They knew me as Michael Hagen, devout Catholic out of Boston. Mike had wanted to be a priest, but lacked the moral fiber and incisive mind to understand scripture. He was also plainly only into adult women, but I’d have to be pretty cynical to think that had anything to do with his failure. Anyway, though he had the lifelong loyalty drilled into him by Catholic school (and no, not like that), he didn’t find anything wrong with dirty tricks and shady errands, making him the perfect person to do little things. The Inquisition threw in confession so poor Michael Hagen’s soul would still get its eternal reward, and it was fine.
Even if I lived in constant fear someone would find out I was circumcised.
VC drove into South LA, making for the decaying inner-city neighborhood of Boyle Heights. The church was in better shape than most of the neighborhood, though the Vatican was smart to repress their crippling vanity enough to let the building be a little shabby.
VC pulled over by a crumbling section of curb, somehow maneuvering his giant boat of a car into a space that barely seemed big enough for a compact. The church was behind us now, visible through the dark tint on the Caddy’s windows, looking even dingier for it. VC went for the door handle, but I stopped him with a hand on his arm. His flesh felt unnatural, like gel with a thin rubber coating. “Hang on.”
VC obeyed, grabbing the wheel, his grayish knuckles turning white. I didn’t bother to correct him.
I was trying to decide how to play this. VC and I could go full Men in Black. Throughout history, the Vatican had dealings with black-clad strangers, showing up and acting weird. Most of those were before the powdered wig days, though. Somehow, the Church had managed to get even less tolerant of weirdos in that time.
I checked myself in the mirror again. I wished I still had the bandage. Look past the uniform and it was pretty obvious who I was. The trick would be to keep anyone from looking past it. Maybe I could play the actual government card. Claim to be from one of the alphabet agencies, flash something almost like a badge—assuming I had one—and get what I needed. Last I heard, Father Liam had retired to San Diego, so there might not even be anyone who would recognize me.
“Okay, here’s what we’re doing. When we go in, I’m going to say we’re Feds. You flash a badge... you have a badge, right?”
VC nodded and removed a wallet from his coat. “Hubba hubba.” He opened it up, and the badge, though it had no clearly identifiable shape as coming from a specific agency, nonetheless hit that part of the human brain that craved authority in the form of little hunks of metal.
“All right, I’m going to identify us, you flash that, and under no circumstances are you to speak. You stand there and don’t do anything. Got it?”
VC shot me a curt nod that made me think he was almost normal.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” I opened up the door. Even this far inland, with big buildings and palm trees shielding us, the wind slapped us around a little. I clamped the fedora down on my head, while VC strolled toward the church without a care in the world. Was his hat surgically attached or something? That was a line of thought I didn’t want to pursue, but it kept poking at me, like a kid kicking the back of my seat on a plane.
I composed myself at the door of the church, straightening the tie, checking the collar, brushing out the sleeves on the jacket. With a final nod to VC, I opened the door and stepped through the vestibule and into the sanctuary.
I saw the guns first. A whole bunch: little silvery pistols, big fat shotguns, an anorexic carbine, a few stubby assault rifles, boxy submachine guns, and all pointed at each other, like the finale of a John Woo movie.
In the sanctuary, seeded through the pews, two groups were stuck in a Mexican standoff.
On my right, agents of the Inquisition. I recognized a couple of them, and the priest collars solved that little mystery for those I didn’t. Beyond the collars, some looked like a typical priest in his casual suit, others wore the traditional robes, and I swear to God, one was the “vaya con dios” guy from King of the Hill.
On my left were the Knights of the Sacred Chao. And yes, that’s pronounced “cow,” and it means a single unit of chaos, which is the best way to describe their leader, Dame Ladysmith. She was not there, in my one stroke of luck. These guys looked like an escaped gang of carnies, old French whores, and Batman villains. Fitting, since they were a Discordian splinter group described by the other Discordian splinter groups as “the weird one.” That’s a hell of a thing when you worship the Greek goddess of chaos.
