Up Jumps the Devil (31 page)

He rematerialized in an alley behind the cobbler's shed with a sparkling-clear head, wrapped himself in physician's robes, and collected his donkey.

The Inquisitors had eased his conscience about the Black Death. No matter what he did or what age he did it in, he could always count on the Church to try to top it.

At the gate, there was an awkward moment when the Devil and the traveling circus blew town at the same time. He smiled and winked. They pretended not to see him.

Cheeky bastards. He tossed some fleas their way, and nudged his donkey toward the next town.

Chicago, 1984

FISH WAS DRUNK
at the Chicago Four Seasons when his in-room movie was interrupted by a knock at the door.

He opened the door to find three men in dark suits.

One of them presented a badge and said, “Mr. Fish, I'm Special Agent Zimmerman, with the FBI. These are agents Early and Dunn. May we come in?”

There were smart choices and dumb choices at moments like this, and Fish had no idea which was which.

“Do I need my lawyer?” he asked.

“We just want to ask some questions,” said Zimmerman.

He let them in.

Made them wait while he changed out of his hotel bathrobe, and put on something he hoped implied dark powers.

Then he joined them in the outer room. They had all removed their jackets, and were sitting or standing around in a way that made the room feel like
their
room, not his.

“Have you ever met Congressman Buzz Joplin?” asked Zimmerman.

“Indiana,” said Dunn. “Fourth District.”

Sure he had. Buzz Joplin was one of the congressmen he bribed each month. Buzz Joplin had made it illegal not to have life insurance.

“I would like to contact my attorney,” Fish told them.

WHEN HE CALLED
the Devil, Fish hoped he would pick up and say, “Don't worry about it.”

He didn't pick up.

“You could call another attorney,” said Special Agent Zimmerman.

“I want that one,” snarled Fish. “He's the Devil himself.”

“Impressive!” said Zimmerman, pretending to look impressed. He looked around at Early and Dunn to see if they were impressed. They were.

“I'm sorry I can't assist you any further today,” Fish told them. “Maybe I could call your Chicago field office after I contact my attorney. Don't know what's keeping him.”

“We're not from the field office, Mr. Fish,” said Zimmerman. “If you can't help us out with Congressman Joplin, maybe you can tell us how you know—” and Zimmerman, without notes, rattled off a list of maybe fifty people and organizations Fish and Assurance Mutual had bribed, defrauded, extorted, or blackmailed.

He tried to call his attorney again. This time, the number didn't even ring through. The number was no longer in service.

Fish stood.

Time to retake control. He did his best to radiate dark powers. He reminded himself that he had killed a man with an ashtray at the Helen of Troy in Troy, Ohio. At least they hadn't asked about that.

“I can't talk to
you
until I get hold of
him
,” he said. “So whether we talk about Buzz Joplin or the moon, it's going to have to be another day. So unless you have an arrest warrant hidden up your ass, I bid you gentlemen Good Day.”

This last was a bluff. Maybe they had a ton of evidence and a warrant, and maybe not. He bet not.

He bet right, this time.

“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Fish,” said Zimmerman as they gathered their jackets. “We'll be in touch.”

Fish ran for the toilet the second the door clicked. He grabbed the phone on the way, hoping the line would reach. The line did reach. Fish called his accountant.

“There's trouble,” he told his accountant.

The accountant was supposed to be really, really good. The Devil had recommended him. The guy had sold his soul, according to the Devil, to be a very good accountant.

“Yeah?” said the accountant.

Fish knew this game. The accountant didn't want to say anything on an unsecured line. Fish would have to do the talking.

“The FBI just came to see me,” he said. “I need to get hold of—”

“I don't think that's going to be possible, Fish.”

Fish
? What had happened to
Mister
Fish?

“Listen,” he commanded. “Meet me at four this afternoon.”

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“
You
listen, Fish. I got a lot going on, and there's no way in hell I can make it to—”

“You'll make it,” said Fish, and hung up.

IN THE END
, it was Fish who had trouble getting there.

He called the airport and told them to get his plane ready to go to Mexico.

“We can't do that, Mr. Fish,” said the airport.

“Listen,” he said. “You call George Kaplan at the FAA, and ask
him
if you can or cannot—”

George Kaplan at the FAA was paid good money to keep Assurance Mutual flying without a lot of regulatory red tape.

“Mr. Kaplan,” said the airport, “has been placed on leave by the FAA so that he can assist a congressional fact-finding panel with certain inquiries. I have been asked to give you contact information for a Special Agent Zimmerman, sir, if—”

Fish hung up.

He frowned out the window, massaging his neck.

He paid a freelance pilot to zip him across the country, across the border, to an airstrip outside the world's longest-running party.

He charged up the stairs to the swimming pool, anticipating the usual backdrop of music and shouting, zoo animals, cocaine, half-naked billionaires, and a talking dog. It was the backdrop against which he had learned to do business (when he
had
to do business). But the pool area was only populated by the pool guy and his long-handled brush.

“Where is everyone?” asked Fish.

The pool guy said he was just there to clean the pool.

