I drove the long way around, making sure no one was tailing my new/old Datsun. We drove through the harsh neon glare of Whisky Gulch and into a neighborhood tucked behind the stately homes along University Avenue. The Amazons were puzzled when I pulled into the driveway of an undistinguished apartment building, but they were positively astonished when I slid into one of the parking spaces and got out to punch a code into a panel disguised as a utility meter, and then the entire back of the garage opened up so we could get into Caz’s secret apartment hideaway.
Being back there was definitely a mixed blessing for me. It was a great place to hide, because as far as I know nobody on either side knew about it. I’d told Eligor everything he wanted to know (because I was being tortured, kids) but as far as I remembered, he’d never asked about Caz’s hideout. Believe me, I’d have happily spilled that information to keep myself out of the burning flames for an extra minute, but it just didn’t come up. Those who have not spent days feeling the skin singed off their body, regrown, and then singed off again are not allowed to comment on my lack of silent courage. No, seriously, shut the fuck up. You don’t know anything.
Anyway, I was talking about mixed blessings. Caz’s place was a hell of a lot nicer than my now-empty apartment, but it was also the last place she and I had spent any safe time together, and the night we’d had there—well, night and morning and not much sleep during either—had been without doubt the single best moments of my life. I’d known the code since our night together, but I’d never even considered using it before this because I knew it would be painful to return. And it was.
The Amazons loved it, naturally. They had been living like gypsies for the whole time they’d been in America, and I had a feeling the Ukrainian Amazon compound in the Carpathians wasn’t any bower of delight, either. (Actually, from what they’d told me, it sounded like Single Sex Sadist Camp, but ever since I got out of the Counterstrike units I’ve had an aversion to discipline, as well as an even bigger aversion to segregation of the sexes.) But now you would have thought Halyna and Oxana were on vacation. They ran around looking at everything, fiddling with the television, touching the costly fabrics that draped the rooms, opening and smelling all Caz’s perfumes (just the scents gave me a sharp pang in the heart) and marveling at the expensive clothes in her closet. I hadn’t showered in about two days, so while they were having a half-serious pillow fight—I’m telling you, it was like taking teenagers to a holiday cabin—I went in and sluiced the dirt and sweat off me.
Later I went out and fetched some dinner from an El Salvadoran place around the corner. The Amazons had never had panes rellenos, and looked at me like I was a magician after they took their first bites. (The little local joint turned out to be pretty good.) We shared a few beers, and then I gave them the bedroom—I was just able to deal with being in the apartment, but I didn’t think I could handle Caz’s bed, too—and set myself up on the couch with all my case notes, some paper, and a pen. I sat up late drawing little lines and arrows, trying to create a diagram that made sense out of all the connections and all the crazy shit that had been happening, something that would give me some perspective on what was going on and where I had to go next. What I was really doing was keeping my mind busy as a defense against early-onset craziness.
I woke in the middle of the night, having dozed off sitting up. As I made myself more comfortable, I heard noises from the other room. At first I thought from the thumping noises and occasional cries and grunts that the Amazons were sparring, but I realized after a while that they were almost certainly involved in a much friendlier interaction. It went on for a while. A long while.
Ah, the irony. Hidden away from the world, rejected once again by the woman I loved, alone with a couple of hot young Amazons, and I was the guy out on the couch, listening in like a sad old pervert. Not that I had any choice about listening. But even if I had been interested and they had been interested too, I was still a man in love, and I had to stay true to something, even if that something was only self-denial.
Can’t say I enjoyed it much, though.
fifteen
fun in america
WHEN MORNING came, I left the Amazons sleeping the sleep of the semi-innocent and wandered out of the apartment into the meticulous brick courtyard, trying to see how far I had to go to get a cell signal. Caz’s apartment was shielded against cell calls to prevent the location being traced, which was good for discretion but bad for communication, and I had no idea how trustworthy the landline was these days. Turned out I had to walk a couple of blocks before I got any bars, and the reception still wasn’t great, but considering the guy I was calling had once used my phone (with help from our bosses) to keep tabs on where I was, I wasn’t too unhappy.
