The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  “Hmm. Yours was an excessively affluent life. I sense two thousand demerits directly attributable to an unseemly accumulation of wealth. Verily I say unto you, that tis easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter here.”

  “But I am not a man. Must I be punished for the indiscretions of my husband?”

  “For better or worse, do you not recall?”

  Pumpkin Eater clutched the lever that worked the sliding floor panel as Jocelyn shouted out pleadingly.

  “Wait!”

  She quickly rifled through her handbag and produced a needle and a handkerchief with a camel design embroidered on it. Unraveling the design, she passed the thread through the needle’s eye. Pumpkin Eater watched in amused appreciation.

  “Well done.” he said. “Go on then, collect thyself a harp and inherit everlasting bliss.”

  The gate creaked open – just a tad. Jocelyn grabbed a plastic harp, hurrying in, disappearing rapidly in case he changed his mind. Her handbag vaporized as she went through the turnstile, as if she had walked through some sort of radiation device. Which was exactly the case because no Earthly belongings were allowed in. The gate was creaking closed as Virginia materialized from inside, Grace’s soul report in hand.

  “Peter, your ear for a moment.”

  “And yours as well, my lady. Ever since the demise of purgatory, the standards of our applicants have dropped so embarrassingly low, they remind me of entry requirements for Caesar’s sin-laden palace in Las Vegas. Namely, there are none. Now, as you know, I have submitted a petition to rectify the situation by lowering the acceptable demerit level to five hundred. Given you know what quickly approaching, and the stampede that will surely follow, what is our CEO prepared to do?”

  “Hold that question, I must talk to you of a serious matter. Please.”

  She motioned him aside. Pumpkin Eater snarled under his breath. A serious matter? His was a serious matter. The most serious. Just try finding someone else to man this gate 24/7 as expertly as he. And under these impossible conditions, he thought. Good luck.

  Aggravated, he reached under his desk and came up with a sign, MAINTAIN AN ORDERLY QUEUE, posting it conspicuously before following after her.

  Out of earshot and away from anyone’s prying eyes, Pumpkin Eater examined Grace’s mug shot.

  “Good heavens. She looks just like Mary Magdalene.”

  “That’s what troubles me the most.” Virginia replied. “It’s her.”

  “What? How? We don’t do reincarnation here.”

  “I’m afraid we do.”

  Pumpkin Eater half turned, squinting fiercely into Virginia’s face.

  “Do you remember the day Purgatory was abolished?” she asked. “There was a run on the gate?”

  “How could I forget?”

  “Well, our CEO decided to alleviate your burden by sending a few of them back. He also sent a few of our residents as well for some reason, including her. Maybe that Buddha fellow was on to something, that’s how he justified it to me.”

  Pumpkin Eater just stood there for a moment in a sudden catatonic haze.

  “Peter? Are you all right?”

  “Who else did he send back?”

  “I don’t know, a lot of them. My earthly husband, Joseph, was included in one of the groups. Something about him deserving a second chance to find his own woman.”

  “This changes everything.”

  “No it doesn’t. Our CEO enjoys working in mysterious ways, you know that. Now, I’m worried, Peter. My son is… well, he’s naïve, completely ill prepared to deal with the ilk of modern man. Or modern day Mary Magdalenes. He has no idea she’s one in the same by the way, and I’d appreciate it if you kept it that way.”

  “Worry not, madam. I shall talk some sense into him.”

  “No, you’ve lost my reasoning, Peter. He’s already gone. I want you to follow him. Make sure he meets no harm.”

  “But the gate, my lady. I mean, who will—”

  “I’ve already made the necessary arrangements. My son needs you. I need you. Don’t fail us.”

  Virginia entered an empty mirrored room, her reflection suddenly everywhere. Curiously, there was an old electrical breaker box that looked completely out of place. It extended from one of the mirrors, yet it did not cast a reflection in any other mirror. And it was ugly. Well-worn. Streaked with layered gray varicose paint. Very odd indeed.

  “Hello, are you in here? Hello? Hellllllooooo!” Virginia called out.

  A playfully gruff male voice, presumably the CEO’s, answered back.

