Lawyers in Hell (25 page)

Before he could order, a woman waddled over, flush-faced and unkempt, in a severe black dress with foody stains.  “Edward J. O’Hare,” she said, looking disapprovingly at him and the bawdy pastry he’d selected.  “I’m Hetty Green from the Financial and Accounting Department of the main Administrative Department of  Hell’s Department of Infernal Revenue.  I’m here to talk to you about your deductions for food, drink, and entertainment….  And I am obligated to tell you, as of this moment, you are being Audited.”

Plains of Hell

by

Bruce Durham

The building was a ramshackle wood and brick structure with saloon doors and grime-streaked windows.  Over its entrance a pitted metal sign creaked under a stiff breeze, the words on its facing faded and worn.

“Roadhouse Six-six-six,” mumbled General James Wolfe.  “Looks as good as any.”

Nudging his hell-horse to a hitching post, Wolfe dismounted and tied off the reins, pointedly avoiding the beast’s serrated teeth and over-sized mouth.  The creature promptly swung on a second tethered hell-horse and launched into a ritual of dominance assertion common to the breed.  The neighboring beast eagerly took up the challenge.

Wolfe ignored their hissing and spitting while slapping at his red coat and white pants.  An exercise in futility.  The fine sheen of ochre dust, accumulated on his trip from New Hell, merely ingrained itself deeper into the fabric and caked his hands.  Grumbling, he gave up.  The tavern patrons would have to accept him as he was, if they cared.  Something he doubted, based on his brief time in this vile place.

Maneuvering between two dented, rusted vehicles, Wolfe mounted a series of crooked steps.  On the porch he lurched to a stop.  “Not now,” he groaned.  A sickening wave twisted his stomach, crept along his throat and filled his mouth with a sour taste of bile.  Reaching into his coat, he produced a well-used, blood-stained handkerchief and coughed, a hoarse hacking that had him doubled over, one hand braced against the door frame.  The fit passed.  He straightened and gingerly dabbed at the corners of his mouth, ignoring the smear of bright red blood staining the silk.  Pocketing the handkerchief, he briefly inspected his pants for specks of blood and, pronouncing himself presentable, entered the tavern.

The place was dimly lit and sparsely filled.  To his right a bar ran the length of the paneled wall, its brass foot rail tarnished and dented; its half-dozen stools unoccupied.

Wolfe’s nose twitched at the heavy smell of body odor and tobacco smoke.  Most tables were vacant.  Three Mongols argued incoherently in a corner by a fireplace, a jug of
kumis
between them.  A second table held half a dozen Scots, their claymores resting against high-back chairs as they roared heartily at some private joke.  By the far wall a man slept at an upright piano, his head resting on his arms, crossed on the keys.

Nearer the bar sat two men.  Wolfe cocked an eyebrow, feeling a sudden kinship toward one:  a vague sense of recognition.  This man was clearly British, tall and elegant in a white blouse, white pants, and an elaborately powdered wig.  An ornate blue coat lay folded over the back of his oak chair.  His companion was dressed equally as well, but in shades of brown; smaller and thinner, with a long, pinched face framed by a similarly flamboyant wig.

Wolfe stepped up to the bar.

The bartender glanced his way and nodded.  Short and round, he resembled a ball on legs, his hairless head contrasted by a sweeping handlebar mustache.  “What’s your poison?” he asked in a raspy voice, swiping at one of many stains marking the counter.

Wolfe examined the collection of bottles lining a shelf.  “You have no wine, sir?”

The barkeep snorted.  “You kiddin’ me, bub?”  He waved a meaty hand.  “What you see is what we have.”

Why did I bother asking?
Wolfe thought.  During his short time in this damnable existence he had determined everything was supposed to taste like shit.  Sighing, he pointed.  “I’ll have one of those.”

“Right.  One Labratt’s Blew comin’ up.  You startin’ a tab?”

“No, sir,” Wolfe mumbled.  Reaching into his pocket, he produced a handful of
diablos
and tossed several on the counter.

The bartender swept them up and walked away, offering no indication of returning with change.

Shaking his head, Wolfe took the bottle and raised it to his lips, praying the vile taste wouldn’t trigger his consumption.  Last thing he wanted was another coughing fit.  He drank; no second fit of coughing wracked him.  Setting down the bottle, he stared into the counter.

Hell.

Hell wasn’t what he’d expected.  He remembered the battle on the plains outside Quebec.  Remembered taking three bullets.  One in the wrist, one in the stomach and one in the chest.  A brief moment of darkness, followed by the vague memory of a leering, diseased and cackling face; followed by waves of excruciating pain, and then waking in a small room in a twisted building on some narrow street in a decayed section of a town called New Hell.  A handful of strangers took the time to explain cars, hellphones, old dead, new dead, Satan, politics and what have you.  And rumors of an audit from Above, whatever that was about.

