by Dick Denny
“I guess I’ll go without.” She smiled and squeezed an arm around my waist.
“Good, don’t want you looking too good. People will start thinking you’re out of my league.”
She laughed. “Sorry, but they already do.”
“No, they don’t, they think Sugar Daddy situation or, at worst, a second family situation.”
She laughed harder. That was something. I might be handsome but not handsome enough to be with her, and mediocre in bed, but I could make her laugh. I’d also fought an archangel for her; there should be no limit to the credit on that card.
Gretchen walked out to the desk and picked up the two sets of keys. “Your car or mine?”
“How can you tell the difference?”
She flicked little tags on each with her finger. “One says Nick, the other says Gretchen. It’s elementary, dear Watson.”
My brow furrowed. “Shouldn’t I be Holmes?”
She shook her head. “Actually, I don’t think Holmes was boning Watson, even though there’s plenty of shipping and fan-fic for Cumberbatch and Freeman. We’re Tom Magnum and the Girl of the Week?”
I shook my head. “You’re more than the Girl of the Week.”
She smiled. “Tommy and Tuppence?”
I shook my head. “I read Dashiell Hammet, not Agatha Christie.”
She laughed and tossed me my keys. Surprisingly I caught them and slipped them in my pocket. We locked up the office and she slipped her arm around mine and we headed for the stairs.
“You can’t pull off the Tom Magnum mustache,” she offered consolingly.
“I could pull off the Hawaiian shirts, though.”
She nodded. “You could, but I don’t think you could pull off the shorts.”
I laughed. “No… I wouldn’t want to try.”
We walked down to the basement of the building. It’d been converted into parking and my office rent paid for four spots. One was mine, which hadn’t had a car since the Miata decided to grill-fuck a telephone pole. The second was labeled for Agnes and Monday through Friday her 1970s vintage Volkswagen Bug would rest from its commute to work in preparation for its commute home. The other two spots were for customers.
Now sitting in one of the customer spots was a 1973 black Dodge Charger with white leather interior. It was an example of vehicular perfection.
“Holy crap!” Gretchen ran forward and ran her hand along the hood. “Gabby got me the Burn Notice Charger!”
I looked at the car in my spot, then to the muscle car for Gretchen. “The fuck?”
“What?”
“I think she got this shit backward,” I said, glancing between the two cars.
Gretchen walked over and looked at the cobalt Ferrari sitting in my spot. “Why are you bitching about a Ferrari?”
“Do I seem like a fucking Ferrari guy?”
Gretchen opened the door and looked around the interior leaning back to look behind the seats. “Nick!”
“What?”
She came out of the car holding up two Heckler & Koch UMP 45 sub-machine guns. “Nick! It’s not just a Ferrari, it’s the Ferrari Maranello 575 with the gun case with body armor and HK UMP 45s… it’s the car from Bad Boys II. YOU’RE MIKE LOWERY FROM BAD BOYS II!”
It was the dumbest damned thing I’d ever heard. “Who the fuck would think I’m cool enough to be Will Smith from Bad Boys Two?”
“They actually used two Ferraris for the movie. The Maranello 575 for most of the scenes, but they used the Maranello 550 for the big chase scene.” Gretchen laughed and leaned back into the car to collapse the stocks on the UMPs and put them up. She stood back up with a bounce. “Well, that settles it, we’re taking your car.”
“Why?”
She walked over and opened the Charger’s trunk. “Because unlike in Burn Notice the Charger isn’t loaded with guns and explosives.”
“Is there duct tape?”
She lifted the role and waved it before putting it back. “Well, they got that right.” She shut the trunk and walked over, sliding into the Ferrari. I opened the door and plopped into the driver's seat. There might be a metaphor about me and Gretchen and the way we get into cars.
“Are you going to shoot up the dashboard like in Bad Boys two?” I raised an eyebrow at her.
“No,” she chuckled. “I’m not Marcus. Now Jammer might have shot up the dash.”
