Devil Take Me

by Jordan L. Hawk

  “Why bother denying it?” a waiter was demanding. “There was no one else who could’ve possibly done it.”

  The hostess was in tears. “What the hell are you—? How dare you? After all these years, how dare you?”

  “And then, to look us in the eye and lie about it. Just say it, Mary. Admit what you did.”

  “It wasn’t me! You want proof? Here!” She dumped out her purse on the counter. A tube of lipstick fell out, a comb, a wad of tissues, a handful of change. One of the quarters bounced to the floor, rolled halfway to the door, spun on its edge an impossibly long time, wobbled lazily, and clattered to its side.

  The waiter was unimpressed. “No one else had access to the till.”

  “Why would I tell everyone about the twenty and then steal it?”

  “How should I know? Maybe you thought there were two.”

  “I don’t… have… the money.”

  When Mary ripped open her blouse, I was standing by the coat check, invisible as usual. I remember thinking that even if she had noticed I was there, she probably would’ve done it anyway. She’d slept with all the waiters—she was on the pill—and very nearly managed to seduce me, even though, by that tender age, I knew damn well I liked dick.

  “You wanna frisk me?” she spat. “How about a cavity search?”

  I’ll never forget the sight of her that night, a vision of innocence wronged—smudged eyeliner and flushed, tear-stained cheeks, hair the color of apricots sliding from her carefully pinned bouffant, high-heeled stance planted wide in wickedly pointed red leather pumps, tight skirt rucked up above her knees, blouse torn open to reveal the rigid structure of her brassiere. Angry. And gorgeous in her defiance and strength.

  “Put your clothes on, whore,” the waiter sneered. “No one wants to see that.”

  Mary’s righteous anger drained. She pulled her ruined blouse around her and attempted to wrap herself in her few shreds of dignity. Without another word—and without her share of the tips—she scooped her things back into her purse, gathered it to her chest, and strode out into the night.

  Tips that night were pretty mediocre, but when I slipped out the back door to make my way home, I wasn’t all that put out. Even after such a short lifetime of disappointment, I’d trained myself not to expect much. Maybe all the sheep do.

  I was checking for my bus when I saw the black Coupe de Ville. It was a boat of a Cadillac, all broad sweeping curves, with sharp fins and impeccable whitewall tires. The great beast lurked at the curb, practically invisible against the night. Other than the whitewalls, the only thing that showed on it was the reflection of the surrounding lights. I’d seen my share of fancy cars around Calvary, especially around the Inferno, but the big black Caddy topped them all.

  I don’t know who I expected to be inside the car. Old money? An older, stiff-upper-lip driver who’d prefer a Cadillac to a Ferrari. But I sure as hell didn’t expect Mary to tumble out of the passenger seat and slam the door behind her with a vigorous, “Fuck off!”

  Mary might be dramatic, but she didn’t bother with the drama when she wasn’t playing to an audience, and she had no idea I was watching. After she flipped off the Caddy’s driver, she didn’t cry and she didn’t cower, just headed toward the subway like she was eager to put the night behind her. Maybe I would’ve gone to check on her if she’d seemed a little more… vulnerable. Then again, maybe not. I was just a kid. And I’d never been one to stick my neck out.

  I thought about it, though. A car rolls down a tinted window and someone tells you to get in, well, maybe you’d normally keep walking. But with no tips and the daunting prospect of finding a new job, how tempting would it be to at least hear what they had to offer?

  Then again, she seemed awfully pissed off. And it’s not like anyone who’d climb into a stranger’s car would have such delicate sensibilities. So… what kind of sick shit had he asked her to do?

  I was busy watching Mary make tracks when the bus passed me by. That time of night, it would be another hour or more until the next one, so I ran after it and tried to wave it down. The bus driver saw me—I caught his eye in the sideview. But the bastard didn’t even slow.

  I was stooped over, hands on my knees, catching my breath and swearing up a storm, when the black Caddy pulled a U-turn and the passenger window rolled down.

