Sleeping Late On Judgement Day (26 page)

After “I love you, Bobby, and I want to make romantic sex with you,” this was one of the things I least expected to hear from Orban. His normal conversation is so gruff you could use it to clean bathroom tiles, and the only time I ever remember him saying anything else about my health and safety was the time he'd loaned me a machine-pistol and reminded me not to accidentally shoot my dick off with it.

“If you're concerned about me being screwed to death or something, relax. Those two ladies and I have a strictly platonic friendship based around blowing the shit out of some people we both don't like.”

“No, not them. Them I like okay. They seem too smart to have sex with you unless they are sleeping or drunk. I am worried because I hear things. Sometimes. About the place you work.”

This was interesting, because although I always assumed Orban knew everything about everything, he only gave out information in tiny, constipated episodes that lasted a few seconds and then were usually denied afterward. I was careful not to scare him off. “And . . . ?”

He inclined his head. “Come on. We talk in my office.”

Orban's office was a room largely decorated with firing buckets full of sand to shoot into, but he also had a desk, a safe, and an old-time adding machine. He poured himself a glass of wine and offered me one. I wasn't certain I actually wanted any, but I didn't want to break the mood. I took a sip and said, “So?”

“So I hear things, like I say. And I hear a lot of things about how bad you are.”

I was puzzled. “Bad?”

“Yes, bad. Like, ‘That Bobby Dollar, always in trouble. I hear he is mixed up in something bad.'”

“Who told you that?”

He shook his head. “I will not tell you. It is not important. It is not someone who knows you, only someone who knows about you a little bit. But he is not the only one. I hear from another one, ‘Bobby stole something important, and now bad guys are after him and Heaven is angry.'”

“Well, both those things are partially true, but leaving out the stealing part you could have said that about me for most of my career.” I laughed, but it didn't convince Orban. “Come on, people who get things done get talked about, Orban. People talk about you, too.”

“Because I let them. Because I have no use for secrecy. Anybody wants Orban, here Orban is.” He stroked his shrublike beard for a moment, probably thinking about what interestingly painful things he would do to anyone who showed up “wanting Orban.” He took a drink, long enough to finish the glass. “But you, I think, you don't want everyone to know your business. And people who truly know your business, they aren't talking. But others are.”

I nodded my head, although I wasn't sure where he was going. “And that means . . . ?”

“That means someone talks bad about you on purpose. Someone is trying to take you down, Bobby. Maybe they even make up a story so nobody is surprised when something happens to you.”

I already knew it was happening, because just about everyone else in Creation, including an albino fox-fairy who haunted downtown, my boss Temuel, and every single angel I could call a friend, had made it clear to me already. But for some reason hearing it from Orban, the most stolid, stoic guy I knew, gave me a real chill. If it was Anaita, she wasn't in a hurry. She wasn't just going to reach out and swat me, she was going to make sure everyone knew that I was a dangerous pest first. Then, not only wouldn't anyone ask questions when she finally did it, they'd probably give her a medal for erasing me.

“I appreciate it. I really do. But I'm kind of on the road now, full speed ahead. I can't turn back.”

“Then be very careful.”

I wasn't used to Bleeding-Heart Orban. It made me nervous. So I changed the subject. “Did you sell my car?”

“Found a buyer, yes. A very nice fellow, a collector in Seattle. He will take good care of it.”

Like I cared.
“The Arab sheik we sold your daughter to is a very nice fellow”
—yeah, that would make you feel great. But me losing the Matador wasn't Orban's fault. “Thanks,” I said. “And now some other business. Can you figure out a way to make a pressurized spray of silver nitrate?”

He looked at me like I'd just started shouting monkey noises. “A what of what?”

I explained. He frowned. That made me feel better—it was a much more familiar look for him. “I don't know until I try. Research and development cost extra, you know. I should have just kept all the money I gave you.”

“Yeah, you'll probably get most of it back by the time I'm done.” Still, I had a plan (well, I was planning to have one, which was practically the same) and I was ready to start outfitting myself and the others to make it happen. That was what was important. Yes, I had lots to worry about, but I had work to do. “But that's life, right? You can't be rich and happy, too.”

Orban snorted. “That is a lie. I have been both.”

“Yeah, well, you're Hungarian.”