  “Hey, baby.”

  “Show yourself. We need to talk.”

  Brilliant flecks of white light suddenly sparkled in every mirror. It was like Virginia was standing in the middle of the universe itself.

  “Why the long face, gorgeous?” asked the CEO.

  “I’m not happy.”

  “Of course you are. You’re my girl.”

  Virginia pointed a long, threatening fingernail in every direction.

  “I’ve got an issue with you, pal.” she announced. “And you’re not going anywhere until we get it resolved.”

  The barking was intimidating and incessant as the mangy dog continued to circle Jon, frothing jaws snapping furiously. Switchblade clamped between his teeth, Jon attempted to cut himself loose – all the while talking sweetly to it – “Good doggie, that’s a good boy” – things like that.

  Some distance away, tucked safely in his car, Buddy awakened to the disturbance. Now what? Jon spotted him as he appeared nearby and tried to get his attention.

  “Psst. Psssst! Hey, buddy.”

  Buddy’s eyes widened with reverential fear.

  “How’d you know my name?”

  A beam of light shafted into the alley before Jon could reply. Pumpkin Eater materialized right before Buddy’s eyes – just as swaddled as Jon. Buddy gasped, stumbling forward in an uncontrolled reflex.

  “Approach no further, infidel!” bellowed Pumpkin Eater.

  It was all just too much for Buddy, really. He fainted. The dog whimpered, whipping its tail between its legs before fleeing. Jon spat the knife out of his mouth in disbelief.

  “What are you doing here?” Jon asked, all confrontational, which, in Jon’s case meant a tenth of a decibel louder than normal.

  “Unhygienic Barabbas! Could she not have selected someplace less vile?”

  “Did my father send you?”

  “Please. I’m sure he’s cringing as we speak. Your mother has seen fit to bestow me upon you so that I may assist in this misguided mission of yours.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Humph! My prayers exactly. But being the generous and compassionate soul that I am, I accepted the task, pointless as it is, for no benefit other than to comfort her badgered heart!”

  It was at that moment that a garbage truck rolled into the alley. Jon’s eyes became saucers as he alerted Pumpkin Eater.

  “Roll over here, I’ll cut you loose.”

  “Verily I say unto you, that despite your meddling, the harlot shall never savor our metropolis. I have studied her file and her demerit levels have reached near infinite proportions.”

  Jon was busy mouthing the knife during Pumpkin Eater’s latest condemnation but he ultimately managed to alert Pumpkin Eater of the approaching truck with his eyes. And a loud slobbered grumble.

  Pumpkin Eater, galvanized all of a sudden because he finally recognized the danger, rolled Jon’s way.

  A rasping hotel bed was grinding. Two bodies finally settled after a loud expulsion of breath.

  Lance Foster, 50, sweating profusely, rolled to Grace’s side, sinking into his pillow, unconscious with postcopulatory fatigue. Grace prodded him.

  “Hey…hey…hey!”

  She prodded him some more before Foster finally answered back with a loud snore. Grace responded with something else.

  “Piece of shit prick.”

  She continued to mutter curs
es, questioning the potency of the sedatives she chose. She climbed out of bed and grabbed her clothes, dressing quickly, before taking his jacket that was hanging over a chair, a holstered handgun with it.

  She was interested in his briefcase, of course – which was sitting in plain view on a desk – but right now, she was more interested in something else. This was going to cost him everything he had. She took his wallet and emptied it of a sizeable amount of cash.

  Then, methodically, she took the briefcase – and frowned. Why was it so light? She opened it to reveal Yves LaPomme’s face on a Forbes magazine issue and other assorted low value items. This was not the briefcase she was being paid to fetch.

  She looked around. It was a large room with plenty of furniture and had a large bathroom, plenty of places to hide things. She began searching. The closet, the drawers, the bathroom. Time passed with no success.

  She finally decided to stoop and look under the bed – and dragged a second briefcase into view. Industrial looking. The bulletproof type. Heavy duty locks. This had to be it but she wanted to make sure so she rummaged through Foster’s jacket again and came up with a key, working it into the briefcase’s locks and cracking it open to expose one single item nestled tightly in a padded frame.

