by Dick Denny
She put her hand over her mouth but couldn’t stifle the giggle. “Surly you can’t be serious?”
I smirked. She’d set it up on purpose so I couldn’t deny letting her have it. “I’m very serious, and don’t call me ‘Shirley.’”
She gestured with a phone she must have gotten off the crackhead or the mook. “I got us an Uber, four-and-a-half minutes out—on these guys.” Her smile was infectious.
“You guys are the best, you know that?” I pushed Toshiro down to his knees as we waited.
Not a bad day at all, all things considered anyway. Despite all the running.
Chapter Two
No Way Of Knowing
“Hell on High Heels” Motley Crüe
I would be willing to bet that angels possess a different sense of time than us little folk. Maybe that’s why it took Gabrielle almost six months to knock on the office door after Gretchen and I retrieved the Spear of Destiny.
It was a Sunday morning; Agnes didn’t come in on Sundays. I heard the rapping on the door to the office and my eyes opened with the speed of a sloth that had eaten a whole tray of pot brownies. I felt the warmth of Gretchen’s body pressed against me and the familiar dull ache that accompanies a man when he wakes in the morning with a statue-worthy beauty held tight in his arms and the firmness of her form pressing to the relative firmness of his. I could smell the hint of lavender shampoo as my face was buried in it. My right arm was under her head under the pillow with my 1911 grasped in my hand. My left arm was draped over her naked hips.
I shifted slightly and felt the brushing of metal as the slide of my 1911 brushed the barrel of her custom single-action Army Colts. As much as I didn’t want to, I extricated myself from the responsibility of the big spoon. I don’t think I woke her, but if I did she was either good-natured enough to let me think I hadn’t or she simply drifted back into the sweet oblivion of slumber.
I pulled on the slacks I had worn the day before and the two days preceding those. I pulled a T-shirt over my head and tucked the pistol in the back of my waist as I stealthed my way out of the side room of the office suite. I shut the door behind me and could see the outline of someone through the powdered-and-painted glass of the office door. I passed Agnes’s immaculately organized desk. In her outbox was the bill for the Crossfield jobs. Mr. and Mrs. both hired us to dig up dirt on the other. I’m guessing there should have been ethical concerns that should have precluded us from taking one or the other, but we took them anyway. We got pictures of Mr. Crossfield with Mrs. Crossfield’s sister the same evening we got pictures of Mrs. Crossfield playing an interesting game of Twister with the best man from their wedding twenty years ago. Their college-aged daughter and high school senior son probably weren’t going to be overly pleased with how things of their seemingly normal family had turned out in reality to be.
Reality can be a great disappointment in the end.
Besides that in Agnes’s inbox was the check for Melvin Ludlow job. Gretchen and I, with the help of The Grand Vizier Megatron Terabyte the Cyber Samurai, had managed to track down an identity thief. Turns out it was Mr. Ludlow’s homeowners association president. He’d done the dirty with the identity of several other members of the condo complex that Ludlow lived in, but they hadn’t paid us so we didn’t feel a need to tell them.
As was, when those checks got cashed, we could afford to keep the doors open, and Agnes paid for the next three months baring some insane expensive circumstance. Life seemed all right.
And then I opened the door.
“Goddamnit,” I muttered as I saw her standing calmly. She seemed to have weathered the wait it took for me to get up and to the door with a dignity that shined a deceptively demure passivity.
She pouted. “Watch the blasphemy, please.” The Southern twang to her voice seemed out of place considering where she was from.
“Gabrielle.” I sighed and stood aside so she could step in. “Shouldn’t the Herald of fucking Heaven be at church or something?” I looked at my wrist and remembered I didn’t wear a watch anyway.
She laughed with a good nature. “That’s cute, Nick.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a white envelope, the type you’d put an eight-by-ten photograph in. It was crisp-edged and not bent even though it shouldn’t have fit like that in the purse. It was sealed with a blue wax that matched her eyes. The bottom of the envelope bulged. “Your payment for services rendered, my good sir.”
