The Dirty Streets of Heaven

by Tad Williams

  I know it’s going to sound particularly bizarre coming from an angel, but I’ve always had an almost mystical feeling about San Judas. It’s a strange town in a lot of ways, not as cosmopolitan as San Francisco or as funky-ethnic as Oakland, and with a long, checkered history of economic bubbles and collapses. Despite the presence of Stanford it’s not really considered a world-class city, but there’s something about the place that got into my blood and has just stayed there. I can imagine living somewhere else but not permanently. I like the smell of the bay, I like the hills at night, I like the old downtown buildings with their now slightly shamefaced Gilded Age opulence, I like the alleyways and hidden courtyards and whitewashed churches of Old Spanishtown. I like the bars at the waterfront and the stories you hear in them. Jude is like one of those favorite books where you find something new every time you open it.

  You can’t get much in the way of radio up on Skyline unless you have satellite. The Pontiac wasn’t finished with its conversion yet so it had nothing but a cassette player, of all things. Still, I wanted music badly, and I’m not much of a singer so I pulled over at a vista point and fumbled around in the box of ancient tapes on the floor of the shotgun side until I found a collection of Gregorian Chants, which made better thinking-music than the impossible alternatives (which ran to the likes of Loggins and Messina and Chicago VI). The tape actually played, which surprised me—it must have been in the car for decades. I wondered if someone had died in this four-wheeled sleigh back in the mid-seventies and just lay there mummifying along with his stupid tapes until Orban cleaned out the interior.

  Accompanied now by melodiously moaning monks I reached misty Santa Cruz and turned around, still waiting for everything to fall into place, for the secret design to be revealed at last, or at least for the universe to give me a hint about what to do next, but the universe was keeping its mouth shut. I came back the slow way through the redwoods via Highway 9. By the time I got back to the top of the Woodside Highway I was so deeply tangled in my own thoughts that the sudden ring of my phone almost startled me into driving that big old car off the road. I was hoping it wasn’t a client, and this time I got lucky: it was Fatback, which meant it must be after midnight. I was surprised at how quickly the time had slipped away.

  “Mr. D, that you?”

  “I’m here, George.” I started down the hill. “Not too many miles away from you, actually.”

  “You want to drop by? I think Javier’s got a few beers in the refrigerator.”

  I’d had a nice hot shower before I came out and the thought of getting my clothes full of that smell didn’t really appeal. Also, I still needed to think. “I’ve got a client I have to go see, George—sorry. I’ll see you again before too long.”

  “Yeah.” He sounded wistful. “It’s always nice to have visitors.” He seemed to hear himself because he quickly became businesslike. “Hey, D, you sure are piling up the work for me here. That Walker guy, Grasswax, Habari, what else? Oh, yeah, the albino, Eligor, your ghallu-thing, your Magian Society, and now you want to know about all these new dead guys?”

  I was guessing by “new dead guys” he meant the owners of the latest missing souls. “Well, if you had someone working for you during the daylight hours you wouldn’t find all this crap waiting for you when you come back from Pigtown.” I immediately wished I hadn’t said it—it sounded mean-spirited—but if it bothered George he didn’t give any sign.

  “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to hire another full-time employee on the piddly amounts you pay me, Bobby. This is the first work you’ve given me in at least a couple of months. Just because people are trying to kill you, suddenly everything’s rush, rush, rush.”

  “Very funny. Look, all those new guys are…” I paused. “I’m having trouble remembering, George—did I tell you what’s going on?”

  “What, you mean with more missing souls? Yeah, creepy. And these are them?”

  “These are some of them,” I said. Monica had sent me a list that now had five names on it. “Just the locals.”

  “Wow.” He seemed genuinely impressed. “So it’s happening other places?”

  “As far as I know. But they must be hushing it up—in fact, if you haven’t heard about it, both sides must be hushing it up like crazy.”

  “Heard lots of rumors, but the psy-ops boys from both sides are smart, Bobby. They don’t try to deny or undermine a story like that, they just put out even more rumors, more and more until the original signal disappears almost entirely in the noise.”

