by Mark Cain
What do you mean, you didn’t know what to do? Orson asked. You mean the ball washer?
Aye, Aeneas repeated, in an affected Scottish brogue, which is much harder to pull off in Latin than you would expect. Saints be praised!
Now that’s not something you typically say in Hell and get away with, yet Aeneas was not struck by Hellfire or anything. There was, however, a sound like thunder in the air. I recognized Satan’s grumble at once.
Orson scratched his head. Why didn’t you just play through and clean your ball at the next tee?
Ovid, the guy in the polo, shrugged. We did that last time, but, well, playing with a dirty ball is so unsatisfying.
So you could have used another ball, Orson persisted.
We don’t have any other balls.
What if you lose the one you have? I asked as I stepped up to the ball washer.
Och, mon, we ne’er lose golf balls, so why carry more than one?
Orson and I looked at each other then shrugged. “Figures,” Orson mumbled in English. “They probably all play scratch golf too.”
“Nah,” I said lightly, elbowing him in the side. “Satan, now he plays Scratch golf.” Orson started laughing, and I joined in, but a warning rumble in the sky shut us up. The virtuous pagans might have been spared the pains of Hellfire, but we knew we had not.
The foursome, not speaking English, had not followed our conversation, but they recognized the word “Scratch,” and they nodded happily. Yes, Sophocles said. We always break par.
Orson’s look was worth bottling.
I stepped up to the cleaner. There was no knob on top, but the stick thingee was still in the washer. I pulled it up and down a couple of times. It moved freely enough. Aeneas, Ovid, let me hold your balls for a second.
I beg your pardon? Ovid said.
Your golf balls, I meant.
Oh. The two Romans handed their balls to me. I pulled up on the stick, revealing the place to insert a golf ball. The receptacle was wet and soapy. I plopped in a ball, plunged the stick back into the cleaning reservoir, and pulled it up and down a few times. I could feel the brushes inside the washer scrubbing the ball. I pulled up on the stick, stuck the other ball in the washer, and repeated, with the same results. After drying the two balls on the green towel attached to the washer, I gave the now-white and shiny orbs back to their owners.
This isn’t broken. It works just fine, I said.
The four pagans looked at me in disbelief, then Ovid stretched out his hand, palm down, fingers curled. There’s no knob.
As Orson was in mid eye roll, he spotted a ceramic orb lying on the ground and picked it up. Here it is. Why didn’t one of you just screw it back on the plunger?
Not our job, Sophocles said solemnly.
Well, said Orson. I think this one even I can do.
“Orson,” I began in English, as he started to screw on the knob, “I don’t think that’s a very goo … ”
The smell of brimstone was unfamiliar to the pagans, and they stepped back quickly, as if they’d just stepped on some skunks. Orson, his beard still burning from the blast of Hellfire, got off the grass. He was cursing.
“You know … ” I began.
“Yeah, I know, I know. Assistant. Mustn’t fix things. My eternal damnation, etc., etc.” He looked in disgust at the knob then tossed it to me.
“Sorry about that,” I said, as I proceeded to screw the knob back on.
Hmph. He probably can’t even fix it.
Always the Cynic, eh, Diogenes? I said over my shoulder.
It’s my job.
Whatever.
Truth be told, I had a bit of difficulty getting the threads to catch. Must have taken me five minutes to get the knob on straight.
As I was working, and cursing, I eavesdropped on the pagans. Ovid was telling them a story, and my ears perked up when he mentioned St. Peter. Yes, it’s true, according to Socrates, who is pretty tight with him. Peter used to be the pro at the golf course just on the other side of the Pearly Gates. Guess he was moonlighting. Anyway, he could never get together a foursome for Jesus. Seems no one wants to play golf with someone who gets a hole in one every time. But the rules of that course are that only foursomes can play. After this happened three times, Jesus fired him.
Diogenes rubbed his beard. Why? What did Jesus say to him?