  A SKELETON KEY

  Ancient. Badly discolored. Constructed from some type of fibrous material that looked as if it desperately needed a few gulps of oil. What the hell was this, she thought.

  Suddenly… click click click. Somebody was trying to work the hotel room door open.

  She shut the case, panicked, but kept it with her, scurrying about the room searching for a place to hide. She grabbed Foster’s gun before disappearing into a closet by the entrance, peeking back out, holding her breath as two dark figures eased inside.

  Rocco, a hulking young man, his nose, a flattened mass of healed cartilage and no longer available as an effective air passage.

  And Tony, thin-faced and much shorter, yet they resembled each other in a way. Tony toted a sawed-off shotgun. Extending from Rocco’s massive palm, a long-barreled handgun. Silenced.

  Unlike Tony, Rocco’s speech and movements revealed a massive, slumberous strength. And a certain stupidity.

  “I warned you about taking the 405.” Rocco said. “Sepulveda.”

  “Shut up.”

  “The woman’s not here. She’s gone. Sepulveda.”

  Grace gasped. Barely audible, but she gasped. What? They knew she’d be here? Who were these guys, what the hell was going on?

  Foster stirred in his sleep. Rocco blasted three silenced rounds into his body, painting the sheets red. Tony grabbed him.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “He marked us.”

  “What’re you talking about, he was out cold.”

  “His eyes twitched. I thought I saw him look at me.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  Tony slapped him. And even though Rocco was twice Tony’s size, Rocco just absorbed it, offering only a sheepish reply in exchange.

  “We were gonna kill him anyway.”

  “Yeah, with an overdose, pin it on the woman. Big difference.”

  “She’s gone. Sepulveda.”

  Sepulveda, for those of you unfamiliar with Los Angeles, is a thoroughfare that runs parallel to Interstate 405, following it from the L.A. basin into the San Fernando Valley and beyond. It’s usually not as congested as the 405, to be sure, but it’s generally a busy four lane boulevard, and at times, a two lane mess. Truth is, there’s no really good time-saving way to get around in this city. Road rage and freeway shootings are almost justified here.

  Anyway, Tony took offense to Rocco’s third Sepulveda reference and moved to slap him again – a moment before noticing something out of the corner of his eye. A pair of women’s shoes. He pointed them out silently to Rocco. Grace was still there – look for her. Rocco disappeared into the bathroom as Tony slid open the closet door.

  Grace pushed right through him, knocking him flat on his back and scrambled into the hall, running for her life.

  Rocco reappeared as Tony found his feet. They both bolted into the hallway after her, just in time to see her disappearing around a corner. PFFT! Rocco squeezed off a shot, missing.

  It was only moments later that Grace exploded into the street through a set of revolving doors, tussling with the briefcase all the way, vanishing into the night, Foster’s pistol in hand.

  Tony and Rocco emerged not long afterward, standing there for a moment, looking every which way, but she was nowhere in sight. They split up, heading off in opposite directions.

  It’s not exactly known when a second pair of men appeared in Foster’s room, but they did at some point while events were unfolding outside. Yves LaPomme and Atiu, a Polynesian mountain with gargoyle eyes. No dialogue was exchanged – only surprised glances at the sight of Foster lying there dead. They exited, shutting the door behind them.

  Los Angeles was designed around a car culture so it’s no surprise to find public parking lots all over the place. Grace swerved between parked vehicles in one such lot, panting furiously, finally stopping near an unmanned parking tollbooth to catch her breath and check on the condition of her feet. She had been running barefoot and they were getting sore, chafed and bleeding.

  She glanced around to see if anybody had followed her. BAM!

  A huge chunk of wooden parking tollbooth exploded near her head. That’s what shotgun blasts do. Obliterate things. She ducked, darting off, a fresh surge of adrenaline propelling her.

  Now free from their swaddles, Jon and Pumpkin Eater refashioned their soiled rags into togas. They had managed to avoid the garbage truck. Buddy was still out cold. Jon finished up first, playing with the switchblade for a moment, impressed by its efficiency. He kept it.

