This is almost exactly what Bacchus told Zaphiel years ago, when the angel suggested the same thing. Though she recalls him saying something about shoving various fruits up his puckered asshole.
El Jefe nods. “That really is too bad,” he says. He moves in the blink of an eye, lunging with lightning speed, his hand snaking out and bursting into bright blue light. He plunges his fist into Bacchus’ stomach and the god convulses, fire bursting out of his eyes and mouth. He shakes, flesh falling from bones in great gobbets of ash and slime. Golden ichor bubbles and hisses as it flows to the floor, boiling away to nothing.
Cracks appear in the god’s skin, a deep, orange light glowing out of them. His body convulses and bits of him char and disintegrate, falling in great clumps to the marble floor. Soon all that’s left of the wine god is a thick slurry of ash and boiling ichor.
Medeina stares speechless at the smoking pile. “What did you do?” she says.
“He had become an insufferable pain in the ass and I endeavored to remove him,” he says and wipes his hand on his pants. “Ugh. As if getting my head blown to bits wasn’t messy enough. Well, needs must and all that. Pity, but I rather thought he’d say that. It’s just as well. He was just going to get in our way.”
He turns and strides toward the stairs. “Coming? We have a Chronicler to find, after all.”
Medeina hurries after him, glancing back at the pile of ashes that was once one of the most powerful of the Roman gods. The museum’s air conditioners kick in, blowing it away into the air.
For the first time in hundreds of years, she feels real fear.
“THERE’S ANOTHER CHRONICLER?” Fitz says.
“A crazy one,” Amanda says. “Well, crazier than you. You’re surprisingly stable.”
“You haven’t seen my medical records.”
“I’m the Internet, remember?” she says. “I’ve seen everyone’s medical records. Compared to most people you might not be sane, but for a Chronicler? You’re solid as a rock.”
“That’s just the meds.”
“Sure. Speaking of which, when’s the last time you took anything? Not since the safe house, right?”
That’s not right. Is it? He doesn’t usually go more than a few hours without taking something. He counts back the hours. She’s right. He’s not sure how he feels about that.
“Anyway, we’ll meet him once we get you safe,” she says. He’s about to say something about the last time she thought he was safe and then sees the parking lot they’re pulling into.
The Holy Roller Casino in Hawaiian Gardens, a tiny city south-east of Los Angeles, is bright, garish, hulking. A massive, three-domed building surrounded by acres of parking lot and covered in glowing neon palm trees, cascading lights and signs that promise more card games than anyone else in the city. Hold ’em, seven card stud, blackjack, baccarat, pai-gow. You think it up, they’ve got it.
“You’re not serious,” Fitz says.
“I know it doesn’t look like much—”
“It looks like Caesar’s Palace got into a threesome with Disneyland and a Vietnamese whorehouse,” Fitz says.
Amanda squints at it. “Huh. I never thought of it like that before.”
“And the guy we’re seeing is inside?”
“He runs it.”
“Of course he does. Another god?”
“How about you meet him first?” she says. “That might be easier than trying to explain him to you.”
Fitz shrugs. He’s so tired, he doesn’t really care. He wishes he’d grabbed some Adderall back at the safe house. He doesn’t want to fall asleep, not until he knows he doesn’t have to start running again. If this guy can get him a place to lay low for a bit, it’s a win. The sooner he can get this over with, the sooner he can get some sleep.
Amanda drives the car onto the lot and parks in a VIP space, waving off the valet who comes to collect her keys. She flashes a card at him through the window and he stiffens and backs away.
“What the hell did you show him?” Fitz asks.
She shrugs. “Nothing,” she says, handing Fitz a plastic card. He glances at it, but he’s suddenly filled with a powerful sense of dread and nausea and almost drops it before he can get a good look at it. He tries to hand it back to her quickly, but she ignores it. He slips it into his pocket without looking at it.
“Chinese Ministry of State Security makes them for their black ops people,” Amanda says. “They’re miniature displays that show a pulsing pattern of light and dark that triggers a fear response. Surprisingly effective for getting into places you’re not supposed to be. People don’t question you as much when they’re freaking out.”
