* * * *
"Boyle's law?” My friend Stanley looked up from where he was updating the Liars, Cheats, and Swearers database, and frowned. “Since when have you been interested in thermodynamics?"
"I'm not,” I said, crossing my fingers in the hope that my name wasn't about to be added to the register. “Learning the twenty-three laws of gases is a new punishment being introduced for those who didn't eat their greens."
Stanley used to be in secondhand car sales, so he didn't query my explanation. Instead, he reached for a piece of paper and wrote PV = k on it in thick red ink.
"What's that?” I asked.
"Boyle's law."
I must have looked as stupid as I felt, because he pointed with his trident.
"P denotes the pressure, V is the volume of the gas, and k is a constant value representative of the pressure and volume of the system,” he explained. “So long as temperature remains constant at the same value, the same amount of energy given to the system persists throughout its operation and therefore, theoretically, the value of k will remain constant."
I was hoping he'd give me a moment to take this in, preferably ten years. But, just as if he was selling a ten-year-old Chevrolet with dodgy brakes and leaking radiator, Stan was in his stride.
"Due to the derivation of pressure as perpendicular applied force and the probabilistic likelihood of collisions with other particles through collision theory,” he said, “the application of force to a surface may not be infinitely constant for such values of k, but will have a limit when differentiating such values over a given time. Forcing the volume V of the fixed quantity of gas to increase, keeping the gas at the initially measured temperature, the pressure P must decrease proportionally. Conversely, reducing the volume of the gas increases the pressure, got it?"
"Got it."
Like you, I hadn't the faintest idea what he was talking about. In fact, it was only later that I discovered he'd brought up the Wikipedia article on his computer and was quoting it verbatim. Seems you can't trust anyone these days.
"You can also tell those cabbage-haters that Boyle's law predicts the result of introducing a change in volume and pressure to the initial state of a fixed quantity of gas. The ‘before’ and ‘after’ volumes and pressures of the fixed amount of gas, where the ‘before’ and ‘after’ temperatures are the same (heating or cooling will be required to meet this condition), are related by this equation here."
My heart sank. Another piece of paper. Another red equation.
p1 V1 = p2 V2
I nodded knowingly, thanked him for his time, and then, once I got back to my desk, cried my eyes out. Physics and feasibility? I was doomed.
"Boyle's law?"
Of all the help in all of Hell, the last place I expected to find it was from my pedicurist. Don't get me wrong. Suzie does a great job, buffing, polishing, and getting a really even cleft between my hoofs. In fact, it was I who suggested she put the “love” in “cloven” in her advertisemens, and turn the “o” into a heart. Even so, she was the very last person I expected to be familiar with physics.
"Oh, sure, honey.” Buff, buff, polish, polish. “Pythagoras's theorum, Archimedes’ principle. Ask me anything."
I hadn't actually intended asking her one damn thing. I'd simply been grumbling about my problems over a soothing shod-rub to unwind, when suddenly she trots out with that little gem. Amazing. And though the prospect of more horrendous equations filled me with dread, when it comes to fact-finding, there is no such thing as too much information. I braced myself.
"Easy peasy, sugar.” She gave my scales an affectionate ruffle. “Boyle's law simply states that the volume of a gas increases when the pressure decreases at a constant temperature."
And there it was. Suddenly boiled down (boyled down?) to something I could understand. Everything I needed in a nutshell.
"Suzie, you're a star,” I said, hugging her.
"Aw, go on with you,” she said, blushing and pushing me away. All the same, she gave my horns a good hard burnish as a freebie, and when I left, I could really feel them glowing.
* * * *
I know what you're thinking.
