The Everything Box (4 page)

THE ANGEL STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF A PORN SHOP
on Seventh Street near Pershing Square reading a map. His stomach rumbled. He hadn't eaten anything in four thousand years. Worse, the plastic sandals he'd found in a Salvation Army discount bin pinched his toes. He had on brown corduroy pants worn smooth in spots so that they looked like a relief map of the Andes, and a green Windbreaker zipped up to his neck to hide his wings. Lucky for him, they'd confiscated his halo, or he'd have needed a hat, too. With the lack of food and the heat, Qaphsiel was sure that if he had to wear one more stitch of human clothing he'd have defected to You-Know-Who's side a long time back. Probably right after the Black Death swept across Europe and Asia . . . how long ago was it? Things were really looking up for him then. Whole cities laid waste. Flagellants running wild. Riots. Murders. Countries on the brink of anarchy. It looked like the human race was going to snuff it without him having to find the box after all. But then the unthinkable happened. The Plague died out. People got better. Just like after the Flood, the stinking, dirty survivors went on living and breeding and generally making a mess of the planet all over again. Some days, sunny ones
like this when people looked so happy and non-extinct, it hardly seemed worth the effort anymore.

The map the angel held wasn't an ordinary one. First of all, it wasn't on paper, but a kind of semirigid ectoplasm. Shapes moved across its face, millions of squiggles, dots, spheres, and pyramids in four dimensions. Some shapes floated and others ducked below the flow, like cubist fish—a simple symbolic representation of the Earth, plus humans, supernatural creatures, and other celestial beings.

Qaphsiel was looking for something very specific. Something he hadn't seen in forty centuries. The lack of the object was why they'd exiled him on Earth in the first place. In the cool of the Earthly nights, when he slept in Griffith Park staring up at the stars, among winos and teenagers screwing in the scrawny drought foliage, he longed for the good old days in Heaven when he drank ambrosia and he and the other angels played games with star dust and DNA. His old friend Raphael—the archangel of healing—had invented the platypus that way, while Netzach had invented pulsars. Back when he was still allowed to play, Qaphsiel mostly stuck to star games, since the one time he got a really complicated DNA pattern to work, it turned out that he'd invented syphilis, and that hadn't been a hit with anyone.

Now, on top of everything else, there was something wrong with the map. Shapes, significant ones, were converging very near where he was standing, but when he looked up, all he saw were some werewolves in a van and a couple of men arguing by the bus stop. One of the men was in a threadbare blue suit and the other man looked like he might manage a Burger King. The one in the suit smelled like he spent too much time in swamps.

Qaphsiel shook his head. There was nothing for him here, no matter what the map said. He gave it a hard shake and headed north, wanting to get as far away from the swamp smell as possible.

COOP HAD NO IDEA WHERE THE BUS WAS HEADED, BUT
that was fine as long as it was away from Morty. He didn't really hate the guy, though he still felt that he owed him a lot more pain than the anemic little knee job outside the prison. No, a lot of why he wanted away from Morty was his luck situation. With getting out of prison, Coop was riding a very fragile line of luck, and he knew that one of Morty's half-assed schemes could land him right back inside.

He really didn't want that.

When he finally looked out the window, he saw that the bus was taking him into Hollywood. Okay. That was an actual place, with tourists, hustlers, and street performers, people who were even worse off than him. It might be nice to stroll around non-jailbird losers for a while and soak in the Hollywood misery. If nothing else, it would make him feel at home.

As the bus rolled on, Coop considered his options. It didn't take long. He had a voucher for two nights in a fleabag hotel in East L.A., far from the sights and temptations of L.A.'s hocus-pocus underground. After those two nights, however, he had no idea what he was going to do with himself. He didn't have any savings. His car had been stolen a few days after the Bellicose Mansion job, so who the
hell knew where it was now. Probably, it had been chopped up and sold part by part to used-car lots all over town. Any of the cars out the bus windows could be cruising with his engine or transmission. The thought didn't make him angry, just tired.

And he hadn't been kidding with Morty about not knowing many people—he really didn't have many friends to fall back on. Not any he wanted to see. There were maybe a few people he could call to crash a night or two on their sofa, but then what? How long could he couch-surf without contemplating a messy suicide? And living in other people's spaces was no way to plan a job that might stake him for a while.

