Sinners and Saints

by Jennifer Roberson

  Remi wasn’t happy as we made our way to a table, slid into the booth. “Look at it this way,” I said, “he can’t exactly spend the night. He’ll be gone in less than two hours, since the devil allows him only two hours before he turns back into charred pumpkin. At which point a whole lot of people—including his current dance partner—would be utterly grossed out.”

  Remi didn’t respond. Just stared out at the dance floor and chewed the inside of one of his cheeks.

  “Tequila time,” I said lightly. And that’s what I ordered for him when the cocktail server arrived. I made it a bottle.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  We took a corner booth in the back of the main area, illuminated by hanging lights and a rusty pierced-tin lantern on the table. Unfortunately the orientation of the table fell in a direct sight line from a stuffed bobcat hunched up on a crossbeam, which reminded me all over again of stuffed animals coming to life to stalk me. I couldn’t remember if the bobcat had been one of them, but I nonetheless shifted on the booth seat so I could avoid seeing its glass-eyed glare every time I looked up.

  Remi ordered sirloin, I ordered prime rib. He had his tequila, I ordered beer. And Mary Jane Kelly, apparently done dancing with a fallen angel, joined us not long after the server had brought our dinner. Mary Jane asked for a Cobb salad and a beer; whatever was on tap. Then, as our waiter departed, Kelly scooped up her hair in both hands, piled it on top of her head with a haphazard but very long tail tumbling down her back.

  “Dancing is hot work,” she declared.

  “So,” I began idly, “what became of the ballet guy?”

  Kelly let go of her hair and it fell every which way, thick and dark save for the section of tawny blonde. “Oh, he had to leave. Said he had a few important calls to make and needed to get back to his hotel.” She gathered all the hair in a fist, slipped a band around it and tied it back high on her head. “He was fun. A little arrogant—well, a lot arrogant. But fun.”

  Remi’s brows rose just a bit, then settled. His smile was slight, but easy and relaxed. He was definitely sweet on the girl. I wondered if he would inform her that she’d actually already met her recent dance partner up on the mountain, dripping charred skin and showing teeth with no lips. But even if he was that kind of guy—which, on second thought, I doubted—the truth of it was that Shemyazaz had no hope of a relationship with any woman, outside of two hours.

  No wonder he hated Lucifer. He was, after all, a fallen angel because he’d broken heaven’s taboo to sleep with a human woman. And he was still denied because of what the devil had done to him.

  Kelly lost her smile a moment, eyes going distant. She looked out at the dance floor, but I didn’t think she was looking for anything. Just looking. She seemed pensive. Her eyes remained serious when she looked back, caught me watching her.

  She shrugged a little, made herself smaller. “Out there on the floor, I could forget. Forget that some psychopathic serial killer with a demon inside wants me dead.”

  It was indeed a sobering thought. “We’ll do everything we can to keep that from happening.” Which was the truth. But I didn’t tell her the other truth: that we had no plan whatsoever to stop the Ripper.

  Kelly looked at Remi as he cut his way into a steak. “Do you dance?”

  Gravely, he said, “I have been known to scoot my boots.”

  She smiled. A big breath lifted her shoulders: relief that she could once again forget for a while. “After we finish eating, we’ll have to hit the floor.”

  Remi smiled back. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kelly no longer looked at me. She did not include me in dance plans. I knew very well what that meant, and I was cool with it.

  I smiled as I looked down at the remains of a denuded and delightfully pink prime rib. Remi and I had already had our disagreement over doneness quotients. He preferred very well done, while I explained that I wasn’t into eating charcoal, thank you very much, but actually like to taste the flavor of the meat.

  Heresy among afficionados of burned boot leather. He predicted my death from E. coli or Salmonella—possibly both. I responded that I found it unlikely the offspring of celestial energy might truly be at risk for bacteria.

  “But we have human bodies,” he’d said. “Flesh and blood and bone, and we both know what it’s like to get beat all to hell. You’re still movin’ like an eighty-year-old man after that spill onto asphalt.”

  I denied that immediately. “Seventy, maybe. I still have a little spring in my step.”