You're wondering why, if Hell doesn't make deals, the devil was cutting one in Georgia. Well, I'll tell you. Fun. He just went up there to have a look around and enjoy himself, because win or lose, Johnny's soul was his. It was only ever a question of time, since what people often don't appreciate is that everybody goes to Hell—and I do mean everybody. You. Me. Murderers, thieves, rapists (obviously), but where do you draw the line? Pickpockets? Exam cheats? People who exceed the speed limit while driving? Yes, you're probably thinking. There might be a case to be made for those, along with adultery, tax evasion, forgery, and plagiarism. And you probably have a mental image of a panel of judges sitting in the Admissions Office, deciding who comes in and for how long, but you'd only be partially right. Sinners are indeed sorted according to category. But I repeat: Everyone comes in.
Nobody comes out.
Surprises you, does it? It shouldn't, because in the end it all comes down to religion, many of which proclaim that if you are not a member of theirs, you will go to Hell. And since there are many of these religions, and given that people never belong to more than one, everybody ends up here by default. Factor in projected birth and death rates, and you begin to see that the clientele is increasing in direct proportion. Hence the need for a feasibility study.
But having done the analysis, the conclusion was chilling.
And frankly, it made telling the president about pitchfork sharpeners going on strike look very tame indeed.
You see, this is where Boyle's law comes in. Once I'd got to grips with Wikipedia, I saw that if you look at the rate of change of the volume in Hell, you'll see that the temperature and pressure can't stay the same; and the volume has to expand as more souls are added. Which means one of two things will happen.
Either Hell will expand at a slower rate than the rate at which souls enter. In which case, the temperature and pressure will increase until all Hell breaks loose.
Or Hell will expand at a faster rate than the rate at which souls enter. In which case, the temperature and pressure will drop until Hell freezes over.
Now who's going to tell the devil that?
* * * *
The boy said, “My name's Johnny and it might be a sin, but I'll take your bet, you're gonna regret, ‘cause I'm the best that's ever been."
He played: Fire on the mountain, run boys run, devil's in the house of the rising sun, chickens in the breadpan, picking out dough, Granny does your dog bite? No, child, no.
Hmm, I thought. Fire on the mountain indeed.
Believe me, with what I'd just discovered, I was really starting to sweat.
* * * *
The devil bowed his head, because he knew that he'd been beat. And he laid that golden fiddle on the ground at Johnny's feet.
This is a fact. I witnessed it myself.
Johnny said, “Devil, just come on back if you ever wanna try again. I done told you once, you son-of-a-bitch, I'm the best that's ever been!"
He wasn't. The devil was just giving him his due, or at least an extension of it. “Sucker,” he chuckled under his breath, and was so busy laughing at his own joke that he failed to notice me.
And really, why should he?
When you leave the Great Underground Car Park, you adopt human form, and the first thing I did when I got back to earth was catch that midnight train to Georgia. You see, at heart I'm a coward. I knew what would happen when I showed the president the results of that feasibility study, and I didn't fancy being toasted over fire while having my liver ripped out as rats gnawed at my vitals. Not eighteen times a day for all eternity. No way.
On the other hand, I couldn't fudge the results, either.
So there was only one thing left to do.
I had to kill the devil.
* * * *
Despite what you might think, murder is
n't easy. Not that I haven't picked up a few tips over the millennia, of course. The Borgias had enough poison recipes to fill a cookery book. Ghengis Khan was never short of ideas, either. Plus there was always Torquemada's bestseller to dip into, Ink and Inquisition, if I got stuck. But this is the devil we're talking about, and whilst silver bullets work for vampires, the president was bulletproof, and there was no heart to drive a stake into.
I resorted to the age-old tried-and-tested never-fails routine. My good friend, the peanut allergy. And since the devil has no soul, he won't be going back to Hell, and neither, for that matter, will I. No, sir. Not with that prognosis!
And in case you're wondering who I am, look up. Now whose is the first face that you see...?
Fire on the mountain, run boys run, devil's in the house of the rising sun. Chickens in the breadpan, picking out dough. Granny does your dog bite? No, child, no.
Cerberus, the three-headed hound who guards the gates of Hell, does tend to whine a bit, mind you. But that's only because he's missing his master, and no doubt once Hannibal takes over, he'll settle down again.
