Constantine (7 page)

“Yeah. Hilarious. So, Ellie - you didn’t answer me before… “

“We got distracted. You seemed happy.”

“Sure. But uh - any unusual soul traffic, maybe? New prophecies? Strange artifacts turning up?”

She put the cigarette in her mouth, squinting past the smoke, and began dragging her long fingernails up and down his spine, smiling maliciously - he could see her in the mirror under the TV

Constantine thought:
Wall-mounted TV. Like in that waiting room for terminal cases.
..

“Lung cancer, John! No wonder the Boss is in such a good mood.”

Constantine grimaced. The Boss.

She rubbed and scratched, harder. “All those saints and martyrs slipping through his grasp. His own foot soldiers sent back to him in chunks…”

“Ellie…?”

“He’s going to take all that out on you, John. He’s going to enjoy ripping your soul to shreds until the end of time.”

“Ellie…”

“You’re the one soul he’d actually come up here himself to collect if he could. And you know how much he despises this place.”

“Ellie. A break here?”

Ellie took the cigarette out of her mouth and blew a smoke ring. Constantine could hear a cleaning woman pushing a cart by, outside the window.

Ellie considered. She shrugged. “No. Nothing out of the ordinary in my day-to-day.” She reached down and got the bottle again, took a long pull. “And brother, that’s saying something.”

“Is he really your boss?”

“Not really - I’m more like a contractor these days. If he was my boss, you’d be dead by now. I’d have killed you my own self.”

He nodded. It was true enough.

She tilted her head to listen. “Gonna rain.”

“Weather report says no.”

But then he heard it pattering on the roof. Pretty heavy.

“I take it John Constantine is still looking for the big score. To set things right.”

“You got any better ideas?”

She tossed the cigarette into an ashtray, and found the pack in the tom sheets behind her. She tapped another out and lit it with a flame jetting from her fingertip.

“Anyway, Ellie…” He coughed, just once. Okay, twice. Well, three times. But short ones.

“Just keep your ear to the ground.”

“Most nights that’s where it ends up anyway.” She smiled wanly. “I do love it when you’re feeling self destructive. You know - I’m gonna miss having someone up here I can… relate to.”

She scooped up the Jack Daniel’s and passed it to him, kissing the back of his neck. Her tail switched behind her. He saw its serrated pink spike flashing in the mirror.

He drank deep from the bottle.

--

Chaz and Constantine sat in the cab, looking through the thin rain at the Theological Society.

“It’s like that place grew there,” Chaz said. “I can’t see it being
built
here. Like with an architect.”

“Plans were from a certain small cathedral in the South of France. Cathar country,” Constantine said vaguely.

The rain had eased off some by seven A.M. John was still drunk, but that had eased off some too. Coffee and aspirin kept the consequences of excess at bay. He’d only thrown up once. The booze was in its nervous energy phase now. The fatigue would set in soon. He needed to get moving. “I’m pretty sure I can get you in here, Chaz.”

Chaz looked at the Theological Society’s gothic towers. “What? To see the Snob? Pass.”

He shoved the meter down and it began its inexorable ticking. Constantine grunted in irritation at himself.
Everything
reminded him of mortality.

Pull yourself together, fool.

He got out of the cab and, only swaying a little, made his way into the building. The rain felt good on his forehead.

A priest was talking with a bishop in the vaulted chamber of the nave as Constantine walked through. Pausing at the holy water to take a splash, cross himself with it. And to light a few candles at the shrine to St. Anthony, the patron saint of the Society. Constantine wasn’t Catholic, but what could it hurt?

In the library, he found two men standing at the big fireplace - it was big enough for a child of Consuela’s size to walk right into. Constantine paused to look them over. One of them, anyway, was a man. The other only seemed to be. Constantine recognized him: his semblance and his spirit, both. The semblance wore a cream-colored Armani suit. He was handsome in a delicate way, with high cheekbones and a narrow chin, thick hair. Prettily pale, startling green eyes.

Body as feminine as masculine. An androgyne. Constantine knew that this androgynous man, this being, had been aware of him the moment he’d entered the door - probably before he’d come in. The other man at the fireplace, more rugged, was Father Garret.

A young servant - probably a priestly intern of some kind - appeared at Constantine’s elbow.