What the hell had happened to him? It was this last stretch in jail that did it. Not Morty's betrayal so much as, well, everything. He wasn't young anymore, a crook on the rise. He wasn't old, but he'd done enough time that the stink of it wouldn't wash off easily, like Rodney's heady aroma still on his damned fingers.

In this line of work,
Coop thought,
you're either going up or you're going out. Or down in the ground. I'm not ready for that one yet. I just need to think. Hole up somewhere and get my head together
.

He got off the bus across from the Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard. At the Chinese Theater, a Jack Sparrow wannabe was accosting a couple of red-faced midwestern types, trying to charm them into taking a picture with him. One they'd have to pay him for, of course. There was a Spider-Man in a costume baggy with sweat and a Wonder Woman with bloodshot booze eyes redder than her fraying boots. In all, it was pretty depressing and made Coop wonder if coming to the Boulevard was a good idea after all.

He took Morty's cigarettes out of his pocket and dug around in the plastic bag with his stuff in it until he found his lighter. He thumbed it and got a spark, but no flame. He shook it a couple of times and still nothing.

It's been sitting in a box for a year and a half, moron,
he thought.

Coop looked around. One thing about the Boulevard: it didn't lack for cheap shops. He went into a tourist trap with mini-Oscars in the window and Walk of Fame T-shirts where you could write your
own name on a star. Inside, he found a display of plastic lighters. All they had left were Wizard of Oz ones. Dorothy and Toto on one side and the Lion, Scarecrow, and Tin Woodman on the other, grinning like they all went on vacation together and got lobotomies instead of tribal tattoos.

It took him a while digging in his bag before he found the change to pay for the lighter. Long enough that it got embarrassing. He put the money on the counter and left without waiting for change. When he came out of the store, Morty was waiting by the curb.

“Wow,” he said. “Did you pay for that all at once or are you renting?”

“I have money,” said Coop.

“I can tell. That's good-quality plastic.”

It was more pathetic pretending he was flush than admitting he was screwed, Coop knew, but he couldn't think of anything else to do.

“You owe me eighteen months of my life,” he said.

Morty lightly rapped a knuckle on a No Parking sign.

“I know, man. I also owe you eighteen months' worth of drinks.”

“That's the first sensible thing you've said.”

Coop lit his cigarette. It wasn't as good as he'd hoped. Some kind of low-tar monstrosity. Coop shook his head as the horrors of the regular world settled on his shoulders.

As if reading his mind, Morty said, “Come on. I know a place.”

Coop walked with him a few blocks to a place called the Grande Old Tyme. He stuck his head inside the dim space and came out sure that the last grand time anyone had had in the place was guessing what the bartender watered down the whiskey with. The place was decorated with exactly two things: sad-sack day drinkers sipping their shots at the bar and a broken jukebox wrapped in police caution tape.

But he followed Morty inside, where it was at least cooler than the street. On the way in, the dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk and a mangy pigeon picked it up in its beak. Coop felt bad about sticking the bird with such a lousy smoke, but beggars can't be choosers.

Morty ordered them both whiskey sours. Coop raised his eyebrows.

“Cocktails? Are you asking me to the prom?”

“Relax. They're good and I don't want you drinking too fast and maybe getting pugilistic again.”

Coop shrugged.

“It's your dime.”

“Exactly.”

The drinks came and Coop sipped his. It was too sweet, but the whiskey was there enough to bite him and it was good after a year and a half of toilet Beaujolais.

“So, you have a job,” said Coop.

“Yeah.”

“Do I know the guy?”

“No.”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” said Morty. After a second he shook his head. “No. But he comes highly recommended.”

“What does ‘highly recommended' mean?”

“It means that when he offers, you don't say no.”

Coop sipped his drink.

“I'm out,” he said without looking up.

Morty waved his hands in the air like he was conducting an orchestra.

“What? You can't. This is your comeback job.”

Coop looked down at the bar.

“I don't work for nut jobs or people more crooked than me. This guy smells like both.”

“Speaking of smell . . . ?”

“Don't ask. Thanks for the drink.”

“Wait—there's a bonus.”

That stopped him. “What kind of bonus?”

