“No. I don’t think I have.”
“You should come over. I have some stopping by. You’ll see how lame the Devil’s minions are. Maybe it’ll make you feel better about Hell and things.”
“I’m not sure about that but it would be good to talk about what you showed me in the bar. Your hand, I mean.”
“I’ll send a cab for you. When you get to the hotel, call me from the lobby and take the elevator to the top floor. I’ll come out and get you.”
“All right.”
I pick up the house phone and dial room service.
“Yes, Mr. Macheath?”
“Hi. I’d like some food sent up.”
“Certainly, sir. What would you like?”
“I don’t know. What do you have?”
“Our steaks are very good. And we have a chef’s special salmon today. It’s grilled and rubbed with a—”
“That sounds good. I tell you what. I don’t know what my guests will want, so send up a little bit of everything. Whatever you think is good. And not too many frilly dishes with mango-chutney goddamn glaze or diarrhea chilis. You don’t have to tart up meat to make it good. Make sure there are some ribs and a porterhouse steak medium. And desserts. Send a bunch of those. And black coffee.”
“Will there be anything else?”
Drunk on power, I say, “Yeah, a bottle of Aqua Regia.”
“Just one?”
I move the phone to the other ear to make sure I heard him right.
“You have Aqua Regia?”
“We have several bottles left from the case in your private stock.”
Goddamn Samael was smart. I have a lot to learn about the evil game.
“Just one bottle for now but stand by for a possible drinking binge.”
“Yes, sir. The first dishes will start arriving in thirty to forty minutes.”
“You’re my hero.”
Hell yes, it’s good to be king.
Father Traven and the first round of food arrive around the same time. All he says as I take him through the grandfather clock is, “Oh.” Then, “Oh my” on the other side.
“Welcome to the dark side, Father.”
Waiters wheel in cart after cart of food and line them up neatly against the wall like a satanic buffet.
I pick up a pork rib in Texas red sauce and take a big bite. It isn’t Carlos’s tamales but it’ll do.
“Eat up. The Christians said this much food is gluttony and the Greeks said it’s a sign of a small mind. Might as well dive in because we’re already fucked.”
He smiles but approaches the food cautiously, like there might be a tiramisu-shaped pipe bomb somewhere. Traven picks up some red grapes and puts one in his mouth. Smiles and nods.
“Weak, Father. Very weak.”
He walks over and sits on the arm of a plush light blue sofa. He’s a little like Merihim. Out of his own space, all he can do is wander and perch.
“Have you ever heard of Blue Heaven?” I ask.
“It’s an old song.”
“Aside from that.”
“I’m afraid not. Are you sure, whatever, it is that’s its real name?”
“You’re right. Blue Heaven does sound a little carefree for an extra-dimensional power spot.”
“I’ll look into it if you’d like.”
“Thanks.”
He picks a couple of grapes off the stem, sets them on his plate, but doesn’t eat them.
He says, “I wanted to ask you a favor.”
“I’ve got plenty of everything. What do you need?”
“I reacted badly when you showed me your hand last night. I was wondering if you’d show it to me again.”
“Sure.”
I take off the glove and roll up my sleeve. I sit beside him on the sofa so he can get a good look.
“It’s just an arm, you know. Kind of an ugly one but it’s still just an arm.”
“How did you lose your real one?”
“In a fight. I used to be a gladiator but I’m a little out of practice. The Hellion I was fighting took it off in one clean shot.”
“My God.”
“I killed him, so the story has a happy ending.”
“I’m glad for you.”
He drops his grapes into an ashtray and sits on the sofa looking shaken.
“Listen, man, I keep telling you that I’m not sure the excommunication thing matters anymore. When I say I have an in with God, I’m not kidding. I know the guy and at least one part of Him likes me.”
“What do you mean one part?”
“Didn’t I tell you? God had a nervous breakdown and split into five little Gods. But like I said, I’m pretty well acquainted with one of them.”
“You are?”
He shakes his head. Holds up his hands and drops them into his lap.
“If any of this is supposed to comfort me, I’m afraid it’s not working.”
I go to the buffet and get the Aqua Regia bottle and two glasses.
“Ask me whatever’s on your mind.”
He takes a breath.
“Let’s say that I really am going to Hell with no hope of salvation. You said you could help me. That means you know someone in power? I guess what I mean is . . . have you ever seen Lucifer and does he hate the clergy as much as I’ve heard he does?”
I set the bottle and glasses on the table between us.
“Father, I am Lucifer.”
He looks at me, waiting for the punch line. When I don’t give him one, he leans back on the sofa and laughs his weary old-soldier laugh.
“And here I thought you were my friend. The prince of lies is right.”
“I am your friend and I didn’t lie to you. I wasn’t always Lucifer. Trust me. I didn’t ask for the job. The previous Lucifer forced it on me. That’s how I know if you end up in Hell you’ll be taken care of. I run the goddamn place.”