“Clarence,” I said. “Are you alone?”
“Bobby?” He yawned. “I hope so.”
“You sure you don’t have a little Wendell or a Wendell-surrogate of some kind stashed away there under the counterpane?”
“What’s a counterpane? No, there’s no one here.”
“Ignorant youngster. We need to meet up, and I’m not driving all the way to your place. So get a cab or something and meet me in twenty minutes at the diner where you met the Sollyhulls—remember the ghost sisters? I thought so. And make sure nobody follows you.” I hung up before he could protest. I didn’t really care about driving that far, but I’d gone to all the trouble of painting my car to look different, so I wasn’t going to blow it by driving up to some known place and displaying it to anybody who might be watching.
I picked up some coffee at the local forked-mermaid franchise and a couple of vaguely healthy-looking muffins for the women. When I got back, Oxana and Halyna wandered out in t-shirts and underpants, so I adopted a stern, paternalistic air to disguise the fact that all this free-range femininity was starting to get to Yours Truly, who, except for a couple of stolen hours in Hell with Caz, had been living a monastic life for months.
“Okay, women-friends of complete equality, come and get some coffee into you, and then let’s make a shopping list.”
“Guns?” asked Oxana brightly.
“Bigger knives?” Halyna suggested. “I had a boovy knife, but I lost it on the bus.”
I figured out after a moment that she was talking about a Bowie knife. Those usually run about eight inches of blade or so, so it must have made quite a clunk falling out of her duffel bag. “No, not weapons. That comes later. Today I need you to find yourself some disguises. Nothing too ambitious, just a couple of wigs and some civilian clothes so you don’t look quite so much like an Estonian punk rock band.”
“You don’t like this clothings?” Oxana pulled up her sleeveless t-shirt, exposing way more of her underwear and flat, tan stomach than I really wanted to see. After all, I may not be human, but I’m still only human.
“Not for the kind of stuff we’re going to be doing,” I said, looking resolutely into her eyes instead, which were also kind of fetching. If I hadn’t seen all the weapons in their apartment or the way she stabbed that hairy little monster, I would have pegged her for a poli sci major who was also a cheerleader, which probably demonstrates which way my fantasy life is inclined. “Let’s make a list.”
When we were done, I gave them some cash and drew a map so they could find their way discreetly to the other side of the freeway. Ravenswood was a pretty small part of town, especially the shopping district, but I figured they could find what they wanted in thrift stores. Then I taught them the combination for the apartment and reminded them not to bring anything or anybody home or I’d have to kill them. Daddying done, I set them free like the fierce Ukrainian she-creatures they were, to romp among the used pantsuits and granny scarves.
I got to the diner early, checked it out, then parked the car and walked back from a block or so away. It wasn’t all that nice a place, but I hadn’t been there for months, not since the Sollyhull Sisters had given up haunting th
e place and moved somewhere else, so I figured it wouldn’t be on any list of my main hangouts. Plus, it had a back door. I like those.
While I waited for Clarence, I sifted through the latest information my porky source had sent me. There was some good stuff in this shipment, so even though George was almost certainly squatting naked in mud at that moment, aware of nothing more complicated than a strange aversion to applesauce and sauerkraut, I sent him a thank you he could read later. As I did, I noticed that he’d appended a little note to the information he’d sent me.
• • •
Hi, Mr. D! Guess what? I have worms! Ascarids, I think they’re called. They’re really bad for pigs but I don’t think I have that serious a case. The vet here is great and they really respect their patients’ privacy. I’m supposed to take something called Mibendazol (sp?) to kill the worms. And the food here is great!
• • •
I was so glad I hadn’t ordered anything to eat yet.