We both laughed, but it was twinged. I sometimes thought Gretchen missed Jammer more than I did. I think she missed him for me.
I got the key in and the engine literally roared into life. I’ll be honest, as much as I mentally lusted over the Dodge Charger… that felt good. Really good. The tires squealed as I backed out of the spot. I was going to have to get used to how sensitive a performance car could be.
Pulling out of the parking garage with my gorgeous soulmate in a Ferrari, it did seem like I did have bigger damned things to worry about.
Chapter Seven
Fucked Up Family Tree
“Remember Everything” Five Finger Death Punch
The doorman at the Wedge Wood was the same guy Gretchen and I had staked out six months before, so I felt like I kinda knew the guy as I approached the desk. I smiled because A: people appreciate it, or B: find it really off-putting. Either way, score a point for Nick.
“Hello, I need to see Dr. Travis, Eric Travis. My name is Nick Decker, and I don’t have an appointment.” If it wasn’t an afternoon on a weekend I would have gone to his office on the university campus. There would probably have been less of a chance for things to go sideways there. As is, I was impatient and just wanted to get this shit done.
The doorman stared at me for a moment like he expected me to hand him a business card. Business cards cost money; I’m not sure how much because Agnes takes care of that, but I knew they cost money. So the doorman of a douchebag demon academic didn’t warrant one.
He finally lifted his phone and hit a few numbers. “Yes, Dr. Travis, there is a Mr. Decker here wishing to see you.”
The man nodded as whoever was talking on the other end of the receiver spoke. Like the guy on the phone could see him nodding in either agreement or comprehension. “Yes, sir.” He finally hung up the receiver and smiled politely to me. “Elevator is around the corner, sir. The code is four-two-one, then the floor.” He said it with such a note obedience that I expected him to ask me if I wanted fries with that.
I went around the corner and hit the button for the elevator then stepped past it and into the emergency stairwell. I saw the door leading outside and could see the line of the alarm going from the door into a power box. I grabbed the line and thought about Malcolm Young passing away and Justin Bieber still being alive. My hand flared and the fire burned through the line connecting the door to the alarm.
I shook the fire from my hand and smiled. I figured either it’d kill the door alarm or set it off and force a fire alarm. Either way, it was a win-win for me. I hit the door bar with my hip and it popped open. Gretchen stepped in with a smile, looking at the burned-through line.
“What did you think of?” she asked with a genuine, as opposed to polite, curiosity.
“Malcolm Young…”
I didn’t get to finish the sentence, she threw her arms around me. “Greatest band ever.” How many times did I not even need to finish the sentence with her? It was weirdly comforting having someone “get me.”
I nodded, the lingering anger melting away in her arms. I kissed her forehead and stepped back to the elevator bank. The doors closing as I jumped and got my hand in. I stepped inside and punched in the code and the floor then watched as the doors closed. I knew Gretchen was taking the stairs up and would wait for shit to go sideways.
When the hell did things not go sideways?
I got to the floor and the elevator doors opened. There was a dark, blonde-haired lady and her eight or nine-year-old son. The kid ran into the elevator and punched me right in the left thigh. It didn’t hurt, but what the hell?
I looked at the kid, then to his mom who didn’t say anything. She just smiled like I should be grateful for the wonderful gift bestowed upon me by her son.
The mom stepped into the elevator and the kid hauled back like he was going to hit me again. I saw the doors starting to close. I’m not proud of what I did next, but I’m not ashamed of it either.
I hip-checked that little bastard and sent him sprawling on his pudgy little ass as I got out of the closing elevator. It didn’t hurt the brat, but he cried anyway, not from pain but from not getting his way. Mommy, I wanted to punch him and he didn’t let me then he pushed me and I fell over, oh the injustice, the humanity.
I heard the fat tears start to fall as the kid began to wail. I didn’t see any of it though because I was already heading down the hall even as the elevator doors finished closing.
My smirk had nothing to do with that whiny little bastard.
Well, almost nothing to do with that whiny little bastard.
