The Dirty Streets of Heaven bd-1

by Tad Williams

  “Hello?” She sounded a trifle baked again. I introduced myself, and she eventually remembered me. “Right. That writer guy.”

  “Exactly. Listen, I was curious about your grandfather’s interest in the Magian Society.” I said it like everybody knew who that was, although I had already discovered nobody on the internet seemed to have heard of them.

  “Never heard of ’em,” she said, on cue.

  “That’s okay. I noticed he had something of theirs when I was there, a folder-maybe you could find it for me.” I gave her the bookshelf coordinates, which was a bit like trying to teach a marmoset to play chess; I doubted that she’d spent a lot of her time perusing her grandfather’s books. I told her I was happy to wait.

  She came back a few minutes later. “Nope. There’s nothing like that.”

  I stifled a curse. “Did you look carefully, Ms. Walker? Between Linson Bio-”

  “Yeah, just like you said. It was there, probably, ‘cause there’s a space, but it’s not there now…” She trailed off, considering. “Maybe one of the cleaners took it.”

  Oh, yeah. The Mighty Maids just happened to borrow the one thing in the entire bookshelf I wanted to see and take it back to their office for special cleaning. “Look, could I drop by sometime and take a look around? Sometime soon? Just in case it’s been, I don’t know, misplaced or something. It would really help my article if I could find it.”

  Somebody yelled something in the background on her end. It sounded like Garcia the Gang-banger.

  “I guess,” she said. “Sure. But not now. Somebody’s over. Later.”

  She hung up without waiting to hear my reply.

  Despite a powerful urge to drive over there right now and break in and look for myself, I decided not to. If it hadn’t been stolen from the shelf it was just misplaced, which meant it would still be there tomorrow, but breaking and entering the Walker place tonight might have dire consequences. Like I might accidentally walk in on Posie and her idiot boyfriend having sex.

  It was a nice enough evening, and I would have loved to swing by The Compasses for a drink and some comradely bullshit, but it had only been twenty-four hours since the attack, and I wasn’t going anywhere that my pursuer might be watching. Also, to be honest, I wasn’t really in a hurry to see Monica either. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t that I wanted to avoid her-I just wanted to avoid having a conversation with her. I hadn’t had time to figure out what falling into bed with Monica the other night was going to mean. Also, when I had been having the occasional moment of arousing thought, it wasn’t about Monica but a certain stunning blonde Hell-creature, and that was even more confusing. But I wouldn’t want you to think I was a complete moral coward, so I would like to make clear that the main reason for not going to The Compasses was as follows: Not wanting to suffer horrible, painful attack of the murderous-demon variety.

  I had emailed Fatback to see if he could find me anything about the Magian Society or the name “Kephas,” but hadn’t heard from him yet because midnight was still hours away. I was getting hungry, so I walked from the motel to a Mexican place I had spotted on a side street. Considering it wasn’t anywhere near the worst part of Jude I felt surprisingly unsafe. Every movement at the edge of my immediate frame of vision yanked my head around, and sudden noises didn’t do much for my nerves either. It wasn’t just the thought of getting attacked by the ghallu that had me worried, either; if I was now a hot commodity that meant other people were probably willing to shop me for profit even if they didn’t have anything personal against me, so suddenly it wasn’t just eight-foot demons I needed to keep an eye out for but anyone who might be looking at me funny. On the streets of San Judas that can tire you out real fast.

  I made it to the restaurant without incident, and to my pleasant surprise it turned out they made carnitas that actually tasted like something you might get in Mexico, and I mean that in the best possible way. It looked like the kind of establishment where they’d have a DJ on weekends, but on a weeknight it was almost deserted and quiet enough to think. As I ate I knocked back a couple of Negra Modelos and looked over the research material. I discovered some interesting things about the late Edward Walker I hadn’t known, including the fact he was a member of American Atheists and had even spoken at a few of their conventions. It still didn’t get me any closer to what had happened, of course-as far as Heaven is concerned, an atheist’s soul is just like any other nutbar’s. If they lived a decent life, we take ’em.