Inside, a crew in white jumpsuits shampooed or replaced carpets, cleaned bathrooms, washed or replaced walls, yelling back and forth in Spanish. As Fish made his way through the house, he felt they were yelling about him. After he had gone by, they laughed.

Just as he was sure his accountant had been and gone, if he had come at all, he met him by the pool.

“You waited,” said Fish. “That's good.”

The accountant nodded at him.

They faced each other without shaking hands.

“Now,” growled Fish, “there's no fucking phone line for you to worry about, so I want some answers. I want to know why the FBI is asking me questions about very private arrangements. Arrangements
you
made—”

The accountant punched him very hard in the face and told him to shut the fuck up.

Fish fell, clutching his face, but got back up again. He weaved, almost slipping into the pool, and decided not to hit the accountant back.

“You will recall,” said the accountant, “that I warned you against a number of those arrangements, and you would not listen. I told you that there were arrangements that could be protected, and others that could not. But you know everything. Now listen to this, and know this: I don't work for you. I only came down here to see the look on your face when I broke your nose. Do not call me again.”

The accountant walked off and disappeared down the stairs.

Fish sat down beside the pool. He let his feet and legs soak, although he was fully dressed. Shoes and all. It felt good.

Water sprayed him.

Fish looked up to see the pool guy regarding him with distaste.

“You're in my way,” he said.

PAYING FOR THE PRIVATE FLIGHT
to Mexico and back used up Fish's ready cash. In Chicago, walking down the street to his building, he stopped at one of the new automatic bank-teller machines that were starting to pop up all over the place.

The machine said that it was unable to complete his transaction, and that it was sorry.

Upstairs in his living room, with the dark of Lake Michigan reflecting his broken nose and swollen face, he called a special, privileged number. It was the number the bank gave you when you had enough money to cause trouble if you took it out all at once. A tired-sounding voice picked up.

He told the bank who he was, and before he could ask about the ATM, the voice told him his accounts had been frozen and seized.

“Which?” asked Fish, confused and in pain. “Frozen or seized?”

“Both. Some have been frozen; the others have been confiscated and are no longer considered, you know, yours.”

Some of Fish's accounts were in banks overseas. Some were American.

“It's mostly the overseas accounts that are frozen,” the voice informed him.

Fish launched a screaming fit that might have lasted half an hour if the voice hadn't hung up on him.

People don't have to take your shit if you don't have any money.

THE NEXT DAY
, Fish went to his office at the top of the Assurance Mutual office building, the twenty-fifth tallest building in the world.

“Did you know that forty percent of the world's tallest buildings are owned by insurance companies?” the architect had asked him, back when it was still just a blueprint.

“Wow,” Fish had answered. “No.”

The offices were quiet. The halls were dark. The doors were all closed.

A note waited on his desk. It said that everyone's Friday paycheck had bounced sky-high, and the comptroller had advised everyone not to clock in again until they could be sure things were going to change. Under the comptroller's signature, a PS informed him that his own check, Fish's, had bounced like a refrigerated SuperBall.

He picked up his desk phone.

It sounded dead, at first. Then it rang in his hand.

“Hello?” he said.

“Mr. Fish?” asked a voice, somewhat familiar.

“Who is this?”

“Zimmerman, Mr. Fish. FBI. Are you in your office?”

“I am.”

“I'd like to ask you to remain there, Mr. Fish, until—”

Fish didn't remain. He laid the phone down on his desk blotter, and ran for one of the three separate elevator banks installed by his friend the architect.

It was a long ride down. Long enough for him to devote serious thought to whether or not the FBI had provided enough agents for Zimmerman to cover all the ins and outs of the Assurance Tower.

The doors hissed open on an empty lobby. No. The FBI had not.

“Underresourced chimps,” he muttered, and ran like a fugitive.

HE CALLED THE
airport and tried to speak with any of a number of freelance pilots. Whenever anyone asked who he was, even if he lied, they asked him to hold.

He called the car-rental place near the bus station.

They were not on Zimmerman's call list, apparently. They said for him to come right down there and they'd fix him up.

He drove south toward Texas.

Sometimes, by daylight, he thought cars were following him. When he pulled over to get gas, they zoomed on. Or sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they pulled off and looked like they were watching him.

He stopped only once for a bite to eat. He walked into a Carl's Jr., but everyone was watching him, so he left.

SOUTH OF BROWNSVILLE
, he parked, got out, and left the door open. He took nothing with him.

The fence at the border was much taller than he'd thought it would be. But it was unlit, and this portion seemed unwatched.

It was almost a relief, the idea of starting over. The little money in his Mexican accounts would count for something, down here. After a time, who knew?

He climbed the fence. Every second, his back crawled, waiting for Border Patrol bullets, or the glare of spotlights.

Over the top. Halfway down, he let go and landed on his feet.

Catlike, he thought.

He was free. Not rich, but free.

Free was better.

Who would have thought it? He almost wept.

Nearby, across the street from the fence, an open bar with wide screens for windows. He could see the bartender inside, a big, sad-looking Mexican man.

He had enough pocket money for a beer or two, then he'd have to find a bench until the banks opened.

He ordered a beer, but when he went to pay for it, someone said, “I got this,” and handed the bartender a brand-new American five.

The Devil.