Devil Said Bang (9 page)

“I’ll walk with you.”

I stop and look back at him.

“You can do that? Just walk around?”

He holds out Lucifer’s mark.

“This keeps me out of all kinds of trouble. These
pig fuckers might stab each other over a nickel’s worth of beer, but they aren’t
about to break the Devil’s toys.”

“Come on, then.”

“Give me a minute. I got saddled with a dim Hellion
for help. Boy’d be a good thief if he ever actually took anything instead of
losing it. He’s too dumb to steal and too clumsy for the legions, so they made
him a barman, which, sadly, in my experience is just about right.”

I light the cigarette and watch Bill go inside.
Johnny Cash singing “Ain’t No Grave” drifts out when he opens the door.

I hate not trusting him. It’s been nice being able
to be human with him for a few minutes at a time. It’s one of the few things
that’s kept me sane. If he leads me into another ambush, I’ll know what side
he’s really on. If I’m on my own, that’s just the way it is. It wouldn’t be the
first time.

Bill comes back to the side of the bar a minute
later and cocks his head for me to follow him.

“Which way do you think is best?” I ask, giving him
an opening to lead me down any blind alley he wants.

“Through the market, I reckon. There’s a lot of
traffic and people are looking at the goods and not at faces.”

And crowds are good places to stick a knife in
someone’s back and disappear.

“Sounds good. Let’s go.”

We walk in silence. I can’t hear his heart or his
breathing, but I can see him fine and Bill’s movements are definitely tense.

We pass the site where the new City Hall will go
up. This Convergence L.A. is solid but there are small places where the real
Hell peeks through. Like these Hellion cranes. The cabs are rounded and covered
in heavy wired mesh and they have six or eight big portholes instead of
windshields. They look a lot more like giant bugs grabbing food with long
chitinous beaks than construction equipment.

Bill says, “You’re quiet all of a sudden. Usually
you’re the chatterbox and I’m the one waiting to get a word in.”

The market stalls cover the sidewalks and spill
onto the roads where the original stores and businesses have burned or been
abandoned. The big stalls sell anything a fine upstanding Hellion could want,
most of it black market. Clean clothes. Jewelry. Health and hex potions.
High-end Aqua Regia and wine.

“I was thinking about who I should flay alive for
selling all of Hell’s goods to these Harry Lime pricks.”

“I see. Maybe you’ve got more of the devil in you
than even I credited you with.”

“Maybe it’s time to see just how much.”

There are ghosts in the crowd. Not damned souls.
Ghosts. A few of them follow us.

Bill says, “Back there at the bar, you might have
noticed I didn’t want to say some things.”

“I noticed that.”

Bill looks at me.

“That’s a cold tone. You peg me for a bushwhacker
now too?”

“I’m tired of being surrounded by people with
secrets. If you have something to say, just say it.”

“All right. But I’ll do it my way.”

“Fine.”

He puffs on his cigar. A red legger elbows Bill out
of the way. Bill elbows him right back. The legger whirls around and grabs
Bill’s arm. I reach for my knife but the raider sees the mark on Bill’s arm and
backs away.

Bill turns and starts walking again like nothing
happened.

“They tell me that back home I’m more notorious
than John Wesley Hardin, which is a hoot, as he had more fights and killed at
least twice as many men as I ever did. On the other hand, it pleases me no end
that Broken Nose Charlie Utter, who so violently disrupted my final card game,
is known to very few. Men with restless lives—and I’m including you in this—we
don’t seem to get much say in who’s remembered and who’s forgotten and with what
amount of affection or derision.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I’m sure you have, Sandman Slim.”

Bill puffs his cigar and thinks.

“The point is, whatever you do, whether you’ll turn
out to be the Antichrist, the prince of killers, or perhaps nothing at all, it’s
time, not men, that will be the judge.”

He stares off at nothing for a second.

“Sometimes I think that last one might be the most
preferable state. To be nothing and erased from eternity strikes me as a fine
thing some days. But, of course, that wasn’t offered to me and it won’t be
offered to you.

“Where are you going with this, Bill?”

“Where I’m going is that neither of us is
predisposed to backing down from a fight, so you need to pick and choose yours
better than I did.”

Ghosts trail us on both sides of the street.
They’re not threatening, but any more and they’re going to start attracting
attention.