“May I take your coat, Mr. Constantine?”

“No thanks. I’m not staying long.”

“How about you, ma’am?”

Constantine turned to see a young woman, lovely but with a grim purpose about her. Auburn hair, full lips, hazel eyes. Pretty enough to never bother with makeup. An air of strength, even danger, in a skirt, a white blouse. She seemed… he realized she was a cop of some kind. You didn’t need to be psychic to sense that, only streetwise. And he’d seen her before somewhere.

The hospital, at the elevator.

The vulnerability was there too - his feelers told him she was grieving. She’d lost someone recently. He suppressed the psychic contact, not wanting to intrude. Not unless it was needed.

“I’m not staying long either,” she said.

There was something else about her… the field around her was strong, and seemed to cast about, almost without her intending it.

“I’ve got to talk to him,” she said. “It’s very important.”

“First come, first served,” Constantine said. Mostly to see what her reaction would be.

“So you’re rude, no matter where you are.”

She looked at him for the first time, sizing him up, and he was uncomfortably aware that his clothes were overdue for washing, his chin for shaving, his teeth for brushing, and he probably smelled of liquor.

He hoped he didn’t seem drunk.
Why do you care what she thinks?

It was odd. He usually
didn’t
care what people thought.

Garret and the man with him shook hands - with just the faintest suggestion of a bow from Garret toward the other man. Acknowledging rank.

The woman went straight to Garret; Constantine went to the other man: Gabriel, who was now standing facing the fireplace - with his wings spread. You had to look close to see them; they were usually invisible, in this world.

The lady cop walked out with Garret, talking in low tones, as Gabriel sat in a large, high- backed wooden chair facing the fireplace; he sat on the edge of the chair, leaning forward, and watched the flames with unblinking eyes.

Constantine had the careful walk of a man not wanting to show he had been drinking. But of course Gabriel would know he was anyway.

Telepathically, Gabriel said,
Flame consuming wood. Time is fire, Constantine, for the mortals. Time consumes.
Aloud he said, “I know what you want, son.” Gabriel’s voice was silky - not a pleasant silkiness, to Constantine. Gabriel always seemed snobbish. Maybe he had a right, being divine.

“Still keeping your all-seeing eye on me, Gabriel? I’m flattered.”

“I could offer how a shepherd leads even the most wayward of his flock, but to you it might sound disingenuous.”

“So you’re going to make me beg?”

“It wouldn’t help. You’ve already wasted your chance at redemption.” Gabriel smiled, though his eyes remained icy green, like frozen seawater. “You’re not going to the fair, John.”

“What about the minions I’ve sent back? Sending minions to Hell saved innocent lives. That alone should guarantee my entry-”

“Still trying to buy your way into Heaven, son? How many times must I tell you? It just won’t work.”

Constantine shoved his fists in the pockets of his coat - to keep from using them. “Haven’t I served Him enough? What does He want from me?”

“The usual. Self-sacrifice. Belief.”

“I believe, for Christ’s sake!”

Gabriel shook his head gently, looking at Constantine. Who shuddered - feeling Gabriel’s gaze on the soul within his flesh. “No. You know. There’s a difference. As I have told you again and again, entry into Heaven requires
faith.
Meaning belief without proof. You believe because you have seen.”

“A technicality. I never asked to see. I was born with this curse.”

“A gift, John! One which you have squandered on selfish endeavors.”

Constantine suddenly felt the fatigue catch up with him. He wanted another drink, maybe an Irish coffee.

“You’re better off without another drink, John.”

“I’m pulling demons out of little girls. Who’s that for?”

Gabriel smiled with exquisite condescension. “All you have ever done, you have done for yourself. To try to earn your way back into His good graces. Simple commerce. So don’t now come whimpering to me because you’re scared of going to Hell.”

Constantine lit a cigarette, eyeing a nearby Bible as he spoke. “I’ve read the manual. Ever consider you’re the ones with the problem? Impossible rules. Who goes up. Who goes down. And why. Why? You don’t even understand us.” He blew a smoke ring at Gabriel. “You’re the one who should go to Hell, halfbreed.”

Gabriel stood, a single fluid motion that was more a thought in action than the movement of a human body. He glowered down at Constantine. “I am taking your situation into account, but do not push me.”

