Devil Said Bang (Sandman Slim)

by Richard Kadrey

“I’m afraid we’re plain old Tenebrae. Tell me you’ll help us.”

  I reach into my pockets for a Malediction and remember I gave my last one away. Anyway, Cherry wouldn’t want me smoking. Dried-out corpses are perfect kindling.

  “If Teddy Osterberg collects the dead, he could be connected to the girl and I know the girl is connected to Saint James. I’ll check him out. Maybe I can help both of us.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t get too choked up. I’m mostly doing this for me. If I can get to King Cairo first, I’m going after him. I’m going to hurt him dead. I’m tired of people trying to kill me. Downtown. Up here. It’s getting aggravating.”

  She makes the whispering sound that might be a laugh.

  “You know what they say. All the birds come home to roost. The past catches up with us. And you have quite a past, Sandman Slim.”

  “Philosophy from a corpse. Are you sure you aren’t Greek?”

  She turtles her head back into the hole.

  “I’ll see you soon. Don’t forget me.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  Cherry disappears into the dark. There’s a rustling and crackling of old bones as she turns around and crawls back the way she came. A homeless corpse living in a coffin squat. How desperate do you have to be to live like that?

  I catch a cab at Hollywood and Sunset and have it take me to the Chateau Marmont, the traditional crash pad for showbiz and well-heeled assholes from around the world. John Belushi OD’d there. Jim Morrison crabbed around the outside windows on acid. Hunter Thompson drank by the pool, and a few months back, I played bodyguard to the other Lucifer while he stayed in his secret suite upstairs. Now that I’m the black beast of the forest, the room is mine. I think.

  The cabbie whines when I hand him a hundred but is all smiles when I let him keep an extra fifty. I don’t answer when he asks if I want a receipt.

  Inside, the desk clerk’s face is streaked with plenty of sin but he’s nothing special. He looks at me like I’m there to empty out the trash cans in the lobby. I still have the Glock in my pocket if things go wrong.

  “Hi. I have a standing reservation. The name is Mr. Macheath. I’d like my special room.”

  He frowns and types something into the computer.

  “We don’t have a note saying you’d be stopping by, and according to the annotation you don’t even look like Mr. Macheath.”

  I crook my finger at him. His name tag says CHARLES.

  “Did you ever hear of the concept of low profile?”

  He looks me over.

  “That’s extremely low profile.”

  I lean in closer. I’m so sick of dealing with pissants.

  “You listen to me, you little fuck. The last time I was here, some people upset me. Like you’re doing right now. I locked them in my suite with a horde of zombies. I don’t know what the place looked like after I left—and it better be clean when I get up there—but I bet not good. Does that sound at all familiar, Chuck? Because if it doesn’t we can role-play right here. I’ll be the zombie pulling out your intestines while you watch. Then, and only then, when you’ve gotten a good look at your guts decorating the lobby like Christmas ornaments, only then will I kill you.”

  To seal the deal I take off my glove and put my Kissi hand over his. He yanks his hand away. I swear, this gimp arm is turning out to be the best party trick in history. Better than chasing girls around when you’re five, trying to make them touch your scabs.

  Charles edges over to the computer and types in something.

  “Very good, Mr. Macheath. And how long will you be staying with us?”

  “Until I leave.”

  “Of course. You remember the way to the room?”

  “Second star to the right, then straight on till morning.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Top floor. Grandfather clock.”

  I take the elevator up. I’m a little surprised to see that the hall is exactly the way it was the first time I saw it. Since the night I locked Koralin Geistwald and her clan in here, I’ve always pictured the place as a Playboy Mansion slaughterhouse. I hold my breath, open the front of the grandfather clock, and step through.

  The suite is perfect. Like nothing ever happened. Clean and bright and full of brand-new Architectural Digest furniture. The kind that under any other circumstances would reject me like a dime-store kidney in a billionaire’s back. I guess they gave up trying to clean brains and eyeballs out of the old furniture and brought in new stuff. And I have the place all to myself until Amanda and her demonic brownnosers get here. Saying the place is a step up from the Beat Hotel is like saying Jean Seberg was pretty. I should take some phone shots and send them to Kasabian. THANKS FOR KICKING ME OUT. DON’T WORRY. I’VE LANDED ON MY FEET. But even I’m not that much of a bastard.

