by Dick Denny
I was pretty sure I’d not fallen asleep because I was just lying there staring at the stained tiles in the ceiling. So if I were asleep that definitely rated as the shittiest dream ever. Also, 1994 Kathy Ireland hadn’t shown up yet, further evidence I wasn’t dreaming. I lie waiting, gently moving my thumb and rubbing the soft skin between Gretchen’s thumb and forefinger. It gave me something to focus on, and it felt nice.
We’d both agreed beforehand to not look at each other, because that might evolve into kissing, touching, doing it, and that would be a horrible state for your shared guardian angel to catch you.
I glanced down past my feet as I heard the knock on the door from the office. “You two decent?”
I smiled as I heard the rich voice call through the door. “Yeah.” I squeezed Gretchen’s hand and sat up in the bed, kicking my legs over the side and moving to the door, opening it.
There he stood, in a finely tailored black suit that made me think of when Sam Axe would play his alias Chuck Finley on Burn Notice. Bruce Campbell raised the bottle of Fireball whiskey to his lips and took a good tug. “You know, I shouldn’t encourage the drug use.”
“Sorry.” I scratched the top of my head. “I didn’t know how else to vision quest and we needed to talk.”
“I don’t know about WE needing to talk.” He smiled. “But I do agree that YOU needed to talk.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Thus the mescaline.”
He smiled and shook his head with genuine disapproval.
“What?” I asked a little offended at his juxtaposition. “Not like you left me a goddamned cellphone number or anything.”
He tsked and took another sip of Fireball. “Come on, Nick, watch the blasphemy.”
I felt Gretchen slide in next to me under my arm. I reflexively gave her a squeeze which, gratifyingly, she leaned into.
Bruce smiled and held out his hand to Gretchen. “I’m your guardian angel by the way.”
Gretchen smiled as she shook his hand. “I'm a huge fan, and Nick told me. It’s an honor.”
He sighed. “You know, I’m not really Bruce Campbell, right?”
Gretchen giggled. “Yeah, but you’ll do.”
That made me laugh.
“So,” Bruce said, obviously trying to change the subject, “what do you need to talk about?”
“Baalberieth.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Can’t help you there, kid, different team.”
That was a little deflating. “Uriel?”
His eyebrows shot up at that one. “What about Uriel?”
“Why is he in town?” Gretchen asked as she reached out, letting her fingers brush over his forearm. It was like she wanted to see if he was real but didn’t want to be obvious or impolite about it.
“She.” Bruce smiled glancing down at Gretchen’s hand, having obviously figured out what she was doing.
“She?”
He nodded. “Uriel’s female, or at least form’s female; it’s not like angels are really anything. Archangels more so.” He turned and sauntered back into the office and Gretchen and I followed. We oddly, naturally took our places behind our desks and Bruce settled himself into one of the chairs. “So, what do you want to know about Uriel?”
“What’s he like?” Gretchen asked as she kicked her feet up on the corner of the desk.
“She,” he corrected. “Well, all the archangels had a purpose. Zadkiel the Bannerman, Gabrielle the Herald, Michael the Champion, blah blah blah. Get it? Well, Uriel was the Watcher.”
I felt my brow furrow and for a moment was surprised I didn’t have wrinkles between my eyes to match my crow’s feet. “Was?”
Bruce shrugged and lifted the bottle of Fireball back to his lips. “Well, everything got cocked up when your uncle Lucifer blew the coop, didn’t it?”
“How so?”
Bruce leaned forward to set the bottle on the desk. “Well, he was supposed to be the big Who-Ha. He was supposed to manage the house while the Father got busy doing Father stuff. But without Lucifer behind the wheel, the car went a little nuts. It really didn’t bother us lesser choirs, didn’t really mess with my job at all. But the archangels…” He shrugged and held his hands out helplessly. “They’re stuck doing jobs that were never really theirs to deal with.”
“Such as?” Gretchen asked, while switching which foot was on top of the other.
