SS 04: Devil Said Bang: A Sandman Slim Novel

by Richard Kadrey

“Thank you, no.”

  I bite the rumaki and talk with a full mouth.

  “How about you, Father? You just had a workout.”

  Traven comes over, pours himself some mineral water, and goes to sit by the window.

  “You ever hear of a guy named Teddy Osterberg?” I say.

  Amanda brightens.

  “Yes. Teddy is part of the family. That is, he’s part of your temple in Los Angeles. He’s not terribly observant but his family has honored you for three generations.”

  “What about King Cairo? Any of you know him?”

  Luke rolls over in his chair and kicks his feet, trying to get them flat on the ground.

  “Cairo,” he says. Of course the little shit knows him. Rich kids like him love hanging around criminals. Slumming to the rich is like NASCAR to tobacco chewers.

  “Write down his address and phone number.”

  Luke gets his phone from inside his coat. Fumbles and drops the thing. He sits up and pats himself down for a pen and paper. I grab the phone from his hand and type KING CAIRO in the address book. A phone number and address come up. I copy them down on hotel stationery. Toss the phone into Luke’s lap. He’s coming around. Still obsidian black. Still silted up with sin.

  “Amanda, does Teddy know who Mr. Macheath is?”

  “I don’t believe so, Lucifer.”

  “Good. I want you to tell Teddy that Mr. Macheath, a bigwig from an out-of-town temple, is coming to see him but don’t tell him anything more about me.”

  “You should know that Teddy has always been a bit of a recluse and even more so since he was mugged a few months ago. He hardly sees anybody.”

  “I promise not to touch his toys. Will you call him for me, Amanda?”

  “Yes, Lucifer.”

  She smiles. Finally something she can do without a roomful of minions.

  “Swell. Okay. I think we’re done here for now.”

  “Lucifer, what about Luke?” says Amanda.

  “What about him? He’ll be fine.”

  “What about his soul? After all he’s done in your name, it’s unfair that he should be tortured in Hell and not standing at your side.”

  “What part of my CV gave you the idea that I’m fair?”

  “Please,” pleads Amanda. She puts her hands over her mouth for daring to ask Lucifer a favor.

  I nod at the attaché case Muttonchops brought in.

  “Are those the guns?”

  “Yes,” he says.

  “You brought ammo too?”

  “Of course.”

  I go to the table and pour two glasses of Aqua Regia. Set one down on the table and give a small one to Luke. He sips and spits it out like I gave him a mouthful of hot coals. He’s not happy but he can stand and his pupils have expanded to something like normal size.

  “Tell you what,” I say. “You leave the guns, see what you can find out about the Qomrama Om Ya, and fuck off out of here. I’ll see what I can do to keep Richie Rich here out of the meat grinder Downtown.”

  “Thank you,” says Amanda, grabbing my hand. I pull it away when she pulls it to her mouth like she’s going to kiss it. She helps Luke to the back of the clock.

  Muttonchops makes several small bows on his way out.

  “Praise you, Lucifer.”

  I shut the door behind them and take the attaché case to where Traven is sitting. Pop the locks.

  “Are those what you were hoping for?” Traven asks.

  “Oh yeah.”

  What’s in the case is a bit like the buffet. A smorgasbord of firepower. It’s good stuff too. Not as flashy as I was afraid it might be. There’s a silver Sig Sauer .45 and a little .38 Special derringer. A nice pistol to have in your pocket for when you’re feeling not so fresh. There’s also a Desert Eagle .50, a gun I hate even more than the Glock. It’s a pistol you see in movies because it’s as big as a turkey leg and shiny as a silver dollar polishing a mirror. When we see it we’re supposed to admire the guy who has it because he can handle something so manly and powerful. What we should be thinking is that unless he’s whale-hunting, the only reason anyone has a gun that size is because he can’t aim worth a damn, so he has to blow garbage-can-size holes everywhere hoping he hits something important. I set the Desert Eagle aside.

  There’s a completely impractical but heartwarming .40 mare’s-leg pistol. It’s like a short rifle with a lever action to chamber each shot. I don’t know if I’ll carry it but I’ll definitely keep it around. The last gun is a Swiss 9mm folding pistol. It’s the flashiest piece in the case but still semipractical. When it’s closed, the folder looks like a black lunch box, but hit a switch and it springs open into a 9mm pistol with a rifle stock. Candy would die and go to Heaven and Houston and back if I gave it to her. I might do it but I’m not sure I’m going to give her any bullets. She might like the bang-bang sound too much to be trusted. I’ll take her shooting and see how it goes.

  I get the Glock out of the duffel and put it on the table with the pistols.

  “Want a gun, Father? These are troubled times.”

  “We’re always living in troubled times. It’s why we have religion.”

  “Is that why? I thought it was so I could get rid of all the change people gave me that week.”

  “You have a very practical view of the divine.”

  “I’ve seen how the sausage is made.”

  Traven picks up the Sig, weighs it in his hand, and sets it down gently.

  “Is that boy really going to be tortured in Hell?”