Well, first, I have to tell you that a crazy rooster started crowing in the background. Then Jesus said, “Doest thou not remember what I told thee once, Simon Peter? ‘Before the cock crows, thou shalt deny me tee times.’”
Orson groaned.
I don’t get it, Aeneas said.
At that moment, I finally managed to line up the threads on the plunger and knob and screw them together. I pulled up and down on it experimentally then nodded in satisfaction. Diogenes, I said, bowing to him, if you will do the honors.
The Greek philosopher pulled up the knob, inserted his ball, and cleaned it. After drying the white orb, he inspected every dimple, looking for any sign of dirt. Hmph. I suppose it’s fixed.
Sign here, please, which he did, while Sophocles cleaned his ball. Then the great playwright stepped to the tee and set up his drive.
By the way, Orson said, right at the moment when Sophocles was bearing down on the ball with his driver. He shot Orson a dirty look. Sophocles only managed to drive his ball 375 yards, straight down the fairway.
Sorry, Orson apologized, without much conviction. I was just going to ask if any of you has seen a big green pipe anywhere on the course. It should be pretty near here.
The four pagans looked at each other dubiously, but then Ovid brightened. Well, maybe you’re talking about Satan’s Column. It’s pretty big.
Maybe, I said doubtfully, but since we had no other lead, there was no harm in checking it out. Okay, where is it?
If you step off the path between the twelfth hole green and the thirteenth tee box, you’ll see it, Ovid said.
Thanks. I folded the completed work order and stuck it in my pocket. “Let’s go, Orson.”
“αντίο,” I said to Sophocles and Diogenes.
“vale,” Orson said to Ovid and Aeneas.
“Bye!” the four replied in unison. In their respective languages, of course.
It took maybe ten minutes to get to the green of the twelfth hole. To our right, towering above us, was a massive Corinthian column, the largest I’d ever seen. Or at least so it seemed. A hundred feet up, an elaborate capital topped the column. Above the column, there appeared to be nothing but blue sky. We parked the golf cart and walked over to the structure.
Orson laid his hand on it. “Ah, as I thought. Trompe l’oeil. The Greeks invented the technique, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know that,” I said. “But I bet I know why they call it Satan’s Column. I didn’t know he was so good with a paintbrush.” This had to be the green pipe, carefully painted to resemble a column, but I marveled at the seeming three dimensionality of it, including what looked like a base carved out of marble. I used my fingernail to scrape an inconspicuous spot near the base. Yep, underneath all that paint was something green. I looked up and whistled. “Satan must have painted the pipe blue above the fake capital to blend in with the sky. This is much classier than a green pipe.”
“Indeed,” said my rotund friend. “About what you’d expect up here. You know, Steve, if Limbo is this nice, can you imagine what Hea … what that other place must look like?”
“Nope, not in my wildest imaginings. Don’t want to either.”
“Why not?”
“Too depressing. I’m stuck with what I’ve got, so why should I torture myself with what I can’t have?”
“Point taken,” he said, pulling his stethoscope out of his tool belt. I did the same, and in moments we were repeating the same examination we had performed on Level Five.
This time, though, we heard a definite swishing.
“He’s alive! He’s alive!” Orson screamed to the sky. “Bwa ha ha!”<
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“Very funny. So, now we know the leak is somewhere between One and Five.”
Orson pursed his lips and nodded. “Shall we split the difference and go to Three?”
“Why not? That will limit our maximum number of additional examinations to two levels, Three and Four or Three and Two. Once we’ve figured out what Circle the problem is on, we’ll still have to isolate things further.”
“I just hope the leak isn’t somewhere high above ground,” Orson said as he climbed back in the driver’s seat of the golf cart.
“Me too. Orson?”
“What?”
“I know you won at rock, paper, scissors and all, but could I…?”
Orson smiled and got out of the cart. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
Humming, I drove us back to the pro shop.
