Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  “Proverbs? I come to you for truth and you give me fairytales?”

  “You did not come for truth.”

  Gorgeous scowled and stepped in front of The Mystic, blocking his view of the glass wall. She placed her hands on her hips, and cocked her head. “You don’t even know who I am. You have no idea why I’m here.”

  “I do know you. You’ve come for my advice.” He waved to the chair next to him. “Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

  Gorgeous took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. The Mystic was too patient with her, too calm; the virtues of a Saint—she had no use for Saints. Still, she stood by the adjoining armchair and collected herself, deciding to change tact. “I like the feng shui in this room; a sort of modern medieval isn’t it? It’s quiet and dark, reminds me of a cave.”

  The Mystic bowed his head. “It reminds me of a church.”

  “Bah.” She kicked off her white sandals and sat down, mimicking his lotus position. The Mystic reached down and turned her sandals over, making sure their soles lay flat on the floor.

  She chuckled. “I see you adhere to the old superstitions.”

  “Souls must always be prepared.”

  With a glare, she said, “Enough word play. They say The Mystic knows all.”

  “Indeed.”

  His calm unnerved her. She’d tried being nice, but nice didn’t cut it with him. “Listen to me. I don’t know who or what you are, but I’ve had you watched. The things you say during your act—how can you possibly know all those things? Are you a wizard? A prophet?”

  He smiled. “A prophet of God?”

  “Is that what you are?”

  “You know,” he said, tapping his fingers together, “a new school of thought has recently emerged regarding the Creator.”

  Gorgeous gave him the rope. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

  “Very well. Some believe the Creator was created by the humans, not the other way around.”

  “Atheists, agnostics.”

  “I think not.” He took in a deep breath. “Since the beginning, man’s predisposition has always been to believe in a higher power, a divine being if you will. This natural instinct soon manifested into chants and simple appeals, eventually prayer. As the human race evolved, billions upon billions of prayers ascended into the ether, forming a tangible repository of hope, love, and eternal life.” The Mystic smiled. “Voilà: God.”

  “Nonsense.” Gorgeous stood and slipped on her sandals. “If humans created God, then who created us?”

  “Ah, excellent question. Humans think in very narrow terms, don’t you find? Attempting to explain what they can’t possibly understand.” The Mystic laughed—a short snicker with a dazzling smile. “Humanity has always positioned itself at the center of the universe, and one must consider the question: without evil, then what is good?”

  Her mask, the constant grin, faded just a bit before returning with a vengeance. “You’re nothing but a senile old man. Worthless human fears did not create me. Bah. This is pointless. I came to you for answers and you give me vomit.” She spun and marched away.

  His voice trailed after her, “You want to know if you will succeed.”

  She stopped, silent as a ghost.

  “You want to know if you’ll receive praise.”

  She turned, gliding back to the armchair.

  “You want to know if you’ll be punished.”

  She sat down. Who was this man? He seemed to know her every thought as it popped into her mind. She’d heard so much about him. Was it all true?

  “Praise and punishment,” he said. “Success and failure, they’re all the same.”

  “How can they all be the same thing? I don’t understand.”

  “Point of view. One man’s dream is another’s nightmare.”

  “Stop talking rubbish. I don’t want to hear definitions from Webster or fairytales from The Bible or theories about humans, for Hell’s sake. Tell me, in plain English, what you mean.”

  The Mystic smiled. “Very well then, how about a story? I love stories, don’t you?” He continued, not waiting for an answer, “There was a remote village where the people lived mainly on rice and fish. One day a stranger arrived, promising a better world for the villagers: medicine, technology, progress. He built hospitals, modern houses, and office complexes over the rice fields. The construction polluted the stream. No more rice, no more fish. Soon, the people died of famine. Was the man successful?”

  Gorgeous snickered. “That’s an outrageous comparison. I’m talking about real change and lasting peace.”

  “Peace for whom? You?”

  “Of course for me—and my kind.”

  “Then you will be successful, and you will be praised—by your kind.”

  The fire in the pit flared up, producing an amber glow. The sheets of water cascading down the glass wall projected shimmering images throughout the chamber.

  “I don’t know why I came here in the first place.” She stood. “You talk a good game, Mystic. Well, I play a better one. I don’t know what you are: Human, Daemon, Devil, or Saint, and I don’t care. But when the time comes, and it will come, you’d better be on the right side.”

  “That is a time I do not fear. Right and wrong are the same.”

  “Bah. You’ll soon learn what true fear is.”

  “And so, we come to the truth.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We’ve already concluded fear is a wasted emotion. One cannot lead by fear. I am tempted to quote the saying ‘more flies are caught with honey than with vinegar,’ but you seem to have a distaste for The Book of Proverbs.”

  “That’s not from Proverbs.”

  “Ah, you truly do know your Bible. Perhaps, then, something from The Quran, or Tao Te Ching, or—”

  “Enough. You’ve made your point.” At last, the man, or whatever he was, had given her a smidgen of sound advice. “Leading by fear is all I’ve ever known. However, at your urging, I will try another approach. There’s someone else I must visit today; someone who might respond more favorably to pleasure than pain.” He’d known enough of the latter from his father.

