by Ted Neill
If he had chosen to be content. But he was not that sort of man. Why settle when he could have more, he always said.
His suit was Brioni, one of only one hundred handmade each year from a blend of some of the rarest fibers in the world, such as qiviuk, vicuna, and pashmina. The stitching was made with white gold. His watch was a Rolex GMT Master, a nice classic look he liked; his tie Turnbull and Asser; his shirt a Charvet; shoes, Lingwood Russian calf; his belt and wallet both Salvatore Ferragamo, python leather editions; tie clip, cufflinks, and belt buckle today were twenty-four carat gold, but for tomorrow he was already leaning towards the platinum set with the diamonds.
He knew he was not the most handsome man. His shoulders were narrow, but at fifty, he was still slim, and with his goatee his weak chin looked a bit more masculine.
But it was his money and power that made him irresistible to the opposite sex.
His house was sleek, modern, and refined. He had practiced restraint in the decorating process. He thought so, at least, having kept the budget under a million. The garage door closed quietly as he stepped out of the car. Martin was accustomed to getting out of the car and smelling whatever dinner his maid, Agathe, a grandmotherly Greek woman, was preparing. But tonight, only the off gasses of the cement floor, rubber, and a faint whiff of engine exhaust greeted him. He felt his mood move into someplace between impatience and annoyance. For what he was paying the old woman, it was not unreasonable to expect dinner to be on time.
He was debating how stern he would be upon greeting her. Would he ask her directly why dinner was late—which would elicit a stuttering response from her—or better yet, he would say nothing, not even “good evening,” until she apologized and realized why she was getting the silent treatment. This would drive her into nervous fits of earnest work, which in the end would be more productive. Mr. Finch had hired her because he had decided a paid maid would be more reliable, and ultimately less expensive, than marrying again. Marriages produced children and divorces. He had already had two of each, and they were a drain on money and time.
All these things were playing in his mind when Agathe burst into the garage. She was a fright. Her mascara was running down from her eyes, her hair was disheveled, and her apron tangled all about her. She ran up to Mr. Finch. She almost hugged him, but then she checked her advance. In one hand she shook an empty saucepan, with the other she repeatedly crossed herself.
“Mr. Finch. Mr. Finch! Oh, it is terrible, terrible. I am so afraid!”
“My God, woman, get a hold of yourself.”
She was panting as if she had just run a marathon, but she made no effort to catch her breath. Maybe she couldn’t. He realized a heart attack would delay his dinner further, so he told her to calm down and breathe. She took a few gulps of air before spitting out, “He is in the house. In your living room, and he won’t leave. I called a priest. I’m terribly sorry. I hope you don’t mind. But I was so afraid of him, and I didn’t know what to do. He was giving away these,” she thrust a fistful of gift certificates to various fast food restaurants in Martin’s face. When Martin refused to take them, she dropped them to the floor, as if they were covered in spiders. She was shaking. “Orlando is in there with him.”
Orlando, Martin’s Haitian groundskeeper. Perhaps he might provide some answers to whatever mess this was turning into.
Martin decided he would have to see the visitor, intruder, whatever, for himself. He walked inside and set his briefcase on the kitchen table. Orlando began calling to him in his nearly incomprehensible English once he heard Martin enter the house. “Orlando” was not his real name. His real name was something in Creole that was impossible to pronounce. Orlando had chosen the name Orlando when he had first moved to Florida. Martin suspected Orlando had chosen the name because it was the same city Disney World was in; however, Martin had never asked for clarification, reluctant to have his hunch validated and Orlando’s poor taste confirmed.
Mr. Finch sighed and walked into the living room, his phone in his hand, ready to call the police. Orlando was at the doorway, standing with a pitchfork aimed directly at the intruder, whose appearance has already been described. But in addition to his clothing, there were other items the Devil had brought with him. A McDonald’s Happy Meal sat unopened on the coffee table. Long strings of sulfur fumes hung in the air from his cigarettes. Mr. Finch noticed that the Devil need not light these; he simply brought them to his blood red lips, and they lit the moment he inhaled. The sulfur smell produced by these cigarettes brought Mr. Finch back to memories of his childhood, to the time he had found rotten Easter eggs in his refrigerator, or when he’d set off a stink bomb in the school restroom.