  Samael was alone a lot when he was up here the last time. I don’t know how he did it. The place is so huge it echoes when I walk around. I need to treat it like that library Downtown. Build myself a little vacation home in one part of the room and stay there. Over by the giant flat-screen. I’ll bet my hooves and horns this place has every channel and every movie ever made on tap. With a little fixing up I could get used to the place. Maybe there are some earthly perks to being Lucifer after all.

  I wonder if they miss me in Hell yet? And if enough people know about it to matter. Semyazah can hold things together, and if he has troops rounding up red leggers, it’ll keep them too busy to think about offing themselves. Or me. I’d still like to know who made those crank calls. But I’m not worried. There’ll be more. Maybe the hotel can tap my phone so I can trace them. I’ll have to remember to ask.

  Watching my back has left me exhausted. I want to find Saint James and I want to kill King Cairo and Aelita. Not necessarily in that order. After shooting Carlos and spilling good whiskey and the stunt on the freeway this afternoon, I want to put the hurt of all time on someone. Saint James included. Throw Blackburn in too in case he switched the hit from Saint James to me.

  I take a couple of pictures with my phone and e-mail them to Candy. Let her see what she’s missing. So much for not being a bastard.

  I dial Traven.

  “Hey, Father, with all the diabolical stuff you studied, have you ever met real-life, honest-to-God devil worshippers?”

  “No. I don’t think I have.”

  “You should come over. I have some stopping by. You’ll see how lame the Devil’s minions are. Maybe it’ll make you feel better about Hell and things.”

  “I’m not sure about that but it would be good to talk about what you showed me in the bar. Your hand, I mean.”

  “I’ll send a cab for you. When you get to the hotel, call me from the lobby and take the elevator to the top floor. I’ll come out and get you.”

  “All right.”

  I pick up the house phone and dial room service.

  “Yes, Mr. Macheath?”

  “Hi. I’d like some food sent up.”

  “Certainly, sir. What would you like?”

  “I don’t know. What do you have?”

  “Our steaks are very good. And we have a chef’s special salmon today. It’s grilled and rubbed with a—”

  “That sounds good. I tell you what. I don’t know what my guests will want, so send up a little bit of everything. Whatever you think is good. And not too many frilly dishes with mango-chutney goddamn glaze or diarrhea chilis. You don’t have to tart up meat to make it good. Make sure there are some ribs and a porterhouse steak medium. And desserts. Send a bunch of those. And black coffee.”

  “Will there be anything else?”

  Drunk on power, I say, “Yeah, a bottle of Aqua Regia.”

  “Just one?”

  I move the phone to the other ear to make sure I heard him right.

  “You have Aqua Regia?”

  “We have several bottles left from the case in your private stock.”

  Goddamn Samael was smart. I have a lot to learn about the evil g
ame.

  “Just one bottle for now but stand by for a possible drinking binge.”

  “Yes, sir. The first dishes will start arriving in thirty to forty minutes.”

  “You’re my hero.”

  Hell yes, it’s good to be king.

  Father Traven and the first round of food arrive around the same time. All he says as I take him through the grandfather clock is, “Oh.” Then, “Oh my” on the other side.

  “Welcome to the dark side, Father.”

  Waiters wheel in cart after cart of food and line them up neatly against the wall like a satanic buffet.

  I pick up a pork rib in Texas red sauce and take a big bite. It isn’t Carlos’s tamales but it’ll do.

  “Eat up. The Christians said this much food is gluttony and the Greeks said it’s a sign of a small mind. Might as well dive in because we’re already fucked.”

  He smiles but approaches the food cautiously, like there might be a tiramisu-shaped pipe bomb somewhere. Traven picks up some red grapes and puts one in his mouth. Smiles and nods.