  The blue mist enveloped her, and she vanished.

  ****

  Pounding echoed in Maxwell’s brain, not from the inside—from somewhere else. He moaned and rolled over. The thumping continued as his eyelids opened. His surroundings appeared through a booze-colored fog: the dump at The Wild Joker. He tried to put the past few hours into focus, but gave up. The memory had something to do with the bottle of bourbon he killed before passing out.

  Another knock on the door rattled him, this time followed by a soft, feminine voice, “Maxwell.”

  Gorgeous. He squinted, glancing at the clock on the nightstand. The red digits blinked 12:00, as they had since he checked-in—like they, no doubt, always would. Dim yellow light penetrated the skeletal remains of the so-called window curtains suggesting either early morning or late afternoon, he didn’t care which. The room tilted a few degrees when he crawled out of bed and stumbled to the door.

  Her presence here, far from their usual tribal-ground meeting place, meant only one thing: she’d come for her pound of flesh for yesterday’s debacle.

  “Coming, my sweet,” he growled through parched lips. He cracked open the door and his hand flew up, shielding his face from the brightness.

  Gorgeous’s gaze ran down his unclothed frame, lingering a few moments below his waist. She strode inside wearing a salacious smile. “Well, well, well, very nice; a pound of flesh you say?”

  Maxwell shut the door and faced her, his hands clasped strategically in front of him.

  “You’re going to need more than two hands to cover that up, but then, why would you ever want to?”

  He lifted his arms, put his hands on his hips, and grinned. The thought of having Gorgeous sometimes crossed his mind—more than a few times. “Are we mixing business with pleasure now?”

  Her gaze moved down again.
“You’re tempting me—a family trait, no doubt.” Her grin widened. “Do you realize how old I am?”

  Despite a wicked hangover, he felt the welcome tingles of excitement. “I prefer the word experienced, don’t you?”

  She glided toward him, reached out her hand, and took hold. “This may be more than even I can handle.”

  “You’ll never know until we—Christ! Let go.”

  She tightened her grip and pulled down. He bent at the knees, trying to ease the pain. Her smile grew when she released him. “I thought you liked it rough.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Perhaps later, my love. For now, why don’t you pop into the shower? You stink.”

  He marched past her into the bathroom, turned on the water, and slipped under the cold stream. With his voice straining above the deluge, he asked, “Why are you here?”

  “I merely wanted to thank you for a job well done last night, that’s all.”

  A compliment? She was up to something.

  “I want you to know I trust you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Look, I know the Hell you’ve been through in your life.”

  “Very funny.”

  “What I’m getting at is this. We’re so close to achieving our goal, in large part thanks to you. I just want to make sure you know your hard work is appreciated.”

  No threats? “What’s the catch?”

  “Ha. At one time, you were all powerful, doing as you pleased, sitting at his left hand, until you angered him. He couldn’t stand the sight of you; the main reason he agreed to loan out your services. But if you continue to do as I say, if my plan is successful, you may yet gain favor in his eyes.”

  “Point taken.” Maxwell shut off the water. True, dear old dad entrusted the services of his only begotten son to Gorgeous. Also true, he’d consented to serve her, a legally binding agreement. For whatever reason, though, she offered him another chance. Oh well, gift-horses, mouths, and all that. He cleared his throat, “I acknowledge your power and willingly accept your rule.”

  “Oh my,” Gorgeous said, “using the formal oath? How impressive. Your father will be so very proud.”

  “My father be damned—I may as well be a bastard. My allegiance is to you.”

  “Very well, then. I have much to do, and your allegiance is accepted.”

  “One question first,” he said as he put his hands on the sink and glanced at his reflection in the mist-covered mirror. “The humans are nothing more than a nuisance to my father, something he can’t rule, so it bugs him—that’s all. Why are they so damned important to you?”

  “Because we were first. God had no right replacing us with the abomination of man.”

  “Obsess much?” Maxwell mumbled. He wrapped a towel around his waist and combed his hair. “So how do I, killing a few dogs, play into all of this?”

  “It keeps the good little Daemons busy and out of my hair.”

  “So I’m just a diversion?”

  When no answer came, Maxwell stormed out of the bathroom and into the empty bedroom. Gorgeous had vanished, a blue mist dissipating in her wake.

  “Fucking bitch. What do you want me to do, bow in your presence?” Maxwell bent over in a low, respectful bow—and farted. “I honor your grace from the bottom of my bowels.”

  When he straightened, his eyes widened. The treasures on the sullied pillow lifted his spirit: car keys, a room card reading “Wynn,” and a large stack of hundred dollar chips.

  “Forgive me, my queen.” He waved his hand over his nose. “The gas was nothing more than a little tom-foolery to lighten the mood. I see now just how much of an ass I’ve truly been. You can surely count on me. I won’t let you down.”

  He threw the towel to the floor and jumped into his crumpled clothes from the day before, their foul odors attacking his nose. Like a beggar picking at scraps, he scooped up the gifts from the pillow, stuffed them into his pockets, and began to whistle. With a final glance back at the horrid accommodations, he flung open the door and grinned.