The seal in the wax was a trumpet, but not stylized; it was a Louis Armstrong-looking trumpet. I broke it and opened the edge, peering in. Inside were five car titles and five sets of keys.
I shut the top and tossed the envelope to my desk. One of the envelope’s crisp corners crinkled like a fender in an accident as it hit the desk and fell to the floor with a rattle of keys. I ignored it.
“Thanks,” I said even as a yawn slurred my speech. I gestured to the door. “Nice of you to drop by.”
She smiled, but it held disappointment. “No, now, Nick, I’ve held up my end. Now it’s your turn.”
“And what’s that?” I just wanted to crawl back in bed.
“The Spear.” She smiled demurely. “The deal was for the Spear.”
I shook my head. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Oh?” She kept smiling but now it felt predatory.
“The deal was we make sure the Satanist didn’t give the Spear to a demon. That didn’t happen, so our deal is done.” I gestured to the door. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“Nick,” she said with an acute stroke of politic deftness. “There was an understood implication—”
“If wishes were kisses,” I interrupted her and didn’t care, “then I wouldn’t have been a fuckless virgin for as long as I was.”
“Nick…” Her patience was annoying this early in the morning.
“I’m open for a new deal but as it stands we’re keeping the Spear.” I walked over to the desk and opened my drawer. All that sat inside was Jammer’s nickel-plated Kimber 1911, a glass, and a mostly empty bottle of Macallan 18. I left the glass there and picked up the bottle.
“Fine, what do you suggest?” she asked with a smile that was slightly deflated by the narrowing of her eyes.
I met her gaze and didn’t break it. It felt like a chicken race and I wasn’t swerving first. I tug/twisted the cork from the end of the bottle and took a long slow tug from the neck. Letting the hair of the dog play over my tongue before swallowing. “I want Jammer back.”
There, sadly, was no hesitation. “That’s not in the cards, Nick. That can’t even be put on the table.”
I pushed the cork back into the bottle and replaced it in the drawer. “Then we’re done here.” Once again I gestured to the door. “So unless you got any other business…?”
“What about Baalberieth?” she asked with her hand on her hip, giving her a sassier look than you’d expect an Angel to have.
Again we played the ocular chicken race. “Why is that my problem?”
“Is that how you want to play this?” Her voice was sweet, but lemonade tastes best cold.
“I think you waited six months form the last job to come pay me so either you’re a bad customer, or you were waiting for something else.” I pointed to the door. “So fucking spill it or let me get back to bed.”
“Baalberieth hasn’t killed anyone since he was summoned to this world, Nick.” She spoke like a teacher, but I wasn’t getting the lesson.
“I’m leaning back on why this is my goddamned problem.” I wanted to reach for the bottle again but I didn’t.
“Baalberieth is the Demon of Murder, but he’s more. He’s also the Secretary and Witness of Hell.” Again, she was talking but it wasn’t sinking in.
“So, Hell lost its notary. What’s the fucking problem?” I felt my fingers go to the drawer but instead, I rested my hand on the top of the desk.
“Were he here killing we could deal with this ourselves, but he’s not. We need to know what he’s up to.” She crossed he
r arms before her and leaned back against Agnes’s desk.
“Define we.” My eyes were narrowed; it’s easy to be suspicious of someone who takes six months to pay you for a job that cost you.
“The Throne.” She said the name like that explained everything.
“What’s the scratch?” I wished Agnes were here to take notes.
“What do you want?” That question actually sounded honest.
“Jammer.”
She looked genuinely regretful as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Nick, but that’s never going to be on the table.”
I chewed my lip for a moment. “Can you get Switch back to a hundred percent?”
She met my eyes. I don’t know what she was expecting me to ask for but it wasn’t that. It’s odd the look in an angel’s eyes when they were surprised. “Yes, I can.”
“Okay.” I nodded. I held my hand out to shake.