“Why me, Gabriel?”

Gabriel’s reply was telepathic.
Why you! All mortals die and when they do they all say, “Why me?”

“It’s personal, isn’t it? I didn’t go to church enough? Didn’t pray enough? I was five bucks short in the collection plate? Why?”

Gabriel looked into his eyes. “You’re going to die because you smoked thirty cigarettes a day since you were fifteen. And you’re going to Hell because of the life you took.” He shrugged sadly, sweetly. “You’re fucked.”

--

In another part of the room, Angela, talking to Father Garret, looked over. “Who is that man, the tall one, Father?”

“Ah - I rather think you wouldn’t believe me. Listen - about what’s happened to your sister - you’ve got to accept the tribulations that come to you. Accepting our lot is what it’s all about, Angela.”

“You can do something, Father. She has to have a Catholic funeral. She has to.”

“Angela - suicide is still considered a mortal sin.”

“She didn’t commit suicide.”

“The Bishop believes otherwise, my dear. It’s out of my hands. You know the rules, Angela.”

She looked at him pleadingly. “Father… David. This is Isabel!”

He looked at the floor, not knowing how to answer. Angela went on, “God was… I think God was the only one she ever believed loved her.”

He just looked at her. Unyielding. “Please, Father….”

--

Angela’s eyes were wet before she reached the rain falling outside the Theological Society.

She stepped back a moment, under the eaves, to watch the rain come down. Thousands of tiny little splashes on the ground. Thinking of Isabel, hitting the water of the pool, oozing blood…

She heard a cough and turned to see the rude man standing on the other side of the door, smoking a cigarette down to the filter, looking as if he’d been burned down to the filter himself.

He looked up at the rain. “At least it’s a nice day.” She just looked at him. What an odd man.

Something about him…

“God,” Constantine said, “has always had a rotten sense of humor.” He threw the cigarette into a puddle. “And His punch lines are always killers.”

There was a taxi waiting nearby - the driver, a young man, leaning over to shout through the window as it rolled down. “Constantine? Come on, it’s raining! Hey!”

So his name was Constantine. She watched as he ignored the taxi and trudged off into the rain.

--

The same downpour hammered the window of Father Hennessy’s studio. Hennessy kicked restlessly through a litter of tom aluminum foil, Power Bar wrappers - they were mostly what he ate - Diet Coke bottles, and liquor bottles, to get to the small, listing brown sofa next to a stack of recent publications .

He sighed, a jelly jar of Early Times in one hand, and let himself fall back into the little sofa.

Time to return to work.

The voices came and went, usually half heard, like angry conversations penetrating through the wall of a cheap hotel - but these came through the walls of the astral plane. They were the voices of the purgatorial dead, wandering between levels. Not quite in Hell - except the hells of their own making. Babbling, overlapping, each pressing to be heard over the others.

“…I knew they’d betray me, and they’ve put me in this place so they can get my money, but they will find out that it’s all gone, and how I shall laugh… Oh, why don’t I have any hands.
..
if I could only see my hands.
… “

“Mama? I’m sorry, Mama. Mama? I’m sorry, Mama. Mama? I’m sorry, Mama. Mama? I’m sorry, Mama. Mama?”

“So he thinks we’re imaginary, we’re but characters of his invention, or some phantasm in a book he reads.
..
and all the while we stand just behind, waiting our chance .
… “

“What did he mean he was dying for nothing? If the fucking Reds take South Vietnam they’ll take the rest of Southeast Asia and we’ll have commies hitting the beaches in San Diego. Why did he say he was dying for nothing? Why’d that have to be his last words? I was following orders, goddammit.
… “

“
Mama? I’m sorry, Mama. Mama? I’m sorry… “

Hennessy stopped listening to them. They were too random, there was nothing useful in them, and they rarely responded to direct questions.

He took a pull on the bourbon, put the jar down, and focused his attention on the newspapers and magazines stacked beside the sofa. He laid a selection out on the scarred coffee table, closed his eyes, and extended his hands over them, palms down, a few inches from the surface of each page, pausing now and then, without opening his eyes, to turn the pages, then once more hovering his hands over them… picking up vibratory associations… probing the layers of information.