I saw Bruce check out her shapely calf and as much thigh as he could gander. I figured that was an affectation he took on with the persona he’d chosen for Gretchen and me, and not really our guardian angel checking out my soulmate. But who the hell knows?
“Well, Michael was just supposed to be the Champion, but now he’s running the War Host of Heaven, because who else could do it? Gabrielle was just supposed to be the Herald, but as you’ve figured out, she’s also the—how would you call it?—the Pelopetentary of the Throne?”
“The fuck does that mean?” I blurted.
Bruce smiled like he’d forgotten for a moment what level of dumbass I was. “Super ambassador with deal-making powers.”
“Okay.”
“So, Uriel, her job changed. She was the Chief Watcher and responsible for stuff like the sun.” He chuckled. “There’s a human apocryphal story about Lucifer finding earth because of Uriel, but that’s just silly. For as disorganized as things around the Throne can be now, part of the reason is Lucifer was really good at his job and he left a vacuum behind him.”
“So, Uriel?” I was trying to put the train back on the tracks even as it seemed to be running full-steam ahead.
“So, Uriel,” he smiled and clapped his hands to his knees, “went from Chief Watcher to the Huntress of Heaven.”
“Well, that’s a fucking leap, isn’t it?” I groaned; shit wasn’t getting any better. Why could no one ever give us good news?
He raised an eyebrow and cocked his famous chin out as he looked up, mock thoughtfully. “Is it? What do hunters do but watch and wait? Isn’t that the majority of the job? The killing is really the smallest bit, right? So who would be better at hunting than the Throne’s perfect watcher, who is immortal, so waiting isn’t a concern?”
Gretchen nodded, showing she had no issue with following the logic Bruce was laying out for us. “So what’s she hunting?”
Bruce leaned his elbows on his knees and smiled. “I have no idea.”
“What do you mean you don't know?” You could hear the crushing frustration in Gretchen’s voice. Like hope was standing on a rug and Bruce just jerked it out from under.
Bruce laughed. He held his hand up above his head. “Okay, you’re talking about archangels, they’re up here.” He wiggled his hand a little. Then he dropped his hand down to just above the armrest of his chair. “I’m just guardian angel, I’m right here. So do you think folks up here,” he shot his hand back over his head, “talk to folks down here?” He brought his hand back down.
Gretchen chewed her lip. The silence hung in the air and Bruce sat with a quizzical look on his face. The silence was heavy like a straight jacket. “No?” Gretchen finally offered.
Bruce golf clapped. “Plus,” he added, “even if I did know, which I don’t, I doubt I’d be able to tell you.”
“Fair enough.” I nodded. I was in the Army long enough to get how classified and privileged information worked.
“Thanks for understanding.” I watched Bruce Campbell pick the bottle of Fireball up.
I reached in my drawer and pulled out my Macallan bottle. Gretchen grabbed glasses, and I poured two then looked to Bruce. “Want one?”
He smiled and shook the Fireball bottle. “Thanks, but I’m good. Your good stuff would be wasted on me.”
“What do you know about Baalberieth?” I asked as I put the bottle up.
“Not much more than you.” Bruce sounded disappointed he couldn’t help on that account. “He is Hell’s notary, though, so it probably is contract stuff.”
“The fuck?”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, h
e notarizes Hell’s contracts.”
“The fuck?” I felt like a broken record, but my thoughts were accurately and succinctly conveyed.
“Well,” Bruce offered, “you know how archangels are all archangels of something? Michael’s got paratroopers and warriors and stuff, blah blah blah, right? Well, Baalberieth was an archangel before he got the boot with Lucifer.”
“So?” Gretchen asked, kicking her feet off the desk and leaning forward.
“Well, Baalberieth was the Archangel of Lawyers.”
I don’t know how long we sat there in silence but it lasted. “So?” I finally asked.
“Well, come on,” Bruce laughed. “Why do you think all lawyers go to hell now? Why do you think lawyers get a bad rep? A bus full of lawyers goes off a cliff, what do you call it?”
Gretchen and I answered simultaneously: “A good start.”