  I also did a little more searching for Magians online. Turns out the term doesn’t just mean the guys out of the “We Three Kings” song but also covers Zoroastrian priests from Persia. Either way, though, it seemed to have too much to do with religion to interest someone like Walker. Could the name “Magians” have some other meaning, I wondered-alchemical or something? Could it be some kind of fraternal organization of scientists? I Googled as I worked my way through dinner but didn’t turn up anything.

  Somewhere during my second beer I looked up and noticed that a guy sitting at the bar was watching me, but he glanced away when he saw me looking back. He appeared to be an ordinary working guy in work boots and a trucker cap, probably Mexican or Central American by ancestry. At any other time I would have figured he’d just been looking me over out of idle curiosity, but tonight I was thinking about things differently. I caught him staring again a couple of minutes later and gave him a hard glance in return. He dropped his eyes quickly, but I could see a tiny sheen of sweat on his neck. He didn’t look like someone who thought I was kind of cute. He looked like someone who’d recognized me, and that probably didn’t mean anything good. That’s the downside of having friends in odd places-other people who hang out in those odd places start to recognize you.

  If I stayed long enough I felt pretty sure he’d find an excuse to step outside and call someone, so I beat him to the punch, finishing my beer with a long swallow and leaving my money on the table. As I headed for the door I swung wide to the bar and caught the guy by surprise. As he stared up at me I leaned toward him and whispered, “If anyone’s coming after me, they better come hard and strong, got me? Duro y fuerte. Porque yo soy un angel de Dios.”

  I left him staring, his mouth hanging open. I had either given one of Hell’s helpers fair warning or scared the crap out of some guy who’d developed a little crush on a stranger.

  I walked back with my eyes wide open just in case he’d informed someone of my whereabouts before I noticed him, but I got back without incident. As I reached the motel my phone rang.

  “Is this Mr. Dollar, yo? It’s G-Man-remember?”

  “G-Man as in Garcia? As in, I took away your piece and rapped your skull with it? Yeah, I remember you, chummy. What do you want?”

  He sounded like he’d really psyched himself up for this. “You said…you said maybe I could get my strap back?”

  “Gun, Garcia. A Palo Alto kid can’t call it a ‘strap’ without sounding like a total douche. You got some information for me?”

  Now he just sounded hurt. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. If I tell you something, can I get my-my gun back?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want to tell me?”

  “Well, Posie…I was talking to Posie…she’s my girlfriend, right? And she said when you came over you were interested in some African guy her grandfather knew?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Although this Magian thing was what really had my interest now. “So? Did you find out his name?”

  “Sort of. But even better, man-he was here.”

  “What? What are you talking about? Where?”

  “Here at Posie’s house-I mean her granddad’s house. That African guy was here. She didn’t know he was coming or anything, he just showed up. He hung around for a long time, talking to Posie and stuff. She made him tea, even. He was here when you called before. Anyway, he just left a few minutes ago.”

  “He was there when I called?” It was very difficult not to shout, but I was on a public street. “And you waited until
now to tell me?” I had a sudden, very strong suspicion about why this African gentleman might have dropped by and also why Posie hadn’t been able to find the folder. “Jesus, why did you wait so long?”

  “Hey, man, I didn’t want to give anything away! Like that you were looking for him! I know all about this private detective shit, yo. So I waited until he left.”

  “God save me.” I headed for the stairs down to the motel garage. “Stay there, both of you. I’ll be right over.”

  “Well? Do I get my piece back?”

  “Oh, I’m going to give it to you, all right-same way I did last time. I’m going to smack your dumbass head with it.” I hung up on him and climbed into my car.

  twelve

  black windows

  As I hurried toward the Palo Alto district I thought about all the questions I still didn’t have answers for. I needed to know more about the Magians for one thing, a lot more than I could find on my own, but it was hours too early to call Fatback unless I just wanted to listen to him grunt and squeal. (I’ve already got plenty of friends who can do that for me, especially if I catch them before they’ve had coffee.)