“If I’ve learned one thing, it’s that all shed
blood, yours or your enemy’s, stains Creation forever and there’s no washing it
away,” says Bill. “That lesson came to me too late and I killed at least one
good man, a Wichita deputy, because I was too free and easy with others’ lives.
If I’m in this wretched place for anything, it’s that.”

I flash on the pictures of dead faces tacked on the
walls in Mason’s hidden room. I glance at the ghosts. Dead Hellions used to go
to Tartarus but I destroyed the place and released them. Now they have nothing
better to do than wander Hell’s streets until the end of time. I was proud of
destroying Tartarus. Now I’m not sure I did anyone a favor.

“I’m not really in a position to turn pacifist at
the moment. People want to kill me or take over my mind. I’m not going to lie
down and let either of those things happen.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. What I’m
talking about is this. This moment right here. People are after you and you’re
off to the arena looking for trouble. There’s more than a normal load of
troubles on your back, son. You don’t need to go adding to them with this sort
of doltish behavior.”

“Goddamn. Are you telling me to take the Middle
Way, Buddha?”

“If that’s a fancy way of saying not being a slave
to your baser instincts, then yes. Or were you planning on returning here when
you’re dead and washing my dirty glasses until Judgment Day?”

I flick the Malediction butt into a puddle.

“If I have to choose between being the Devil and
your bar back, I might choose bar back. There’s free drinks and better hours.
Besides, no one ever tips the Devil.”

“I thought I just did,” drawls Bill.

I look at him as he puffs his stogie.

“Maybe you did.”

He stops and looks back the way we came.

“I should head back. That donkey of a helper
will’ve given away half the liquor and probably set the bar on fire by now.”

Bill puts out his hand. I shake it.

“Take care of yourself tonight, boy. Try not to be
too stupid.”

“Thanks, Bill. I’ll see you around.”

He turns and heads back to the bar, the ghosts
trailing along behind him. After seeing a damned soul shove a Hellion and get
away with it, I think he’s their new hero.

Everything Bill said makes sense but I’m still in
the mood to hightail it to the arena and draw blood. So that’s what I don’t do.
I breathe. Count to ten and back down again. Over and over. I read about it in
one of the Greek books. It’s a kind of meditation to focus the mind, only mine
is already focused. What I need is a good, strong unfocuser.

The Devil doesn’t carry cash, so I make a deal to
trade my practically new overcoat to one of the hawkers for a beat-up surplus
trench coat and a bottle of good Aqua Regia. He looks a little suspicious when I
agree to such an obvious rip-off but what do I care? I can have tailors run up a
dozen more coats by lunch tomorrow.

It takes a few contortionist twists to get the
overcoat off and the trench on without giving the market a full frontal of my
prosthetic arm. Scaring monsters with scarier monster parts isn’t the best way
to keep a low profile.

When I’m done do-si-doing with myself, I toss the
hawker my coat and take the Aqua Regia before he can change his mind. I open the
bottle and take a couple of long swigs. I’m being good and I deserve a
drink.

I kind of like what Bill said about picking and
choosing fights but my fights always seem to have a habit of choosing me. Or is
that just an excuse? I’ve been getting and giving scars for so long I don’t know
anymore. I need my own surveillance satellite to follow me around for a few
months. Hire statisticians to count the punches, bullets, and blades and who
blinked first. I don’t want to be a cosmic shit magnet drawing trouble to me,
but maybe that’s how it is with nephilim.

In my new old coat and my fake face, I stroll down
the long line of stalls checking out the goods. Is the market growing or is it
that I never get out to see what’s happening at street level? I take a couple of
long pulls on the bottle.

If the market is growing, I know why. I try to
count all bottles of black-market potions, ammo, and boxes of food. After a
block, I give up and take another pull from the bottle.

Bill is right about one thing. I have plenty to
deal with right now. I know his advice makes sense because it’s what Alice would
have said. She was always the smart one. Pick and choose the skulls you crack
and when you do it. No skulls for me tonight, thank you very kindly. I’m as cool
as a cat napping on a pint of Rocky Road. At the corner I’ll head back for the
bike.

I keep seeing red leggers in the crowd. That’s new.
No way raiders could be strolling around Pandemonium right out in the open
without someone getting paid off. I should come down here more often. It’s like
a parade of the city’s sins. Kind of like every boutique on Rodeo Drive.

