimize squeakage. Halfway down he saw the source of the animal noises and he recoiled, leaping nearly halfway back up the staircase.

“For the love of God!”

“It needed to be done,” Lily said. She was astraddle Ray Macy, her plaid pleated skirt (mercifully) draped out over him, covering the parts that would have caused Charlie to have to tear his eyes out, which he was thinking about doing anyway.

“It did,” Ray agreed breathlessly.

Charlie peeked down into the back room—they were still at it, Lily riding Ray like he was a mechanical bull, one bare breast bouncing out of the lapel of her chef ’s coat.

“He was despondent,” she said. “I found him giving himself hickies with the shop vac. It’s for the greater good, Asher.”

“Well, stop it,” Charlie said.

“No, no, no, no, no,” said Ray.

“It’s a charity thing,” Lily said.

“You know, Lily,” Charlie said, covering his eyes, “you could exercise your charity in other ways, like Salvation Army Santa or something.”

“I don’t want to fuck those guys. Most of them are raging alcoholics, and they stink. At least Ray is clean.”

“I don’t mean
do
one, I mean
be
one. Ring the bell with the little red kettle. Jeez.”

“I
am
clean,” said Ray.

“You shut up,” Charlie said. “She’s young enough to be your daughter.”

“He was suicidal,” Lily said. “I may be saving his life.”

“She is,” Ray said.

“Shut up, Ray,” Charlie said. “This is pathetic, desperate pity sex, that’s all it is.”

“He knows that,” Lily said.

“I don’t mind,” said Ray.

“I’m doing this for the cause, too,” Lily said. “Ray was holding out on you.”

“I was?” said Ray.

“How?” Charlie said.

“He found a woman who was buying all the soul vessels. She was with the clients you missed. Somewhere in the Mission. He wasn’t going to tell you about her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ray said. Then added, “Faster, please.”

“Tell him the address,” Lily said.

“Lily,” Charlie said, “this isn’t really necessary.”

“No,” Ray said.

There was a loud smack. Charlie opened his eyes. They were still there, doing it, but Ray’s right cheek was bright red and Lily was winding up to slap him again.

“Tell him!”

“It’s on
Guerrero Street
, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth, I don’t know the number, but it’s a big green Victorian, you can’t miss it. Three
Jewels
Buddhist
Center
.”

SMACK!

“Ouch, I told him,” Ray whined.

“That’s for not getting the address, BITCH!” Lily said. Then to Charlie: “There you go, Asher. I want a prime position when you take over the Underworld!”

Charlie thought that one of the first things he was going to change when he took over was expanding
The Great Big Book of Death
to include how to handle situations like this. But instead he said, “You got it, Lily. You’ll be in charge of dress code and torture.”

“Sweet,” Lily said. “’Scuse me, Asher, I have to finish this.” Then to Ray: “Hear that? No more flannel shirts for you, grommet!” SMACK!

The grunts coming from Ray increased in frequency and intensity.

“Sure,” Charlie said. “I’ll just go out the other door.”

“See ya,” Ray said.

“I’m never going to look either one of you in the eye again, okay?”

“Sounds good, Asher,” Lily said. “Be careful.”

Charlie crept back up the steps, went out the front door of his apartment and down the elevator to the street entrance, suppressing his gag reflex the whole way. On the street he flagged down a cab and rode into the Mission, trying to wipe the image of his shagging employees out of his mind.

T
he Morrigan had followed the
gift souls
that had escaped through the drains to a deserted street in the Mission. Now they waited, watching the green Victorian building from storm-drain grates at either end of the street. They were more cautious now, their rapacious nature having been dampened somewhat by having been severely blown up the night before.

They called them the
gift souls
because the little patchwork creatures brought the souls right to them in the sewers—the gifts showing up in the Morrigan’s weakest moment. After the accursed Boston terrier had chased them through miles of pipelines, leaving them battered and exhausted on a high ledge at a pipe junction, along marched twenty or so of the darling little nightmares, all dressed up in finery and carrying just what they needed to heal their wounds and replenish their strength: human souls. And thus renewed, they were able to scare away that obnoxious little dog. The Morrigan were back—not to the strength they’d achieved before the explosion, maybe not even enough to fly, but certainly enough to venture Above once again, especially with so many souls at hand.

No one was out on the streets tonight except the junkies, the hookers, and the homeless. After the fucked-up day in the City, most everyone had decided that it was just a better idea to stay in, safer. To the Morrigan (for all they cared), they were safer in their homes the same way a tuna fish is safer in a can, but no one knew that yet. No one knew what they were hiding from except Charlie Asher, and he was getting out of a cab right in front of them as they watched.

“It’s New Meat,” said Macha.

“We should give him a new name,” said Babd. “I mean, he’s really not that new anymore.”

“Hush,” hushed Macha.

“Hey, lover,” Babd called out of her drain. “Did you miss me?”