  I stood up quick, and said, “What?”

  The driver’s face was in the shadows. He crooked his finger. Normally I might’ve flipped him off and walked away like Mary had, but thanks to that tool of a bus driver, I had an hour to kill.

  Maybe I was curious too. Mary might be too proud to take his money, but I sucked off strangers for free… and it couldn’t hurt to find out the going price.

  I approached the Caddy and the door clicked open, but I didn’t see the driver lean over and open it. As someone who’d never scraped together enough savings to buy a car of his own, I didn’t find that odd. Power locks, FM radio—how would I know what came with the primo accessory package?

  Like I said, I was curious… and stupid. So I climbed in.

  “Tell me,” the driver said. “Can you imagine what it would be like if life were fair?”

  It was an older guy. Striking. A startling white smile, and ebony hair slicked back with brilliantine. Maybe my grandfather’s age—the likely reason Mary didn’t go through with it. Me, though? I was still willing to hear the offer. He wasn’t especially wrinkled or dirty. He didn’t have that chewing-tobacco-and-rotting-teeth smell that hung around my bitter old grandpa. He didn’t smell like much of anything. Beyond the suggestion of immaculately kept leather upholstery, the only thing I scented in that car was the faintest whiff of sulfur, like someone had just struck a match.

  The driver looked me up and down and said, “You strike me as a perceptive young man.”

  That really should’ve been my first clue that I was dealing with the Prince of Lies.

  Chapter Two

  1979

  JOHNNY

  THE WORST part about being Chosen is having the veil lifted from your eyes and seeing how the world really works. People think money makes the world go ’round, but that’s not exactly true. Real currency doesn’t live in a bank vault. The way it’s accrued and spent is nowhere near that simple.

  Last call had been called, and the most persistent rummies booted out onto the greasy dark street. I let cleanup wait until the next day. The smell of cigarettes and spilled beer added to the gin-mill ambience, the one that boldly proclaimed, You don’t like it? Go someplace else.

  People came anyway. Because I’m Chosen? Doubtful. It had been years since I cashed in any favors. More likely they wanted somewhere to drink when the movie house down the block let out.

  The joint was busy enough—at least in short bursts after showtimes—that I’d taken on a second bartender to help out on weekends. Hired him over the phone, sight unseen, when he told me, with no hesitation, how to make a Long Island Iced Tea. I’d never had an order more complicated than Jack and Coke, but it was easier than checking his references.

  Turned out Shawn was a good-looking kid. I could’ve done without the leather and studs and bondage pants—he didn’t need to try that hard. But there was a certain something about the way he held his hips that hinted he’d be good in bed. If I cared whether or not my run-down bar was profitable, I would’ve been pleased to have him manning the tap and raking in the business with his casual flirtiness. But I didn’t.

  Besides, he only had eyes for me.

  Most people avoid rejection. But then there are the ones who find it an aphrodisiac.

  “You can go home,” I told him.

  He gave me a sultry smile. “I could… but what’s the fun in that?”

  I feel sorry for sheep—they don’t sense the darkness. If he had any inkling of the real me, he wouldn’t be half as eager to screw. “I’m only going to say this once, so pay attention. You’re not my type.”

  He cocked his head, as if it would help the foreign c
oncept sink in. “But everyone says you drive stick.”

  “Go.” I held the door open for him, and he stepped through. I followed him out and pulled it shut behind me.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” he singsonged playfully.

  Oh, I had a pretty good idea. I also knew that once our fluids cooled on the sweaty sheets, I’d loathe myself even more than I already did. “Good night, Shawn.”

  With a melodramatic sigh, he sketched an elaborate bow, chains clinking on his leather jacket, and said, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” He walked away.

  I slid a look at his retreating back. I wasn’t tempted to go after him, just disappointed that I didn’t even want to.

  The security gate squealed as I yanked it shut. Back when the joint fell into my lap, the neighborhood was ritzy, and such heavy-handed crime deterrent was unnecessary. But in the years since my name appeared on the license, the streets went from swanky to shabby, the customers got shadier, and the demand for high-priced steaks diminished while cheap booze flowed like water.

