Hell's Detective

by Michael Logan

  Once I’d made amends, I strolled home and lurked in a doorway across from my apartment for a while. I wanted to make sure Jake and his buddies weren’t around. I saw no sign of them and hit the hay. I attempted to trawl up the happy memory of Danny, hoping it would follow me into my dreams. This time, perhaps because I was trying to remember rather than letting it happen, I saw his dead face again. The soft whisper of guilt told me I had no right to be happy, no right to remember the good times. It wouldn’t listen when I wheeled out the arguments for the defense and tried to persuade it that I’d suffered enough. My crime hadn’t been erased; it was only being allowed to fade into the background. I lay awake, doing the Torment’s job for it, until I drifted into an uneasy sleep as dawn blushed the curtains.

  I didn’t get out of bed until two PM, still struggling to shake off the images of Danny’s last hitching breaths. The first thing I did after making myself a strong coffee was call Enitan, hoping he could give me a lead on the other broker—thus giving me a valid excuse to call off on Franklin. Enitan didn’t answer, which meant I was stuck giving the kid a lesson. I supposed it was for the best. The sooner I got him—and his pesky enthusiasm—out of my hair, the better.

  “How did the case go?” Franklin asked as I sat down.

  “Oh, the usual. Stole a car, got shot at, saved a guy, threatened him, and, for my troubles, came out with nothing more than another slim lead. That’s the first thing you’ve got to know, Franklin: a PI is like a dog chasing its own tail. You spend your time running after something that never seems to get any closer and often end up back where you started. And what exactly are you doing?”

  Franklin was hunched over the counter, scribbling in a notebook he’d produced from a scarred satchel that looked like it had done serious dumpster time. “I’m taking notes. Look.” He showed me the cover of the notebook, upon which he’d written in fancy, curling letters: The Murphy Guide to Being a Dick.

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  A giggle answered my question. I sighed and ordered myself a soda water. It was too early to start drinking, but I had a feeling I was going to need to very soon. I consoled myself with a cigarette.

  “What was the lead you got?” Franklin said.

  “None of your business.”

  “You’re supposed to be teaching me. How can I learn if you won’t tell me things? Can’t we make your investigation a case study?”

  “Didn’t you go to school? We start with theory and then move on to practical. Tell me, what would you say is the golden rule of being a private investigator?”

  Franklin scrunched up his brow. “Keep your gun handy and never miss?”

  “No. A gun’s your last resort. If you have to use it, you’ve made a mistake somewhere down the line.”

  I thought again of Danny. If only I’d not taken Bruno’s anger so lightly, tried to smooth things over. Even if I’d gone to him and he’d killed me himself, Danny wouldn’t have had to die for my stupidity. My second fatal shot was a mistake too, if mainly one of timing. I’d looked out for Bruno down the years, sure he would end up in Lost Angeles one day, dreaming up agonizing ways to rectify my error of failing to make him pay. He never pitched up. After a while, I became convinced he never would; he was the kind of slippery customer who would die old and gray in his own bed, his sins confessed and wiped clean by the family priest. I told myself it was probably for the best; the slimy bastard would fit right in around these parts and have himself a whale of a time.

  I realized Franklin was looking at me expectantly. He must have come up with another suggestion while I was busy flagellating myself. “Sorry, I drifted off for a minute.”

  “I said, never take your eyes off your enemy?”

  “You should be making sure your enemy never lays eyes on you.” Again, another rule I’d broken with Bruno.

  “Always stick to the facts?”

  I forced myself to concentrate on the conversation, knowing that if I kept returning to the old wounds, I’d be useless for the rest of the day. “In this line of work, there’s no such thing as fact. There’s only what people tell you.”

  “God, I don’t know. Be rude and obtuse to everyone you meet? Ask lots and lots of questions but never answer any yourself? Never wear pink braces on a stakeout?”

  “Always assume everybody is lying.”

  “That seems a bit cynical. People tell the truth most of the time, don’t they?”

  “Maybe, but look at it this way: somebody’s going to lie to you at some point. If you believe whatever you’re told, that’s when you get caught with your pants down. If you don’t believe anything, you’re always prepared.”