He gets up and goes to the buffet. Shovels fruit and cheese onto a plate and brings it back.
“God is in pieces and you’re the Devil. You’re right. I might as well eat.”
“That’s the spirit.”
I go back over and spoon black caviar and sour cream onto a plate.
“You know, if anyone should be freaked out here, it’s me. You’re like the third person I’ve told about the Lucifer thing and everyone is taking it really well. I mean, I’d like just a little polite shock and horror when I tell people I’m the king of evil.”
Traven spreads Brie on a cracker with the care and attention of a sculptor.
“If people don’t seem shocked, maybe it’s because it’s a bit much to process all at once. And you do have a colorful history.”
“So that’s what people say behind my back. That I’m colorful.”
“Would you rather be boring?”
“Sign me up.”
There’s nothing sadder in this word than a true-blue Satanist. I don’t mean the ones who dress in black, listen to Ronnie Dio, and use the Devil as an excuse to throw graveyard key parties. I mean the ones who’ve bought the gaff that if they pray to the baddest of the bad, he’ll drop doubloons, luck, and hotties in their laps all the livelong day and then, when they die, they’ll get their own castles and pitchforks and get to join the endless torture party. They’re the ones I feel sorry for. Haven’t they figured out that Lucifer cares even less about his flock than God cares about His? Some of these nit
wits have actually met Lucifer and he treated them like expired meat.
Career devil worshippers are Dungeons & Dragons freaks that never grew up and still believe that if they had just one superpower they’d be the belles of the ball or prom king. On the one hand, I want to FedEx them hot cocoa and a pile of self-help books. And on the other hand, I want to use them ruthlessly for whatever I can squeeze out of their service bottom carcasses. Maybe when I have more time, I can play Dr. Phil and get them to do an honest inventory of their collective psychoses. Right now, though, I’m on a timetable and I don’t have time for tea and sympathy. Maybe the best thing I can do is show them what Hell is really like. Make them copy the entire Oxford English Dictionary onto three-by-five cards. Stamp them. Date them. Put each word in a separate folder and file it. Then take all the words out, burn them, and start over. Do it until I say stop and of course I never will. They’ll use up all the ink in the world and all the paper in the western hemisphere. Some will slit their wrists with a thousand paper cuts. Others will get cancer from the ink fumes or go snow-blind from the scanner. Welcome to Hell. It’s just like high school but with more boredom and entrails.
I don’t know if Samael put them there, or the hotel, but the bedroom closet is full of suits and expensive shirts and shoes. I toss my ripped shirt on the bed and pick out a purple one so dark it’s almost black. Samael wore shirts like this because the color hid the blood seeping from an old wound. The Greeks and Romans considered it the color of royalty and that wouldn’t appeal to Samael’s vanity. No. Not one bit.
Someone is knocking on the grandfather clock. Traven sets his plate down on the table. He looks like he’s waiting for the seven plagues to stroll out of the clock.
Three people come in. A trinity. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our boredom.
There’s Amanda Fischer, a high-society babe with a young woman’s face and a crone’s hands. Plastic surgery or hoodoo? Your guess is as good as mine.
With her is a man about her age carrying a briefcase. He’s balding and seems to be compensating for it by growing bushy muttonchops. He looks like her husband. Maybe muscle or an over-the-hill skinhead. The third one is a dark-haired young guy with a bland pretty-boy face and dressed so perfectly in Hugo Boss he can probably recite back issues of GQ by heart. All three of them are caked black with sin signs, like they crawled here through one of Cherry Moon’s tunnels.
The disappointment on their faces is spectacular. Samael is Rudolph Valentino handsome. When they see my scarred mug, they wonder if they’re in the right room. Maybe they stepped through the wrong magic clock.
“Hello,” says Amanda. “We’re here to see our master, Lucifer.”
“You’re looking at him, Brenda Starr.”
“I’ve seen you before. You’re his bodyguard.”
I take a bite of a rib and suck the barbecue sauce off my fingers.
“Do you think Lucifer has access to only one body? Look into my eyes. Can’t you sense my power and glory and all the other shit that makes your crowd moist?”
“Do you know who you’re talking to? Watch your mouth,” says Muttonchops. He has a high-toned British accent. The kind that says, “I’ve never opened a door for myself my whole life.”
“Why do I care who she is if she doesn’t know who I am? Doesn’t the fact I’m in here with many tasty snacks tell you something?”
“Yes,” Muttonchops says. “That you’re a clever enough impostor to fool the hotel. But you can’t fool us.”
“What’s he doing here?” squawks the pretty boy.
He points at Traven.
“He has the stink of God all over him.”
“He’s a colleague. If that’s a problem, you can all ride down the elevator shaft headfirst.”
Muttonchops says “There’s the proof, eh, Amanda?”
She nods.