  I shrug.

  “I was just giving them something to think about. I can send anyone anywhere I want. And don’t get too weepy about the kid. Everyone has a lousy time Downtown. Even Lucifer. I’ll tell you about my recurring lost-toner-cartridge nightmare sometime.”

  Traven sips his mineral water. I probably shouldn’t have said that last part. I spooked the poor guy again.

  “I guess I finally saw the famous Via Dolorosa.”

  “Yes. After you returned to Hell, I decided I couldn’t just read about all this arcane knowledge and do nothing with it. I had to act. I had to learn to make use of it. How do you think I did?”

  “You freaked out the Devil groupies pretty well, so good choice of ways to be scary. Just don’t try it on crackheads knocking over a gas station. It’s a little slow for that.”

  Traven smiles his tired smile.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Where does a nice academic like you pick up tips about something like the Dolorosa?”

  He hesitates. He runs a hand through his hair.

  “I found it in a sixteenth-century book of Baleful magic.”

  I nod.

  “You know that’s illegal, right? You’re an outlaw. Jesse James with a dog collar.”

  “Thank you,” he says. “What are you going to do now?”

  I wish I had a Veritas. It would help me answer the question. Muttonchops left his tarnished silver coin on a coffee table. I pick it up with my Kissi hand.

  “You’re going to help me decide. Kill King Cairo or talk to Teddy Osterberg about the girl and Saint James?”

  I flip the coin high in the air.

  “Call it, Father.”

  “Heads,” he says.

  “Always an optimist.”

  The coin hits the floor and I put my boot down on it.

  It’s heads.

 
“You win. Which is it?”

  “Go talk to Teddy Osterberg.”

  I go back to the buffet.

  “You didn’t care what the second choice was, did you? You just don’t want to make it easy for me to kill Cairo?”

  He shrugs.

  “Damned as I am, murder is still a hard thing for me to condone.”

  “Like I said, you can’t help being a good guy.”

  “Not yet.”

  I wonder if Samael left any Maledictions downstairs.

  “You don’t happen to have a cigarette on you, do you?”

  Traven shakes his head.

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “I was hoping you’d started.”

  I go back to the food and pick up the Aqua Regia. Set it down and pour myself some black coffee.

  “Seeing your world. It’s frightening but exciting,” Traven says.

  “Thanks, but the truth is I’d rather you cracked the books. I need information from someone I can trust. Is there a way into Blue Heaven? And what’s the Qomrama Om Ya? I know it’s a weapon and Aelita wants it. But that’s all. Maybe you can find out why.”

  “If you think that’s how I can be of the most help.”

  I go to the window and look out in the direction of the Hollywood sign. It’s going to take some time to get used to being home.

  “Hey, Father. Is it me or did the sky turn green?”

  Traven comes to the window.

  “When did that happen?”

  “I don’t know. What kind of fucked-up poison is this city spewing to turn the whole sky a different color?”

  “I heard a strange story on the radio on the way over. They say that Catalina Island has disappeared. There was no earthquake, so it didn’t sink. It’s simply gone. And everyone on it. Almost four thousand souls are missing.”

  Killer ghosts and missing islands. That sounds an awful lot like Aelita but where’s the percentage in killing off tourists? It’s not going to get her any closer to offing God. Unless He’s vacationing off the coast of L.A. under an assumed name. Does God have a secret yacht full of bathing beauties?

  It’s a fun thought but I don’t think Mr. Muninn is the sunbathing type.

  I ride the Hellion hog along the Pacific Coast Highway into the hills above Malibu. I figure that with a Gumby-colored sky and radio tall tales about Catalina as the new Atlantis, no one is going to pay attention to the bike. Manimal Mike has a garage. I’ll ask him if he can set me up with a set of plates. These cardboard-and-Sharpie ones are only convincing if you don’t actually look at them.

  As I hit the crest of the hill, my phone rings. I park the bike and answer. It’s Candy.

  “Holy hell. Where are those pictures from?”

  “My new digs,” I say. “I decided that if I’m stuck being Lucifer, I should live like him.”

  “Can I come over and see them?”

  “Later. Right now I’m in Malibu seeing a guy who collects corpses like other people collect comics.”

  “You know the most interesting people, Mr. Macheath. Call me when you get back. I want to come over and break some of your new stuff.”

  “I think I can squeeze you in. Don’t eat before you come over. I have enough food to feed the Crusades.”

  “Later, Bruce Wayne.”

  “Later, Major Kusanagi.”

  Teddy Osterberg’s place is a rolling green estate at the highest point of the Malibu hills. This area likes to dry out in the summer and burn even when it doesn’t go brown. You can tell Teddy’s place hasn’t had so much as a campfire in a century. It takes a lot of money and manpower to keep a spread this big green all year. A lot of company for a recluse.

  The house is a turn-of-the-century Gothic hulk. More like a bank than a house but with a view to West L.A. one way and practically to Japan the other. There’s a white Rolls-Royce Phantom convertible in the circular driveway. I knock on the door. A few seconds later, I hear footsteps and the door swings opens.