  “The point is, you got road rash and bumps and bruises, so of course you can get sick from bacteria. Hell, you were hung over the morning Grandaddy walked us up the mountain.”

  An uncomfortable memory. I ignored it and returned to the subject at hand. “I’ve eaten my beef rare all my life, and I’m alive to tell the tale. In fact, I’d just as soon they only just passed it over the flames.”

  Remi suppressed a shudder and averted his eyes from my plate, taking solace in more tequila.

  Kelly’s arrival had ended our discussions, and that was okay by me. I listened to her slow conversational campaign to pique Remi’s interest, and smiled into my beer as I lifted the mug to my mouth. Remi’s interest was already piqued, but maybe she just wanted to put the icing on the cake.

  Which ‘might could,’ as Remi would put it, make things a bit awkward with all three of us upstairs in a modest-sized apartment.

  Kelly’s salad arrived and she dug into it, drank some beer. I pulled out the magic phone and texted Remi, who sat all of maybe two feet away.

  Me: “You in for the night?”

  Remi frowned, pulled his phone, shot me an odd glance as he read the text. But he answered: “Yes.”

  Me: “No bike. Mind if I borrow your truck?”

  Remi: “No, but what for?”

  Me: “Thought I’d check out that biker bar. Listen to some real music.”

  Remi: “Don’t dog my jam.”

  Which cracked me up even as he dug keys from his pocket and tossed them lightly to me.

  Kelly followed the key-tossing. Her brows rose as she looked at me. “You going somewhere?”

  I finished off my beer, set the mug on the table as I scooted out of the booth. “I am going somewhere.”

  Remi said dryly, “He dislikes country music.”

  Kelly’s mouth rounded. “Oh, don’t say that too loudly in a cowboy bar.”

  “And that’s why I’m leaving,” I told her, “so I don’t have to say it at all. Though Remi and I have had discussions about it.” I looked back at him. “I’m just going to grab my jacket and head out.”

  He knew exactly why I was going, and it wasn’t solely because I wanted to hit up another bar. He smiled crookedly, pointed his fork at the bottle. “Thanks for the tequila.”

  I echoed Lily’s Gaelic toast to health. “Sláinte.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was, as Cisco had told me, easy to find the Hot Tamale. The bar was perched at the end of a modest strip mall, one side fronting Route 66, and the parking lot immediately in front of the bar was filled with bikes. I pulled in, threading my way, but the truck was Remi’s, not mine to risk, and I elected to park a couple of shops over from the bar.

  I drove past a small open, tunnel-like breezeway dividing the bar from the rest of the shopping center, and ended up slotting the truck in a space between a beauty salon and a dog grooming shop, which amused me: one-stop shopping for canine and human beautification.

  The breezeway was narrow and cut through from the front lot to the modest loading dock areas out back, and I had to duck droplets still sluggishly dripping from the overhang despite the storm being well over. I paused briefly to cast an eye across the bikes thronging the small lot in front of the bar, schooling like chromed fish. Harleys outnumbered the others, but I saw Suzukis and Yamahas, Hondas, a BMW, even a Ducati. Nothin
g chopped; but then, Cisco had said it wasn’t that kind of biker bar.

  Inside, the Hot Tamale split the difference between dive and trendy. Just a basic no-frills bar. Dim lighting, tile floor, glossy knotty pine wall cladding, pool tables and pinball machines, darts and foosball, a wall TV showing a soccer game. The odor of French fries, popcorn. I heard clacking balls and the thunks of pinball flapper paddles. A jukebox was playing classic rock, not country. I considered the songs oldies, until I looked around and discovered the median age for bar patrons appeared to be forty-five to fifty compared to my twenty-eight, so not oldies to those guys.

  A few stools were open at the bar, and that’s where I slid my butt onto leather. No Talisker to be had, so I settled for the less-peaty Glenfiddich, a single malt staple of bars. I eyed the soccer game, but wasn’t interested; it’s just difficult to ignore a TV featuring moving bodies.

  “Hey, Harlan! Gabe Harlan!”

