Devil Said Bang

Patty takes a pass card from her purse and lets us in. She seems perfectly sober now. The girl can hold her liquor. I’ve never seen anyone mix Hellion and civilian booze before. I hope she doesn’t explode and destroy the rest of the world.



The first floor of the dreamers’ building looks like any unfinished office space. A big open area with cable for DSL and phones. A couple of offices roughed in at the back. Walls a neutral shade of suicide beige. How could you work in one of these places and not seriously consider going apeshit postal at least once? An optional murder-suicide pact ought to be part of the hiring agreement right next to the 401(k) plan.



The stairway to the second floor is locked. Patty waves her card again and the door clicks open.



It’s dark inside and smells faintly of asphodel and belladonna. Forgetting and stimulation. Sounds like a party to me.



A cobweb brushes my face. I start to push it away but Patty says, “Don’t touch it. Don’t touch any of them.”



Through the dark I see more of the webs. They grow thicker the higher we climb. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I see that they’re not webs. They’re long, almost invisible filaments, like fishing line. Only they seem to hum and whisper.



“It sounds like they’re talking to each other.”



Patty glances back over her shoulder.



“Good ears. They’re alive. When we’re asleep, our nervous systems merge with the Big Collective and these nerves broadcast our dreams.”



The second floor is a neural obstacle course. Most of the nerves are bundled along the walls like computer cords but the densest bunch run out from a twelve-sided wood-and-brass enclosure in the middle of the room.



A room off this one is a small but comfortable-looking rest area with a fridge, a massage table, and big overstuffed chairs.



The floor around the wooden enclosure is inlaid with the images of silver arches. The twelve vaults of Heaven. Patty touches each door as she walks around the big toy box. And stops by one. She pulls it open.



“Someone isn’t here today. Johnny Zed is supposed to be in here. I hope he’s all right.”



Inside the chamber is a fleshy pitcher-shaped pod of clear fluid. Nerve filaments drift inside like pale seaweed.



“This is it,” says Patty. “Dreamer central.”



“You get in there?”



“Strip down for a two-day skinny-dip. It’s not bad. It’s warm and you don’t feel a thing. You just float there. A womb with a view.”



“What do you dream about?”



“It’s hard to describe. It’s not things so much as the places between them. I wouldn’t dream of a table or you. I dream about big empty spaces. The hollow parts inside things. The atoms and molecules. I don’t dream about how fucked up things are out here but how perfect things are when you go deep down inside them.”



“Sounds nice.”



“Want to strip down and try it? You’re a little tightly wound, you know. It would probably do you some good.”



“What’s the dreamer safeword?”



She does a mock sigh.



“You’ve been to Hell but won’t even give Heaven a try. Silly boy.”



She closes the door and crosses her arms, looking serious for the first time since I got her away from the ghost.



“What happens now?”



“What happens is you stay here. Go inside the Silly Putty and try to calm down the sky a little or just hang around the lounge. I’ll see what I can do about the little girl. Don’t leave until you hear from me.”



I start back down the stairs, stepping carefully around the dreamers’ nerves.



“Hey, Sandman,” says Patty from the top of the stairs. “Thanks for today. You didn’t have to do all that.”



“No problem. I’d have done it for a dog.”



She smiles and goes into the lounge.



I take a cab to Max Overdrive. Thank God for cabbies. People joke that when the world ends, all that’ll be left are the roaches. They forget about the cabbies. As long as the roaches have money to pay or something to trade, the cabbies will be there to drive them from their roach motels to their roach offices and out to the roach suburbs, slamming on the brakes, cursing out the window, and overcharging them all the way.



The freeway into the city is almost empty, so we make good time. I go into the store through the front door, careful to step around the hexes.



Kasabian must have heard me come in because he isn’t surprised to see me.



“Come to check if the Glory Stompers came back and finished me off?”



“Remember when you said I should have been unreasonable and ignored you the other night?”



“Yeah?” he says, looking more nervous than I’ve seen him since I cut off his head.