  “Weak, Father. Very weak.”

  He walks over and sits on the arm of a plush light blue sofa. He’s a little like Merihim. Out of his own space, all he can do is wander and perch.

  “Have you ever heard of Blue Heaven?” I ask.

  “It’s an old song.”

  “Aside from that.”

  “I’m afraid not. Are you sure, whatever, it is that’s its real name?”

  “You’re right. Blue Heaven does sound a little carefree for an extra-dimensional power spot.”

  “I’ll look into it if you’d like.”

  “Thanks.”

  He picks a couple of grapes off the stem, sets them on his plate, but doesn’t eat them.

  He says, “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

  “I’ve got plenty of everything. What do you need?”

  “I reacted badly when you showed me your hand last night. I was wondering if you’d show it to me again.”

  “Sure.”

  I take off the glove and roll up my sleeve. I sit beside him on the sofa so he can get a good look.

  “It’s just an arm, you know. Kind of an ugly one but it’s still just an arm.”

  “How did you lose your real one?”

  “In a fight. I used to be a gladiator but I’m a little out of practice. The Hellion I was fighting took it off in one clean shot.”

  “My God.”

  “I killed him, so the story has a happy ending.”

  “I’m glad for you.”

  He drops his grapes into an ashtray and sits on the sofa looking shaken.

  “Listen, man, I keep telling you that I’m not sure the excommunication thing matters anymore. When I say I have an in with God, I’m not kidding. I know the guy and at least one part of Him likes me.”

  “What do you mean one part?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? God had a nervous breakdown and split into five little Gods. But like I said, I’m pretty well acquainted with one of them.”

  “You are?”

  He shakes his head. Holds up his hands and drops them into his lap.

  “If any of this is supposed to comfort me, I’m afraid it’s not working.”

  I go to the buffet and get the Aqua Regia bottle and two glasses.

  “Ask me whatever’s on your mind.”

  He takes a breath.

  “Let’s say that I really am going to Hell with no hope of salvation. You said you could help me. That means you know someone in power? I guess what I mean is . . . have you ever seen Lucifer and does he hate the clergy as much as I’ve heard he does?”

  I set the bottle and glasses on the table between us.

  “Father, I am Lucifer.”

  He looks at me, waiting for the punch line. When I don’t give him one, he leans back on the sofa and laughs his weary old-soldier laugh.

  “And here I thought you were my friend. The prince of lies is right.”

  “I am your friend and I didn’t lie to you. I wasn’t always Lucifer. Trust me. I didn’t ask for the job. The previous Lucifer forced it on me. That’s how I know if you end up in Hell you’ll be taken care of. I run the goddamn place.”

  He gets up and goes to the buffet. Shovels fruit and cheese onto a plate and brings it back.

  “God is in pieces and you’re the Devil. You’re right. I might as well eat.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  I go back over and spoon black caviar and sour cream onto a plate.

  “You know, if anyone should be freaked out here, it’s me. You’re like the third person I’ve told about the Lucifer thing and everyone is taking it really well. I mean, I’d like just a little polite shock and horror when I tell people I’m the king of evil.”

  Traven spreads Brie on a cracker with the care and attention of a sculptor.

  “If people don’t seem shocked, maybe it’s because it’s a bit much to process all at once. And you do have a colorful history.”

  “So that’s what people say behind my back. That I’m colorful.”

  “Would you rather be boring?”

  “Sign me up.”

  There’s nothing sadder in this word than a true-blue Satanist. I don’t mean the ones who dress in black, listen to Ronnie Dio, and use the Devil as an excuse to throw graveyard key parties. I mean the ones who’ve bought the gaff that if they pray to the baddest of the bad, he’ll drop doubloons, luck, and hotties in their laps all the livelong day and then, when they die, they’ll get their own castles and pitchforks and get to join the endless torture party. They’re the ones I feel sorry for. Haven’t they figured out that Lucifer cares even less about his flock than God cares about His? Some of these nitwits have actually met Lucifer and he treated them like expired meat.