She walked out to me and reached in, her hand was small in mine, and my hands aren’t big. Her skin was soft and cool but her grip was firm as our hands went up and down twice.
She turned and finally started to the door.
“How do I reach you?” I asked as I yawned.
“Don’t you know?” she asked mischievously as she looked back over her shoulder.
“What?” I asked. “I suppose to pray or something?”
She laughed. “You really think anyone is paying attention to your never-sent prayers, Nick Decker?”
I said fuck it and pulled the bottle back out and worked the cork. “No, I guess not.”
She smiled. “I’ll email Agnes my contact details.”
“Probably better than telling me,” I agreed.
She stopped at the door and turned to face me. “There is a clock on this, Nick.”
I didn’t say anything. She could tell me or she wouldn’t but I wasn’t going to ask. It was a combination of too much pride and too damned tired to ask. I did take another drink.
“You have a week, Nick.”
I nodded; one way or another I’d get it done for Switch.
She stepped into the hall and was gone. There was no shadow against the door, no sound of heels in the hallway. She was just gone.
I put the bottle back and pulled my 1911 out from the back of my pants. I walked slowly back into the bedroom/kitchen/living room combo. I hit the can before coming back to the bed stripping back down to the nothing I was accustomed to sleeping in.
The bed was new, a double. I’d found the mattress and box springs still wrapped up in plastic when I’d broken into Jammer’s place to clean it up so no one would find anything they shouldn’t. I took what medical supplies I knew what to do with, a handful of guns, a few T-shirts that were his favorites. I got rid of the drugs, mainly weed and mescaline, and took the sex toys off the window sills. I’d had to break in through the window, but once I got the doors open I’d let Joy with an E-Y come in. She’d cried but taken nothing.
But now Gretchen and I had a bed where the pull-out couch used to be. We had to push it half into the kitchen area to get in the closet or push it in front of the closet to get it out of the kitchen area, but it was an honest-to-God bed that didn’t leave us lying on a pull-out with a metal goddamned bar under our asses.
I slid back into the bed, my gun arm back under the pillow, our bodies lining up in our spooning. I smelled the lavender in her hair and felt her warmth. Her touch felt like good whiskey tasted. I closed my eyes and drifted back to sleep content with her in my arms.
I had no idea of the storm that was approaching. I had no idea the trouble Gabrielle had just gotten us into. I had no way of knowing it was the last good sleep I’d have before Armageddon.
Chapter Three
The Best Part of Waking Up
“I Got You Babe” Sonny and Cher… think Groundhog Day
People have told me I’m a pain in the ass in the morning, but I’m nothing compared to Gretchen. Some people have pep and get up and go; I might be bad, but she’s worse. The coffee pot sitting in the kitchen was for her. I’d never been a coffee drinker. I’d seen too many people who were useless until they had their first cup of coffee and I’d decided I’d rather be useless all fucking day. That said, even though I didn’t drink coffee didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate waking up to the smell.
I opened my eyes to the sight of Gretchen standing in a pair of black boy-cut panties with her back to me. I let my eyes glide over her tattooed wings as she stood topless with her back to me, her raven hair falling over her shoulders.
“You awake yet?” she asked.
I smiled and rolled from my side onto my back. “How did you know?”
She laughed and flipped her hair over one shoulder as she looked back to me over her other shoulder. “I didn’t, that was the third time I asked.”
That got a laugh out of me, too. “Fair fuckin’ enough.”
“So what’s the plan on our off day?” she asked as I heard her pour the black life-imbuing liquid into her mug.
“We got a job.” I thought back over the conversation with Gabrielle.
“Who’s?” She sipped the same way kids slurp soup.
“Gabrielle.” I looked, but from the back I couldn’t really tell her reaction.
“She pay for the last one?” Gretchen looked back to me before topping off the mug.
I nodded.
“What's the stakes of this one?” I liked how she didn’t ask about the job, just the payment. My short stripper was as mercenary as I was, I guess. Soulmates.