Sage advice.
They get out of the car and Fitz stuffs the two pistols into his waistband at the small of his back under his jacket. Amanda cocks an eyebrow at him.
“What?” he says. “I feel safer with them.”
“You do know they’re empty, right?”
“Yeah, but anybody I draw them on won’t.”
“Fair point. Try not to do that in there, though. Anybody you do that to isn’t likely to fall for it long enough to be useful.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” He follows her through the sliding glass doors and into a carnival nightmare. If Fitz thought the outside was bad, the inside is ten times worse. More brash and tasteless lighting, more neon palm trees. The lack of slot machines does nothing to quell the noise. The place is still filled with whistles, beeps and bells. Flat panel displays on every wall show a multitude of sports and casino advertising. People yell at a bad hand, scream in joy at a good one. The place is cacophony and chaos.
The security guards they pass don’t give Amanda a second look, but they’re eyeing Fitz like they think he’s going to steal the carpets. A couple of them fall in behind them as they make their way through the card tables, and though they keep a respectable distance, it’s obvious that they’re following them.
“I don’t think they like me,” Fitz says.
“Oh, don’t worry about them. They’ll leave you alone. He knows we’re here.”
A hulking security guard in a suit and tie and wearing an earpiece steps in front of them. For a second Fitz panics, thinking it’s one of the Agents, but he’s built too thick and he doesn’t get a vibe off him.
“Ma’am, sir,” he says. “If you’d come with me, please?”
“What if I don’t want to?” Fitz says.
The security guard gives Fitz a blank look and it takes a second to figure out that he’s listening to something in his earpiece. “Then you’re free to enjoy the casino and leave whenever you like, sir,” he says, finally.
“Oh.” Fitz had gotten so used to people trying to kill or kidnap him, in the last several hours, that he wasn’t prepared for that.
“We’re right behind you,” Amanda says. The security guard nods at her, leads them through the crowds, two other guards in tow. He weaves his way through the tables, cutting in random patterns through the sea of poker and pai-gow players. Every part of the place looks like everything else, and soon Fitz is hopelessly lost. He doesn’t think he could find the entrance if there were signs posted and he had a Sherpa guide.
He mentions it to Amanda. “Is this more god shit?” he says.
“No, just casinos. They’re all like mazes. But the Minotaur is at the center of one in Atlantic City.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I hear Daedalus and Icarus set up shop there after the fall. Used to be they’d keep it in a labyrinth in Olympus, and once they landed here, they needed a place to put it.” The names sound familiar, but Fitz doesn’t know much mythology. He’s heard of the Minotaur, though.
“So they put it in the center of a casino?”
“Nobody’s noticed so far.”
“What do they feed it?” he says.
“Cheats.”
The guard takes them to a utility door in one wall, pushes it open and stands aside to let Amanda and Fitz through. The hallway beyond has a utilitarian lin
oleum floor and is lit with fluorescent lights. At the end is another door, with another security guard.
“To the end of the hall, ma’am, sir,” their guard says. Amanda strolls through without acknowledging him and Fitz nervously keeps up. The guard at the end pushes the door open for them as they approach and closes it behind them.
The room couldn’t be any more different from the hallway or the casino if Fitz had designed it himself. Instead of the bland, industrial hallway, or the brash, chaotic décor of the casino, this room is dimly lit, with dark wood-paneled walls, floors covered in thick, plush carpeting. Heavy leather chairs surround a felt-covered card table. A tall, middle-aged white man in a gray pin-stripe business suit, with an American flag lapel pin and a thick gold chain around his neck from which hangs a blinged-out dollar sign that looks like he stole it from a rapper in the ’80s, sits in the far chair.
He stands when Amanda and Fitz enter, throwing his arms wide and his smile wider. “Darling!” he says. “So nice to see you!” His voice is politician smooth, accent blandly generic.
“Big,” Amanda says.