The Devil slouched, as if the tonnage of millennia weighed heavily upon his back. His movements were slow but deliberate. His voice was tired and old, somewhere between a drunk David Attenborough and Katherine Hepburn. But there was definitely a flair in his expression, a confidence to the point of swagger.
“Good evening, Mr. Finch. It is a pleasure,” he reached towards his Happy Meal. His fingernails were cherry red. Orlando, still in his work boots and khaki coveralls, jerked the pitchfork at him. The Devil was smiling, giving a dismissive wave at the pitchfork with his cigarette hand and opening the Happy Meal with the other.
“I’m the Devil, Orlando. Do you think I am going to be afraid of a pitchfork?”
Orlando’s eyes darted to Martin. Martin could read the terror and panic in his face. The groundskeeper ducked towards the fireplace, where he swiped up a stick of kindling, then held it horizontally against the vertical pitchfork to make a cross.
“Ooooohhh, much better. A pitchfork and firewood. That always does the trick.” The Devil turned on the television with the clicker, which he had grabbed while Orlando had been distracted. When he realized his improvised cross was not having the desired effect, Orlando backed towards Martin.
“Mr. Finch, what should we do?
Finch didn’t know. He was, frankly, awed by the whole situation. Satan was in his living room. What does one do when the Prince of Darkness is in one’s house? Offer him a cocktail?
The Devil flicked through the channels and stopped on the Home Shopping network. He smiled, settled back into the leather sofa, and began eating. He left the burger alone and concentrated on a container of fries. Martin felt like he needed to take charge of the situation, so he stepped past Orlando and approached the Devil.
“Can I help you? If you really are who you say you are, what do you want?”
“Shush, shush.” The Devil waved his middle finger—the rest were clutching a bunch of fries. He craned his neck to see around Martin, who was blocking his view of the television. “This is my favorite part.”
Martin did not move. Instead he opened his mouth to tell the Devil he was calling the police. The Devil seemed to sense this and preempted him with a shake of his finger. Suddenly, as if he had been there the whole time, Martin was sitting on the couch.
The sudden teleportation caused Orlando to scream out. Satan rolled his eyes and turned up the television. Orlando started a series of Hail Mary’s, his voice growing loud with panic. Finally the Devil sighed, reached into his pocket, and produced six paper tickets, which he then threw at Orlando.
“Here, go to Disney World. There’s a ticket for you, your wife, and three kids. The other one is for your seventeen-year-old mistress. It should be fun to have her along too. Oh, don’t look surprised; your wife already knows.”
Orlando jumped as the tickets landed at his feet. They might as well have been snakes. The Devil freed his hand by stuffing his fries into his mouth then pulled the Happy Meal toy out of the box. It was wrapped in a plastic bag with “Choking Hazard. For Children Three and Up Only,” written across it. He looked over to Orlando, who held his ground, although his cross had lowered, his arms growing tired. Or perhaps he was distracted by the tickets at his feet. They were for premium access. Orlando inched away from them, his eyes darting from the Devil to the ti
ckets and back. The Devil threw the toy at him and said, “Boo.”
This was all Orlando needed. He dropped the pitchfork and kindling on the ground to turn and sprint into the kitchen. The door to the garage slammed, then opened and slammed again. Mr. Finch heard Orlando’s steps returning.
His mouth full of fries, the Devil said, “Haforgaffhifftikiks.”
Sure enough, a wide-eyed Orlando appeared again in the doorway, leaning over to pick up the tickets. His hand stopped just short of them as he looked to Martin, as if beseeching him for permission. Mr. Finch found this quite out of place. After all, he had not given them to Orlando, but perhaps Orlando wanted to know if Martin would give him the time off. Martin sighed loudly and nodded, more to get Orlando out of the house than anything else. Orlando snatched the tickets up in his fist, pulled them to his chest, and vanished through the kitchen.