While he was searching for a hidden insult, I led him back out to find the women so we could decide what kinds of guns they were going to need. They were whooping it up with Orban's engineers, getting the full guided tour of the mayhem factory, and they were loving it.

“Bobby!” said Halyna. “They have a tank! It is Russian. We should get it!”

“That is good fun,” Oxana agreed. “Then we smash right into that—”

I cut her off before she started talking about blowing up the Elizabeth Atell Stanford Museum. I trusted Orban with my life, but I didn't know his workers that well. In fact, some of them looked like the kind of guys who might have a sneaking fondness for the Black Sun's way of looking at the world. I know, I'm a bigot, but tattoos that say, “White Power” encourage jumping to conclusions.

“We'll need to be a little more discreet than that,” I said. “But I think we can spring for at least one flamethrower. How's that?”

“You are serious?” said Halyna. “Hah! That is for me!”

“You have to share.” Oxana sounded like the kid who'd just received a toothbrush in her Halloween treat bag. “What do I get?”

“Guns,” I said. “And probably some kind of pressurized silver nitrate sprayer, too.”

“Does it make burning?”

“Sadly, no,” I said, then leaned close to whisper in her ear. “But it will make those nasty-ass Nightmare Children bubble like salted slugs.”

“Okay, I guess,” Oxana said with a tragic look. Beside her, Halyna was making
whoooosh
noises, pretending to torch the engineers as they wandered back to their workbenches. “I guess I can do.”

Kids today—am I right? You can never give them enough.

I
KNOCKED ON
the door and one of them said “Come in.” So I went in.

Both of the Amazons were in Caz's expansive tub. Naked. Slick and wet and covered in suds, tattoos gleaming. There was water all over the tiles. Halyna had made little pasties for herself out of soap bubbles that bobbed up and down as she rubbed shampoo into her red hair. Oxana hadn't bothered, but she had a dollop of soap froth on top of her wet head like she was a cappuccino. Lots of lean, muscular, young body, two women's worth, dripping and soapy. I saw all that in about two seconds, then I jumped back and slammed the door.

“Jesus Henry Christ!” I said. “What are you doing? Do you want to kill me?”

“What is wrong, Bobby?” Halyna called from the other side of the door.

“What's wrong? You two are nude. I am fucking celibate and not liking it at all. You are either monsters or dumb-asses or both.”

I could hear them both giggling. I never knew Ukrainian dykes could make that noise—like evil Campfire Girls. “But you are angel, Bobby!” called Oxana. “That means you are like doctor.”

“No. No, it doesn't mean that at all. And do you get naked and lathered up to go to a medical appointment? I hope not. Seriously, don't do that shit to me.”

“Sorry, Bobby.” But they didn't sound sorry at all. I hate it when people take advantage of my kind nature, because I never fucking wanted to have a kind nature in the first place. “I was going to tell you the boys are here. Come on out so we can get to work.” I paused, realizing I'd left them a loophole. “Come on out
with clothes on that cover all the important bits
. Clarence and Wendell may not care, but I'm wired differently than they are.”

“That's true,” said Clarence from the other room. “You're wired to be an asshole. My name is Harrison, remember?”

I went back to the living room and sat down heavily. “Look, I promised I'd try. I make mistakes sometimes. Do me a favor and don't correct me every time, okay?” I started laying out the maps, waiting for the women to make their appearance. “How are you two, by the way? Everything okay with work? Not too many questions?”

“Most of the others don't even know we're a couple,” said Wendell, smiling at the kid. “We've been kind of keeping it on the down low, because of this.”

“That's not really what I was asking.” I made a few marks on the museum map. “Maybe Wendell's really keeping quiet because he's ashamed of you,
Harrison
. After all, nobody likes a nag.”

“Trying to get you to behave with normal human decency is not the same as nagging,
Bobby
.” He rolled his eyes. “As angels go, you're a complete pig.”

“Yeah, which is why I just shut the door on a couple of naked women in my tub without standing there long enough to read all their tattoos.”

“You couldn't anyway. The words are all Ukrainian.”

“Hmmm. Wonder if they have a word in that language for ‘vicious, premeditated exhibitionism.'”

“The only people who needs medication is you, Bobby,” said Halyna, her hair up in a towel-turban, the rest of her clothed in a t-shirt and shorts. Things were swinging and bumping in there as she moved, but at least I didn't have to see them live and in person.