  “Well, I need whatever I can get on the new guys.” I had decided that since it was no longer just Edward Walker’s soul that was missing it might be useful to know what he had in common with the newest cases, if anything. “And did you find any more about the Magians or, what was it, Kephas?”

  “Nothing you couldn’t have found out yourself, except that I finally turned up a few obscure references to the Magian Society, mostly in backchat on various religious discussion sites. All I can tell is that they seem to be some kind of charitable organization or something, and they have links to some other groups—Der Dritte Weg out of Berlin and something called the Shaw Philosophical Trust in London and Dublin. But what their connections are and what any of them actually do—boy, that’s a lot harder to tell.”

  I sighed. To think I had been face to face with that guy Habari and his hastily-loaded car full of Magian Society memorabilia. “Okay, thanks. Obviously, let me know if you get anything else.”

  “Right. Oh, and the word on the street is that not only did your pal Grasswax have a gambling problem, he was in deep and in bad.”

  “Why does everybody keep calling that miserable dead demon bastard my pal? Never mind, just go on, explain.”

  “Well, you know your other friend…” He had the good grace to pause and start over. “You know that guy Eligor who right now doesn’t like you so much? And you know how he’s a really high muckamuck in Hell? Well, the guy Grasswax owed his gambling debts to? He’s even higher up the ladder than Eligor.”

  “Huh?”

  “That’s what I’m picking up here and there. Sitri is his name, Prince Sitri. A prince of Hell. Apparently he’s a gambler too, but he doesn’t lose very often, and he really hates it when people welsh on him.”

  “Sitri?” I knew the name, of course, but not well. He was big, okay, in more ways than one. My head was swimming. Did this mean there was someone even higher in Hell’s ranks than Eligor who might want my head as well? “I can’t say I remember much about him. What do ‘prince’ and ‘duke’ even mean down there, anyway?” I asked.

  “Power, mostly,” Fatback told me. “How much of Hell belongs to them. And they all hate each other.” He chuckled. “They’d probably have beat you guys a long time ago, otherwise.”

  “Probably. So the late Grasswax was in hock to this prince? For what? Money? Souls?”

  “Don’t know, Mr. D. But the articles I’ve been reading make it look like Sitri isn’t the kind of demon you want to keep waiting too long for his winnings, whatever they are. Eater of the dead, Satan’s foul hunter, scourge of wayward souls, etc.”

  “Yeah, like I said, I’ve heard his name. But I don’t know much about him, so dig me up anything that looks useful, will you? Man, this shit just keeps getting deeper.”

  I was about to hang up when he said, “Oh, wait, Bobby! One more thing!”

  “Yeah?”

  “This thing you’re supposed to have? That got stolen from Eligor? Well, I ran across a couple of individuals talking about it. Some bad, weird folk on a private channel in a members-only network you don’t even want to know about, but they’re the real thing, Bobby, trust me. Anyway, they didn’t name it, but one of them called it ‘the Horseman’s little souvenir’ and the other one said, ‘it’s not an ordinary one, remember—it’s a gold one.’ But I’ve never heard even a whisper about it anywhere else, and that comment was between two parties who thought they were having a secure exchange.”

&nbs
p; “Let me get this straight. They said, ‘Not an ordinary one—a gold one’?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. I’ll think that over too.” But it didn’t exactly make me feel more confident about the phony auction I was facing in twenty-four hours. “Thanks again, George. Take care of yourself.”

  “Oh, you know me. Happy as a pig in…well, you know.”

  “You and me are both swimming in the same stuff right now, old pal. I’m glad at least one of us is enjoying it.”

  I had two advocate clients the next morning, one right after the other, and no sign from Heaven that they were treating me any differently than before I sent them my grumpy little message about how I was quitting. Which just showed me how much I mattered in the halls of Heaven. I suppose the business-as-usual was a good thing since it kept me distracted from the night of open bidding and merriment ahead. I still didn’t have an idea about what I was going to do or how I was going to do it, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d let the Sollyhull Sisters talk me into something I was going to painfully regret. Still, I was getting very, very tired of sleeping in a different room every night like Stalin avoiding assassination, and I was even more tired of looking over my shoulder for the ghallu, which had been quiet so long now I was beginning to wonder whether the stalking was meant to be as much psychological as physical. Was Eligor trying to get me to panic and reveal where his “souvenir” was hidden? Good luck, since I didn’t know myself.