“You got your wish. Get your gear together. You’re coming with me.”



“Where?”



“Somewhere safe. Those guys who broke in here are trying to change the entire fabric of reality and they’re using hit squads and a crazy little ghost with a great big fucking knife. You want out of harm’s way, you come with me right now.”



“I didn’t know you cared.”



“Of course I care. You know where my money is.”



“It’s my money. Does this hovel have cable, because if I have to stay with you I’ll need a lot of distraction.”



“It’s nice as hovels go. There’s indoor toilets and everything.”



Kasabian doesn’t want to go with me but he doesn’t want to stay in the store on his own anymore. He slowly closes his laptop. He’s trying to figure out a way to get me to stay so he doesn’t have to leave, especially on a gimp leg. He drums his fingers on the desk and gives up.



“There’s a tracksuit on the floor next to the bed.”



He has to struggle into the suit because of his leg. I don’t offer to help because I’m not in the mood to get barked at. It takes him a few minutes and he’s sweating but he finally gets the clothes on.



“You look like you’re in the Russian Mob.”



“Yeah? Then carry my crap, Comrade. I’m a cripple.”



We take the same cab back to the Chateau. When I take Kasabian through the clock, he just stands there looking the place over. The celebrity-magazine furniture. The trays of food and booze. The thick robe Candy tossed over the arm of a chair. The epic bedroom with a closet full of clothes.



He limps back into the main room. Holds out his arms and drops them in exasperation.



Finally he says, “Fuck you.”



“Mi casa es su casa blah blah blah.”



“Fuck you.”



“There’s food over there.”



He goes to the spread, balancing himself on furniture on the way over. He looks at it and turns.



I say, “I know. Fuck me. Quit whining. It’s your lucky night. You’re going to help me commit suicide.”



“Goody.”



My new chest scar itches at the thought of me hurting myself again but I don’t have a lot of choices.



Before I off myself, I dial the clinic to check on Candy. No answer. Are they busy or screening my calls? I let it ring and then call back. Still nothing. Not a problem.



I leave Kasabian sucking down a plate of filet mignon and onion rings the size of horseshoes while Django  the Bastard plays on the big screen. I forgot how movies look better when they’re not on a laptop screen. It’s a nice change. I don’t bother saying good-bye. Between the movie and the food, Kasabian wouldn’t hear me anyway. I go to the garage, steal a Volvo (every crook’s go-to car when they don’t want to be noticed) and drive to the clinic.



Traffic isn’t bad. Everyone who isn’t running for the hills must be bugging in. I only have to run a couple of red lights to get across town. When I get there, I beach the Volvo across three spaces in the parking lot, get out, and give the clinic door a copper knock. That authoritative knuckle rap cops have to master before they get to make the donut run solo.



The door opens and Allegra comes out, pulling it closed behind her.



“You thought if you didn’t answer the phone, I’d just go away?”



“Sorry. I thought the answering machine was on.”



“ ’Course you did. I want to see Candy.”



I start for the door but Allegra puts her hand on my chest. Then pulls it away when she touches the armor.



“She’s all right. It was just a slash and didn’t go too deep. I closed her up and gave her something to sleep. She’ll be out for a few hours. Rinko’s taking care of her.”



“Speak of the Devil.”



Rinko hits Allegra’s shoulder when she pushes open the clinic door. She comes right up to me. I’m ready for the slap I know is coming. I got her girlfriend hurt. I won’t even try to stop her.



Rinko’s hand flashes up. The shirt rips. Sparks kick off the armor. She slashes down again with the scalpel, this time at my throat. I step back and catch her hand, shoving her hard enough into the clinic door to rattle the glass.



“Don’t hurt her!” yells Allegra.



I won’t. I can see it in her eyes. She’s possessed. Someone is having fun Downtown. Rinko already hates my guts, so it probably wasn’t hard getting in her head and tweaking her to come at me. I was hoping that with Aelita up here, the possession games would stop for a while. Maybe I should have burned Hell on my way out of town. Maybe I should have hung more skins on the fences. Was I too awful a Lucifer or too nice? Neither. I was just lousy. Am just lousy. I should have seen this coming.