George and I had narrowed down the candidates for Anaita’s earthly avatar quite a bit, which meant it was more like studying actual people now and not just demographics. I had suggested several variables for George’s search, including 1) apparently Persian or Persian-American—obviously, or the whole search was pointless, 2) wealthy (because why wouldn’t she be?), 3) sporadic appearances (because I figured an important angel like Anaita wouldn’t be able to hang out on Earth all that often), and 4) involved in local life but not too involved. Because of this last, I could eliminate at least four of the people George had given me, each of them with big, complicated families.
That still left me nearly a dozen to consider, but I took a flyer and crossed off the male candidates, just as an exercise. Certainly if Anaita didn’t want to be found out it would have been smarter to pick a male persona, but I had a feeling she wasn’t the type. I mean, she used to be a goddess, and unlike angels (at least as far as I knew angels), goddesses were proud of being female. And she was the goddess of fertility, right? Wasn’t that what Gustibus had said?
Eliminating men quickly narrowed the field down to three. They were all interesting, but as I sat there staring I kept coming back to one particular name.
I was just about to email George again, to ask him to get me more information about that particular woman (as soon as he could get free from his roundworm treatments) when the door of the coffee shop went ding! and Clarence walked in. With Garcia Windhover.
G-Man saw me and trotted to my table, struggling as always to keep his pants from falling down. I don’t want to sound like a cranky old guy, but come on—even rappers have to run for their lives sometimes, don’t they? How do they do that with their pants around their ankles like a spanked toddler? Not that G-Man was a rapper or anything else but a white suburban kid from a nice, slightly hippie-ish family who had taken his interest in African-American culture way beyond the bounds of good taste. Actually, his outfit wasn’t that bad this time, except for the bandana knotted in the front and, banging against his skinny chest, a ridiculous gold medallion that I could swear he’d stolen out of some ninety-year-old lady’s jewelry box.
“A’ight, Bobby!” he said and tried to fist-bump me. I refused to produce my fist. I know, petty of me, but come on. “Don’t worry, I’ma let you two talk, but I just had to come in and show you my new ink.” He stuck out his arm, then turned it over to display a patch of baloney-colored skin that had presumably been nude until recently. Now it glowed with new black—the words “Mission From God” in complicated Gothic letters. “‘Cause you told me that time that you were the Lord’s avenging angel, and that’s cool, and since you’re my boy . . .”
I took a breath. If G-Man was really just dropping off Clarence, it would be easier and safer for everyone if I kept the conversation brief and light, so instead of telling him what an idiot he was, I just nodded and said, “Yeah, bro. Nice ink.” Yes, I said it. And if I hadn’t already been to Hell, I’d say that was where I’m going someday for lying. But when I go back to Hell, it will be for dozens of much worse crimes and probably sooner than I want.
I gave Clarence a look that was meant to imply all the ways I would have liked to hurt him if I had the freedom to do so, which I didn’t. “So. You caught a ride with G-Man. I thought you had a car of your own?”
“It wouldn’t start,” the boy angel said with a distinct tone of sulk. “And you said twenty minutes, Bobby.”
“Know you two have to get on with your top-secret biznizzle,” G-Man said loudly, causing one or two of the poor bastards already eating there to turn and look. “So I’ll just go cruise around. When should I come pick you up, Harrisonio?”
While they worked out details, I just sat there with one eyebrow so far up it was almost painful. When he’d finally gone, Clarence turned back to me with a defiant look already on his face.
“Harrisonio?” I said. His earthly name was Harrison Ely, but nobody ever used it. At least nobody who was even halfway cool.
“At least somebody almost calls me by my real name.”
“I never realized you were a gondolier. Hey, I’ll call you Harrisonio too.”
“Please don’t.” He picked up the menu. “What’s up?”
“Whatever you do, don’t get the corned beef here. It’s made from people—ugly, dry people. Other than that, you’re on your own. I’ll tell you the details after you’ve ordered.”
When we had summoned a harried-looking guy in an apron and told him what we wanted, I said to Clarence, “Now, do me a big favor and run down everything that happened before you met me and Sam.”