I take another pull from the bottle. I’ve already
killed half of it.

This bottle and no more. Cross my heart.

If Semyazah has turned into Scarface, that’s bad
news. I need him to keep a lid on things. And to help keep me alive. I have to
find out who’s trying to off me or I have to find a way out of here, and I have
a bad feeling I’m going to have to do the first before I do the second. If Saint
James was here, he’d know what was going on by now. He handles the Mike Hammer
stuff and he’s not bad at it. Me, I need crib notes and blueprints to make
ice.

I go around the corner and head back for where I
left the bike. All of a sudden I feel wobbly on my feet. That Aqua Regia was
stronger than I thought. I’ll have to order some for the palace.

I bounce off a hawker’s table. Stepping back, I
hold up my hands in apology as the guy calls me an asshole fifty different ways.
Hellion might be a simple language, but it can be colorful.

The last thing I want tonight is trouble, so I toss
the rest of the Aqua Regia at an oil drum full of trash. And miss. The next
thing I hear is someone shouting.

I know that tone. I look over at him. If I stay,
there’s going to be boots and fists. If I run, I’m going to have six red leggers
after me. Not exactly low profile. He and his buddies are headed this way.
Basically, I have two options that add up to no options.

Sorry, Bill, but I wasn’t the one who let you down.
It was the Aqua Regia.

The offended legger is a head taller than me, built
long and brawny. His friends are behind him. Dirty faces. Filthy clothes.
Country boys who just rolled into town and are seeing the sights when a big-city
drunk practically pees on their legs. No way they’re going to be at all cool
about this.

Still. I say, “Sorry. My fault. I can probably find
someone to clean them for you.”

If looks could kill, I’d be one grave over from
Gabby Hayes right now.

The legger looks at his liquored boots and then at
me.

He says, “Keep your money. Come over here and clean
them yourself. With your tongue.”

His friends laugh. I don’t like leggers at the best
of times, and this is not one of those.

Behind him is a squat legger with a soft fish face
and eye patch.

“I would, but it would just make your girlfriend
over there jealous.”

Damn. Did I say that out loud? Maybe some of these
fights are my fault after all.

The expression on Dirty Boots’ face lets me know
he’s exactly dumb enough to get bent out of shape by such an obvious bait line.
I know what’s going to happen next but now I know that these are just infantry
blockheads and not ninjas in disguise.

The trick in this kind of situation is to move
first and keep moving no matter what. They’ll think you’re crazy and hold back
maybe long enough for you to get away. But they’re still six trained killers.
Even in Lucifer’s armor, they can kill me, but not before I take out a few of
them first.

I sprint straight at them. Five of them peel off
out of the way. The sixth, a bearded Hellion who’s gone hungry long enough that
his uniform is too big for him, pulls a KA-BAR from his boot and lunges at
me.

Even drunk, I’m twice as fast as this backwoods
benchwarmer. When he misses with the knife, he leaves himself wide open. I put
my boot into his balls, and when he doubles over in pain, I bring my knee up to
break his nose. He goes down spewing black blood, and right on cue, his five
friends wake up and bum-rush me.

There’s not much to do when you’re on the bad end
of this kind of pile-on except to keep punching and wait for an opening.

I duck, get my hands up in front of my face. Bob
and weave. Throw the occasional jab just to remind them that I’m in here
somewhere. Half the time they’re smacking the armor, so the beating could be a
lot worse. What I don’t want is for them to get me on the ground, where they can
take turns doing Olympic high dives onto my face.

The terrible truth is that I kind of like the
beating. It’s not like when I got ambushed on the bike. This I saw was coming.
It’s more like training in the arena. I’m not going to lie and say it doesn’t
hurt, but it’s a familiar kind of pain and it’s better than another quiet night
in, just the Greeks and me.

Don’t fear
God

Don’t worry about
death

What is good is easy to
get, and

What is terrible is easy
to endure

Fuck you, Epicurus. You stand here with a bunch of
inbred mouth breathers looking to cut some payback for their shitty existence
out of your hide. Do that and then hit me with some cool, cool Hellenic logic.
Convince me and I’ll buy you all the ouzo and microwave moussaka in Athens.