“Not medicate, medi
tate
. Shit, they run around naked, have loud sex in the next room, and then I still have to explain all the funny things I say. I've had better roommates in prison.”

“Probably you got more of the fucking there, too,” said Oxana, appearing in her bathrobe.

“Shit, and they tell jokes as well,” I said. “I assume that's what those are. I'm sure they'd be rip-snorters on the Siberian gulag circuit. Come on, sit down. We've got a lot to talk about.”

 • • • 

“I don't want to stay outside if Harrison's going in,” said Wendell. “I have experience in this kind of thing. He doesn't.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Clarence, sounding like he was nine years old. But it reminded me that these were real people, and unlike the Harps or Wendell's Clouds, I couldn't promise them I'd get them into new bodies if anything went wrong.

“That's not the point,” I said. “Don't worry, I promise I'll keep an eye on Harrison.”

“Hey!” he said. “I'm not a child.”

“
But
,” I continued, “he's already sort of compromised. I mean, our bosses know he chose to stay an advocate after being their spy, and that he's been hanging out with me. But nobody knows you're with us, Wendell.”

“So?”

“So if things go wrong, we need someone on the outside to make sure they don't just disappear us.”

“You think it go wrong?” asked Oxana.

“I don't know, but let's face it, it certainly could. We're going into enemy territory. At the very least, even if there's nothing there at all, we're breaking into a very prestigious museum. I don't know about you, but I sure don't want to shoot my way out and kill any innocent humans, so it may come down to us surrendering. That's why we need you to stay out of the worst of it, Wendell. Besides, you'll have plenty to do on the outside. Can you do that trick with the cameras you mentioned?”

“What, looping the footage? Yeah, but it's not foolproof. The clocks won't move, if any of them are visible on the video feeds. Plus I'd really like to know how many guards there are.”

I consulted my notes. “Two in the Asian wing, from what I can tell. Four more and a supervisor in the other building, where they keep the video monitors. But I'm going to need you to watch the feeds and let us know where they are, so you have to stay on top of it.”

Wendell waved at this. Handled.

“But why all the weapons, Bobby?” Clarence asked. “If you don't want to shoot anyone, you're sure packing a lot of firepower.”

“I didn't say I didn't want to shoot anyone, I said I didn't want to shoot any innocent humans. As far as we know, this may be Anaita's second most important spot to protect in all of San Judas—maybe the most important, if the horn's really there. I literally have no idea what we might find, especially if she's got some kind of secret room. There are things that can sleep for years and only wake up when a stranger approaches. I know, because some of them have tried to eat me in the past.”

“Yeah, we know, we know,” said Clarence. “Bobby Dollar, deadly stud, no stranger to danger, a lethal combination of Sam Spade and Eddie Murphy . . .”

“I think that's Audie Murphy,” said Wendell quietly. At least one of them watched the right movies.

“Whatever. But you can overthink this stuff, Bobby.”

“No, you can't, Junior—not if you enjoy being alive. That's why we're going to go over it again.”

The Amazons were playing tic-tac-toe on one of my maps. Clarence groaned. “We've been through it all three times!”

“And we've got time for once more before I have to leave.” I gave them a stern look. “Daddy has a meeting in forty minutes at the Crown Roast.”

Clarence gave me the eyebrow. “The Crown Roast? Doesn't seem like your kind of place, Bobby. Meeting an informant?”

I was going to lie, but I was asking them to risk their safety and even their lives, after all. “Sort of. Not really. I'm having dinner with Monica Naber, to thank her for setting up that
Vanity Fair
thing. She said to pick someplace that didn't serve raw fish eggs or noodles made from radish whiskers—I'm quoting—so I decided we'd go to the kind of place she likes. Surf and turf. Endless Sangria pitchers.” I shook my head. “Just another sacrifice your fearless leader is making for the greater good. I'll bring you back some jalapeño cream cheese poppers or something.”

“Ooh, does that mean you will be doing some sex tonight, too?” asked Halyna.

“Maybe then not so grumping.” That was Oxana.

“Bite your tongues. I mean, really, don't even say that. This is going to be complicated enough without any of that crap. And remember, we go in forty-eight hours. Get everything ready and get your cover stories straight. You all know what to do, right? But just in case, I'm going to tell you one more time.”