Well…
I got to the door and knocked. The last time I’d been here we’d been trying to get intel on the Spear, Switch had been here with a normal dressed Megatron, Dr. Travis had been a mortal shithead academic and Jammer had been alive waiting as backup in the van. Shit had definitely changed.
The door opened and I saw the smile bloom on the Rolf-wannabe-looking motherfucker. He held out his hand. “Nick, it’s a real pleasure. Come on in.”
I looked at his hand, then his eyes. “Forgive me if I do not shake hands.”
His smile got even bigger. “Tombstone, great movie. Come on in.”
I stepped inside and looked around; it still looked like the place was decorated by a douchebag. “So what do I call you? We both know the real Eric Travis is dead as the fucking dinosaurs.”
He shut the door and moved past me to a bar. “Macallan, right?”
I nodded and he began pouring.
“Well, what would you suggest calling me?” he asked calmly.
“Baalberieth is a fucking mouthful,” I admitted.
He smiled and turned with a glass of Scotch in each hand. “Indeed. How about Uncle Bear?”
“Uncle Bear?” If I sounded incredulous, there was a damned good reason.
“What?” He smiled as I took the glass. “Lucifer got to be Uncle Lew. Why can’t I be Uncle Bear?”
“How about thirty-eight missed birthdays without a goddamned card or call? Fucker, I grew up with Lucifer around. I don’t know you.”
“Well, Nick, not to nitpick, but every demon in Hell is either your aunt or uncle if you think about it. Not just Lucifer.”
“Lucifer earned it, motherfucker. Let’s not pretend we’re more than we are.” I smelled the Scotch. Fuck, it smelled perfect.
“Then what are we?” Baalberieth, in the form of Doc Douchebag, seemed bemused, curious, interested.
“You’re a demon, and I’m the asshole trying to figure out what you’re doing here.”
He smiled and clinked his glass of Scotch to mine. “Well, here’s to the great existential questions.”
I sipped my Scotch and glanced about. “So what are you up to?”
“Why are you curious?”
I sighed. “I just got the fucking Teutonic Knights out of my fucking city, and I get woken up this morning by a goddamned archangel who is jumpy because they can’t figure out what you’re doing. So I don’t know when I became the goddamn emergency big red phone of this fucked up detente, but it’s fucking annoying.” I sipped more of the amber liquid in my probably ridiculously expensive glass. “So how about you just tell me, and I check it out to make sure you’re not screwing with me, and we all walk off happy and friends?”
He patted his stomach and laughed deep and hearty. “Oh my… you know what you sound like?”
“Don’t say a lawyer,” I groaned. With the exception of Phil the Destroyer, I fucking hated lawyers.
He smiled and touched his forefinger to his nose and pointed at me with his hand holding his glass.
“You’re not gonna make any friends saying insulting shit like that,” I warned him as I finished the glass. If I ended up having to break the glass I didn’t want to waste good Scotch. If only people were as good when aged eighteen years as Scotch was…
“I’m just doing some housekeeping,” he assured me.
“So a dipshit summons you to clean house?” I was curious if he meant housekeeping as in: I need to kill some people, I need to do some paperwork, or I need to wash the dust ruffles.
Baalberieth chuckled. “No, he screwed up summoning me because you and yours scared the hell out of him and he thought I could help. But he really screwed the pooch, so he’s gone; voila, here I am. And since I’m here, I had some housekeeping to do.”
“Such as?”
“Well,” he smiled sheepishly, “a few things.”
“Any reason you don’t want to drop the coy schoolgirl bullshit and just spill it?”
“I’m, not sure how to describe it. I guess the easiest and most relatable way to articulate it is…I’m not sure. Conducting a census?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I asked suspiciously as he took the glasses and headed back to the bar to refill them.
“Telling, I suppose.” He’d probably be charming if I didn’t attribute that face to a total asshat and know there was a goddamn demon lawyer under it.
“Census of who?” I was getting tired of Sisyphusing this conversation.