I chewed my lip, unsure of if I should tell her. “Well…”
She turned and crossed one arm under her perky tits and the other lifted the mug. “Well?”
I made sure to look into Gretchen’s eyes. “She’s gonna fix Switch.”
Gretchen smiled and nodded. “And Jammer?”
I shook my head and her nod stopped but the smile stayed. “Well, we got to do it for Switch.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that was my thought.”
“We shouldn’t tell him, though,” she added before drinking more of her morning joe.
I didn’t say anything; I simply raised my eyebrows.
“We shouldn’t get his hopes up,” she explained. “Especially because I’m guessing whatever it is she wants is liable to get us killed. Cause I’m doubting she’s going to pay in that case.”
I nodded.
“So what’s the job?” Gretchen smiled, the coffee having an effect in reviving her optimistic demeanor.
“We need to figure out what Baalberieth is up to,” I said and let it hang there.
Gretchen laughed. “Oh, that’s all?”
I shrugged; that got another laugh from her.
“So where do we start?” she asked as I turned my back to her and kicked my legs out of the bed. I stood, arched my back, and popped my knuckles. I was getting older. Indiana Jones had said, “It’s not the years, it’s the mileage.” That bastard knew what the hell he was talking about.
I dug my knuckles into my lower back and walked around the bed. “A shower. I’m starting with a shower.”
She laughed as I shambled into the bathroom. I got the hot water going and stepped behind the yellow rubber ducky shower curtain.
I felt the hot water flow over my head, matting my short unruly hair to my scalp as I leaned my head forward and let the water and steam flow. It wasn’t long until I felt the curtain open and close before feeling her arms slide around me and her wet body pressing up behind me. “It’s not your fault, Nick,” she whispered.
“I know,” I muttered as water streamed down my face, “and I don’t.”
“I know,” she said and kissed my back.
I lifted my head and opened my mouth, getting a mouthful of water. I sloshed it and gargled before spitting directly at the drain.
I felt her take the bar of soap and start scrubbing my back. I waited till I felt her reach around and start scrubbing my crotch with the bar and I laughed. She handed me the bar. I scrubbed my
hair into a good lather and washed my face. I rinsed it off before I scrubbed my shoulders and chest. I washed down and got my legs and feet. Gretchen helped steady me as I washed my feet and rinsed them.
I turned around and faced her. “Washing you is more fun.”
She laughed and I set my bar of soap down and grabbed hers. My soap felt rougher than hers. I stepped out of the way of the water and let her rinse down as I started scrubbing her shoulders and back.
“So what’s the play?” she asked.
“Well, I’m gonna reach around and cop a feel in a minute,” I confessed.
She laughed and looked back playfully, but she didn’t stop me.
“So?” she asked.
“Your tits or the plan?” I asked as I used the soap as an excuse to enjoy myself.
“Both?” She laughed.
“Phenomenal and as shitty as they usually are,” I confessed.
“Which is which?” I could hear the smile in her voice even as she faced away from me.
“I’d take your tits over one of my plans any day.” I was rewarded as she pressed her ass back.
She wiggled her hips. “You know, you tell me the plan and we can take care of that.” She pushed back for emphasis.
“We’ll start with Megatron digging on the Akashic Network, see what that rattles out of the trees.” She laughed at how quick I answered.
We made love in the shower and then washed up again before the water got too cold. I pulled on a charcoal Armani suit Uncle Lew gave me and a plain white shirt; never a tie. I was tugging on my black-and-white Chucks as Gretchen got dressed in tight yoga pants, her pouch belt, a black Sharky’s tank top, and her leather half-jacket. I slid on my underarm rig, my OD Green Springfield 1911 under my left arm, and then I went to the drawer to slide Jammer’s nickel-plated Kimber under my right arm. I slid my flask in my right inside pocket and my wallet of fake credentials in the left. On my belt, I had four spare 1911 magazines. I slid my phone in the pocket with the wallet as less temptation to get the flask. I went ahead and pulled on my pair of Wayfarers.