  The Inferno still stood. But, like me, it was entirely different now than it was in 1961.

  As I clicked the padlock shut, I realized I wasn’t alone. Not Shawn—he jingled—and I didn’t hear the footsteps. I felt them… in my guts. I turned.

  Everyone else would’ve seen a slender woman around twenty, clingy polyester top and no bra underneath. Wild hair, coltish legs, high-stacked platform boots. Just the right combination of worldwise and naive. Since I knew she was Chosen, I took her outer appearance for the mere shell it was. After all, just because something’s wrapped in shiny paper doesn’t make it a gift.

  I said, “If you’re looking for Studio 54, you’ve overshot your mark.”

  “At least I make an effort. What’re you supposed to be? You’re half-starved, and you need a haircut something fierce.”

  “They say the junkie look is all the rage in New York.”

  “It’s your life.” Bored already with our banter, she shrugged and got down to business. “Anyhow, I need a favor.”

  “And I need some peace and quiet. Get lost.”

  Inky black clouds roiled inside her eyes while she wrapped her head around my refusal. Not only would helping her build my credit, but it would feel good to give in and comply. Turning down a request, though? Think of all the ugly sensations you’ve ever felt, from the crack of a rotten tooth giving way, to a betrayal by your true love. Then dial it up a few notches. That’s what it feels like when you don’t comply.

  Small wonder they’re always so confused when I tell them no.

  Normally that’s the last of it. They sense I’m one of them. They smell it—feel it. But I don’t trade in their currency, not anymore. And if I won’t play along, it’s easy enough to find someone who will. This one was persistent, though—maybe because the streets were deserted—and she took it upon herself to try to follow me home. I walked just fast enough that it was a struggle for her to keep up.

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?” she demanded. “It’s not as if you’re new at this.”

  Obviously not. All the Chosen see it in my eyes, that giant cache of favors I’ve failed to redeem. Black as sin—pupil, iris, the whole nine yards. So dark, they wouldn’t even know if I was looking at them or staring off into the distance, wishing they’d just leave me the hell alone. I’ve never seen the effect myself—it doesn’t show in mirrors. But given the remarks I’m always hearing….

  “Are you saving up for something big?”

  My eyes must be damn near solid by now.

  It would sound better to lie, to tell her I was hoarding my power to hatch some diabolical plan. And yet I didn’t care enough to bother. “Why spend favors if nothing makes me happy?”

  And with that, I lengthened my strides and listened to the canter of her platform shoes receding.

  As I rounded the block, the clopping footsteps behind me slowed when she spotted some other Chosen sap in the window of a twenty-four-hour laundromat to do her bidding. “Thanks for nothing, dillwad,” she called after me.

  I shot her a parting wave over my shoulder and made my way down the block, through a stale lobby, and up three flights of stairs brown with nicotine and littered with trash and broken dreams. I unlocked all three deadbolts on my front door and forced it open. It dragged through half a dozen slips of paper that were scattered in the entryway like pizzeria menus. I didn’t even kick them aside anymore. Just walked on past.

  The two sturdy locks I’d added to the one that came with the place were the only customization I’d bothered to do on the sorry little week-to-week hotel room I’d been renting for the past, what, three years? Shit. Four.

  A shower, a hotplate, and a sagging gray mattress. Why bother amassing more stuff? Given the things I’d have to do to land a cushy job, a fancy loft, a shiny car, it wasn’t as if any of it would make any difference. I’d realized long ago, I wasn’t willing to pay the cost of wealth.

  It was so late, it was early. I dug out my can opener, cracked open a can of soup at random, and set it on the hotplate. By the time I washed off the stink of the bar, it would be warm enough to cover up the taste of the aluminum but still cool enough to drink down without lingering. I knew this. I had my routines. They were the only thing keeping me plodding through my life.

