by Frank Rich
I closed my eyes, and the inner blackness drew steadily closer in an ever tightening circle. My soul shifted impatiently in its body harness, and I surrendered to the dark, eager to get to hell and collect my promised kiss.
* * *
The beds in hell were hard, the furnishings tacky, the wallpaper peeling. I shifted my gaze, and a bony, hollow-eyed face came into focus.
"Oh, Christ," I croaked. "It is hell."
"Sooner or later," Degas said flatly. "But not today. How do you feel?"
"Like I've been shot," I said. My shoulder throbbed and my cheek felt hot and itchy. 'Tell me, do they salt the wounds hourly?"
Degas stared at me humorlessly, then reported, "Your shoulder will improve, though that arm will be in a sling for a while. Your face wound will leave a nice scar."
"You can never have enough facial scars in my line of work," I said. "Why am I still alive?"
"A couple kids looking for a place to neck found you and the others. They called reclamation to get the reward. There happened to be a convoy of rec vans passing by. The rec team found you alive. Broke the kids' hearts. The rec van dropped you by the hospital."
"I knew my respect for reclamation wasn't misplaced. But what I meant to ask you was why have I been allowed to live? I was found with the bodies of a City director and an inspector of the SPF. And isn't there an execution warrant on my head? I should at least be in confinement."
Degas looked around the room carefully. I looked around. We were still alone.
"It turns out you killed, if it was you that killed them, two Party renegades," he said in a low voice. "After the word broke that Chamberlain and Blake were dead, the old man labeled them as traitors and political criminals. Several other senior Party officials were arrested for plotting with fascist elements against the Party."
"Senior Party officials? You mean directors."
"No, no directors were arrested."
"They sacrificed scapegoats, then. What about the 'fascist elements'?"
"They're being rounded up even as we speak. Did you know they were using Travis prison as a training camp?"
"No kidding?" I tried to add everything up. "So Blake was the keystone. When he fell, everything collapsed."
"Is there something you want to tell me about, Strait?" He sounded as if he didn't really want me to tell him anything at all.
"Naw. Well, I guess I came out of this a hero." I looked around the room. "Where's my goddamn roses?"
"Officially none of this happened. But your death warrant has been dropped, and the old man said to give you his personal thanks."
"I'm all atingle. Do I get my license back?"
"If you want it. I wasn't sure you would."
"Are you kidding? You think I'm going to waste all those years spent in sap school?"
Degas gave me an odd look, then nodded. "Listen, Strait, if I was you, I wouldn't go around bragging about this thing."
He was right. There were still some faceless directors out there who might feel threatened if I got mouthy. "All right," I said. "I'll gloat in secret."
"Well," Degas said, putting on his hat. "I'll let you get your rest. And by the way, it's Inspector Degas now. The old man gave me Blake's slot."
"Talk about replacing a rat with a weasel."
"Toe the Party line, and you go places," he said. He opened the door.
"One more thing, Inspector," I said. He turned around. "There was a girl on top, near the entrance."
Degas frowned and shook his head.
I closed my eyes, and a black dread settled over me like a smothering shroud. So, I thought, the train had rolled over them both. I'd thrown the switch but not before the wheels crushed the only two I really cared about saving. "I should have run away with them and let this useless city bum," I said to myself. "It's my fault she's dead — I murdered her."
"She's not dead," Degas said.
I blinked at him like a torpid lizard. "What?"
"She has a concussion and several broken ribs, but otherwise she's fine. Her body armor stopped the bullets. It's a shame a girl of such youth and innocence would associate with a creep like you." He shook his head and walked out.
He got in the last word, but I didn't mind.
Epilogue
The streetwalkers wore warmer clothing and there weren't as many winos as there used to be, but otherwise Hayward hadn't changed much since I'd gotten out of the hospital. The microskirts were missed more than the winos.
I looked down at the St. Chris from my window. The wino saint probably missed them. He was also missing his head. Hayward lore had it that the first rocket of the chopper strike blew it off, then the rest of the missiles fell into the ranks of the crusaders. I thought it symbolic.
The rocket attack also succeeded in blowing out half the panes of my bay window. Tape and squares of cardboard replaced the broken glass, making for a nice checkerboard effect. Autumn wind sneaked in through cracks, but repairs would have to wait until I got my hands on some credit.
I sat on my desk and looked at the door. There were still pieces of tape on the door frame where the grenades had been. The grenades were presently sitting in the weapons locker, though I could have left them rigged to the door and not a single prospective client would have been killed or injured. Business was slow.
According to the calendar pinned to the door it was September 12, making it roughly two months since I'd got out of the hospital and exactly two weeks since Tanya had moved out of my flat. All she'd left behind was a short note on the fridge under a magnet shaped like a heart. When I first saw it, I had it figured as a little love note with maybe the sideline that she'd stepped out to buy some Chinese food for dinner.
Instead, it told me she was very, very sorry but we weren't meshing anymore and she had to find her own life outside the City. That she'd looked inside herself and found she didn't love me after all — she'd been fibbing the whole time. At the bottom of the note was a postscript that said she thought I was a good person and she'd miss me. I wondered if she'd written that part before or after she drained all the credit out of our joint accounts.
I'd never really believed in hell until she left. After paddling around in a sea of drunken self-pity for two weeks, I still wasn't sure what emotional beach the tidal wave of her leaving had washed me up on. All my feelings seemed tricks of light from mirrors held in the hands of malevolent strangers. One thing I did understand was what love was. Love was a trespassing wino that slept it off in the ruins of my heart; love was a lizard with a broken back, thrashing in the hot sand, waiting for the midday sun to kill it.
I checked my watch. It was six-thirty. The certified invitation on my desk said the Hill art party began at eight. Written on the invite was a short note from Marlene, asking me to leave my French accent at home.
I went to the coatrack and put on a black leather motorcycle jacket. I wanted to get there early to load up on the free food and drinks. I figured the Hill owed me a free drunk. Maybe I'd even run into some old friends.
I checked my mohawk and smiled in the mirror, then, as an afterthought, traded in my Browning 9 mm for the Myers gyrapistol. I went to the door and went down to the street.
I was tired of praying to a God I didn't understand for a salvation that would only serve to confound me. This night I would provide for my own salvation.
I never wanted anything I couldn't take.