  Career devil worshippers are Dungeons & Dragons freaks that never grew up and still believe that if they had just one superpower they’d be the belles of the ball or prom king. On the one hand, I want to FedEx them hot cocoa and a pile of self-help books. And on the other hand, I want to use them ruthlessly for whatever I can squeeze out of their service bottom carcasses. Maybe when I have more time, I can play Dr. Phil and get them to do an honest inventory of their collective psychoses. Right now, though, I’m on a timetable and I don’t have time for tea and sympathy. Maybe the best thing I can do is show them what Hell is really like. Make them copy the entire Oxford English Dictionary onto three-by-five cards. Stamp them. Date them. Put each word in a separate folder and file it. Then take all the words out, burn them, and start over. Do it until I say stop and of course I never will. They’ll use up all the ink in the world and all the paper in the western hemisphere. Some will slit their wrists with a thousand paper cuts. Others will get cancer from the ink fumes or go snow-blind from the scanner. Welcome to Hell. It’s just like high school but with more boredom and entrails.

  I don’t know if Samael put them there, or the hotel, but the bedroom closet is full of suits and expensive shirts and shoes. I toss my ripped shirt on the bed and pick out a purple one so dark it’s almost black. Samael wore shirts like this because the color hid the blood seeping from an old wound. The Greeks and Romans considered it the color of royalty and that wouldn’t appeal to Samael’s vanity. No. Not one bit.

  Someone is knocking on the grandfather clock. Traven sets his plate down on the table. He looks like he’s waiting for the seven plagues to stroll out of the clock.

  Three people come in. A trinity. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our boredom.

  There’s Amanda Fischer, a high-society babe with a young woman’s face and a crone’s hands. Plastic surgery or hoodoo? Your guess is as good as mine.

  With her is a man about her age carrying a briefcase. He’s balding and seems to be compensating for it by growing bushy muttonchops. He looks like her husband. Maybe muscle or an over-the-hill skinhead. The third one is a dark-haired young guy with a bland pretty-boy face and dressed so perfectly in Hugo Boss he can probably recite
back issues of GQ by heart. All three of them are caked black with sin signs, like they crawled here through one of Cherry Moon’s tunnels.

  The disappointment on their faces is spectacular. Samael is Rudolph Valentino handsome. When they see my scarred mug, they wonder if they’re in the right room. Maybe they stepped through the wrong magic clock.

  “Hello,” says Amanda. “We’re here to see our master, Lucifer.”

  “You’re looking at him, Brenda Starr.”

  “I’ve seen you before. You’re his bodyguard.”

  I take a bite of a rib and suck the barbecue sauce off my fingers.

  “Do you think Lucifer has access to only one body? Look into my eyes. Can’t you sense my power and glory and all the other shit that makes your crowd moist?”

  “Do you know who you’re talking to? Watch your mouth,” says Muttonchops. He has a high-toned British accent. The kind that says, “I’ve never opened a door for myself my whole life.”

  “Why do I care who she is if she doesn’t know who I am? Doesn’t the fact I’m in here with many tasty snacks tell you something?”

  “Yes,” Muttonchops says. “That you’re a clever enough impostor to fool the hotel. But you can’t fool us.”

  “What’s he doing here?” squawks the pretty boy.

  He points at Traven.

  “He has the stink of God all over him.”

  “He’s a colleague. If that’s a problem, you can all ride down the elevator shaft headfirst.”

  Muttonchops says “There’s the proof, eh, Amanda?”

  She nods.

  “A crude threat not worthy of our lord. We’re leaving.”

  They’re headed for the door when Traven says, “Which one of them carries the least sin?”

  All three stop and look back like questioning their dedication to sin is an insult.

  I look them over.

  “The kid.”

  Traven walks to him and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  The kid leans back away from him.

  “Luke.”

  “Do you want to go to Hell, Luke?”

  Luke looks at the others for help. Muttonchops takes a couple of steps in their direction but stops when the knife I throw at his feet embeds itself in the tile floor with a metallic twang.