“That’s going to be an interesting family vacation,” the Devil said, unwrapping his cheeseburger.
Martin was tired of sitting. He stood up and walked towards his liquor cabinet.
“Can I get you something?” he asked, pressing his thumb to the Bioscan pad to open the cabinet.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink on the job,” the Devil said, then took a long drink from a supersized soft drink that he had bought with his Happy Meal.
Mr. Finch took a shot of Jack Daniel’s blue label and then another. He looked over at the Devil, who was now watching a news network. He took another shot, then he poured himself a single malt scotch on the rocks and went back to the couch. The Devil was finished with his cheeseburger. He had wrapped up the trash in the grease-spotted paper that had contained the burger. With a touch of his finger, all the trash vaporized in a flash of flame.
“All that grease is quite an accelerant. Alas, I do miss those Styrofoam containers with the CFCs.”
The Devil pulled out another cigarette.
“You smoke but don’t drink on the job? What kind of king of vice are you?”
The Devil sighed. “There are some companies that need my patronage more than others. The poor tobacco companies and soda makers are having a hard time right now, so I do what I can to help out. But humanity is never going to give up alcohol,” he said, swinging his cigarette hand towards the open liquor cabinet. “The less I take, the more for you.”
“How gracious.”
The Devil nodded and smiled. “Trust me, I have only top shelf stuff at the den at home.”
For a moment Martin found himself contemplating which brands the Devil would have in his den, liquor down to furniture. Were the floors stone, hardwood, or plush . . . .
The Devil surfed the channels. He stopped on a station where an old-style televangelist, Oral William, was beseeching funds, his hands clasped as if he were praying to the camera. Behind him were rows and rows of young girls, old ladies, and a few men, answering telephones, the old fashion kind that rang with bells to give the impression that people were calling and calling, giving and giving . . . . The Devil pulled out a phone in a red case that matched his nails, dialed, then raised the phone to his ear. Martin noticed it was pierced with six silver hoops.
“Gahangas. Beelzebub here. How are Oral Bill’s ratings . . . Hmm . . . I see. . . .” He took a meditative drag of his cigarette. “Well, let’s give him a bump. Pledge a hundred thousand. The number is on the speed dial.”
He hung up the phone and replaced it in his jacket pocket. He turned to Martin as if to explain. “Oral Bill masturbates to kiddy porn, at least when he’s not banging that fine young brunette who is about to answer my phone call.” He gestured to a young, chaste-looking girl answering phone calls in the back. Thick brunette braids rested on her shoulders. She wore a blue shirt that buttoned to her neck. No flesh was revealed, but one would have to be blind to miss her firm, ripe breasts.
The unattainable breasts of a Christian woman are such a beautiful thing, Finch reflected.
“They’re silicone and very attainable,” the Devil said, reading his mind. “Oral Bill bought them for her.”
“Really?” Mr. Finch responded, not particularly surprised at the Devil’s powers of telepathy. It figured.
The Devil shook his head.
“That’s nothing. The woman sitting in the second row, the one with the big crucifix around her neck, she’s carrying Oral Bill’s child. And that obese woman in the fourth row, Bill couldn’t get himself to actually have intercourse with her, so they sixty-nined. The same with the man in the first row.”
“My goodness.”
“Yep, good old Bill plays for the home and away teams. He’s mostly a bottom when the need arises. Who would have guessed? Wait, hold on,” The Devil said, leaning forward. He snuffed his cigarette on the coffee table and flung it on the carpet.
“I have ashtrays you know.” Mr. Finch stood up to pick up the cigarette.
“The world is my ashtray. Now watch the girl.”
Mr. Finch turned to the television. The girl with the braids and the breasts was talking on one of the phones. Her blue eyes became enormous, and her lips mouthed the figure one hundred thousand in disbelief. She was so young and innocent-looking; Finch could hardly imagine her having sex with Oral William. He wondered if The Devil was putting him on. The girl looked up to Oral William and called his name. He turned away from the camera.