Chapter 23
We dropped off the golf cart with Homer, then I whistled for BOOH. He was a little slow getting to us. At first I worried that he was feeling peaked again, but I needn’t have. In under a minute, we saw him, flying very low to the ground, trying to be as quiet as possible. He still had his golden glow.
BOOH scooped up me and Orson and made his stealthy retreat to the Throat of Hell. Homer, being blind, didn’t even know the creature was there, though the poet complained about an awful smell.
It’s true, of course. I love BOOH like a brother, but he is a scary, giant and most of all stinky vampire bat - complete with dried blood on his face - who regularly flies through sulfur pits, excrement and other foul substances in the execution of his duties. Not his fault, and Orson and I have gotten used to the smell.
But otherwise, my hematophagic (look it up) colleague was in stealth mode; he slipped beneath everyone else’s radar and dropped into the Throat. Once he was out of view of the Circle he gave me a questioning, “Skree?”
“Third Level, please,” I answered. “And if I’m remembering the schematic correctly, I think somewhere near Glutton’s Gap.”
Glutton’s Gap looks like a ghost town from the Old West, a single, unpaved street lined with weathered buildings. On many of these, the doors and window shutters are nearly off their hinges. Hitching posts are in front of each establishment, but they are just for show. If there were ever any horses in Glutton’s Gap, they long ago had been eaten.
The faded lettering above each door advertised all sorts of businesses. On my left was the First National Bank of Hell, but since no one in Glutton’s Gap kept checking accounts or took out mortgages for that nice little ranch house north of town, and since saving for a rainy day seemed too little and too late, the bank was closed. Likewise the whorehouse on my right: Lustland on Level Two had all that business. In fact, most of the establishments in Glutton’s Gap were closed. The Gap incongruously did have an über modern store devoted to cheap and shi-shi clothing, and it was still open, but I think that was the result of some clerical error by one of Hell’s underlings. The merchandise didn’t move very well … except the jeans of course. You wore a lot of jeans in the Old West, by law, I think.
The exceptions to all the closures were the restaurants. I saw a sign in a cracked window advertising “all you can eat beef jerky,” another one pushing a blue plate special. There was a particularly prominent sign over one big establishment. It said, “Donner Party Planners. Have your friends for dinner, and we’ll do the cooking!”
Ugh.
A loud “SKREE!” came from behind me, and I turned to see what was up with BOOH. He had just sprung off the ground like he’d been bounced from a trampoline. When I finally got him to come back to my level, he was making unspeakably nasty sounds that I’d never heard before. I think he was swearing.
BOOH had picked the wrong spot to take a nap and lain on a cactus. I had a devil of a time, so to speak, getting the thorns out of his hide, even with my pliers. BOOH was tough, but after all, these were cacti from Hell, so I guess even the big guy could get an owie from one of the succulents down here.
“There,” I said, slipping my pliers back into my tool belt. “That’s the last of them. See if you can find a less treacherous place to sleep.” BOOH, still grumbling, flew up to the top of the bank and made like a gargoyle. A very grouchy and sleepy one.
“Where is everyone?” Orson asked. “The streets are deserted.”
“Well,” I deadpanned. “That’s the problem, don’t you see? Now, if they were desserted, you might find someone out here.”
“Har, har,” said my friend. “Very funny. Your puns suck, you know.”
“That’s not the first time you’ve told me that.”
“Probably won’t be the last either.”
“Anyway, in answer to your question, it beats me. They’re probably inside somewhere. Hey, Bik!” I shouted at my pocket.
“What?” he groused. Bik sounded as if I’d woken him. The fire giant had been keeping a low profile ever since we’d left the office. He seemed very low on energy; the thought was worrisome.
“Would you please find us some people?”
Bik shimmied out of my pocket protector. His movements were lethargic, but with an effort, the fire giant flamed on and took off, buzzing in and out of about a dozen places before he returned. He powered down and practically dropped into my pocket. “There,” he panted, “there are several places with people inside, but I saw the most in a Luby’s Cafeteria, about a block up on the left.”