 • • • 

By the time Monica had brought me up to date, we had almost finished our meal. I had prime rib, a baked potato, the whole schmear. Being female, Monica had a tiny little steak you couldn't put on a hamster's black eye, and a huge salad. If you'd dumped that salad on the same hamster, the little bastard could have lived in it for weeks.

We drank sangria. We gossiped a little. Apparently Young Elvis had a new girlfriend, a mortal. “She's exactly what you'd expect,” said Monica. “False eyelashes, ratted hair. If she was wearing a poodle skirt, you'd be positive she was waiting for poor Buddy Holly to come home from his tour. But he never will.”

I smiled. “If she goes for Young E., she'd be more the Big Bopper's type.”

It was good to see Monica. For one thing, she understood the same things I did. For another, she didn't have a Ukrainian accent. “How about our friend Sweetheart?”

“The same. A succession of broken hearts, usually his, occasionally some poor boy's that Sweetheart loved and lost the next day. But it's all a part of the parade of fabulousness. I swear, Bobby, I've never known him to be actually sad about anything. Even when he's upset about some tragic romance, it's like hearing the plot of a really good sitcom.”

“And the rest of the gang?”

“You know. Same old, same old. Walter's getting back to his old self. He told me to pass along his greetings. And how are things for
you?
”

Caught by surprise, I handled it with my usual flair. “Huh?”

“You, Bobby. You ask about everyone else—you even asked how Teddy and I are doing—but you don't say anything about yourself. What's going on?”

“You never did finish telling me about you and Teddy, now that you mention it. You two getting on all right?”

She gave me a look—she knew I was changing the subject again—but gave in with dignity. “We're okay. I wanted something different than you. I got it. He's dependable, kind, always returns phone calls. He opens doors for me.”

“I used to open doors for you!”

“Only because you had that stupid little car where the doors wouldn't stay open by themselves and kept shutting on my head when I tried to get out.”

“Oh, yeah, that ragtop Buick. I miss that car. You could feel every bump—like riding a giant, high-powered skateboard.”

“My tailbone is still bruised.”

“I had to sell my Matador, you know.”

“Was that the one with the checkerboard upholstery?”

“Yep.”

“I'd like to say ‘too bad,' but honestly, it was like being in a clown car. No, like a booth in an imitation fifties diner.”

“Yeah, pile it on, now that my poor Matador Machine isn't here to defend itself.”

“You're still avoiding the subject, Bobby.”

“What subject?”

“The subject of what's going on with you. And something is definitely going on.”

I had a little tingle up the back of my neck. “Why do you say that?”

She laughed. Sourly. “Oh, come on. You take me out to dinner? When was the last time you took me out to dinner, even when we were sleeping together?”

“I'll have to go through my canceled checks.”

“For the early two-thousands. Seriously, you take me out to dinner, you ask politely about all the old friends you never bother to come see, even though they hang out in the exact same bar as always—hell, most of them are in the exact same
booths
.” She frowned. “I know you, Bobby. You can't wake up with a guy for three years, admittedly off and on, without learning a little something about him. You're worried. No, you're scared shitless about something. You've got a new girlfriend, but I never hear anything about her from anyone, and it's not because they're protecting me. Nobody knows, and you never talk about her either. And the only time I hear from you is when you want help to sneak into some rich lady's house. What? Did you get your new woman knocked up? Were you planning to steal some Persian art treasures to pay for her to get it dealt with?” Suddenly her face changed. “I'm sorry, that was terrible. I didn't mean it to sound so mean. But what's going on with you? I thought we'd agreed to stay friends.”

“We
are
friends. Look at us, sitting here all friendly. Me eating your leftover croutons.”

“I've seen nearly every cute trick you have, Dollar, and heard every excuse you make. I'm not that easy to distract. If I am your friend, talk to me.”

And I would have. At that moment, I was dying to talk to someone. It was why I'd insisted on taking her out to dinner. Monica was the one person I could talk to who would both understand and sympathize. It wasn't even the Caz thing, not anymore. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell Monica something that she would have to keep secret, especially if everything went badly sideways at the museum. At the moment, the
Vanity Fair
ploy was her only involvement, and she didn't know what she'd done or why. How could I change that and make her part of this, just to have a shoulder to cry on, just to have someone who would pat me on the back and tell me everything would be all right? Shit, even I'm not that selfish.