  Franklin sniffed. “Doesn’t sound like an optimistic way to live your life.”

  “Life? Optimistic? You’re in Hell. It applies double down here. This place is full of liars and cheats who’d screw you over in a heartbeat. If you don’t want to stay in Desert Heights for a very long time, never mind become an investigator, you’re going to have to wise up.”

  “Okay, but if I assume everyone is lying, that means you’re lying to me about having to assume everyone is lying, which means I shouldn’t listen to you.”

  “There’s room in this bar for one smartass, and that’s me. Do you want me to teach you or not?”

  His guileless face crinkled up in consternation. “Of course I do. I’m not trying to be smart. I’m confused.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, “assume everyone is a liar apart from me, and you’ll be fine.”

  Franklin made a note in black ink and circled it with red pen. He also had blue and green pens and a short wooden ruler lined up alongside the notebook. This was going to be a slog. A few basic rules couldn’t replace gut instinct, and he didn’t have it.

  The phone rang, and Benny answered. “It’s for you.”

  “Kat!” Enitan said when I gratefully picked up the receiver. “How are you, my dear?”

  I glowered at Franklin, who was further embellishing key points in green ink. “I’ve been better. I called you earlier.”

  “I thought that might be you. I was busy reading. I have uncovered something about your monster. Can you come over?”

  “Love to. I’ve got something else to ask you about anyway.”

  “Most excellent. I will see you soon.”

  I hung up and headed to the exit. “I need to go,” I told Franklin. “Important business.”

  “What? We’ve been here five minutes.”

  “And I’ve already given you the sum of my knowledge. This isn’t rocket science.”

  His shoulders hunched, and he looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “But you promised you would teach me. Or was that a lie?”

  I rubbed my forehead and looked longingly at the bottles stocked behind the bar. I didn’t have time to schedule another session, as I’d be too busy trying to run down Sebastian’s broker and figuring out how to bypass the army of whichever Trustee the trail led to. But Franklin was right: I’d made him a promise. And I was only going to see Enitan; it wasn’t as if we would run into any situations the kid could mess up. “Fine. You can come, but keep your mouth shut, don’t touch anything, and don’t tell anybody I’m your teacher. You can say you’re my manservant.”

  Franklin bundled his stationery into the satchel and skipped after me as I stomped to the door. At least one of us was happy.

  14

  Enitan dished out the customary hug when I entered his shop and looked at the kid with frank curiosity. I’d considered asking Franklin to watch the car, pitching it as stakeout practice, but decided I’d probably end up having to rescue him from a mugger. My new plan involved passing him off as a babysitting job for a client, hinting he was soft in the head and prone to getting into trouble—which was close enough to the truth to be convincing.

  “And who is this fine young man?” Enitan said.

  I opened my mouth, but Franklin beat me to it. “I’m Kat’s apprentice.”

  The fence laughed at the
thunderous look on my face, clutching his jiggling belly. “So the venerable master has taken on a pupil. It is long past time. Knowledge should be passed on, not hoarded.”

  “He’s not my apprentice,” I said. “He’s a monumental pain in the ass.”

  “Now, now. Do not speak this way in front of your student. You will teach him bad habits.”

  “You’re one to talk about bad habits. Started wearing underwear yet?”

  “Some beasts were not meant to be tamed by the inventions of man. My manhood longs to soar on the breeze like a proud eagle, not cower in a cotton cave like a timorous mouse.”

  Franklin shot me a questioning look, which I ignored. “Speaking of real beasts, you’ve got something to show me?”

  “Yes, yes. Follow me.”

  Enitan led us into the back room, which smelled even fustier than the front shop. There may have been a window somewhere, but if so, the stacks of paper teetering along every wall obscured it. Stray manuscripts carpeted the floor, making the surface treacherous to walk on. The paper towers, leaning against each other like drunks, vibrated in sync with Enitan’s heavy footfalls. I worried he might start an avalanche and bury us.