“Whom?” he politely corrected in a professor’s lecture voice.
“Don’t grammar-Nazi me.”
He chuckled. “Sorry, but it is whom.” He turned, bringing the refilled glasses back. “I think you have enough information on that subject so I think, as you would say, revert to my sheepish schoolgirl bullshit on that account. What’s next?”
“You implied multiple chores.”
Again, he smiled. “Did I?”
“Motherfucker…”
He laughed. “Technically, I never had a mother, simply a pure creation of the Father.”
“What else?”
He sighed. “Scouting.”
“Scouting what?”
He looked at me, confused. “I don’t have to explain battlefield recon to you, do I?”
“What battlefield?” I felt a knot in my gut next to the ever-present fire. Like I was pre-cogging what the answer was going to be but hoping the Minority Report would be right as opposed to the vision.
“Armageddon.” He said it plainly and flatly, utterly devoid of emotion. One plus one equals two. Two times two equals four. I’m doing fieldwork to prep for Armageddon. The southeast U.S. is humid. There are no snakes in Ireland.
I felt my teeth grind together. “I have the Fiery Sword.”
He nodded. “I know. But, that doesn’t mean the world can’t end.”
“You’ll lose.”
He continued nodding. “We know, but why do you think we’re the ones starting it?”
My eyes narrowed. “Uriel?”
He tapped his temple with a finger as he nodded.
“Why prep if you know you’re going to lose?”
He held his hands out in mock surrender; it reminded me of Lucifer. “There is losing, and there is losing.”
“What’s there to recon then?” That knot was getting tighter in my gut. At the same time, I felt the fire grow hotter. The fire I held in there that wanted to burn the world. The Wrath of God longing for The End. Capital T, Capital E. Not all caps THE END, that was just asshole-ish.
“Well, the Father set out some very specific parameters for the battlefield. Uriel is looking for a loophole.”
“And Hell has its chief council looking for legal loopholes?”
He finished his second drink. “Bingo. Who better to find loopholes and close them than the most famous contract attorney ever?”
“Famous?”
He put his glass down and paced in the horribly decorated apartment. “I don’t want to brag…”
“Bul
lshit, of course you do. Hit me.”
He literally hugged himself and bounced. “I wrote the contract for the Job bet. I wrote the eviction notice for Eden AND the land grant for Nod. I did say ‘Cain, why not just bash his noggin in with that lump of metal?’ I wrote Noah’s building and boating permits. See, as you put it, the detente is held together by my paper. Demon or not, both sides recognize my agreements.”
“So like Faust?”
He laughed. “No, I’m not Mephistopheles. That guy is an asshole, even by demon standards, but I did write the contract.”
I tried bringing us back around on task. “So, why are you still here instead of closing loopholes?”
His face, for the first time, darkened. “Because I think,” he paused and gulped, as animated as a cartoon character, “I think the battle will happen here and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
Chapter Eight
Bad Reps
“Bad Reputation” Joan Jett (Yeah, I know it’s obvious)
It wasn’t a kick in the balls, but it was a metaphorical kick in the balls.
“Well, that fucking sucks.” I finished my second glass of Scotch. I set the glass down. I couldn’t afford to get too loaded right now.
“It’s not the most pleasant thing in the world.” Baalberieth smiled sadly. “I mean, believe it or not, I like this world. Especially after all the work Lucifer and I put into it.”
“What do you mean?”
He motioned me to follow him as he stepped out onto the balcony. I followed and leaned against the door frame instead of going all the way out. He made a grand sweeping gesture out over the cityscape. “Who do you think did all this?”
I mulled it for a moment. “We did.”
He smiled, like a proud professor who got the right answer out of a dip shit student. “Exactly. Now, who do you think pushed you?”
“I’m taking it the answer you’re looking for is ‘your side?’” I crossed my arms and felt the fingers of my right hand brush the grip of my 1911. I knew it wouldn’t do a lot…I didn’t really think I’d need it. It was just comforting.