  A midnight blue Ferrari 458 beckoned. He jumped behind the wheel and started the engine. He shivered at the sound of its power. Recently buried instincts told him to gun the engine and roar out of the parking lot, but remembering his promise, he pulled onto Fremont Street like a nun with a secret.

  Turning left onto Las Vegas Boulevard, he grinned. Keeping a vehicle like this at the posted speed limit was a crime. He pressed the gas pedal down. When he spied the red and blue lights in his rearview mirror, he winced. “Shit.”

  He pulled over, slipped the smooth stick into park, and shut off the engine, exactly six blocks from the Wild Joker Motel.

  “Afternoon,” the Metro patrolman said as he approached the driver’s side.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” Maxwell looked into the officer’s reflective sunglasses and smiled a sheepish grin.

  “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  Maxwell had no intention of returning to the rattrap he’d just vacated. He used his best apologetic voice, a voice he seldom employed. “Going a little too fast? I am so sorry.”

  “That’s right. This car was built for speed, but not on this street. Keep it low and slow.”

  “As you wish.”

  “Let’s see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

  Damn. He reached into the glovebox, hoping Gorgeous had seen to the little details. He grinned as he pulled the documents from the box and handed them to the officer.

  “Richard Pate,” the officer read, “from Perdition, Indiana, huh? Bet it don’t get as hot there as it does here.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised.”

  The officer handed back the documents. “I’m gonna let you off with a warning, Mr. Pate. Remember now, low and slow.”

  The patrolman returned to his motorcycle. He pulled up alongside Maxwell’s open window and yelled over the rumble of the engine, “Sometimes we give the tourists a free pass. You have a safe visit.” He kicked the bike into gear and roared away.

  Maxwell glanced at the driver’s license. “Richard Pate?” He chuckled as the obvious synonym dawned. “Dick Head.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The amazing aroma of freshly baked bread fills me with happy and familiar thoughts. Aunt Rose always seems to have something incredible cooking in the kitchen. It doesn’t matter the time of day; the sweet-smelling scent is always…wait. My thoughts scatter like roaches caught in a light. I force my eyes open. I’m in Dixie’s bedroom, lying on the bed we shared just a day ago—was it one day, or two? Pounding in my head makes me reach up and feel for the source of the pain: a large bump square between my eyes. The pain is genuine, sharp, and relentless. Everything else is blurry.

  Somebody touches my arm. “Welcome back. Take it easy.” Marco Ramirez sits on the bed next to me, his eyes staring straight into mine. “You took quite a knock.”

  With his assistance, I manage to sit up, my back propped against the headboard. It takes a few moments for the room to stop spinning. “What happened? How did I get here?”

  He laughs. Why would he laugh? “Next time, you might want to buckle up nice and tight before you decide to let a palm tree stop the car for you. I’m surprised you drove all the way across town by yourself without—”

  “Dixie’s in trouble.” A flood of memories crowds my head and dread grabs me by the throat. I try to stand up, but feel dizzy, and plop back down on the pillow. Squiggly lines of white light race across my eyes like little Tasers. I yell out, “We’ve got to go back to The Lakes and get Dixie.”

  “Whoa, take it easy.” He pats my shoulder. “Everything’s okay, just try to relax.”

  “Relax?” I use what little strength I have to throw my legs over the side of the bed. Marco grabs me around the chest and helps me stand. Without his support, I’d fall right over onto the carpet face first. “Dixie’s being held prisoner. I tried to get her out, but that house was under some kind of spell or something.
We gotta go back right now—”

  “Did I hear my name?” Dixie hurries into the room and throws her arms around me. Marco steps out of the way, and Dixie and I stumble back onto the bed. She sits up and smiles. “What made you think you could drive? You know you don’t know how to drive.” Her face is happy, but her words scolding. “I was worried sick about you. I wanted to take you to the hospital, but Marco insisted you were okay. So did Aunt Rose.”

  Marco sits back down on the bed, patting my arm again. “You took a nasty knock from the steering wheel when you clobbered that tree. I didn’t think it the wisest move to take you to the hospital, too many questions.” He glances at his watch. “In any case, it’s getting late, and I’ve got to make an appearance down at the station. They probably think I quit.”

  My memories are like a jigsaw puzzle, minus a few pieces. “How did I get here? Somebody tell me what happened.”

  Dixie puts her hand on my forehead, on the epicenter of my pain, and I wince. “Sorry.” She props up my pillow and moves her hand to my chest. “I know you did your best to get me out of that house. I can only guess, in the end, you figured you’d drive my car back here to get help.”

  “I drove your car?”

  “Not only drove it,” Marco says as he puts on his coat and straightens his tie, “you totaled it. But then it doesn’t take much of a hit to total cars nowadays; they’re basically made of sheet metal, plastic, and rubber. The main thing is you’re okay.”

  “Thank goodness my palm tree survived.” Aunt Rose appears and puts a glass of water in my hand. She reaches into her pocket, bringing out two little white pills. “Take some ibuprofen and keep still. You really should get some rest; for a bang on the noggin, that’s really the best.”