“It’s been too long,” he says. “What are we now?” He cocks his head to one side, gives Amanda an appraising look. “Sophie? You look like a Sophie.”
“Amanda.”
“Ah. Nice.” He points to his head. “I like the dreads. New?”
“Relatively.”
“I really enjoyed the look you had last time,” he says. “What did you call yourself again?”
“Earl.”
He makes a face like he’s just bitten into a lemon. “Ugh. Earl. Yes, I remember now. Horrible name.”
From her terse replies and flat expression, Fitz is getting the feeling that she doesn’t much like this guy. And he’s the one who she thinks is going to help him? He looks back at the door they just came through, wondering if he can outrun the security guards before they tackle him. He doesn’t believe for a second that they’re just going to let him go on his way.
“Are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Big says, turning to Fitz. Suddenly the middle-aged white banker with the flag lapel pin is a Saudi prince sipping at a cognac, eyeing Fitz with an appraising look. The only thing still there is the gold chain with the dollar-sign pendant.
Fitz startles, takes a step back. He was already nervous; now he’s terrified. He almost pulls the guns, but what the hell would that accomplish? More god shit. He knew it was going to happen, but he wasn’t ready for it.
“Fitz,” she says. “He’s the Chronicler.”
“Is he now?” Big says, his voice deep and thick like honey. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you, lately. I would have expected someone more... scholarly.”
“Sorry,” Fitz says, putting on a brave front he doesn’t feel. “I left my big words in my other suit. Only words I got in this one are fuck and you.”
“He’s feisty,” Big says to Amanda. “I like him. What’s dad think?”
“The usual. We ran into him a little while ago. Fitz here put a bunch of bullets in his head.”
“The only appropriate response,” Big says, shifting to an Indian man in a polo shirt and khakis, the cognac replaced with a cigarette. “I like you even more now.” Fitz says nothing, too stunned at the sudden transformation to speak.
“At the time he thought he was a friend of his,” Amanda says.
“You do that to all your friends?” Big asks him.
“Only the ones who piss me off,” Fitz says, finding his voice and his anger. He turns to Amanda. “‘Dad’?”
“I told you the Man controlled me at one point. He’s my father. More or less. And Big’s.”
“Owned is a better word for it,” Big says. He takes a drag on his cigarette. “But yes, we’re his bastard spawn.”
Fitz looks at Big closely, the dollar sign hung around his neck. “Big,” he says. “Big what?”
“Oh, I like guessing games. Or is this word association? Big Oil? Big Business? Big dick?”
“Big Money,” Fitz says at last. “The dollar sign.”
Big Money looks at Amanda. “I still say he should be more scholarly.”
“I don’t get it,” Fitz says. “The Man owns you? I thought money made power, not the other way around.” If he belongs to the Man, then what the fuck are they doing here? Fitz edges back toward the door, but a glance from Amanda stops him.
“Oh, my boy, you have so much to learn,” Big says. “He used to own me. Things are a little different these days. Economies are shifting. The nature of transactions is changing. You know, Bitcoins, gray markets, Power to the People and all that.”
“Money ain’t what it used to be?”
“You have no idea.”
Something isn’t adding up. Something Amanda told him on the drive over here is poking on the back of his brain. Something about the fall, when the gods all got kicked out of their homes. Then he has it. “You said the father gods all left,” he says. “Zeus, Odin, all of them.”
“Yes,” she says.
“But the Man is your father? Why didn’t he go with them?”
“Because he wasn’t the Man then,” Big says. “He was just an idea of authority. That’s how these things happen. A big enough idea and people start believing it’s more than just an idea. They’re like lies, that way; say them enough times and they turn into truth.”
“I think he may have been created because they left,” Amanda says. “There was a hole. The universe, and more importantly people’s beliefs, abhor a vacuum.”
“What, none of the other gods could step up?” Fitz says.
“I don’t think so,” Amanda says. “They’re all spoken for. They have control over very specific areas. But the father gods are all about authority. And without them, a new one was bound to pop up. I don’t think the old gods even know he exists.”