It was too much, too soon, and he fled, taking this dirt road to nowhere.  He needed time to think, to understand his place in this brutal nightmare.  Most of all, to understand what in God’s name he had done to find himself consigned here, rather than knocking on some pearly gates.

Rising from his melancholy, Wolfe focused on the two voices of the two men behind him.  Their conversation was the casual banter of friends, loud enough that he could hear without being accused of eavesdropping.

“Malplaquet,” said the Englishman wistfully.  “Now that was one
hell
of a brawl.  Sent many a soldier down here with that one.”

“Don’t I know it,” replied his companion.  “Pyrrhic victory, that.  French chewed up my boys, bad.  Would have been worse if it wasn’t for you.”  There was a clinking of bottles.  “I preferred Oudenarde, myself.  Much cleaner.  Good victory.”  A pause.  “We made a good team, my friend.  A toast to old times, eh?”  Another clink.  “Ah, hell, I’m dry.”

Wolfe, intrigued at the mention of two famous battles, turned to face the speakers. Clearing his throat, he said, “I could not help but overhear, good sirs.  May I join you?  I believe we have something in common.”

The seated Englishman took his measure:  Wolfe was in afterlife what he had been in life – a tall, slim man with a thin face and pasty complexion.  The Englishman exchanged a look with his companion, shrugged, and waved at an empty chair.  “By all means.  Of course, courtesy dictates you must stand us a drink.”

Wolfe nodded.  It had been his intent anyway.  “What will it be?”

The Englishman said, “Sludgeweiser.”

His friend, in a subtle French accent, said, “Make mine a Helliken.”

Minutes later, bottles in hand, Wolfe settled into the vacant seat.  Setting down the beers, he extended a hand to the Englishman.  “I am James Wolfe, General in his majesty King George the Second’s army.”

The Englishman snorted.  “The second George?  Hah.  I knew his father, the pompous ass.  I am John Churchill, the Duke of Marlborough.  You may have heard of me.  Or not.  And this dour personage is Prince Eugene of Savoy.  You may have heard of him.  Or not.”

Wolfe stared, his mouth hanging open. 
Marlborough and Eugene?  The two greatest generals of their age?  Seated here, in some out-of-the-way dive drinking beer and chatting of old times?
  Snapping his mouth shut, Wolfe composed himself and shook both men’s extended hands.  “A pleasure, truly.  I have studied your battles in detail.  Both of you.  They were inspirations for my own career.”

Churchill’s eyes lit up at the compliment and leaned forward.  “Really?  So, what did you think of Blenheim?”

Before Wolfe could respond, Eugene raised his index finger and said, “We commanded fifty-two thousand men in that battle, you know.  The French had us outnumbered, but we kicked their ass.  They lost some twenty thousand, the poor sods, to our forty-five hundred.  How about Ramillies, Wolfe?  What do you know about Ramillies?”

Wolfe opened his mouth, but Churchill sat back, inspected a finger nail, and said, “Commanded sixty-two thousand men, Wolfe.  Only lost one thousand.  French lost another twenty thousand.”  He raised an eyebrow.  “Oudenarde?”

Wolfe hesitated and looked at Eugene.

Eugene swallowed a mouthful of Helliken and burped.  Wiping a sleeve across his lips, he said, “Ah, Oudenarde.  What a joy.  One hundred five thousand to a hundred thousand.  Only lost three thousand.  French lost another fifteen thousand.”  He chuckled.  “You see a pattern here, Wolfe?”

There was a pregnant pause as Churchill and Eugene clinked bottles and drank.

Wolfe ventured, “Tell me about Malplaquet.”

The generals exchanged less than pleasant looks.  Churchill mumbled, “We don’t talk much about Malplaquet.  It was the bloodiest European battle of the eighteenth century.  We won, but the butcher’s bill was enormous, for both sides.  Victory isn’t always glorious, Wolfe.”

“But –”

Churchill waved a dismissive hand.  “We won it, all right?  That’s all that’s important. Now, enough about us.  What battlefield honors have you accrued, Wolfe?”

The general shrugged.  “Well, there was Dettingen, sir.  We beat the French in that one.”

Eugene nodded enthusiastically.  “Good show.  One can never tire of beating the French.  Was that your first command?”

“Not exactly.  George the Second commanded.  I was a lieutenant at the time.”

Eugene steepled his fingers.  “A lieutenant?  How quaint.  Anything else you wish to share, or was that it?”