“What do you mean? Like before I died? I don’t know that. Neither do you.”
“No, dumbass. I’m talking about your angelic life.”
“Why?”
“Just humor me.” I’d coaxed what I believed were honest answers out of the Amazons by pointing a gun at them, but that didn’t seem appropriate here. For one thing: coffee shop, broad daylight. Also, if Clarence was still a stooge for our bosses, he’d just get rebodied if I plugged him, so it wasn’t much of a threat—especially since he hadn’t already died a couple of times like some of us had, so he didn’t know yet how painful it could be.
The kid sipped his iced tea and told me how he’d woken up in Heaven, a story that was pretty much like mine until he was sent off to work in Records, which—as Clarence told it—had been a job of serene, fulfilling boredom. Fulfilling for him, boredom for anyone with half an ounce of interest in reality, including me. But I wasn’t judging, just listening.
“Then, after I’d been there a while, my boss told me somebody wanted to talk to me. I went to this place and met this angel I didn’t know, but he was really shiny, you know? Really bright. I could tell he was somebody important.”
“Who was he?”
“I didn’t recognize him.”
“And this was still in Heaven?”
He shrugged. “As far as I know.”
We paused when the food came. I was still feeling a bit unmanned by resuming my relationship with hard liquor the other night, so I mainly stuck to carbs—waffles and hash browns, with some fruit just to make me feel virtuous. I watched Clarence eat some of his blueberry pancakes before prodding him to continue.
“Anyway, so this shiny angel said that Heaven had something very important for me to do, something I was going to do that would make the Highest proud of me. It didn’t really sound like I had any choice, so I said yes. Next thing I know, I’m on Earth.”
“Really? You sure?”
“About the Earth part? I think so. It was like a warehouse or something, but it wasn’t anything like any part of Heaven I’d ever seen. And it smelled. Things I’d never smelled in Heaven. Sweat. Machine oil. And the sounds were different, too.” He stopped with a fork in front of his mouth. “Now that I’m talking about it, I kind of . . . thought differently after I got there, too. Clearer about some thi
ngs, less clear about others. And I wasn’t as happy as I’d been.”
That did sound like he’d been tossed out of Heaven’s nest. “Okay. Then what happened?”
“I more or less got trained. In some very basic stuff. How to use the needle gun they gave me, and a few other things. And the phones, especially the tracking software. There were about ten other angels there, too, learning stuff like I was. We sparred sometimes.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t very good at that.”
“Hang on. You were being trained on Earth with a bunch of other angels? Trained with guns? And this wasn’t Camp Zion, the big camp in the middle of the desert?” I’d been trained at Zion, along with every other angel that has ever been in a Counterstrike unit. If someone was training angels in a different location to do Counterstrike work, that wasn’t just news to me, it was worrying news. How big was the shit going on up there?
“I don’t know where it was, Bobby. Just this place Samkiel sent me. But there wasn’t a desert.”
“Whoa, hang on, cowboy. Who’s Samkiel?”
“The shiny angel who sent me there in the first place—the important one. I heard one of the other angels mention his name once, and people weren’t using names around that place much, so I remembered.”
“Okay, Samkiel.” I didn’t know the name, but I filed it away for later. “That’s something. Then what happened?”
He looked embarrassed. “I’m not exactly sure. To be honest, for a long time I hardly even remembered any of this, but once I started hanging out with you and Sam it started to come back a little.” He looked up at me. “Hey, where is Sam? How come he never comes out with us anymore?”
I sat back and drank my coffee, thinking. I couldn’t find any holes in Clarence’s story, not that it proved anything. The people we worked for, if you can call them that, are much more powerful than we are. Since they were capable of wiping our memories, they might even be able to implant cover stories right into an angel’s brain. At least I was going to assume that, until I found out otherwise. Still, I didn’t have much choice but to believe him. I was running out of potential allies. “Sam and I had a bit of a disagreement. That’s why I need to be able to trust you—and why we’re starting with History 101.”