Morty leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

“If we do it by the next new moon, there is an extra hundred grand.”

“Why then?”

Morty sat back.

“I don't know. It's his birthday or the moon spooks him. What do you care?”

Coop took a gulp of his drink. The whiskey was starting to burn his stomach a little more than was comfortable.

“He said a hundred grand specifically?”

“Yeah.”

“He's not going to rip us off?”

“He has a good rep.”

Coop took a long pause. “Hell,” he said.

“Then you'll do it?”

Coop downed the last of his drink.

“You were right before,” he said. “I'm broke. Buy me lunch and let me think.”

“For a job like this I'll buy you a dog.”

“I don't eat dogs. They're not kosher.”

“Since when did you turn kosher?”

“Since you started trying to feed me dogs.”

AGENTS BAYLISS AND NELSON SAT IN A VAN ACROSS
from a sandwich shop just up the block from the Grande Old Tyme. The van had PG&E logos on the doors outside and smelled like vodka inside. Bayliss was at the window, looking through the one-way glass, adjusting her binoculars. All the vans with state-of-the-art surveillance gear were already out in the field or in for servicing, so she and her partner were stuck with this Flintstones hunk of junk. Bayliss was sure it was Nelson's fault. He'd pissed off someone in the motor pool, or more likely everyone. She sighed and adjusted the binoculars until the image was crystal clear.

“Is that him?” said Nelson.

“No,” said Bayliss. “It's Mr. Rogers back from the dead.”

“No. It's Mr. Rogers,” said Nelson in a high squeaky mocking voice.

Bayliss, the junior agent, in her off-the-rack jacket and knock-off Gucci shoes, looked at him. Nelson wore an expensive suit and tie, but his white shirt was wrinkled like he'd had it on for a couple of days.
Been sleeping in his car again,
thought Bayliss.

“Are you drinking already?” she said.

“I couldn't be talking if I was drinking.”

Bayliss watched the jailbird and the crook eat. Nelson was quiet for a moment, then said, “There. You heard that silence a second ago?
That
was drinking.”

Bayliss ignored him. “He's with someone I don't recognize.”

“Let me see.”

Nelson took the binoculars, got them tangled in Bayliss's hair for a second, then pulled them free. Nelson took his sweet time adjusting the lenses. Bayliss was sure he did it to spite her.

Finally, Nelson said, “That's his asshole buddy, Morton something. The one who ratted him out.”

He handed her the binoculars and sat down on the floor, leaning his back against the inside of the van.

“Why isn't that in the briefing folder?” said Bayliss.

“Why should it be? I just told you who he is.”

“What if your liver committed suicide and you died? No one else would have that intel.”

“Guess you better pray I don't die.”

“I pray for your good health every night. More than world peace, I pray for your continued, sparkling existence.”

“That's so sweet of you,” said Nelson. He got up, swayed a little, and dropped into the passenger seat, gazing vaguely out the window.

“You're a less than admirable human being,” said Bayliss.

“Want a drink?”

“No, I don't.”

“Good. I wasn't in a sharing mood.”

“Then why did you offer?”

“It was a test. You passed.”

Bayliss lowered the binoculars and frowned at Nelson. “I don't really pray for you, you know. I pray for you not killing us and me ending up on the mook squad.”

Nelson snort-laughed at that.

“You don't have to die for that,” he said between sips from a leather-clad flask. “You're already a zombie. A toe-the-line, follow-all-orders, fake-Armani-wearing zombie.”

“Oh? And what are you?”

“The one wearing real Armani . . . and watching our target. He's on the move.”

Bayliss looked back out the window.

“Oh, crap,” she said, scrambling into the driver's seat.

Nelson snort-laughed again.

“You even curse like my grandma.”

“I really hate you sometimes.”

“You're the wind beneath my wings.”

Bayliss pulled out into traffic, following the two men. Staying with them, but a little behind so they wouldn't spot the tail.

Nelson hummed tunelessly. At the light, Bayliss jammed the brakes. Nelson spilled vodka down the front of his creased trousers.

“Nice,” he said. “Very mature.”

“What's this mature you speak of? We zombies don't understand that concept.”

Nelson wiped the front of his pants with a silk handkerchief as wrinkled as his shirt.

“Just drive.”