“Exactly,” he chuckled. “I mean, how many millions of dollars did that idiot get suing that fast food place over getting burned with coffee now they have to put HOT on all the disposable mugs? Do you think that was the Throne’s doing? That was all Baalberieth.”
“So the Throne doesn’t get involved with legal stuff?” Gretchen asked.
“Not often,” Bruce admitted.
“When was the last time?” Gretchen persisted.
Bruce thought about it for a moment. “Flint v. Falwell. Jerry was being a tool and the Father decided to handwave it in Larry’s favor. But he usually is a pretty hands-off deity.”
“Who is Larry Flint?” Gretchen asked.
Bruce and I both looked at her with shock and surprise.
“The fuck?” I asked.
My The fuck? was run together with Bruce’s, “Seriously?”
Gretchen nodded with all earnestness that was frankly as adorable as the circumstances were shocking.
Bruce chuckled. “The owner and publisher of Hustler.”
“Okay?” Gretchen asked still oddly unaware.
Bruce laughed wholeheartedly this time. “Nick can explain it later.”
There was nothing I could say while Bruce threw me under that bus.
“So,” he asked, “anything else you wacky kids need? I gotta bounce.”
“There an easier way to get in touch with you?” I asked.
He smiled. “Yeah, call me.”
“How?” Gretchen asked.
“On the phone.” He seemed confused that no one was understanding the concept. “Why didn’t you do that this time, by the way?”
“We didn’t have your number,” Gretchen confessed and shot me a look wondering if I had the number and forgot it.
I shook my head. “Hey, he never gave me his number.”
Bruce reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a business card and handed it to me. It was a white card, black lettering; Patrick Bateman wouldn’t have approved at all. It simply read:
Bruce Campbell (not that one)
G.A.
555-555-2662
“I thought 555 numbers were just for movies?” Gretchen asked as I showed her the card.
“It is, but it works for us, too.” He smiled and stepped to the door. “Good seeing you.” And then he was gone.
We looked at the card.
Gretchen scratched her head. “2662?”
I thought about it for a minute. Then it hit me and sadly it made as much sense as anything else. “Boob. 2662 on a phone spells boob.”
Chapter Six
Another One of My Dumbass Plans
“Latest Disaster” Stroke 9
I don’t know if after the vision quest Gretchen and I went back to bed and slept. I know if we did sleep, it was only for a few hours, and the entire time I dreamed of staring at the ceiling. So I’m willing to bet I didn’t sleep at all and simply stared at the ceiling. And my eyes were so fucked afterward I’m also sure I didn’t blink at all. I felt a little better after splashing water on my face and drinking a can of Dr. Pepper.
There are a couple of types of people, but sometimes it’s useful to narrow it down to a binary problem, i.e. there are two types of people. Those who love the movie Krull, and those that can fuck the fuck off. Or there are two types of guys, those that have been to a strip club, and those that have lied about the fact they’ve been to a strip club.
Well, when it comes to thinking things through and making plans, some people are screwdrivers. They can twist and turn things and wrap things around threads. Now as much as I see the value in a person that can pull off that kind of thing, that’s just not really a skill set I have. I’m too shortsighted and dumbassed, I guess, for that kind of thing. What I am is a hammer: I bang nails flat and break shit.
To be fair, I know for a fact that a screwdriver person has never killed an archangel. And again, to be fair, I probably shouldn’t be overly proud and brag about that.
So when Gretchen asked me, “Do you have a plan?” no one should be surprised by the dumbassery I came up with.
“We’re going to the Wedge Wood, and I’m going to have a fucking conversation with Doc Douchebag Demon of Murder Archdemon of Lawyers or whatever the fuck he wants to call himself.”
Gretchen mulled that over for a moment, nodding before answering slowly as she brushed a few strands of her raven hair back behind her ear. It was a sweet but innocuously seductive gesture. Were there a How to Draw Men’s Eyes playbook, the hair behind the ear maneuver would be right there with the look over the top of your glasses.