“A crude threat not worthy of our lord. We’re leaving.”
They’re headed for the door when Traven says, “Which one of them carries the least sin?”
All three stop and look back like questioning their dedication to sin is an insult.
I look them over.
“The kid.”
Traven walks to him and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What’s your name, son?”
The kid leans back away from him.
“Luke.”
“Do you want to go to Hell, Luke?”
Luke looks at the others for help. Muttonchops takes a couple of steps in their direction but stops when the knife I throw at his feet embeds itself in the tile floor with a metallic twang.
“Do you want to go to Hell?” Traven asks.
Luke puts his hands in his jacket pockets. Stands up straight, trying to look defiant.
“To be with Lord Lucifer forever? Yes. Of course.”
“I can help you with that right now.”
Traven shoves Luke against the wall so hard his head bounces off the marble. When the kid opens his mouth to yell, Traven holds it open and leans in like he’s going to kiss him. Luke pulls back but there’s nowhere to go.
Black vapor drifts from Traven’s mouth into Luke’s. A breeze of dust. A wet, oily stream of fluid. Buzzing things like microscopic wasps. It smells like burning feathers and rancid onions. The kid’s face darkens with sin until he’s as black as Manimal Mike. When Traven steps back, Luke collapses on the floor, coughing and drooling on his designer lapels. Amanda and Muttonchops rush to him.
Traven looks down at Luke and says, “Did you think damnation would be easy?”
Amanda screams, “What have you done to my son?”
“I damned him for all eternity. Isn’t that right, Lucifer?”
“The father here gave him a black karma enema. Luke is stuffed with more sin than the entire NBA.”
I kneel down and push up Luke’s eyelids to have a look at his pupils. They’re pinpoints. Barely visible.
“You understand that there are traditions and procedures Downtown. My guess is that bloated with this much sin, there isn’t much I can do for him. He’ll end up on a paddleboat on the river of fire. Or in the Cave of the Despised, with razor crystals and flesh-eating spiders. Which do you think he’d prefer, Mom?”
Muttonchops looks at the kid. Takes out a silver coin and puts it on the kid’s tongue. Black tarnish creeps over its face. In a few seconds it looks a hundred years old. He looks at Amanda.
“He’s telling the truth. I’ve never seen so much sin in one body.”
He turns to me and bows his head.
“Forgive us, Lucifer. We were blinded by your outward appearance and couldn’t see the real you.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to nose-polish my ass Downtown. Right now I want the answers to my questions.”
“And my son?” says Amanda.
“Answer my questions and I’ll see what I can do for Little Lord Fuckitall.”
“Praise to you, my lord.”
“He wishes to only be addressed as Lucifer,” Amanda says to Muttonchops.
“Forgive me.”
Luke opens his eyes and tries to push Amanda away but he’s too weak. She and Muttonchops help him to the sofa and leave him slumped like a jellyfish on a rocking chair.
“You asked about Blue Heaven,” says Muttonchops.
He takes a piece of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket.
“It has many names but its real name t
ranslates roughly as ‘the Dayward.’ It doesn’t exist in any one location. It exists in time. It’s said that in 1582, when Pope Gregory switched from the old Julian to the Christian calendar, fifteen days were lost. Those fifteen days, existing outside of our space and time, are the Dayward. Blue Heaven.”
“And how do you get there?”
“I haven’t been able to find that out, Lucifer.”
“Not a good start, Lemmy. What about the little girl?”
Amanda touches the back of her hand to Luke’s forehead. Brushes back some hair that’s fallen over his face.
“We don’t have her true name but we believe that her living form was a child known as the Imp of Madrid. She actually lived in Sangre de Sant Joan, a trading village outside of the city. The story is that she killed and mutilated travelers along the nearby road. When people stopped traveling there, she killed the inhabitants of a nearby town. When they called in priests and wolf hunters for protection, she killed them and turned on her own people. After she murdered and mutilated half the village, the men managed to corner her in a barn and lock her in. They burned her alive. When they found her body, a priest dismembered her corpse, down to the individual bones. They believed that if you left bodies inhabited by evil spirits intact, they could reanimate. By separating the bones, she couldn’t revive. A child’s body has two hundred and eight bones. They buried each one in a separate grave. The Imp of Madrid’s body takes up an entire cemetery. No one else has ever been buried there and the ground remains unconsecrated.”
“So, a typical Valley girl.”
No laughs. Even Traven won’t give me a polite smile. Bunch of stiffs.
“Have you ever heard of something called the Qomrama Om Ya?”
“No,” says Amanda.
“What about you, Wolverine?”
Muttonchops shakes his head.
“I’m sorry, Lucifer.”
I go to the buffet and pick up a piece of rumaki. Hold it up for the room.
“Dig in. There’s plenty for everyone.”
Amanda glances at Luke.
SS 04: Devil Said Bang: A Sandman Slim Novel Page 24
