by Claire Kane
“They’re saying Chanel... right, Nainai?” Lacey leaned over to her grandmother who was quickly making spit wad missiles for her straw.
“Yes,” she responded, passing a napkin. “Help me make these.”
“No, Nainai,” Lacey said, stealing the straw. “You’re too far away anyway. You can’t hit them. Besides, Nainai, we’ve both been out of middle school for a long time.”
After several long seconds passed, and as the protesters became increasingly obnoxious, Lacey relented. “Oh, what the heck.” She snatched up a napkin, tore off a piece and chewed on it. Nainai shot a spit wad toward the activists. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Lacey said. She didn’t get the chance, however. The security guards finally reached the intruders and gave them the bum’s rush out, to the tune of thousands of people clapping. The show resumed as if nothing had happened, and Lacey resolved never to give in to the urge to make another spit wad again.
When the show finally ended, and the audience began to file out, Lacey lingered behind. She fingered the press pass around her neck and mentally got ready to go backstage. The only question was, how would she get back there even without Nainai? The stage was only a few feet above the floor, but there were no stairs, or even access doors from the floor. No matter. She was Lacey Ling. Even if her friend Cathy couldn’t pre-arrange an interview, she herself would find a way.
Pivoting, she scanned for show staff. Even just a janitor might do. She spotted the back of a security guard as he talked into his radio, and idly touched what looked like a Taser on his hip. “That’ll do,” she said. If anyone could get her backstage, it’d be Security.
“Wait here, Nainai,” she said, stooping to speak into her grandmother’s ear. “I’ll be right back.”
“You’d better not be running off with those animal men. Not without taking me.”
Lacey smiled. “You’re incorrigible, Nainai.”
“Life’s too short for me not to be,” the woman responded. “Now go.”
Lacey turned and caught the security guard’s eye and raised her eyebrows as she recognized him. She strolled over and greeted him with a grateful smile. It was the same man who’d gotten into a skirmish with the animal activist. “Hello,” she said, extending her hand, “Lacey Ling. Reporter for KZTB News, Seattle. Thank you for handling that activist, earlier tonight, Mister,” and she glanced at his nametag, “Konski.”
The man tentatively took her hand as he peered at her press pass. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ve been sent here to cover a story about Misters Zigmund and Ross. Apparently, they’re quite the attraction already. I was wondering whether you could escort myself and my grandmother,” and she gestured at Nainai who waved vigorously, “backstage to meet with them.”
The security guard pursed his lips. “They’ve got one more show tonight,” he said. “Can’t take you back while they’re getting ready.” He looked at Nainai. “And does she have a press pass?”
Lacey smiled professionally. “She’s with me because I’m her primary caretaker.”
The bald man gave her a crooked frown. “Sorry, lady. You, I could probably swing because you’ve got credentials. Your grandma? No can do. Security reasons.”
“Security reasons? She can barely walk on her own. Zigmund and Ross play with tigers. I’m missing whatever threat you’re seeing.”
He shrugged. “Maybe she has a bomb in her wheelchair?”
Lacey’s jaw dropped. She avoided saying, “You watch way too many movies,” out loud and instead said, “Is there some sort of protocol that would let her in anyway? A basic screening like they have at airports? I’m willing to wait until their final show ends, but for me to take my grandmother back to our room, then come all the way back—I think you see the problem.”
Konski grunted. “Well… I’ll see what I can do. But the next show starts in a half an hour. I’m going to have to ask you to leave anyway, unless you’ve already got a ticket for that show, too. Or, unless,” and he glanced around for a moment, then held out a hand, rubbing his thumb back and forth over his fingers.
Lacey pretended not to notice the blatant request for a bribe. Instead, she nodded and began walking back to retrieve Nainai. “Just tell me where and when I should meet you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go collect my non-explosive grandmother.”
FIVE
“Please don’t say she’s in Hell,” Victor told Rao.
The black and gold tabby looked at him unapologetically with her green orb eyes. She’s in Hell.