  Sam met me for a late, late lunch. He was letting Clarence handle his first solo call.

  “I didn’t want to stand over him, B. I let him argue the last one, and the kid did pretty well. This one looked like a no-brainer, slam-dunk, all those clichés. He was a church deacon, and the guardian said he was actually as advertised, an all-around good guy.”

  “Who did the Opposition send?”

  “That weedy little dude who looks like he’s wearing glasses, what’s his name? Beetlespew?”

  “The one that looks like Urkel in a bug suit?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  As we finished and Sam called for the check, my phone rang.

  “Mr. Dollar? Mr. Robert?”

  “Yeah, it’s me, Fox.” I had forgotten to ask Fatback if he’d turned up anything on my new albino friend; I reminded myself to take another pass through the material he’d sent me over the last couple of days. My first readings are always hasty, looking for things that jump out immediately. I owed myself a more deliberate study. “Are we still on? You got a location for me?”

  “Oh, yes, most truthfully! We are, as you say, completely and totally still on. Do you know the Islanders Hall, Dollar Bob? King Street off of Jefferson?”

  “That place has been closed for years.”

  “The finest sort of spot for a midnight meeting, then, don’t you think?” He chuckled in a really irritating way. I could almost picture the little merengue he must be doing. “So we shall not be disturbed! Meet me a few minutes ahead of time, and I will guide you to our appointed spot.” And then he was gone.

  “Trap,” said Sam when I told him what I was doing. “And a pretty obvious one. You know you’re not going by yourself. Even you aren’t that stupid.”

  “Are you volunteering?”

  “Somebody’s gotta keep you from getting blown up, chum. I know the place. I’ll meet you there at quarter ’til, out front by the parrot.” He swung his big body out of the booth. “And I’ll be carrying. I suggest you do the same.”

  I was profoundly grateful to think that Sam would be there with me, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him—bad for his humility. “I’ll try to remember, Sammy-boy, but I was thinking I might just pick up a stick or a couple of rocks when I got there.”

  He slid me the check that had just been dropped on our table by a passing waitress. “You’d better pay. You probably won’t survive to get the next one.”

  The rest of the day went pretty quickly. I had another client, a case I lost through no fault of my own—the guy was a total bastard, an unreformed drunken wife-beater who’d died by falling off his own roof after his wife locked him out. (He was trying to get back inside via the skylight so he could “teach her a lesson,” as he thought of it.) Seeing him go down the drain didn’t affect me near as badly as seeing Brady the jock get his sentence, but it still made me wonder who exactly was in charge. Guys like this client, well, that’s exactly who Hell was made for, that seemed clear—but forever? Did people really get sent off to flail screaming in pits of molten lava and blazing feces forever? I was pretty sure that even the drunken wife-beater didn’t deserve to burn for longer than the stars themselves.

  I mean, that’s a really long time.

  When evening came I left my latest motel room to go get a late dinner. After a leisurely meal and a cup of coffee I headed toward the place where it was all going to go down, feeling all the things you feel when you’re wearing an extremely tense human body. Perhaps I should have had things planned more carefully in terms of the auction itself, but I’d survived this far by trusting my instincts, and I didn’t have time to become a new person overnight. I wasn’t going to produce the object in question anyway, I’d made that pretty clear, so nobody should be planning to rob me. I wasn’t going to say anything stupid and give the game away and neither would Sam. Other than that, I’d just have to see what happened, pay close attention to who showed up and what they said.

  I parked on King at the Jefferson end about a block or so from Islanders Hall and spent a while just watching the street as people came back from social evenings or walked their dogs before bed. Years ago that neighborhood used to be an almost entirely residential section of late nineteenth century brick buildings turned into apartments, but now there are stores and coffee shops on several of the corners and even a local bar; still, by eleven-thirty the sidewalks were all but deserted. I left Orban’s battle-wagon unlocked, wagering the odds of getting ripped off were smaller than the likelihood I might need to make a fast getaway, then headed for the dark bulk of Islanders Hall.