  “Looks like you’re the one who needs an apprentice to sort this mess out for you,” I said. “Ever heard of a filing system?”

  “I do have a system,” Enitan said, seating himself at an elegant carved wooden table upon which a manuscript shone white in the small pool of light cast by a cockerel-shaped lamp. “Your brain is merely too miniscule to comprehend its complexity.”

  Franklin was gazing around the room, mouth hanging open. “Are these all books?”

  “Yes,” Enitan said. “The combined knowledge and wisdom of the sinners who have passed through this realm. Feel free to browse. Two dollars for one, five dollars for three.”

  “Wow,” Franklin said and began peering at the titles of the bound books on the closest stack.

  He probably would have been less impressed had he read half of the tomes. I hadn’t started War and Peace, mainly because I’d yet to get over the travesty of Moby Dick—which the reauthor had somehow morphed into a salty sea dog tale of pirates, high-seas battles, and sexual congress with attractive mermaids.

  “How is your Egyptian mythology?” Enitan said.

  “About as good as my knitting.”

  “Then let me enlighten you.” He spun the manuscript and slapped a finger on the open page. “I knew I had seen your creature somewhere before.”

  I leaned over the page to view a well-executed drawing of the monster I’d seen emerge from the dust cloud. The text itself was scrawled and difficult to read, particularly as Enitan’s arm partially blocked the light. “What is it?”

  “That is the Ammit, the devourer of the dead. As you can see, she has the head of a crocodile, the torso of some kind of wild cat, possibly a lion, and the hind legs of a hippopotamus.”

  “Ah, a hippo. I would have guessed cow. What does this Ammit do?”

  “According to ancient Egyptian religion, the Ammit was a female demon who resided by the scales of justice in the underworld. When the dead came to be judged, their hearts were placed upon a scale to be weighed against the feather of Ma’at, or truth. If the scales balanced, the sinner would continue on to the afterlife and blissful immortality.”

  “And if they didn’t balance?”

  “The Ammit would devour the heart of the unfortunate sinner, making them suffer the ‘second death’ and condemning them to an eternity as a restless spirit.”

  “No offense, Enitan, but do you believe this particular copy is accurate?”

  “Oh, it’s accurate,” said Franklin. He brushed past me and looked down at the drawing. “Not a bad likeness, actually.”

  I grabbed his shoulder, my heart beating faster. “How do you know about this?”

  Franklin flinched at the vehemence in my voice. “Religious historian, remember? I’ve studied every major world religion, including those from ancient times. I didn’t go too deeply into the Egyptian side of things, but I know the Ammit.”

  I released him and grasped the edge of the desk. Not only was the physical description accurate—the mythology ran close to what I’d seen: the Ammit devouring lines of sinners and consigning them to their second death as dust devils.

  Enitan was looking at me, one eyebrow kinked up. “Tell me again where you saw this drawing.”

  “I didn’t see the drawing. I saw the real deal.”

  He stepped so close that our noses almost touched. “Where?”

  “In the desert, by Avici Rise.”

  “What were you doing out there?”

  Franklin was staring at me as intently, and it was this attentiveness that stopped me from spilling the whole story. Had we been alone, I would have told Enitan all about Laureen’s problem, my Torment being called off, and the dreadful scene I’d witnessed. I didn’t know Franklin well enough to trust him not to blab and draw attention to what I was up to. As it was, I’d already slipped up in my flustered state by revealing that I’d seen the Ammit in the flesh.

  “Making castles in the sand,” I said, flicking my eyes toward Franklin.

  Franklin’s gaze was fixed on the drawing. He had the look Enitan sometimes got when he was engrossed in one of his manuscripts. It occurred to me then that maybe Franklin wasn’t a dead loss after all. I wasn’t going to give him any details, but if he really was an expert on religions, he might have some insight on Lost Angeles. “Franklin, tell me what you think of this place.”

  “This room? It’s marvelous. A touch untidy but all the same.”

  “I mean Lost Angeles. Hell. You studied human visions of the afterlife. Were you surprised when you arrived here? By what it was like, I mean?”