“Da… ng,” Victor corrected his word choice just in time, slamming a fist on one of the many outdoor tables in Heaven’s Grand Courtyard, where he sat. Here he was, making good on his promise to find the spirit of Chanel Lockhart, only to be barred by a technicality. Granted, it was an infernal technicality, but who’d have thought Heaven would have to worry about such trivia?
Technically, she is damned, so you could have gotten away with it, Rao thought, lifting a paw with an extended claw in emphasis. But that doesn’t mean you have to take it out on lawn furniture. Victor still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that his cat spoke without ever using her mouth. She was lying on a white patio chair, relaxing, the scent of nearby honeysuckle sweetening the fresh air.
“Sorry,” Victor said. “But this means I can’t interview her.” He dropped his head in his hands and rubbed his dark hair in frustration.
Not unless you want Ol’ Pitchfork himself to breathe fire down your neck, no.
Victor shuddered. “If I’ve just barely reached a point of being able to stand in Legion’s presence, then yeah... that’s a definite ‘no.’” He recalled the first time he’d dealt with the demons who took the spirits of the evil dead. They’d nearly taken him, too, the night he’d been murdered. The warped, ebony creatures had icicles for claws and the wind through shattering glass for voices. They were none too fond of Heaven or any of its agents.
Don’t feel too bad about it, pretty boy. Rao shifted in her seat. Some people you don’t want to sit down for tea and a chat. Trust me.
“This was supposed to be a favor for Lacey.”
Ah, yes. Your one true love. The apple of your eye. The yin to your ya—
“That’s not funny.” Victor arched his dark eyebrows in a glare.
Who says I’m laughing?
“You know she doesn’t feel the same way about me, though.” Victor slumped back in his chair.
Yes, well, I’m not saying to hang all your hope on it, but sometimes people change their minds. Especially us females. I’ll have you know, I had five Toms on Earth.
“So you’re telling me that after her fifth marriage, she might consider me,” Victor said.
Rao swished her fluffy tail. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Let’s get back to the topic of this wicked woman you’re pursuing for Lacey. The magicians’ lead assistant died. You want answers. There’s another way you can get some answers, but it’ll cost you.
“How much?” Hope filled his eyes. “What do I have to do?”
Take some lessons.
“Lessons? What kind? From who? I mean, I’ve cast out a devil, once, and I’ve already read my assigned reading, so?”
First, let me explain where you’ll find some answers, and then tell you about these lessons, okay?
“Okay, shoot.” He nodded, eagerly clasping his hands together on the tabletop.
There’s a way to access records of those who’ve been sent to Hell. They’re like journals, if you will, used as evidence for God’s judgment against them. You can read into the wickeds’ thoughts, their motivations, why they had done bad things.
“Is this like The Book of Life?”
Yes, only it’s called The Book of The Damned.
“Hm. Interesting.” He paused in thought. “Okay.”
But since Heaven isn’t cool with evil thoughts, even in the form of books, this book is stored someplace else. Someplace both well-hidden and well-guarded by Heavenly powers. We don’t pos
t angels there simply because it’s not fair to make anyone stay so near that filth for any real length.
“So the book’s not in Hell, right? You already told me I can’t go there.”
No, not in Hell. Well, not quite, anyway.
“Whew. Where then? Earth?”
Yes, you’re getting warmer. There was a twinkle in Rao’s eyes, obviously finding an ironic humor in it somehow. Sin City itself.
“Hah.” Victor raised a finger. “I see why you’re amused. There’s no way that I can avoid Las Vegas. Unless I avoid and disappoint Lacey.”
It’s part and parcel with the job of being her guardian angel, bub. You go where she goes. Did you really think you could only meet up with her at Celine’s concert? That’s not even on her to-do list.
Victor nearly rolled his eyes. “It’s just... that place is littered with demons of all sorts. Can you blame me for not wanting to be around them?”