©2009 by Marilyn Todd
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: FOR THE JINGLE by Jack Fredrickson
Jack Fredrickson's fiction debut, “The Brick Thing,” was in our Department of First Stories in 2002. He has since had two novels published by St. Martin's Press, to rave reviews: 2007's A Safe Place for Dying (which was also nominated for the Private Eye Writers of America's Shamus Award) and 2009's Honestly Dearest, You're Dead. Both books feature the private eye protagonist of this new story, Dek Elstrom, whom PW calls “an appealing combination of bloodhound and bulldog."
The secretary telephoning could have been French. “Hold please, for Mr. Ruffino.” She pronounced it roof-eeno, instead of rough-eeno, as truth demanded.
Before I could laugh, the lawyer was on the line, saying, “Dek Elstrom!” like we could stand each other.
"You handling zoning cases in Paris, Harry?"
He chuckled with the sincerity of a siding salesman. “I've moved downtown, in Chicago. Only big-buck zonings now. How about you?"
"I continue to bask in Rivertown."
"In that castle?"
"Turret, Harry; there's just the one turret. And yeah, I'm still here. Because I might never be able to sell it. Because you couldn't get my zoning changed."
"It takes money to fight city hall."
"A privately owned structure, zoned as a municipal building? That should have been a slam-dunk for you."
"Don't blame me; blame your aunt. She's the one cut the deal with the city."
"Why are you calling, Harry?"
"I got a job for you. Come to my office this afternoon."
"Let's discuss it on the phone. Save gas."
"I'll pay you five hundred dollars."
"Up front, today?"
He sighed, and gave me an address far enough north of the expressway to be impressive. Harry Ruffino had indeed crawled downtown.
I told him I'd be there at two.
* * * *
Harry's building was tall, and had views of the Chicago River and Lake Michigan. Harry's office, though, didn't. It was buried in an interior corridor next to a door marked “Maintenance.” Still, the secretary—she of the French accent—who ushered me into his private office had red hair, a South Side strut, and an amazing decolletage. I supposed that was enough view for Harry until the huge money rolled in.
He sat behind a mahogany desk. He wore a conservative pinstriped suit that was considerably less shiny than the last one I'd seen him wearing. He'd toned down his shirt, too. Today's was a respectable white, with no hint of a geometric pattern. But amid the careful, muted stripes and soft white broadcloth lay an iridescent purple necktie that sparkled when he shifted in his chair. He was still the same old Harry.
He got right to it. “I have a client, Albert Petak, in the Rivertown jail."
I dropped into the black leather chair across from him. “The five hundred, Harry."
He slid a check across the desk. Written in black ink on heavy, cream-colored paper, it was not the kind of check people got on the Internet, the ones that come with free, misspelled address stickers. I put it in the pocket of my blue blazer.
"Rivertown,” I said. “Naturally you thought of me."
"I figured it would be efficient, you living there, in that castle—"
"Turret,” I cut in. There was no sense being grand about a stone tube, five stories tall. It was meant to be the corner of a castle, but my grandfather ran out of money and breath before he could get past the one cylinder. “What's your client been charged with?"
"Small stuff, but it'll be arson, upped to murder."
"In Rivertown?"
He nodded.
"The Sherman Stamping Works.” It had been the only big fire recently, collapsing an entire wing of the abandoned old factory and crisping a homeless man. Accelerant had been found. “Is Petak guilty?"
An ordinary lawyer would have put on the mask. Not Harry. He nodded right away. “An eyewitness put him there right before the flames broke out. I want you to talk to him, see if he will give you anything I can use."
"What's he telling you?"
"Nothing, other than he's innocent. That's why I need you to dig at him."
"You mean, to show the court you didn't just sit on your hands."
"I'm doing what I can."
"Who's the eyewitness?"
"A scrapper named Wildcat Ernie, but I'll handle him at trial. Just talk to Petak, see if you can shake something loose."