A few glanced over at the new arrivals. One by one, they became aware of the two men in black suits standing just inside the sanctuary, looking confused in one case and poker-faced in the other.
“Uh... well, you’re obviously all very busy, and this has nothing to do with my thing, so we’ll see each other out.”
“Steve?” asked Happy Hobart.
“Mike?” asked Father Liam.
All the guns turned to me.
[15]
MY HANDS SHOT UP TOWARD THE CEILING. “Goddamnit!”
The Inquisitors cocked their weapons.
“I mean, gosh darn it?”
The weapons didn’t lower. Instead, Happy Hobart—so named because he wore a mask like those bright yellow Have a Nice Day buttons, stared at me. His eyes completely vanished in the shadows of the rubber mask, turning into little black pits. “What the hell are you doing here, Steve?”
Steve, that’s Steve Holt, and yes, that was intentional. To fit in with the Chaoists, you need to have an entertaining handle, and I lacked for creativity. So I took one that was already out there, and perfectly pitched to shout jubilantly while pumping one’s fists into the air. It had the desired effect, of course, since there isn’t a single Chaoist who hasn’t seen Arrested Development, and if you think its cancellation wasn’t a New World Order plot, you’re insane. I geared the bio toward the kind of low-level anarchy the Chaoists seemed to love. Lots of warnings, fines, and community service for petty acts of mildly amusing vandalism. My crowning achievement was a fake press release about the creation of euthanasia shelters for the city’s homeless.
“Mike? Why is he calling you Steve?” asked Father Liam.
Liam Fratelli had been my handler for my years of employment with the Inquisition. He was an all right sort, as members of the Inquisition went. I don’t think he was responsible for any heretic deaths, at least. Besides, they outsourced most of that these days. Guess he hadn’t retired after all. Seemed like a lot of that going around lately.
Happy Hobart, naturally, had been my handler for the Chaoists. Hell of a coincidence there, if you ask me..
“Well...” I started, trying to gather my thoughts into some kind of coherent lie. I glanced at VC to find he was doing exactly what I had asked him to do. He stood motionless and silent, acting like he had no idea an entire NRA convention’s worth of guns were pointing at us.
I carefully removed my shades, since they were doing nothing, folded them up and stuck them in the breast pocket of my shirt. I figured acting like it didn’t bother me was probably the best move, a turkey curse to get them into a less shooty mood.
“Am I really the problem here?” I asked. “I’m unarmed and I don’t really care why you two are pointing guns at each other. I stopped in for a little information, but I can wait until you’re done. If you want, I can even call 911 so you’ll have ambulances standing by.”
Happy Hobart didn’t sound very happy. “Why did he call you...”
“I think it’s more important to remember why all of you are pointing guns at one another. I’m sure it’s an excellent reason. Remember? You guys were just about ready to kill each other.”
The guns stayed right where they were.
“So, what were you all so mad about until I showed up?”
“Grilled cheese,” Happy Hobart growled.
I smiled and nearly laughed, since when an armed man makes a joke, it’s best to let him think it landed. No one else was laughing, and a couple of the
priests on the other side of the room nodded grimly.
“Wait, what?”
“The Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese,” Gabe said.
“You’re kidding, right?” I asked, the last bit of hope I was capable of feeling in the intelligence of humanity dying by the side of the railroad tracks.
“Nope,” Happy Hobart said, jerking his head in the direction of the pulpit.
Right in front of the little lectern was a ceramic plate with a red napkin. On top was a wedge of grilled cheese sandwich with a bite taken out. If I got closer, I’d see a reasonably recognizable depiction of the face of an attractive woman in the burn patterns on the bread. Though the person who originally grilled this particular cheese took it to be a picture of Mary, a woman who, if real, was decidedly Middle Eastern in appearance, the woman on the bread looked distinctly Caucasian and pretty in a very 1940s way. I always thought she looked like Donna Reed. But no matter how much you love It’s a Wonderful Life, the Donna Reed Grilled Cheese wasn’t going to get credited with any miracles.