This is where I get to the lessons portion of our discussion. Rao sat up. You’ve received some anti-demon training, but there’s more. It’s time to get down to the real nitty gritty, but because I’m a feline, I doubt you’d understand my gestures well; you’re still a little dense when it comes to making connections. I think you’ll do better with another of the Big Man’s children—someone with arms and legs like you to model after.
“Okay…” Victor said slowly. “Who would that be?”
Rao’s mouth curled up, her long whiskers actually quivering at the thought.
“Oh no, I’m not going to like this, will I,” Victor said more than asked.
What’s important, my dear angel, is that you accept the fact that I really do know what’s best for you. The tables are turned. Here, in Heaven, I am your master. Get used to it.
“If I had known that, I would’ve fed you less Walmart-brand cat food and more Fancy Feast.”
The cat smirked again. Some lessons come a little too late. Now, as I was saying…
*
Nearly two hours passed since the show had ended, and Lacey was certain her eyes would be spinning forever. Nainai played three different slots at once, and with an impressive rhythm. Beside her were several large plastic cups full of coins. Lacey was certain Nainai hadn’t brought that much change in with her.
Perched on a stool, she sat behind the old woman, who insisted on wearing all yellow, down to the heavy pineapple earrings that gave her Buddha-like earlobes. What was really embarrassing, however, was the fruit basket atop her head, a pineapple sprouting from the center of it like the headpiece of the Caribbean psychic she’d seen on midnight infomercials.
“How can you even keep your head up wearing that?” Lacey asked with a roll of her eyes. “I’m worried about your neck.”
“The same way your grandfather carried bags of rice on top of his head. It’s not that hard.” Not turning in her seat to even glance at her granddaughter, Nainai added, “Confucius say, ‘Don’t underestimate the power of the pineapple.’” She pulled the three slots’ levers with dogged determination.
“Confucius would never say something as silly as that, Nainai. Out of all your sayings—”
“Hush, baby girl! It’s Chinese tradition that pineapples bring luck, especially when it comes to gambling. It’s already working, see?” She pointed to the coin cups. “Watch and learn.”
Now and again, coins would clink into the troughs at the bottom of each machine, and Nainai would whoop each time, then make a comment about being “that much closer to the jackpot.” Lacey knew enough about statistics to know that Nainai’s chances of winning really weren’t changing and, if she had to count, her grandma was lucky if she were even breaking even.
Still, when she and Nainai had signed up for the players’ club, they’d been given complimentary tickets to the buffet, and a few other freebies, including free play on several of the slots. They’d taken time for dinner—where Nainai had stolen her headdress from the buffet’s fruit bar—then hit the floor so Nainai could get the real “Vegas experience.” Nainai had been sucked into the vortex of slot machines ever since.
Victor still hadn’t returned.
Lacey glanced at her watch and gasped. She stood quickly, nearly toppling her stool, and snatched the handles of Nainai’s wheelchair. “Come on, Nainai,” she said, “we need to go.”
“Go? I’m hot tonight! You go. I’ll stay right here. That jackpot’s coming my way. I can feel it!”
Lacey bit her lip, but when she noticed that a great many of those playing slots were also senior citizens, she relaxed slightly. Casinos were notorious for tight security, and honestly, nothing bad was likely to happen to Nainai, other than the woman running out of money. Of course, she didn’t need money; she’d been given something like a credit card that was useable in all the machines, and a lanyard to keep it on.
“Just don’t put us too much in the hole, Grandmother,” Lacey said. Nainai made a sound and shooed Lacey away; and so she went.
Konski was, thankfully, prompt. He checked Lacey’s press pass again, scanning it with a small black light, then ushered her through a plain-looking door near the theater, and into a small security screening room. Her purse was checked, and she had to pass through a metal detector, but the process was even less invasive than the TSA screen in airports. Within a couple of minutes, Lacey found herself being led backstage.