C
harlie paid the cabbie and stood in the middle of the street looking at the big jade-green Queen Anne. There were lights on in the turret upstairs and in one window downstairs. He could just make out the sign that read
THREE
JEWELS
BUDDHIST
CENTER
. He started to step toward the house and saw movement in the lattice under the porch—eyes shining. A cat maybe. His cell phone rang and he flipped it open.

“Charlie, it’s Rivera. I have some good news; we found Carrie Long, the woman from the pawnshop, and she’s still alive. She was tied up and thrown in a Dumpster a block from her store.”

“That’s great,” Charlie said. But he wasn’t feeling great. The things that had been moving under the porch were coming out. Moving up the stairs, standing on the porch, lining up and facing him. Twenty or thirty of them, a little more than a foot tall, dressed in ornate period costumes. Each had the skeletal face of a dead animal, cats, foxes, badgers—animals Charlie couldn’t identify, but just the skulls—the eye sockets empty, black. Yet they stared.

“You won’t believe what she said put her there, Charlie. Little creatures, little monsters, she said.”

“About fourteen inches tall,” Charlie said.

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

“Lots of teeth and claws, like animal parts stuck together, all dressed up like they were going to a grand costume ball?”

“What are you telling me, Charlie? What do you know?”

“Just guessing,” Charlie said. He unclipped the latch on his sword-cane.

“Hey, lover,” came a female voice from behind him. “Did you miss me?”

Charlie turned. She was crawling out of the drain almost directly behind him.

“The bad news,” Rivera said, “is we found the junk dealer and the bookstore guy from Book ’em Danno—pieces of them.”

“That
is
bad news,” Charlie said. He started moving up the street, away from the sewer harpy and the porch full of Satan’s sock puppets.

“New Meat,” came a voice from up the street.

Charlie looked to see another sewer harpy coming out of the drain, her eyes gleaming black in the streetlight. Behind him he heard the clacking of little animal teeth.

“Charlie, I still think you should leave town for a while, but if you don’t, and don’t tell anyone I told you this, you should get a gun, maybe a couple of guns.”

“I think that would be a great idea,” Charlie said. The two sewer harpies were moving very slowly toward him, awkwardly, as if their nerves were short-circuiting. The one closest to him, the one from the alley in
North
Beach
, was licking her lips. She looked a little ragged compared to the night she’d seduced him. He moved up the street away from them.

“A shotgun, so you won’t need to learn to shoot. I can’t give you one, but—”

“Inspector, I’m going to have to get back to you.”

“I’m serious, Charlie, whatever these things are, they are going after your kind.”

“You have no idea how clear that is to me, Inspector.”

“Is that the one who shot me?” said the closest harpy. “Tell him I’m going to suck his eyeballs out of the sockets and chew them in his ear.”

“You get that, Inspector?” Charlie said.

“She’s there?”

“They,” Charlie said.

“This way, Meat,” said the third sewer harpy, coming out of the drain at the far end of the block. She stood, extended her claws, and flicked a line of venom down the side of a parked car. The paint sizzled and ran where it hit.

“Where are you, Charlie? Where are you?”

“I’m in the Mission. Near the Mission.”

The little creatures were coming down the steps now, down the walk toward the street.

“Look,” said a harpy, “he brought presents.”

“Charlie, where exactly are you?” said Rivera.

“Gotta go, Inspector.” Charlie flipped the phone closed and dropped it in his coat pocket. Then he drew the sword from the cane and turned to the harpy from the alley. “For you,” he said to her, whipping the sword in a flourish through the air.

“That’s sweet,” she said. “You always think about my needs.”

T
he 1957 Cadillac Eldorado Brougham was the perfect show-off of death machines. It consisted of nearly three tons of steel stamped into a massively mawed, high-tailed beast, lined with enough chrome to build a Terminator and still have parts left over—most of it in long, sharp strips that peeled off on impact and became lethal scythes to flay away pedestrian flesh. Under the four headlights it sported two chrome bumper bullets that looked like unexploded torpedoes or triple-G-cup Madonna death boobs. It had a noncollapsible steering column that would impale the driver upon any serious impact, electric windows that could pinch off a kid’s head, no seat belts, and a 325 horsepower V8 with such appallingly bad fuel efficiency that you could hear it trying to slurp liquefied dinosaurs out of the ground when it passed. It had a top speed of a hundred and ten miles an hour, mushy, bargelike suspension that could in no way stabilize the car at that speed, and undersized power brakes that wouldn’t stop it either. The fins jutting from the back were so high and sharp that the car was a lethal threat to pedestrians even when parked, and the whole package sat on tall, whitewall tires that looked, and generally handled, like oversized powdered doughnuts. Detroit couldn’t have achieved more deadly finned ostentatia if they’d covered a killer whale in rhinestones. It was a masterpiece.