  The Independent Order of Islanders was one of those fraternal organizations like the Masons and the Elks that thrived during the beginning and middle of the last century, but unlike the Elks and the rest, the Islanders as a group sort of died out, and their hall closed about a decade or so back. It gets rented out for occasional functions but not generally the sort that begin at midnight. Most of the property is surrounded by an old iron picket fence meant to keep people away from the building but there’s a little porch in front that’s open to the street, with benches and hedges and a long-dry Benny Bufano fountain in the shape of a very plump parrot. That’s where I expected to find Sam, since it was about quarter ’til, but he wasn’t there.

  I waited nearly fifteen minutes, checking my phone intermittently for messages, but there was no sign of him, nor did he answer his own phone. I was just about to take a short walk down to the streetlight to see if he might be coming when the gate creaked open behind me and my pale friend Fox was there, shimmying like the ghost of a nautch dancer. The weird thing was that the gate had been chained and locked, and I’d never heard a clink.

  “Right on time, D-Man! Right on the money! Come in—many are waiting!”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “How many? And how did they get in? I’ve been here all the time.”

  “Dollar Bob, you don’t think clever Foxy picks a burrow with only one entrance, do you?” He laughed and did a quick shuffle, then led me through the gate, up the front steps and inside.

  Islanders Hall is a genuinely unsettling place, especially after dark. The organization had a South Seas theme, and the downstairs lobby played that up big, with tapestries of pounded bark stretched along the walls and carved masks leering from the shadows (many of which could pass for Infernal prosecutors I’d met in the flesh) as well as other more exotic displays like clutches of poison arrows and poisonous darts, feathered costumes, shrunken heads, and even a Fiji mermaid in a glass case. The Fiji
mermaid was an infamous kind of sailor’s souvenir, usually the mummified corpse of a monkey sewed onto the body of a fish, but the face on the one in the Islanders Hall case looked more like a dessicated child than an ape. I didn’t look at it very long, though. To be honest, the filmy, fishskin eyes gave me the creeps.

  At the back of the lobby, beneath a full-sized Hawaiian battle canoe that dangled on chains from the ceiling, complete with a paddling group of ancient mannequins in feathered warrior drag, stood the door to the main hall. I followed Foxy inside as if he were a will-of-the-wisp. As we entered the large, shadowy room everybody turned to look at me; perhaps two dozen folk in all, most standing at silent attention. Since many of the attendees wore dark colors the first impression I had was a sea of bodiless faces. I recognized a few of them as Fox led me past, but only a few. He whispered the names of some of the others. Three shaven-headed white guys in dark pajamas were from the European branch of a Japanese Aleister Crowley cult. While I puzzled that one out he pointed out two fellows in ostentatious Catholic clerical garb who were apparently members of Opus Dei. There was also a man Foxy named “Mr. Green,” who looked absolutely normal except for the antique smoked glass box he held in his hands, which was just about the size of a bowling ball, and which he kept lifting to shoulder height as though he was helping it to look at things.

  More than a dozen others were waiting with them, including those I recognized, like the fifteen-year-old girl with a Bluetooth headset who looked as if she had just stopped in on her way home from junior high school. That was Edie Parmenter, one of the most trusted sensitives in Northern California; she had an almost infallible knack for identifying psychic phenomena. I couldn’t help wondering who’d hired her. Also, what her parents thought about her being out this late. Besides a few other usual suspects, known dealers in objets d’occultes whom I’d guessed would be here, Fox pointed out Coptic priests, some representatives of the Russian Mystery Circus, and a trio of women so tall that for a moment I thought they might be wearing some kind of Carnival costumes with false heads. Fox whispered that they were Scythian priestesses—“truly real Amazons, dear Bobby!” as he put it. It was quite a stunning array of weirdness, but it still didn’t tell me anything about what it was I was supposed to be selling.