  “I should say so. Pretty much every imagining of Hell depicts constant torture, vicious supernatural beings punishing sinners in gruesome ways. Lost Angeles is probably closest to Swedenborg’s vision of Hell as a decaying city where the inhabitants brutalize each other. But the fit isn’t exact, because we also have the Torments. And then there’s the fact that people are allowed to sin and sin again without any apparent further penalty. Plus the names of the districts are unusual.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, take Avici. In Buddhism, Avici is the lowest level of Hell. Lots of graphic torture, multiple deaths and rebirths, and more torture for millions of years. Then you have the Seven Gates, named after the seven gates of Hell in Islam. Or Il Terzo Livello, the Third Level. In Dante’s Inferno, a vision based on Christianity, that’s where the gluttonous were damned. Plus you saw an Ammit, which is Egyptian.”

  “The Trustees named most of the districts,” I said.

  “I didn’t know that. Makes it more fascinating. As far as I can tell from preliminary observations, this place is a mishmash of different beliefs. The real question, though, is one of chicken and egg. Do different human religions reflect certain aspects of this place, or does this place reflect certain aspects of human religions?”

  “How long have you been here?” Enitan asked.

  “A week.”

  “You seem to know a lot about the city already,” I said.

  Franklin blushed. “I was always a quick study. I’m trying to treat it like a research project, to take my mind off all the nastiness.”

  Enitan, never shy, stood up and gave Franklin his first hug. “I like you, young man. How would you feel about writing a book on this city? We have some books that go back down the years, mainly biographies, which you could use as source materials. What we do not have is a definitive history. With your keen mind, you could create a masterpiece that would sell by the tens of thousands. I could give you, say, a fifteen percent royalty.”

  “I could do that,” Franklin said.

  My mood picked up as I saw an opportunity to get shot of him. “Looks like you’re the one with an apprentice now, Enitan.”

  “I’d still like to learn to investigate,” Franklin said.

>   “Nonsense,” Enitan said, the dollar signs almost visible in his eyes. “Why would you want to get involved in all that sordid business when you can become a best-selling author? Stick with me, young fellow, and you will go far. Allow me to find one of my standard contracts, and you can sign at this very moment.”

  Enitan rummaged in his desk, tossing pieces of paper out to join the mess on the floor. Franklin looked at me uncertainly. I shrugged. “Don’t try to fight it. Once the juggernaut is in motion, you either jump on board or get mown down.”

  “I am a force of nature!” Enitan yelled, standing up to wave a fountain pen and a contract. “Sign here.” As Franklin put his name on the dotted line, Enitan raised a finger in the air. “It occurs to me that perhaps Franklin can also help on the matter of the box. I was unable to turn up anything, but he seems to be far more knowledgeable.”

  Franklin finished signing, taking great care over his handwriting, before looking up. “I’m happy to help. What box are you talking about?”

  I glared at Enitan. Asking Franklin about the city in general was one thing, but the box was part of a case, and an important one at that. I never talked about cases to external parties, mainly due to the fear of getting the job whipped out from under my nose by an enterprising rival—a thought that again brought an unsullied memory of Danny. Still, it had been mentioned now. Maybe Franklin would know something useful. I didn’t have to reveal any significant details.

  “There’s a box I heard about,” I said. “Very old, carved into the shape of a globe. It seems to have some sort of power, most likely not benign. It may be of significance to Hell.”

  “Hmm. Can I see it?”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Shame. Offhand, the one thought that comes to mind is Pandora’s box.”

  “Of course,” Enitan said. “A classic tale.”

  “Indeed,” said Franklin. “It’s a complicated Greek myth, dating from around 700 BC. According to the tale, Zeus gave Pandora, the first woman, to Prometheus’s brother, Epimetheus, as a bride. As a wedding gift, he gave them a box—well, actually a jar, according to early versions of the story, which became perverted in translation—and warned them never to open it. But this was an elaborate revenge plot against Prometheus, who had annoyed Zeus by stealing fire from Heaven. Zeus knew Pandora’s curiosity would get the better of her. She opened it, and all the evils of the world came pouring out.”