“And what do you want to do with it?”
“These psychopaths want to eat a holy relic!” Father Liam shouted, punctuating this by turning his pistol back on the Chaoists. The other Inquisitors followed suit.
“These wholly relics want to lock it up in some lucite,” Happy Hobart shouted back. I heard the pun, mostly because he threw a little emphasis on it, and Discordians really loved their word play. They also loved pointing guns at the Inquisition.
“This isn’t some kind of elaborate prank, is it? You aren’t messing with me?”
The two sides shook their heads and I nearly laughed. I had to admit, if they were messing with me, it was really good.
“Okay, so both of you want the Grilled Cheese. Seeing as we’re in a church and all, have you thought about cutting it in half?”
The guns swung back to point at me.
“Or not.”
The guns pointed to the other side.
I thought about what I was going to say very carefully. I thought about not saying anything at all and just trying to slink out like this was the tail end of a Michael Richards stand-up set. I thought about trying to solve this little dilemma. In my old job, I probably would have been the guy they called to get the Grilled Cheese to this place. And the guy who sold that secret to the other side, but only after they had asked me to find out and I spent a day or so farting around pretending to look. While it might have been tempting to angst that this was all my fault for leaving, the truth was that these dipshits could cut themselves on safety scissors.
“I need to ask everyone a few things, and it’s going to sound a little weird. Don’t freak out, okay?”
There were a few general noises of assent and nobody shot me.
“This little situation right here... I don’t suppose anyone saw a giant Russian mobster around? He didn’t set this up?”
The frowns and nonplussed murmurs said no.
“Let’s see. Romanian gymnast?”
It was a longshot, but I am a suspicious soul. I was pleased to see the answer was no.
“Satanists?”
“You mean other than them?” one of the priests said.
“We’re not Satanists, you babyfucker,” a ballerina unicorn shot back.
“How about we stay away from religious differences for the duration, hmm?” I said. “I mean real Satanists? Especially from some new group called the Sons of the Crimson Gaze?”
More murmurs, more shaken heads. Although I thought I saw a glimmer of recognition flicker across the faces of the Inquisition.
“Order of the Morning Star?”
The Inquisition exchanged some angry muttering, but didn’t pin this on the Order.
“How about Feds? Especially a skinny blond guy with a mustache?”
More baffled shakes of the head.
“All right. Best of luck to everyone here. I would like to remind everyone you’re fighting over a sandwich, and there’s literally no way Mary looked like she was in From Here to Eternity.”
I started backing away, putting a hand on VC’s arm. He backed off with me, never breaking character.
“Mike, wait!”
I stopped. It was Liam, his pistol trained on Happy Hobart. The priest winced in frustration, doing the peepee dance as he tried to decide whether to stick with the Mexican standoff or come over and talk to me. He ended up splitting the difference, jogging awkwardly over while keeping the gun on Happy.
“This Steve business has me concerned, Mike. You disappear for a year and a bunch of,” his voice dropped to a stage whisper, “nutjobs—”
“We heard that!” the ballerina unicorn shouted.
Father Liam glanced over his shoulder, where the gun was still pointed.
“It doesn’t matter. You clearly want to tell me something. What is it?”
“You mentioned the Order of the Morning Star? They’re almost gone. Barely any of them left.”
“Congratulations.”
“No, it wasn’t us.” He glanced around, lowering his voice even farther. “They’re in the middle of a doctrinal schism. The old guard has the normal take on things. Lucifer cast from Heaven, rules in Hell still. The other side says Lucifer is here, now.”
“What, on earth?”
He nodded. “Closer than that. Los Angeles.”
“It’s either here or Vegas.”
“This side says Lucifer has incarnated a physical form and is preparing for Judgment Day.”
“Anything to that?”
“Of course not. Lucifer is mostly metaphorical.”
“What the hell does ‘mostly’ mean?”