  I recognize him immediately. Teddy is the civilian at the synod with the nice suit and the Michelangelo manicure. He’s dark with sin signs but he comes from old money, so he was probably born prestained and has been piling it on ever since.

  I turn and point up.

  “Mr. Osterberg, does that sky look green to you?”

  “Hmm,” he says like a guy who’s seen much stranger things. “It certainly does. You must be Mr. Macheath. Please call me Teddy.”

  He puts out his hand and I shake it. The door is only open wide enough for him to stand in, so I push past him and go inside. I’ve gone from annoyed to pissed that Traven sent me up here instead of going after King Cairo and I’m prepared to take it out on Teddy.

  He doesn’t say anything as I go in. Just stands by the door for a minute and then closes it, locking us in a big foyer as silent as a tomb and as clean as an operating room.

  “I was surprised to see you open your own door. Malibu people usually have out-of-work B-actors standing at attention all day hoping someone comes up the drive.”

  “I’m sure some do but I don’t keep a staff. It’s just me up here, so door opening is a skill I’ve had to master all on my own.”

  The foyer is dark but there are dim lights on in the other rooms. I’m going to need night-vision goggles if I want to see anything interesting without starting a bonfire. What I can see in the dimness is an unlit chandelier over an oval space. A sweeping staircase to the second floor. A slice of a dining room and living room off to my left. Tables around the edges of the foyer are dotted with sculptures made from bones. Birds. Dogs. Flowers. Teddy is sort of an abattoir Tick Tock Man. It’s good to see he has something to while away the long days and nights all by his lonesome.

  Teddy says, “I don’t usually have guests in the house.”

  “So I hear.”

  “What I mean is, it’s a bit rude of you to barge in, even if you are one of Amanda’s friends.”

  “I’m not Amanda’s friend. She’s way too low on the totem pole for that. This isn’t where I want to be today, so I really don’t care if you’re put out. I also don’t see any tributes or signs that you’re part of Amanda’s world. Where are the sacrificial virgins and inverted pentagrams?”

  I caught Teddy off guard. He laughs nervously and keeps his hand on the doorknob.

  “You won’t find any virgins around here, and as for tribute to Lord Lucifer, I keep those in my private rooms. They sometimes upset the few guests I have over.”

  “Any I can see?”

  “Nary a one.”

  “Nary? And you called me rude.”

  I walk around the room taking a closer look at the sculptures. They’re strange little things. Intricate and crude at the same time. I think some of the bones might be human.

  “Who maintains the grounds if you don’t have a staff?”

  “People come and go. I find if you keep any crew around too long, they get bored and the work gets sloppy. A steady flow of new faces coming through keeps everyone on their toes.”

  That’s the first thing he’s said that sounds like the rich asshole I was expecting. He doesn’t like me inside his castle. It’s more than me being rude. His heartbeat is up and his pupils are constricting under the strain of maintaining his calm.

  He says, “The truth is, I value my privacy more than I value a pristine lawn. Now, how can I help you, Mr. Macheath? Amanda said you were visiting temples around Cali
fornia and had some questions about my collection.”

  Good work, Amanda. Maybe I’ll keep your kid out of the fire after all.

  “I do. First off, what exactly is it?”

  “Ah, definitions. Always a good place to start. Most people who know about the estate say I—meaning the family—collect cemeteries. That is wrong. In fact, it’s backward. We collect ghosts. We’re a ghost sanctuary in much the same way that there are sanctuaries for wolves, tigers, and other endangered creatures. The cemeteries are the outward part of the work. Ghosts need someplace to live and most enjoy familiar places.”

  “They don’t haunt the house?”

  “A few try. I have a service for that. A team of Guatemalan witches comes by once a month and touches up the spirit barriers. They’ve been dealing with Mayan ghosts for five hundred years, so I think they know what they’re doing. I love my ghosts, but like the family cats, they’re outside, not inside friends.”

  “How many dead friends live here with you?”

  “I have no idea. Would you like a tour?”

  “Why not?”

  He looks relieved that he can finally get me back outside.

  We walk around the front of the house to where a pristine golf cart is parked in the shade. I slide in next to Teddy and we head out into the wilds of his estate. I’m wearing the same shirt I had on when Amanda was over. I hope it’s dark enough to keep light from glinting off the armor. I don’t want to have to explain it to Teddy. Though I shouldn’t have to explain anything to a guy who uses skeletons like model kits. It’s a funny hobby for someone who comes off so reverential when talking about the dead.

  “Amanda tells me you’re a high roller in the local temple. How’s that working out for you?”

  Teddy shakes his head.

  “Dear Amanda. She has all these fantasies about getting my little clan involved in the day-to-day drudgery of it all again.”

  He turns to me quickly.

  “I hope I’m not being offensive, you being from a temple yourself.”

  “No. God’s a drag. The Devil’s a bore. The only people worse are the ones who run the temples. They think everyone should be on their hands and knees scrubbing the floors right along with them.”