This might actually be fun if Candy was here. By
now she would have dropped her human face and let her inhuman Jade side out.
Eyes like red slits in black ice. Claws and a shark-tooth smile. A gorgeous
killing machine in ripped jeans and worn Chuck Taylors. The perfect
girlfriend.

We’ve been dancing around for a couple of minutes
and the beating slacks off just a bit. The brain trust is punching itself out.
I’m supposed to be facedown getting kicked to death by now. The idiot with the
KA-BAR is back on his feet but he’s hurt and punching like his hands are packing
peanuts in a bunny-fur muff. I’ve drawn blood from at least two others. Another
is down on his face and isn’t getting up.

The punching stops. Then everything stops.
Everything. The leggers’ cursing. The sounds of the hawkers. Catcalls from
people betting on the fight.

The whole market is looking up the street. The
smell of incense mixes with the smells of hot fry oil and garbage. Voices sing
softly. Not quite a song. More of a chant. It’s a lot prettier than most Hellion
music, not that that’s hard. Hellion music mostly sounds like a wood chipper
falling down an elevator shaft.

Then they come into view. Everyone bows their head.
It’s a religious procession but not from Merihim’s church. The march is almost
all women. Obyzuth is up front in her mask and the other women all wear similar
masks. The woman at the head of the procession isn’t masked. Her face is scarred
and battered, like she saw plenty of action in the war Upstairs. She wears her
long black hair up, wrapped around a set of heavy, yellowed horns that stick out
straight in front of her, the steel-wrapped tips pointing the way for her flock.
She has to be Deumos.

Deumos is the head priestess of Hell’s other
church. From what I’ve heard around the palace, it’s some kind of hard-ass
goddess worship. Seems like Merihim and his boys got the giant tabernacle in the
center of town and the girls got a piece-of-shit garage down by the railroad
tracks. Everything is politics.

On the rare occasions her name comes up, the secret
police and Merihim’s Tabernacle representatives have a good laugh. Talking about
Deumos and her bunch like an old Haight-Ashbury peace-and-love cult. A handful
of harmless babes with love beads and delusions of hippie grandeur.

I’m not so sure they should write them off. The
crowd seems to take them pretty seriously, including the men, so whatever Deumos
is selling it isn’t just to the women.

The chant turns quiet. Not quite a prayer. More
like if you get close enough they’ll tell you a secret. I can make out a few
words here and there.

“The being and the becoming . . .”

“. . . hand that sweeps clean the way
. . .”

“. . . cold that burns like black flame
. . .”

I’m so caught up watching them that it takes me a
minute to remember I’m in the middle of a fight. Then someone reminds me.

A gun goes off and it feels like a pickup truck
just planted its front bumper in my right kidney. I fall to my knees, holding my
side. Then it dawns on me that I’m not hurt. The only pain is where my knees hit
the pavement. The bullet didn’t even dent the armor.

The procession takes off at the sound of gunfire,
with half the market right behind. The idiots sticking around probably have bets
on the fight.

I get to my feet and turn to find Dirty Boots
holding his Glock on me. He’s surprised I’m standing and now he’s waiting for me
to fall over. Shooting a second time would spoil his gangster-movie moment. So
will killing him in front of his friends but he doesn’t know that yet.

When I reach into my pocket for my na’at, it
finally dawns on him that I’m not going down. He raises the Glock to fire again.
Too late. I whip the na’at out at his arm.

Only it isn’t the na’at that hits him. And it
doesn’t hit his arm.

The Magic 8 Ball from the ghost room. It slams into
Dirty Boots and disappears inside him, leaving a gaping black hole in his chest.
He leans forward a little but doesn’t fall over. He shudders. And five metal
spider legs burst from his back, skewering his friends.

The legs go through the men like a harpoon through
Velveeta. The legs curl back and spear them again. And again. Curling and
spearing over and over. When the barbed legs retract, his friends are ripped
apart in a spray of bone and gristle like they were hit by chain saws fired from
cannons.

The spider legs burst from the hole in Dirty Boots’
chest and bend back on themselves, latching onto the edges of the hole. With a
sudden jerk, the legs rip Dirty Boots’ chest open like cracking a lobster. The
legs don’t stop pulling until they’ve bent back to touch themselves, practically
turning him inside out.