Walking into the dressing room was a chilling flashback to the temporary insanity that had led her into modeling, with the chairs, the mirrors and makeup, the hairdryers, and the bustle of stagehands. She shoved aside memories of that time and allowed the guard to lead her to a small waiting room where she was told that at least one of the tiger-wrangling duo would grant her a brief interview. The room was amply furnished, and she was invited to help herself to whatever was in the wet bar and its attendant refrigerator. When the guard left, she took the offer, and fished a can of juice from the fridge, along with a pre-packaged Caesar salad that looked both delicious and guilt-free. She settled onto a couch and started in on the salad, sifting through the magazines on a small table next to her.
By the time she’d finished her salad, she had begun to wonder whether she’d been forgotten. She checked her watch again and yawned. Maybe I should try again tomorrow, she thought. Standing, she discarded her trash, and made for the door, only to have it fly open in her face. She jumped aside with a gasp and watched as a tall man with close-cropped black hair strode into the room. His red face contrasted sharply with his light tan clothing and flaring green cape. More to the point, his angry muttering stood out starkly against the peaceful silence Lacey had enjoyed while waiting. A moment later, another man walked in behind him, wearing silver clothing, and long, golden hair. Though his face wasn’t crimson like the first man’s, his jaw was set.
Lacey recognized them both at once—Zigmund and Ross.
SIX
“Why can’t you get the rollover maneuver right?” Zigmund demanded as he crossed to the wet bar and yanked a bottle of Scotch from under the counter and poured himself a drink. His voice was harsh, his German accent even more pronounced than Lacey had heard during the show. He downed the liquor in a single gulp, and wiped his mouth violently. “We’ve practiced that one ten thousand times, and yet you still get it wrong on stage.”
Ross settled back against the door, and made to answer, but stopped at once as he noticed Lacey. “It would seem, brother,” he said, his accent lighter and more beautiful than his companion’s, “that we have a visitor. You know, the one Konski told us about?”
Zigmund froze in the middle of pouring himself a second glass, and looked around sharply until his eyes found Lacey. He hesitated, then faked a smile that didn’t come anywhere near reaching his eyes. “Guten Abend, Fräulein,” he said. “Pardon my… little outburst.”
Lacey stood easily, and put on her most professional smile, ensuring that it was genuine. Zigmund’s eyes hardened just enough to be noticeable, but he relaxed after a moment and fished another glass from under the
cupboard. “Care for a drink?”
Lacey raised her eyebrows. “I’m more of a wine kind of girl, but since I’m here on business…”
Ross smiled. “Make it a small glass, then, brother.” Lacey made to decline, but Ross raised his eyebrows, and Lacey relented. After all, it was a rare soul that could claim they’d shared a drink with famous Vegas performers. “So,” he continued, “to what do we owe this visit? Konski said you were with the media?”
Lacey crossed to the man, admiring the way his hair washed like golden waves over the muscular beach of his shoulders and wishing she could get her hair to be even half so compliant, and shook his hand. “Lacey Ling. And yes, I’m here on assignment from KZTB News, Seattle.”
“Ah, Seattle,” Zigmund grunted behind her. “Cold place. Too much rain. Reminds me of England in all the wrong ways.”
“Be kind to our guest, Zig,” Ross chided, though he still smiled. “Seattle is a beautiful place, Fräulein Ling. We once had the opportunity to perform there before we were given this opportunity in Las Vegas. We believe we will make our home here, but we expect we may again visit your lovely city in the future.”
Lacey thought she heard Zigmund mutter something like, “Speak for yourself,” but if he did, she couldn’t be certain. She ignored the ill-tempered man and focused on his cheerier sibling. “Seattle would love to host you,” she replied. “And I would love to interview either or both of you. I was told I’d have the chance. Would now be a good time?” She pulled her tablet from her purse and readied her notes app. She’d get them warmed up before asking to record the conversation. She knew better than to press people when she was already treading on eggshells.
Zigmund fairly glared at his brother, but Ross spoke first. “Fräulein, we would be happy to provide you an interview. We are, unfortunately,” and he shrugged, looking honestly sheepish, “preparing to retire for the evening. We have several things to do before then and I will admit, playing with the children all day makes one very ready for a good night’s rest.”