“That’s…” Gretchen bit her lip, page three of the, how to draw men’s eyes playbook, “ballsy.”
I smirked and shrugged with practiced nonchalance. “It’s ballsy if it works. If I end up with my fucking head chopped off via demon ax then it’ll be remembered as reckless, so, you know, no worse than any other plan I come up with.”
Gretchen smiled, and it was like a Sweet Tart without any damned Tart. “Maybe you watched Raiders of the Lost Ark one too many times as a kid.”
My eyes narrowed and I shot her a dirty look. In fact, I felt the Wrath jump in my guts and I focused on her to quash it. “You take that back.”
She smiled and brushed her fingers over my cheek and the Wrath subsided. “I’m sorry, it’s the best movie in the world.”
I smiled and pulled her into a hug. We stood like that for a few moments.
“Where do you want me?” she asked quietly.
“Anyway, anywhere I can have you.” I chuckled. “But today post up in the stairs and get ready to come rescue me if shit goes sideways.”
She walked over and took a Craftsman tool bag from the closet then took her double pistol belt. She drew one of her custom .357 single-action Army Colts and made sure there were six rounds in the cylinder before repeating with the second.
I’d like to say we knew things would work out fine, but in all honesty, we didn’t. Gretchen and I had taken it as our mantra to hope for the best but to be ready when shit hits the fan because with us it tended to.
I pulled on my shoulder rig and slid my 1911 out of the holster. I pulled back on the slide about half an inch and saw that there was brass. I eased the slide back forward then gently lowered the hammer before putting it back under my arm. The weight of the pistol and magazines was familiar, an eternal prop for the costume of the character of Nick in A Tale Told by an Idiot. Full of Sound and Fury. Signifying Nothing.
I watched Gretchen zip up the tool bag as I pulled on my suit jacket. “What do you think of hacking off a few feet of the stick so you can take the Spear with you?”
She looked to me, then to the Spear of Destiny leaning in the corner, then back to me confused. “Why don’t I just collapse the staff?”
“The fuck?”
She walked over and took the Spear. I watched her fingers deftly play with something and the six-foot shaft shrunk down to one foot. She smiled and twirled the Spear tip and shortened staff like a high school majorette with her baton; to the point that she was giving an overly large fake smile and holding her other hand out
dramatic to the point of dumbassery.
“How the hell did you do that?”
She smiled and twirled the shortened Spear. “It’s all in the fingers and balance.”
“No,” I sighed, knowing I walked into that one. “How did you shrink the fucker?”
“Oh,” she seemed surprised. Like someone drinking water then asking what is this? “Well, the Sisters in Shadow have had these bo staffs for years, easily collapsible for concealment. It’s all carbon fiber and polymers and lightweight metals and—”
“Ninja shit,” I interrupted. “Just say science-y ninja shit.”
She flashed her smile and nodded.
Like a perv I watched her change into a pair of yoga pants, her pouch belt, a gray tank top, her Docs, and a dark green duster-looking jacket that fell to her knees. The jacket hid the two feet of collapsed Spear.
“I feel like I need a hat,” she said as she looked at herself in the mirror.
“I got some ball caps in the closet,” I offered, not that I thought she needed it.
“No.” She bit her lip in intense concentration. “A driving cap maybe? A beret?”
“Not a beret,” I said that way too quickly to get away with not explaining it. But that didn’t mean I was going to offer anything either.
“Come on…” she walked over and needled my ribs. “Spill it.”
“I just don’t like berets.”
“Didn’t you wear one in the Army?” She intentionally cocked her head to the side in an effort—successful, I might add—to be cute.
“Yeah, why do you think I fucking hate berets?”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They don’t keep your head warm when it’s cold, don’t keep your head cool when it’s hot, don’t keep the sun or rain out of your eyes. They’re as goddamned useless as your average fucking Frenchman in a fight against a German.”
She laughed then rested her head on my shoulder; she batted those lashes as she looked up to me. “Nick, be honest, tell me how you really feel about berets.”
I laughed, there was no stopping it.