“Reverend, a Mr. Robert Love has just pledged a hundred thousand dollars to the cause.”
The Devil brought his hand to his heart and fluttered his eyelashes in mock abashment.
“Let me talk to our brother,” Oral William said. The Devil continued his surprise, pulling out his phone and turning it on as Oral William took the phone from the girl. Finch noticed how their hands lingered as they made contact. I’ll be damned, he thought. The Devil is right.
“Robert. Robert. I am so glad you have found your path to the LORD. Your contribution will go to help so many,” Oral William said into the phone while the camera zoomed in close to him.
“I am so moved, Bill,” Satan responded on the couch next to Martin. “You have made me see the way. Don’t worry, I know that about $80,000 will go in your pocket, $10,000 of which you will spend on whores in the next year, $20,000 towards your gambling habit. The rest you’ll embezzle to invest. Wise move. It’s good to think about the future.”
Oral William’s face was pale. He realized he was still on the air with a sort of start. He flashed his practiced smile and said, “Amen, brother.” His act was good, Martin thought. Of course, no one watching the television, and no one on the set, could hear what the Devil was saying to Oral William. The girl still beamed as if there were nothing wrong.
“You have truly helped me to see how God works in my life, and that is why I have just sent you my son’s college fund,” the Devil continued.
“There is a great place reserved for you in heaven, Brother Robert.” Oral William continued to smile broadly at the camera and all his loyal watchers, his eye betraying a twitch.
“Yesss, yesss. Keep up the good work, Bill. And by the way, you might want to have the chick in the second row take a pregnancy test. Just a hunch.” The Devil hung up. Oral William gave a frantic glance towards the woman in the second row.
“Amen, Brother. Yes, God has truly touched you,” he said into the dead phone, a pearl of sweat beading on his temple. “And may his light continue to shine down upon you while you journey towards the Promised Land. God bless you.” He hung up the phone and dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief. “Mr. Love’s contribution is such a blessing; I think we all should take a moment to kneel down and thank Go—”
The Devil changed the channel back to news. Pictures of cold, forlorn-looking children flashed across the screen as a concerned anchorman’s voice narrated about ongoing sectarian strife in some failed Asian state: “. . . fighting has lessened in past weeks, but that has done nothing to aid relief workers in reaching these innocent victims of war. Government forces are still barring UN inspectors from the town where refug
ees reported the use of chemical weapons on civilians in an attack that is estimated to have caused over two hundred deaths, mostly women and children . . .”
“Blah, blah, blah. Yesss, yesss, the poor women and children. No clothes, no food. Things we take for granted. But look at all the airtime they get—and they sure take that for granted. There are kids here in the States that would sell their bodies to get on television. And trust me, many do.” He flipped to a reality TV program. “See what I mean?”
Martin sat back on the sofa. Besides the smell of sulfur, which would take weeks to get out of the upholstery, and the fact that he could not use the remote control—the Devil was a bit of a remote hog—it was actually fairly interesting talking with his houseguest. The Devil reached into his pocket and produced a small plastic keychain shaped like a gun, from which dangled an electronic security fob.
“This,” the Devil said with pride, “is the reason I love America.”
“What is it?” Finch asked.
The Devil took the gun-shaped keychain in his hand and pulled the miniature trigger. A small plastic disc shot out and landed near Martin’s single malt. The Devil shot a half dozen more, until the gun was empty.
“Isn’t that fantastic!” the Devil said.
“That I now have miniature Frisbees floating in my drink?”
“Martin, you’re so small brained. These little contraptions are mass produced. Not only do they promote gun culture, but they make about a hundred thousand of these things every three months. That is about five tons of plastic. One ton of that plastic would be enough to make water filters for twenty impoverished African villages, not to mention contraceptive devices, mosquito netting, or those little single-use syringes for vaccination. But does any of that plastic get used there? Absolutely not. Instead it goes into these inane little toys which get broken and thrown away in about a week.”