Wolfe noticed an elaborate carving someone had at one time etched into the table.  Idly he traced his finger along the outline.  “There was Falkirk and Culloden, sirs.  I was a major, then.”

Churchill belched and rubbed his belly.  “Any details with which to regale us?  Oh, and don’t finish tracing that.  Last person who did was whisked away by something with four arms and fangs as long as my, er, pistol.”

“They were short fangs,” Eugene commented.

Churchill raised his middle digit.  “Go to heaven.”

Wolfe jerked his finger from the carving.  “Details?  Nothing, really.  That is a time I am not particularly fond of.”

Eugene drained his bottle of Helliken and slammed it on the table.  Looking expectantly at Wolfe, he said, “You introduced yourself as a general, remember?”  His eyes drifted to the empty bottle.

Wolfe sighed, caught the barkeep’s attention and held up three fingers.  Returning to Churchill and Eugene, he said, “I was promoted to major general for the invasion of New France and siege of Quebec.”

Churchill pursed his lips and nodded.  “The New World, is it?  Did you know I was a Governor of the Hudson Bay Company?”

Eugene frowned.  “Hush now, John.  Bore us with that tale later.  Let’s hear about this siege of Quebec.”

Wolfe looked away.  “There is not much to say.  I lured the French out of the fortress.  We fought a battle.  I won.”

Eugene clapped his hands.  “A battle?  Excellent.  Numbers?  Details?”

Wolfe felt his face grow warm and knew he flushed.  Embarrassed, he glanced about the tavern, his eyes settling on the man asleep at the piano.  For the first time, he noted a chain running from one heavy wooden leg to the man’s ankle.  At that moment the piano player stirred, raised his head and cast a weary eye toward the bar.

An impatient throat cleared and Eugene repeated, “Numbers?”

Wolfe sighed and faced them.  Churchill and Eugene had their eyebrows raised in expectation. He put a hand to his mouth and mumbled, “Five thousand to forty-five hundred.”

Churchill leaned forward.  “What was that?  Didn’t quite catch it.  Did you say fifty thousand to forty-five thousand?”

Eugene snickered.  “No, I think he said five thousand to forty-five hundred.”

Churchill sat back and belly-laughed.  “So, you commanded a skirmish, then.”

Wolfe opened his mouth to protest.

Eugene reached over and clapped him on the back.  “Don’t be ashamed, Wolfe.  We can’t all lead enormous armies.”  His lips twitched into a smile.  “So, what happened next?”

Wolfe shrugged.  “I don’t know.  I died.”  In the sudden silence he waited, expecting sympathy.  Instead, he received the opposite as Churchill and Eugene shrugged, before casually reaching for their beers.  Wolfe’s mood darkened.  “You find my death irrelevant?  I assure you, it was not.  I was young.  There was a wonderful woman back in England I was to marry.  I am insulted by your indifference, sirs.”

“Hold your water, Wolfe,” Eugene said over the lip of his beer bottle.  “We meant no disrespect, did we John?  There’s something you must understand.  In hell, death is never death.”

Wolfe knit his brows together, confused.  “What do you mean by that, sir?  Are you implying we are immortal?”

Churchill reached into a coat pocket and produced a pipe.  “In a manner of speaking, yes.  Now, don’t get me wrong.  You can die, all right.  Eugie and I have been down that path twice already.  It’s just that hell has a rather twisted way of bringing you back, usually in the most undelightful manner.”

“Oh,” Wolfe managed to say as everyone lapsed into awkward quiet.

Moments later a series of tentative notes rose from the piano.  The random notes soon trailed off.  What followed then was an angry hammering on the keys, a madly chaotic cacophony of sound that gradually evolved into an inspired rendition of Johann Sebastian Bach’s
Goldberg Variations
.

Wolfe, wincing at the initial blast of noise, closed his eyes as he was swept up by the music, amazed at the clarity, speed and deftness of playing.  He was familiar with Bach, had enjoyed several pieces performed on harpsichord at various social gatherings during his time in England.  But this … this was remarkable.

There was a tug on Wolfe’s coat.  Opening his eyes, mildly irritated, he saw Eugene motion at him with his finger.  Leaning close, he asked, “What?”

In a raised voice Eugene replied, “Don’t get yourself too involved.”

“Why?  What do you mean?”

As if on cue, the piano’s keys began to move of their own volition, striking up a loud and lively ragtime piece that clashed with the pianist’s own performance.  For several moments the tunes conflicted with one another in an obscene dissonance until the pianist abruptly quit, punching the upright before shaking his fists in a fit of anger.  Meanwhile, the piano continued its toe-tapping number.