Happy Hour In Hell: Volume Two of Bobby Dollar (44 page)

He saluted me with an imaginary glass. “Confusion to our enemies, sport!”

“Yeah.” I walked out beside him, but he held up his hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve got some other stuff to do tonight. I’ll call you. Tomorrow at the latest.”

I watched him saunter off, hands in his pockets and big shoulders rounded. It had gone cold, especially for a July night, and I was just considering whether I wanted to stop back in at the Compasses or head home when someone softly cleared her throat just behind me.

I spun around. Standing in the garish light of the Korean restaurant’s window was an old Hispanic-looking woman, a stranger. She extended a hand toward me, and I saw she was holding a slightly ratty bunch of carnations with a rubber band around them.

“No thanks,” I said out of reflex, but even as I did so I realized I had done a dangerous thing, walking out into the night with my guard down. And just as I realized this, I realized I had seen this woman before, but not as a woman. Something in the face was familiar, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

“You’re not going to buy a flower from a nice old lady, Bobby?” She smiled, showing me some authentic-looking, small-town Mexican dentistry. “How about taking a stroll with me, then?”

I had my hand inside my coat, groping for the butt of my FN, before I realized who it was. “Temuel?” I whispered. “Is that you?”

The archangel nodded and rearranged her headscarf. “And I really would like to take a little walk.”

the funniest racist i know

I
T WAS
about midnight, but the Camino Real was still pretty busy. We walked south, past the clubs and liquor stores of the mixed-up neighborhood that had grown between Spanishtown and the rich, might-as-well-be-private streets of the Atherton District. We walked more than a few blocks, and Temuel didn’t seem in any hurry to start talking.

Meanwhile I was doing my best to figure out where my archangel and I stood. There were some things I was definitely going to tell him, including how I delivered his message in Hell, and what happened because of it. There was some other stuff I thought I should mention, but carefully, like the fact that Walter Sanders was now working as an accountant on a religious missionary’s pirate ship in Hell. But there were other things I felt much less comfortable discussing: Caz was one of them, of course, but so was a lot of the stuff about Smyler, most definitely including the fact that I now felt pretty sure the crazy little monster was sent by Anaita, a high-ranking angel who just happened to be one of Temuel’s own superiors.

Someday I’d love to be able to have a conversation with somebody who has no secrets or subtext, just to see what it’s like. I bet it would be fun. At the very least, it would be less exhausting than what I usually have to go through.

It was probably only coincidence, but as we passed an Episcopalian church, Temuel finally began to talk. I could see the lights inside, but since there was a janitorial service van parked in front, and I could hear the loud moan of a vacuum cleaner, I guessed the church was open for cleaning rather than for a late-night spiritual crisis.

“I’m glad to see you back, Bobby,” Temuel said. “I was worried about you.”

“Thanks. I was worried about me, too.”

“Were you able to deliver my message?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact.” I told him the whole story of my time with Riprash—well, most of it: I hadn’t mentioned Walter Sanders yet, and I didn’t go into a lot of detail about my own itinerary before and after delivering Temuel’s message, but I’d been strangely touched by the Lifters and felt he deserved to hear about it. “Am I right in thinking you’ve traveled there yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, but I’m not free to talk about it.” That was unusual right there—a higher angel who didn’t give you the truth wrapped up in a lot of fortune-cookie vagueness. “Now, let me ask you a question, Bobby. The ideas these Lifters have—do you think Riprash will be able to spread the message?”

I had no idea whether the missionary work was a project of Temuel’s own conscience or whether it was part of a larger heavenly strategy, but I answered him as truthfully as I could. “The system is so weighted against him and his message that I can’t be real optimistic. But if anyone down there’s able to do something with it, Riprash is the guy. He’s strong as an ox, smarter than most of the other folk, and has a pretty good heart for someone condemned to an eternity in Hell.”

Temuel nodded, then looked down at his phone, which I realized he’d done several times. “Are you expecting a call?” I asked.