  “The whore does not seek after salvation, believe you me.” Pumpkin Eater barked. “I know her type well.”

  “The only thing you know well is resignation. If it weren’t for me, you’d never have bothered to toss the net over the other side of the boat.” Jon replied.

  “Persecuted children of Abraham! When will you cease bringing that up in my face?”

  For those of you unfamiliar with the biblical account, Pumpkin Eater, an accomplished fisherman in his time, was experiencing difficulty catching fish one night – all night – and resigned himself and his crew to return to land empty-handed. Jon suggested that Pumpkin Eater toss his nets over the opposite side of the boat. When Pumpkin Eater tried it, he came up with a legion of fish.

  The story implies that Pumpkin Eater was thankful and appreciative, but clearly, the episode had embarrassed him and it had remained a thorn in Pumpkin Eater’s side ever since.

  Jon sat Buddy up, gently tapping his face. Buddy came to, fighting to keep everything in focus. Pumpkin Eater plucked a single strand of hair from Buddy’s head and rolled it between his fingers, offering up Buddy’s bio.

  “Reginald Budsworth Hayes. Former constable of the law, fired for dereliction of duty in 1980 and … humph! A single sided coin! I estimate ten thousand demerits and counting.”

  Single sided coin was Pumpkin Eater speak for gay. Jon shook his head. How did he ever come to consider Pumpkin Eater a good friend, he thought. He blamed youth. Nobody knows anything when they’re young.

  “Get up, I’ve got you.” Jon told Buddy, helping him to his feet.

  Buddy dropped right back down to his knees, praying hard, finding one of Pumpkin Eater’s legs, clutching it in a tight embrace. He was sure, absolutely sure, that Pumpkin Eater was his messiah and that he’d just witnessed his messiah’s second coming – and he wanted to latch on.

  Pumpkin Eater shouted out, desperately trying to shake free.

  “By the burden of Damascus! Be gone!”

  Jon grabbed Buddy, folding his hand over Buddy’s mouth, whispering into his face.

  “Shhh. Don’t refer to me by that name. It’s imperative nobody learns I’m here.”

  “What? … You?”<
br />
  Buddy regarded Pumpkin Eater, then Jon, then Pumpkin Eater. Then Jon.

  “But, your face. You look nothing like your pictures.” Buddy said, pointing Pumpkin Eater out shortly afterward and continuing with… “He’s aged, but I can still see the resemblance. He’s not the anointed one, are you sure?” Buddy asked Jon.

  Jon cast Pumpkin Eater a crooked glance. Pumpkin Eater looked away, defiant. Apparently, the majority of icons attributed to depictions of Jon were actually depictions of a young Pumpkin Eater instead. More on that later.

  Buddy found his Polaroid camera and attempted to take Jon’s picture but Jon stopped him.

  “No photographs.” Jon told Buddy, continuing with... “And what you witnessed here tonight, it didn’t happen. We’re not here, you understand?”

  “Oh, I get it. You’ve come in disguise. Smart.”

  It was at that moment that Grace, gulping air, purple with fatigue, scampered into the alley, tripping over a bundle of greasy garbage, losing Foster’s handgun and twisting her ankle. She had managed to lose Tony, but now had Rocco on her tail.

  Somehow, she managed to conceal the briefcase under a mound of trash just before Rocco arrived and accosted her. She tried to mace him, but he punched her – hard – rendering her unconscious.

  Alarmed, Buddy instinctively dove into a dumpster as Jon shouted out in Rocco’s direction.

  “You there!”

  Rocco spun, realizing for the first time that he and Grace weren’t alone. He raised his weapon in Jon’s direction. Jon held his ground as Pumpkin Eater took him by the elbow.

  “He is a Roman. And he holds forth a projectile accelerator. Must I remind you that we are but mortals in this place?”

  Jon ignored him, calling out to Rocco instead.

  “Unhand her and make haste!”

  “Get lost! Now! I’ll shoot, I swear!”

  And because Jon was never really any good at confrontation, the best he could manage back was…

  “And while you’re at it, leave Jerusalem!”