The clinic door opens again and Vidocq comes out. He has another scalpel and the same dead-fish possessed look in his eyes. When he raises his hand to slash me, I pop him once in the jaw. Not hard enough to hurt him. Just hard enough to lay him out.



Allegra gets between us, dragging poor dazed Rinko with her.



“Eugène. Stark. What’s wrong with you? Stop it.”



“He can’t hear you. He’s possessed. So was Rinko.”



Rinko is starting to come around. Allegra kneels by Vidocq and checks his eyes. Looks back at me.



“Why are you looking at me like that?” she says.



“These days, when one possessed person goes down, another pops up. I thought you were going to go off with the scalpel next but maybe you’re immune because of the angel hoodoo you work with all day. Lucky for both of us.”



Rinko comes over and helps Allegra get Vidocq back on his feet. She looks at me funny. She has no idea how she got outside or why my shirt is ripped or why I’m dressed like an extra in a Hercules movie.



“Vidocq will be fine. When his head clears, he won’t remember a thing.”



I get around them and open the door. Allegra looks like she might slash me without being possessed.



“We don’t need your help.”



She waits until I step away from the door before taking Vidocq inside.



“I’m not the villain here. I’m the one who got knifed.”



“This time,” says Allegra, pulling the door behind her. I grab it before it closes.



“Take care of Candy. And don’t let either of these two near her.”



“I know how to run my own clinic.”



“Really? Does your staff settle all its arguments with a knife fight?”



Allegra doesn’t say anything. She tries to pull the door closed. I don’t let her.



“When I’ve done what I have to do, I’m coming back and I’m going to see Candy whether any of you like it or not.”



I let go of the door. She pulls it closed and locks it.



“It’s nice to see you’ve still got the magic touch with people.”



The voice is behind me. I recognize it because it’s mine. I turn around and look at me.



Saint James is dressed in tan khakis and a blue pullover with an off-brand logo over the pocket. He looks like me if I was eleven years younger and a Mormon kid on my missionary work. I’d never admit it but I feel strange and it even hurts a little seeing myself without all the scars. The guy I was before I went Downtown has been gone so long I don’t even remember him but I’m looking at him and that’s bad enough. What’s worse is that Saint James, patron saint of traitors, cowards, and general pricks, knows it.



“How’s Heaven, pal? I mean Blue Heaven. What the hell is that? Some kind of time-share hideout with D. B. Cooper and Ambrose Bierce?”



“I was about to pull you out of Vidocq’s way but as usual you solved the problem with your fist. You’re punching friends these days. It’s good to see a man broaden his interests.”



“The only reason you’d save me is because half my skin is yours.”



“True enough, but you didn’t have a shred of common sense up here, and Hell hasn’t helped you gain any perspective.”



I take out a Malediction. Sit on the hood of the Volvo and light it. I don’t offer Saint James one. No way this milquetoast smokes.



“You’re wrong. I have plenty of common sense. I’ve hardly killed anyone since I’ve been back. Okay, maybe those ten guys at Blackburn’s. But I’m the injured party here. Everyone’s gunning for me because of something you did.”



He shakes his head. Clamps his jaw angrily before speaking.



“I didn’t kill the mayor’s son and you know it. It was the ghost. I was trying to stop her just like I tried to stop her before. I was there when the boy was killed, so it was easy to pin it on me. I think someone is protecting the girl.”



“If I’m supposed to be impressed with your detective skill, you’re going to have to try harder. I know all that and I know who’s doing it.” It’s a lie but I’m not about to let this asshole in on how in the dark I am. “All I need to figure out is why. You know, even if you showed up with all the pieces of the puzzle and a carton of Carlos’s tamales, it doesn’t change the fact that you left me to clean up Mason’s shit. Now I have to clean up yours and I’m supposed to swoon over a happy reunion because you finally stepped up?”