He gave a little laugh. “I’m just looking for cell phone signatures from Heaven-issued phones. I keep getting a ping from one pretty close by.”

I wasn’t used to this side of Temuel. It was like watching your sweet old grandpa turn into Q from the James Bond movies. And I’m guessing about that since I didn’t know my own grandfather any more than I knew Alexander the Great. “Do you think you’re being followed?” I asked him. “Watched?”

“I’m not worried about that so much as about bumping into one of your co-workers.”

I looked at him and tried not to laugh. “Um, but you look like some lady who runs a corner bodega. How are any of them going to recognize you?”

He gave me a slightly disappointed look, as though I’d failed a test. “It can’t hurt to be careful.”

It occurred to me that other than the occasional visit to Hell, and this, his second offsite with me, The Mule might not get out of Heaven very often. “Okay. You know best. But now I’ve got to talk to you about some other stuff.”

I gave him the rundown about how I’d met Walter Sanders in Hell. Temuel listened without comment, except to ask me what Walter, who the Mule called by his angel name, Vatriel, had remembered of his transition from off-duty advocate to infernal accountant.

“Nothing, really.” I was leaving out my interactions in Hell with Smyler and any suspicion of Anaita’s involvement, of course, which was a lot to leave out. There was a perfectly good chance Temuel was on my side—a mere archangel wasn’t supposed to be personally messing with Hell anymore than I was, so he certainly had secrets from our bosses—but angelic politics were too murky for me at the best of times, and the last few months had made them even freakier. “The whole thing’s pretty much a mystery. Someone tried to stick a knife in me outside the Compasses, as far as I can tell, but Walter got stabbed instead. Next thing you know, Walter’s in Hell with amnesia.”

“Vatriel was talking to you when it happened,” Temuel said shrewdly. “Maybe someone was trying to send you there instead.”

Which was pretty much what I’d thought myself, until Walter told me the last little bit he remembered, the sweet, angelic voice asking him about Bobby Dollar. The first attack might very well have been
about
me, but I was pretty sure now Walter really had been the target. Again, I kept this from Temuel. Damn, it was frustrating to have this kind of open access to a higher angel and not be able to take advantage of it. Still, those who know me would probably say whatever keeps me from rushing in headfirst is a good thing, and I really was trying to learn how to keep my mouth shut and my ears and eyes open.

“So, after all this, where are we?” I asked by way of changing the subject.

Temuel looked up from his phone and glanced around. “I think we’re coming up to Oakwood Road.”

“No, I mean where are
we
? This is crazy stuff, and obviously there’s a lot we’re not even discussing, like how you know what you know and why I wanted to go there in the first place.”

“I trust you, Bobby. And I hope you trust me.”

“Of course.” I trusted nobody.

“Good.” He put his arm through mine. We continued walking, me and the tiny little Hispanic lady with the invisible halo. “I think we should leave everything just like this for now,” Temuel began, just as a car pulled up alongside us and screeched to a halt.

This time I did have the butt of my Belgian automatic in my hand and halfway out of my jacket when I recognized the vintage blue Camaro; a moment later I saw the driver’s head and the insane, expansive crest of hair that clinched the deal.

“Hey, Bobby!” yelled Young Elvis. “Who’s your girlfriend?”

He gunned the engine, which rumbled like a drug dealer’s powerboat. It was a pretty car, even I had to admit, with twin racing stripes down the front. Young E. may be kind of a twit, but he’s the only angel I know who really gets cars.

“What the hell are you doing in this part of the world?” I asked him, discreetly letting go of Temuel.

Young Elvis looked the archangel’s human disguise up and down and made an amused face. “Seriously, Dollar,” he said as I reached the curb, “are you dating your cleaning lady or something?”

“You’re the funniest racist I know.” I leaned into the open passenger side window. “Got a client?”

“Just finished with one. Nice enough guy. Fell off a roof. Half the neighborhood was standing around crying. What are you doing here? And, really, who is that?”