“That’s gotta chap his hide.”
Big shrugs. “Hard to say. He’s an arrogant fuck, so he’s probably feeling a burn, but he’s a patient arrogant fuck. Once he’s ready to let them know, they’ll know.” Big turns back to Amanda. “So, dear sister. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“He needs someplace to hide.”
“Does he now? And your safe houses aren’t sufficient?”
“We were found. By one of the old gods.”
“And your other safe houses?”
“I don’t trust them right now.”
“Interesting. So who came calling?”
“Bacchus.”
“I’ve heard he’s a real bastard,” Big says, changing into a young Asian woman in a paint-spattered smock. She puffs on a cigar, unmistakable admiration in her voice. After seeing what Bacchus could do, the tone makes Fitz nauseous. “So what do you want me to do about this?”
“I know you have hidey-holes. Tax shelter condos, apartments for bankers’ mistresses, legitimate fronts for shady deals. Places he can hole up for a little bit, while we figure out what to do next.”
“Sister, please,” Big says, the shock in her voice so obviously fake she wouldn’t even get a call-back at a repertory theater. “What makes you think I would have something like that?”
“Quit fucking around. We don’t have all night.”
Big rolls her eyes, shifts to a bald, overweight man with tattoos all up and down his arms, an epic beard, and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. “Fine. I’ve got a place,” he says. “Up by LAX.”
“What’s it gonna cost me?” Amanda says.
“You? Nothing. Him? A friendly wager.” Big looks at Fitz. “A game of poker. Five card draw, nothing wild. Best two out of three hands. I win and he’s my Chronicler.”
“What do you mean?” Fitz says.
“I want what the other gods want. I want believers. I want legitimacy. You can give that to me by telling my stories.”
“Those would be pretty fucking boring stories,” Amanda says. “What, a sexy history on currency exchanges in pre-Industrial China? Yeah, you’ll make the economists all wet.”
/>
“And if I win?” Fitz says.
“I hide you. For as long as you want to be hidden. Hell, I’ll even double all that money you stole from your employer and stuffed into those Cayman Island bank accounts.”
“How do you—Oh. Right.”
“We can find somewhere else to hide you,” Amanda says, turning to leave.
But where, Fitz wonders? And then what? He needs some time to regroup, think things through. Get some goddamn sleep. But if he loses...
“Wait a minute,” he says. “The hell do you even need me for? Everybody believes in you already. You’re the fucking Bank, for chrissake.”
“I’m still more of an idea,” Big says. “Just like my sister there.”
“And your dad?”
“He’s more”—Big pauses, looking for the right word—“solid than we are. More firmly entrenched in people’s minds. If anyone’s the Bank, it’s him. I’m more a concept of wealth in whatever form that happens to be. Left alone, in time my sister and I will grow into ourselves, become something more like him. Something with more agency.” He spreads his hands. “But who knows how long that will take? Or what will happen before then? If our father grows in power, who knows, we might just be subsumed back into him.”
From the ill look Fitz catches on Amanda’s face in the corner of his eye, he figures that’s not something she wants to happen.
“And you think I can keep that from happening?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Big says. “I don’t define what money is. People do that. As people redefine the concept, my abilities and powers change to match it. It’s a broad topic, but as worldwide economies grow or fall, I grow or fall. But if I were more myself...”
“You’d get to call the shots.” A god of money controlling the world’s economies. Would that be good or bad, Fitz wonders? Would he want everyone to prosper and be wealthy? Would that make him stronger? Or does he thrive when the poor suffer and the rich get richer?
“Think of it as controlling my own destiny,” Big says. “So. Care for a friendly game of high-stakes poker?”
“I want more than a place to hole up if I win,” Fitz says. So far the only person who’s been at all helpful has been Amanda, and he doesn’t trust her any more than any of the others; he just hasn’t had much choice. He can’t rely on her, and he can’t keep running. They will find him. And from what he’s seen, the gods can do some pretty fucked up things.
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