  Still, things were moving fast enough that I was beginning to think I needed to go visit one of my other sources. Fatback was very good at what he did, so he was usually my first choice, but there were others in and around San Judas with a different and maybe deeper insight into what went on in the Opposition camp. The Broken Boy and the Sollyhull Sisters sprang to mind, but the Broken Boy was expensive, and hard to work with at the best of times-he had problems that made my new friend Foxy Foxy seem as together as the head of the local Rotary Club-so I decided I’d give the sisters a try first. Not now, though. Now I was back on University Avenue again, turning onto Walker’s quiet, expensive side street. I was beginning to get sick of the smell of stately old trees and trimmed hedges.

  “Wow,” said Posie, opening the door. She was wearing a baggy caftan, the kind of thing hippy chicks used as sleepwear back in 1973. Posie had clearly missed her natural era. “He really did call you! I didn’t know you and G even knew each other!”

  “Yeah, we’re practically white soul brothers. I understand the African gentleman you mentioned before, dropped in for a visit tonight.”

  She nodded as she led me down the hall toward the living room. “He just showed up. He’s nice. I never really talked to him before.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Oh, he wanted to thank us for a contribution my grandpa made to his charity. They’re building some kind of school or…or hospital or something.” She flapped her hand. “I didn’t really catch all of it. G was tiptoeing around like Super Spy Squad. It was really distracting.”

  “Shut up,” said Garcia, appearing from the kitchen with a box of Cheez-Its in his hands and crumbs in his little chin beard. “I was helping Mr. Dollar-right? I was, wasn’t I?”

  A little more help like his and I’d be demoted to appearing to nuns in visions. “Did your visitor say anything else, Ms. Walker? Did he leave any literature, anything? What was his name?” There was a chance the guy was perfectly legitimate-I never had anything on him in the first place except that Posie remembered him coming to visit her grandfather-but his timing was a little suspicious, showing up the same night I found out the Magian Society folder was gone.

  “Mubari or Nabari or something,” said Posie. “Something weird.”

  “With all due respect, you’re killing me here,” I said. “Did he give you a card or something else that might have a name, an address, anything?”

  “Not this time. I think G scared him-he kept asking the poor guy all these stupid questions.”

  “They weren’t stupid!” Garcia was full of righteous indignation. “I just asked him what his deal was.”

  I winced. If the poor guy was legit he couldn’t have enjoyed that. If he wasn’t…well, let’s just say he was now definitely aware he was under suspicion. “Hold on, slow down. Ms. Walker, a second ago you said, ‘Not this time.’ Does that mean he gave you a card or something another time he was here?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  I did my best to remain calm. “Any possibility it’s still around? That you could find it?”

  “It might be in the crud drawer. That’s where the rubber bands from the newspaper and, like, twist ties and all the useless stuff like that goes.” She smiled beatifically, as if this breakthrough in domestic order was hers and hers alone.

  I smiled back as charmingly as I could manage. “Any chance you could go see if it’s there, Ms. Walker?” Because if this guy was a ringer he obviously wouldn’t have left anything tonight. He had probably come just to vacuum up the Magian Society folder and any other loose ends, and he wouldn’t be coming back, either. “It would really help my article on your granddad.”

  Two minutes later, after a great deal of rummaging noises and mumbled curses, Posie Walker reappeared in triumph waving a white cardboard rectangle. “Found it!”

  I tried not to look too eager as I reached out for it. G-Man was watching me with the kind of hero-worshipping attention that I knew was going to cause trouble somewhere up the line. The card itself was simple-just a few lines in the same neat black italics as the folder I’d photographed:

  The Rev. Dr. Moses Habari

  The Magian Society

  4442 East Charleston Road, Suite D, San Judas, CA 94043

  There was a phone number too, which I immediately dialed. No longer in service, of course. “How long ago did you say he left?”

  “’Bout half an hour,” Garcia informed me. “You gonna go after him? Can I tag?”

  I briefly considered telling him my real feelings, but decided I might need something from him or Posie later on. “No, I need you to stay here in case he gets in touch again. And if he does, please don’t do anything weird.” I gave him my sternest look. “Just call me, understand? Discreetly?”