Harry slid open the center drawer of his desk, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He switched on a small air purifier, lit a cigarette, and blew smoke at the machine. It made him look like an idiot.
"As I said, they're holding Petak on lesser charges,” he said above the fan. “Criminal trespass, damage to property. But they're going for murder."
"Doesn't sound like your kind of case, Harry."
He raised his arm, peeled back a cuff so he could pretend to see the time and I could see a pretend gold Rolex. Little was genuine with Harry.
"Go see Albert,” he said, once he was sure I'd had time to admire the timepiece.
And I did, right after I stopped at his bank to cash the check.
* * * *
The Rivertown jail is in the basement of the police department, which is within spitting distance of city hall. People used to joke that the close proximity was deliberate, so that when reform came, the lizards who'd corrupted the town wouldn't catch cold perp-walking between city hall and the jail. Nobody in Rivertown joked that way anymore. Nobody believed reform was coming.
I didn't know the cop at the desk, but I knew his DNA. He had the same last name as the mayor, village clerk, and two of the city's trustees. He didn't bother to look up from his soft-porn magazine when he told me to wait in the green cinderblock room down the hall.
Albert Petak came in wearing an orange jumpsuit. I expected that, like I expected the beard stubble and the build-up of oil in his hair. Jail can change a man in a hurry, make him jettison hygiene along with hope. But no way had I figured the missing teeth, nor the eyes that darted around nervously, like a rodent scanning for lunch. Albert Petak didn't look like somebody who could afford Harry Ruffino.
He sat down at the brown-grained, plastic table and played those nervous eyes across my face.
"Harry Ruffino asked me to look into your case."
"You a private investigator?” His voice had a twang, Deep South.
"I nose around sometimes. I'm not licensed."
His eyes left my face, started looking at the baseboards. “They got rats here."
"What can you tell me?"
"I didn't figure Ruffino would pop for a professional,” he said, checking the far corner.
"I meant about the stamping-factory fire."
Petak stood up, went to tap on the door. A cop in the hall opened it almost immediately.
"I need smokes,” he said. “Marlboros.” And then he went out.
I walked outside, took out my cell phone, and called downtown.
"Bonjour," the Queen of France breathed into my ear.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle. Monsieur Ruffino, s'il vous plait." It was all I remembered from high school.
She hesitated just a fraction, then put me through.
"Your man is reticent, all right,” I said when Harry picked up.
"That's it, then.” He didn't sound surprised.
"I'll chase down Wildcat Ernie."
"You're done. I'll try to muddy things up in court."
"Why Albert Petak, Harry?"
His little smoke vacuum started whirring, and his lighter clicked. “What do you mean?"
"I mean he's been living under cardboard someplace. Not your kind of client."
"Sometimes I do pro bono."
"Admirable, you working for free."
"Don't believe all the lawyer jokes."
"I still owe you a few hours from that five hundred. I'll look around the factory."
He exhaled quickly. “Don't uncover anything that can hurt us."
I went back inside, asked the sergeant at the desk who was working the stamping-factory fire. This time he looked up. He told me it was an officer named Brockhouse, and that he was in.
Brockhouse was in his mid twenties. He led me to a small room similar to the one where I'd met Petak, except the cinderblocks were beige.
"Albert Petak has been around for a couple of years, doing odd jobs,” he said. “Lately, he's been scrapping in the stamping factory."
"Which means many people could have seen him there regularly?"
"Sure,” Brockhouse said, understanding my inference that Petak could have been set up.
"Homeless?"
"Depends. If the scrapping's good, Petak sleeps at the Health Center. Otherwise, he's under a viaduct."
"I thought Rivertown was scrapped out years ago."
"The copper wire has been gone for years. Same with the aluminum. But scrappers collect all kinds of stuff. I'm hearing now they're after clinkers, those old dark bricks rich people use to build fireplaces."
"A scrapper named Wildcat Ernie placed Petak at the factory just before the place went up?"
EQMM, May 2009 Page 11