“Mike! This is still a church and you are still a child of God!”
“Sorry, Father.”
“Two Hail Marys should do it.”
I abruptly thought of a dirty joke and turned my snort of laughter into a cough. “And this new side... the Sons of the Crimson Gaze, I take it.”
“What are you doing with them?”
“Against them. Don’t worry. There might be a little confusion about my name, but not where I stand.” I looked him in the eye because that’s the best way to lie to a priest. “I just need to know where they are.”
“They have a theater on Hillhurst, near Franklin. Do you know Los Feliz?”
I had lived there for about seven years. “A little.”
“One thing. Who’s he?” Father Liam nodded to VC, standing impassively at the door to the vestibule like a statue covered in flop sweat.
“He’s a friend. We’re really into the Blues Brothers right now.”
“That... movie?”
“There’s a movie?”
He narrowed his eyes, trying to see if I was joking, finally deciding he was most comfortable with clerical sincerity. “Godspeed, Mike. Whatever you’re doing, see me later. I could use more information on this new enemy.”
I nodded. “And, you know, good luck with getting that sandwich. I think this should turn out really well for everyone.”
Father Liam broke into a sunny smile and returned to his side of the standoff, gun once again pointing right at Happy Hobart. Have a nice day.
“Goodbye, everyone. I hope the sandwich is miraculous or delicious, depending on your affiliation.” Only the ballerina unicorn waved happily at me, momentarily disrupting the aim on her AR-15.
I pulled VC out of there. As we walked across the street, the gunfire started. With the thick walls, it was mostly muffled popping. I hunched over and ran across the street anyway and ducked behind the Caddy. There were no bullets flying this way, but I felt safer with something made of literally space age materials. VC strolled along behind, casually opening the car up.
He plopped down and silently stared through the windshield.
“You can talk now.”
“23 skiddoo.”
“Right. Did you hear what Father Liam... what that priest said?”
“Negative. This unit collated data from unconscious emissions
.”
“I don’t want to know what that means, do I? No, don’t answer. We’re going to Los Feliz.”
“Affirmative.”
He turned the key and the car’s engine rumbled and hummed. It swerved out into traffic to the sound of popping and chattering from the gunfight in the church. In my head, everyone was jumping around in slow motion, doves fluttering artfully in the foreground. Unfortunately, real gunfights are seldom so much fun, even for a spectator like me. There’s a lot of screaming and blood and loud noises, and really you just want to find somewhere to throw up. At least Liam Fratelli would die the way he lived: protecting something meaningless for no real reason.
We went north, through downtown proper. I reflected that I’d been there less than twenty-four hours ago at Mina’s arraignment. A lot had changed since then, but not enough to really matter. I was maybe a few inches closer to figuring out who framed Mina and murdered Neil, but I had dug a couple feet into shit. It felt like a net loss.
As VC drove up Hillhurst, one of those very uniquely Angeleno streets that split the difference between urban thoroughfare and suburban main street lined with brilliant green trees all dancing in the wind, a solid wave of nostalgia knocked me over. This was the old neighborhood. Not for one of my many aliases, but for me. I lived here, not a figment of my imagination. Sure, I’d rented my place under a fake name, but this was where I laid my head. It was also the place I spent my first night with Mina.
That part was much better.
No, we didn’t have sex. I couldn’t fathom her actually being attracted to me, since she is basically a redheaded Marilyn Monroe. I didn’t know at the time that she’s also intelligent and really sweet, which is good, since I would have been convinced I had no shot, even if I hadn’t also been convinced she was setting me up to be killed. Besides, we had just met. As things turned out, there were a lot of steps between meeting and Greco-Roman wrestling.
VC and I passed Ambrose Ave, where my old apartment was located. I looked away. I didn’t need nostalgia now.
I had the vague recollection of a theater around here. I had passed it a lot but never paid it much mind. It wasn’t part of my weird life and so it never really registered as a place to remember. I watched the street go past and almost missed it. “Right here.”
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