  “Under control, Mr. Dollar.” He all but saluted. A couple of days ago he had been waving a gun in my face, now this dumbass was ready to follow me around like a baby duck. I don’t know, sometimes I think I’m an idiot magnet.

  I was back on the Bayshore a few minutes later, this time heading toward Southport. I knew East Charleston Road fairly well because it wasn’t that far from where Sam lived, a neighborhood that had fallen on tough times twice, first in the seventies when the cargo-handling industry took a hit from competition across the bay, then again twenty years later when Shoreline Amusement Park closed for good. What remained were little business parks, storage lockers, and party supply warehouses, as well as a few apartment buildings and stores catering to a local population of retired longshoremen, general rummies, and of course the occasional angel.

  As I made my way down Charleston toward the bay I could see the skeletal remains of Shoreline Park off to my right, the great fretwork arch of the Whirlaway coaster draped across the face of the waxing moon like a spiderweb. People were always coming up with new projects that were going to turn the little manmade island back into a dynamo of the local economy-hotels, office complexes, even one plan for a mid-bay golf course-but somehow they all came to nothing, and the abandoned amusement park just kept getting rustier and more decrepit. Nowadays it mainly got used as a location for low-budget zombie apocalypse movies.

  4442 East Charleston was pretty much what I’d figured it would be, one of those single-story warehouse condos for small wholesalers and light retail, the business equivalent of the Island of Misfit Toys. Suite D was empty and shuttered, also as I expected. I should have brought my break-in tools (again, none of your business) but they were in one of the packing boxes from my apartment, and I hadn’t had the time to find them. Anyway, it was impossible to tell from outside when anyone had last occupied the office suite, but just for due diligence I knocked loudly several times.

  No response from the Magian Society folks, but a dissheveled guy with several days’ growth of beard finally came out of the C space next door and asked me who
I was looking for. I wondered if his wife had kicked him out and he’d moved into his shop (which turned out to be true). He ran a little grinding business, specializing in the sharpening of some kind of exotic industrial cutting blades, and was quite willing to talk-a little too willing. He told me within the first minute that he’d never seen the tenants of Suite D, had no idea what they did or sold, and had often wondered if anyone was using the space at all, but it took me another ten minutes to get away from him, and I had to admire some of his machinery and reject several offers of a beer first.

  All the way back across the city to my motel I rolled the newest bits around in my mind. I had confirmation of a connection between the African gentleman and the Magian Society, and I had a name for him, or at least a pseudonym. Also, judging by how quickly he’d scuttled over to cover his tracks at the Walker place, I was pretty sure that he knew I was looking for him. I had got the name of the landlord for the Charleston address from the grinder guy and decided that might be a place to start tomorrow, if luck kept the local deaths down to a minimum, so I had some free time.

  Of course, no sooner did I think this than the phone rang, summoning me to a heart attack in a Spanishtown apartment building.

  The deceased, who seemed to be the beloved patriarch of a large Honduran-American family, eventually turned out to be a nasty old bastard who defeated my best efforts to paint him as a product of his culture and era. He hadn’t actually killed or raped anyone, but his record was poor, and I was lucky to get him off with about a thousand years in Purgatory. I couldn’t help hoping it would do him some good, because even as his soul stood looking at his own corpse and his dry-eyed family, he was complaining that he deserved better. He was still bitching when the light took him.

  Anyway, it was a nasty grind, and by the time I stepped out of the Zipper and back into real-world Spanishtown, it was nearly two in the morning. (Time continues to pass Inside while you’re Outside, if I didn’t already mention that, although not always at exactly the same rate.) All I wanted to do was get back to my motel, pour a drink, and call Fatback, who would have cycled to man-brain-and-pig-body by now, then fall into bed. But I was also on edge due to recent events, so when I heard a noise at the other end of the client’s apartment garage, I stopped in my tracks and yanked out my.38. Yes, my pulse was elevated. You damn betcha.