“The woman? She’s just some poor old homeless lady who started talking to me.”

“Seriously?” Young E. grinned. “You weren’t hitting on her? You two look close.”

Normally when he got this annoying I’d have spent some time explaining to him why he was a serious candidate for Heaven’s Biggest Asshole, but right now I just wanted him to leave. “Yeah, right. I reminded her of her son, or that’s what she said. I’m being
nice
. You might want to look that up in the official handbook. I believe that’s what angels are supposed to be.”

“Angels who are pussies, maybe.” He shook his impressive quiff of hair and revved his engine. “Well, didn’t mean to interrupt your good works. I’ll tell everybody back at the Compasses we may not see you for a while, since you’re busy ministering to the poor, fat, and horny.”

He roared away, waving. He’s not as bad as he seems, honest. Well, he is, but he doesn’t really mean to be such a dick, God just drew him that way.

By the time I got back to Temuel I could tell he was a bit nervous. He told me we’d talk again soon, and that we should never discuss any of this stuff in Heaven, only here, and only when we were sure nobody could hear us. Then he just kind of slipped away.

It wasn’t until I got back to my apartment that I realized my phone had been off all this time. A voicemail had come in from Sam, suggesting where we should set up the exchange with Eligor. By the time I finished listening to it, my phone was ringing again. The number was blocked, so I answered and said, “Yeah, I got your message.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” said Eligor, Grand Duke of Hell. “Especially since I didn’t leave one. Do you have what I need?”

Stopped me dead. The last time I’d heard that voice, its owner had just finished torturing me in pretty much every conceivable way, and was throwing me out to run for my life from Niloch and his hellhounds. You won’t be surprised to learn that my heart sped up a bit, and I could taste blood in the back of my mouth. “Yeah, I have what you need. I already told your secretary. When do you want to meet?”

“What is it, one in the morning? I’ll meet you an hour from now. Just tell me where.”

“An hour?” As much as I was aching to get Caz away from him, I didn’t know if I could get hold of Sam in time, and I couldn’t retrieve the feather without him. “That’s going to be difficult.”

“Really? I’d have thought you’d be in more of a hurry to get your hands on the . . .” he paused for effect, “. . . merchandise.” He laughed. I wanted so badly to reach through the phone and hit him in the face. “Well, you’re the boss, Dollar, if you want to wait . . .”

“Never mind. I’ll be ready. Meet me on the top floor of the parking structure opposite Pier 40. That’s the one—”

“Next to the ferry port, yes, I know. I’ll be waiting. Ciao!”

Yes, I know I let myself get hustled, but other than getting hold of Sam, I didn’t really have anything else to do to get ready. See, I was hoping that if I let Eligor think he had the upper hand, it would make things easier.

What’s that you say? That Eligor really
did
have the upper hand, and I was a fucking idiot to let him hurry me? Sorry, I didn’t catch any of that. You’d better tell me later when I’m not ignoring you so hard.

To my massive relief, Sam picked up when I called him, and he was still on my side of the funhouse mirror, so I wouldn’t have to cancel the meet. He promised he’d be there.

“Are you really sure Pier 40’s a good place to do it?” I asked.

“How could anyone be sure about something like this? But I think it’s our best bet. Just think clean thoughts and I’ll meet you in the parking lot down the street by Wimpy’s Steamers about ten minutes to two.”

“Right,” I said and hung up. I was so nervous I really needed to piss.
What a piece of work is Man
, my ass. Brain too big, bladder too small, and only the most boring bits are immortal.

But even before I hit the bathroom, I filled my pockets with speed-loaders full of silver bullets in case shit went south at the exchange. Not that they’d do me much good against the grand duke himself. In fact, if the swap did go fuckity-boom somehow, the only thing that might save me from Eligor would be if he started laughing at me so hard that he gave himself a rupture.

Still, there was just a chance, the tiniest, most unlikely chance, that it would all work and in a few hours I’d be bringing Caz back here to my apartment.

I remember wishing I had time to tidy up the place a little.