In the United States, large commercial cafeterias such as Luby’s and Furr’s are primarily a southwestern phenomenon. In the north, there are diners aplenty, but since the demise of the automat, cafeterias where you can buy, a la carte, as many salads, entrees and desserts as you can balance on a tray, are confined to states like Texas and Oklahoma. These eateries are perfect for Hell though, because they specialize in excess; not to overindulge is nigh on to impossible.
“Let’s go, Orson,” I said, kicking us into action.
The entrance to Luby’s was a saloon door, and it opened onto the largest waiting area I’d ever seen in a restaurant. Thousands of people were standing in line.
A minute passed while we figured out the different forms of glutton punishment, which in the case of Luby’s was only two. Many people looked like they’d been queued for food for centuries. Their eyes were hollowed madness, and their bellies probably were too. Other gluttons sat at tables in the restaurant, and food was brought to them before they even asked for it. In fact, most of the diners were being held down by demons, while their associates used small shovels to force feed their charges.
“No more, please, no more!” begged an immensely fat man in the corner. He was dressed in a suit, vest, and cravat; the garments must have been quite fine in their day. The outfit looked to be from the early Twentieth Century, though the buttons and seams had long since popped off or split, so the fabric hung loosely on his corpulent frame.
The demons ignored his pleadings and kept shoveling in the grub. I recognized the man from old photos in history books: William Howard Taft. The former president had been famous for his appetite. I remembered reading somewhere that he was so fat he’d once gotten stuck in the White House bathtub. They’d had to use butter to get him out.
Thinking about butter reminded me of butterball turkeys, and that’s what Taft reminded me of too. Then he let out a tremendous fart, filling the cafeteria with the odor of rotten eggs just as effectively as burning brimstone would have. His humiliation was painful to watch, and I turned away.
Orson and I looked around the room for someone in charge. The most likely candidate was a rather bored-looking cashier, a devil in a blue dress and equally blue wig. Since none of the gluttonous damned probably ever left this place, we doubted she ever had to use her register. We walked over to her station, noticed the dust on the cash register’s keys and were sure of it.
“Got a second?” I asked.
“I’m busy,” she said. “Get lost.”
Now, as I’ve said, devils are neither male nor female. If, however, one is wearing a dress, I
usually call him/her/it a she. “Listen, Miss … ,” I looked down at her blouse. There was an employee pin that identified her as “Laverne.”
“Listen, Laverne,” I amended. “My name is Steve Minion … ”
“Big, fucking whoop. I told you I was busy.”
“And I’m doing a job for Satan.”
“Sure you are. And I’m Hecate. Now, like I said, get lost.”
Orson walked over. “What’s the problem, boss?”
I indicated the cashier. “She doesn’t believe I’m on assignment for Satan.”
“Maybe she needs some convincing,” Orson said, cracking his knuckles.
“From you, fat guy?” Laverne sneered. “Why you ought to be in line for some meatloaf and mashed potatoes.”
“Not from me, dear lady,” Orson said, with all the contempt he could muster, which believe me, even being a damned soul Orson could summon in large quantities. In fact, he could have taught many of the devils and demons around here lessons in contempt.
Orson whispered in my ear. “Good idea,” I said and gave a loud whistle.
The front doors, as well as the door jamb, were knocked ten feet into the room as BOOH made his way inside. The roof was a little low for him, so he had to sort of shimmy his way over to the register.
Laverne stood with her mouth agape.
“Have you ever met BOOH?” I asked.
The demon cashier nodded up and down rapidly, her chin going like a jackhammer.
“BOOH, Laverne here doesn’t believe I work for Satan.”
“SKREE!” BOOH screamed in her face. He gave me a smug look and waddled back outside.
I ran my fingers through my hair, removed from my sleeve some dust it had picked up while resting on the counter. “NOW do you have time to answer a question for me?”
The jackhammer started up again.
“That’s great. I’m looking for a big green pipe. It should run from the bottom of Level Two all the way to the surface of Three. Can you tell me where it is?”