  The voice came from a table behind me. I turned, surprised, because few people knew me in Flagstaff. Then I recognized Cisco, the Harley shop owner. He waved me over. I collected my drink and change, joined him. As I pulled out the chair, he offered to buy me a bottle of whatever I was drinking.

  I thanked him but demurred. “I’m good with a couple,” I said. “I borrowed Remi’s truck, so best not risk it.”

  “So, you guys are brothers, right? Twins?”

  I’d realized this would likely come up on a regular basis. “Cousins.” It was far easier than explaining we were born not of humans at all, but of a brief fart of celestial energy.

  “We’ve started taking your bike apart,” he told me, and screwed his mouth sideways in a twist of empathy. “I just don’t know . . . more work to do on our end, but not lookin’ good. Like I said, parting it out might be best.”

  “Not if it can be helped.” I considered the credit cards Remi and I had been given by the Angel Behind the Curtain. We’d been instructed rather pointedly that they were to be used for expenses encountered in saving the world, in the line of duty such as it was or would be, but my bike was transport. Surely one could consider transport necessary in the fight of good against evil. And one might be correct in assuming the credit line was unlimited. I didn’t think angels would be much concerned with credit utilization ratios.

  I felt the hollowness again, the pinch in the gut of regret, of grief. “Literally a deathbed gift.”

  Cisco’s mouth opened, then he nodded, poured beer into his mug. I saw empathy in his eyes. “We’ll give it our best. I’ve got a good mechanic working for me—just a kid, but he’s talented—and I’m not half bad myself. Just don’t want to make promises and have you be disappointed.”

  I said I understood. “I’ve worked on some bikes, too . . . I know what you mean. Tommy—the guy who left me the bike—was a genius at rebuilds.”

  And then, as bike owners do the world over, we launched a long conversation about manufacturers and models, aftermarket parts, technological developments, future versions, you name it. Kept us going for quite a while. I was closing in on finishing my second whiskey when Cisco shifted in the creaking spindle-backed chair and asked me what happened to my friend, if I didn’t mind saying.

  “You said he’d been a one-percenter,” he said.

  “He was in Vietnam,” I told him. “He came home with a heroin habit and a bad attitude, and joined up with an outlaw club. Did some really stupid things, served time, and while in prison he was diagnosed with cancer, courtesy of Agent Orange. He got clean, got out, stayed straight, and not long after that I met up with him, and we became friends despite being two generations apart. I had an old bike bought with chore money when I was young, and Tommy kept it running when I couldn’t. I thought he’d leave his ride to a nephew, but he told me it was mine. He died a couple of hours later.”

  And six months later I’d been sentenced to prison myself. I hated that Tommy was dead, missed him to hell and gone, but very glad he didn’t see me go to prison. He’d told me once he expected it of my brother. Instead, Matty walked free while I went behind bars.

  Cisco nodded. “Yeah, I served in the Gulf. Didn’t come home with a heroin habit, but Gulf War Syndrome, yup. Like I said, I tried an outlaw club . . .” He smiled crookedly, shook his head. “Not for me after all. But I’d saved up a fair bit of Army money, got a loan, bought me the shop. I find peace in working on bikes.”

  I nodded, too. “My dad was in the service—fought in Iraq—but it was never for me.” I remembered our not-so-friendly discussions about it. “He came home and joined the police force, tried to talk me into going military, but I was spending more time with Tommy by then anyway, who had no good opinion of the military, so neither did I. Which really rankled my dad. Said Tommy was a bad influence.” I smiled, then drank the last of my whiskey. “Tommy was anything but.”

  Cisco pushed his chair back slightly, half-rose, signaled the bartender. “Can I get another for my friend, please?” He sat back down, asked me how I’d come to smash up the bike. “Looks like you laid her down.”

  “Yup. No choice. Someone jumped out into the road. It was go through her, or dump it. But at least I knew the wreck was coming. I was able to get loose of the bike, keep my head off the road. It took a little trip through trees, ended up in a ravine.”

  Cisco’s eyes went wide. “In a ravine? No wonder she’s beat all to shit. I take it you didn’t go into the ravine with her.”