  The shower was a pathetic dribble, but at least it was hot. There were some advantages to the cockroach hours I kept. I lingered under the crusty showerhead for an extra moment and let the pinprick spray dance on my scalp. Thought about Shawn, and wondered if I even knew what pleasure felt like anymore. Decided it was probably overrated.

  I was toweling off when I had the sneaking suspicion that something was wrong. Over the steam of the shower and the smell of cheap shampoo, I caught the faintest whiff of something burning. I dropped the towel, yanked open the door, and found my room flickering orange. The label on the soup can had browned and curled, and flames were licking up the paneling behind the hotplate. They blackened the walls and scorched the ceiling. As I made sense of what I was seeing, the yellowed smoke detector on the far wall started to bleat.

  Management kept a fire extinguisher at the top of every staircase. No idea whether they worked or not, but I’d find out. I was across the room in no time flat, but then there were the deadbolts to contend with. The orange light from behind me made my shadow dance eerily across the door as I grappled with each lock, and the water on my bare back dried in a surge of heat. After three tries, I finally struggled open the third lock, tore open the front door… and stopped cold.

  The Devil himself blocked my path. The moment I saw it was him, I realized there was no fire.

  Coercion. Illusion. It’s what he does.

  The old man kept up with the times, more or less. His suits still cost more than your typical sheep made in a month, but nowadays the slacks were high-waisted, the lapels were wide, and the silk shirt beneath it was open halfway down his chest to show off a heavy gold chain. His black hair was longer now, parted on the side and framed by a prodigious set of sideburns, and he had a tan George Hamilton would envy.

  He ignored my nakedness and said, “Why haven’t you answered my messages, Johnny? You must have known I wouldn’t simply give up and disappear.”

  “A man can always hope.” I turned and walked back into my room. The notes drifting around my door stuck to my damp feet. Surreptitiously, I checked the wall—no flames, no scorch marks, just a thin tendril of steam rising from the surface of the soup. I turned the hotplate off.

  Some men will tower over you to prove their dominance, but not the Devil. He’s as old as original sin and has zero to prove. He eased into my single chair—a vinyl bucket refugee from a long-gone dining set—leaned back, and crossed his legs.

  “Johnny, we’ve known each other how long now?”

  Too long. I scrounged up a cleanish pair of Levi’s and pulled them on.

  “Back when we first met, I told you how this was going to work. And yo
u agreed.”

  I was bone tired and dying to perch on the edge of my bed, but I stayed standing with my bare feet planted and my hands on my hips.

  “I’m a patient man.” He was neither of those things. “But even my patience has its limits. We had a deal, if you recall, and you’ve been avoiding me long enough.”

  “I remember, old man.” I crossed my arms. “I remember everything. As far as I’m concerned, we each met our end of the bargain. Which means I’ve got nothing left to say to you.”

  To demonstrate that I planned to go on with my evening whether he was sitting there staring at me or not, I reached around him, grabbed my soup, and started slurping it out of the hot can. It was all an act, though. I hardly tasted it—even less than usual—and could barely force the stuff down past the knot in my throat.

  He watched me with a patience born from centuries of lurking in the shadows. I may be stubborn, but there’s only so much I can take. His presence was disturbing on a deep, subconscious level. Maybe it was just the gut reaction of prey to predator.

  I dropped the empty can, wiped my mouth dry with the side of my hand, and said, “What’s it gonna take to get you out of here?”

  “I need a favor.”

  So help me, I laughed—a dry chuckle with only a passing resemblance to mirth. “You’ve got a whole world full of minions to do your bidding. Why me?”

  “Why else? You’re the best man for the job.”

  “In case you haven’t been paying attention, I’m full up. I stopped cashing in my favors years ago. In fact, I’ve accrued so much interest, I could march right into the White House, give that peanut farmer the boot, and declare myself President. So what possible reason could I have to help you out?”

  I’d pointed out the current state of my unbalanced ledgers to prove he couldn’t tempt me, but he’d had millennia to polish his game. Judging by the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, I’d shown my hand too soon… and he did indeed have something to tempt me with.