  I smiled ruefully. “My trip was across asphalt. Fortunately I was wearing leathers and a helmet.”

  As I finished, I was peripherally aware of the cocktail waitress setting down a fresh glass of Glenfiddich. Cisco pulled a ten-dollar bill from his change for her, and I glanced up to thank the young woman. I broke off abruptly as she sat herself down in the chair between Cisco and me.

  “Boo!” Molly said, with a broad, delighted grin. “Hey there, Gabe! Thought I’d never find you!”

  Three different reactions competed for primacy in my brain. The first: Take Molly firmly by the arm and escort her outside where we might speak in private, except that these days laying hands on a woman could go bad real fast. It was possible Cisco or any of the other guys in the place might decide to intervene, and I could trust Molly to stage noisy accusations of assault. These men would never buy into an explanation that she was a demon inhabiting an innocent host. Hell, I wouldn’t. If I wasn’t me, that is.

  The second: Ignore her altogether and every word she spoke, as if she were not present, but she’d already called me by name, and I had no doubt Molly could spin a story that would paint herself a victim and me an asshole.

  Third? Play her game, but beat her at it.

  Molly’s eyes were searching mine avidly, looking for tells, looking for an edge. I had no doubt she might well find one, maybe two, but she knew nothing about my background. She knew nothing of my prison stint, or how a man, if he’s lucky, learns to drop casual disinformation, or to present, to inmates and COs alike, a poker face.

  I leaned forward toward Cisco, who was clearly startled by a strange woman inviting herself to our table. But a smile was beginning to overtake his mouth and a glint in his eyes kindled. Molly was cute and appealing behind the big red glasses, and could probably charm any man. I used all the excited amusement I could muster.

  “This girl is amazing, Cisco! You give her a topic and she can spin a tale like you would not believe. Talented as hell . . . she belongs on Saturday Night Live! I’d put her up against any of those comedians, any day or night.” I looked at her with a focused, tensile excitement. “Didn’t you say you’d been on one of those talent shows? Or you were going to audition?—I don’t remember the details. But as I told you before, I told you, your improv is unbeatable.”

  As Molly opened her mouth to interrupt my spate of words, I held Cisco’s gaze, assumed a droll smile, and hooked a thumb in her direction.

  “She was hitching .
. . I offered her a ride in Holbrook after lunch. That’s when she entertained me.” I sat back, adopted a relaxed posture. “I damn near choked on my coffee when she did a whole routine about Lucifer wanting to get back up top to start Armageddon. I mean, you wouldn’t think that’s an amusing topic, but she found a way in. Some bit about demons cast adrift, trying to do the devil’s bidding when they’d really rather sit in front of the TV and binge-watch Game of Thrones.”

  Molly finally accepted the challenge. She smiled from inside out, reached a hand to shake Cisco’s. “I’m not that good!” she said, laughing. “Gabe’s just easy to amuse. Infantile sense of humor. The lower you go, the more he likes it. Scraping the bottom of the barrel, most times.”

  Cisco shook her hand politely, but a flicker in his eyes suggested he wasn’t completely buying her insinuations. He and I had spent nearly three hours talking bikes and personal matters, and that’s enough to forge a bond predicated on distinct mutual interest. Sure, I could be what she described, a not-too-bright enthusiastic fan of low-brow humor, but it didn’t jibe with what he’d seen of me so far. Plus, according to my tale, she was a hitchhiker. She couldn’t claim an intimate knowledge of my opinions.

  I made it obvious that I was checking my watch, my expression reflecting surprise. Then I pushed my chair back and rose. “Hell, later than I thought! I gotta go. Sorry I didn’t get to the drink you just bought me, Cisco . . .” I slid the full glass across the table to Molly, who’d served the drink and whatever might be in it. “But I think she’ll do it justice. She sucked down a couple of beers pretty quickly over a one-hour lunch.” I shook Cisco’s hand as he rose. “Just give me a call when you’ve got a good idea about what my bike needs.”

  Cisco shot a blank glance at Molly, then nodded at me. “Sure thing.”