The four last things sg-1

by Timothy Hallinan

  Well, he'd either be there or he wouldn't. Either way, I decided to cancel my appointment with Al Hammond. Things were moving again, and as long as they continued to move I'd work for free. Instead of hurrying, I concentrated on observing the laws of physics that would keep me on the road.

  The ocean was a mess, white-capped and choppy, and the rain guttered down again as I headed up the Pacific Coast Highway and made a right onto Ocean Boulevard. At least there'd been no more heavy traffic. The neon of Santa Monica scattered itself into broken reflections on the wet pavement, and the sidewalks were empty. Bad night for restaurants. I realized I was hungry and remembered that I'd left most of my lunch sitting on the table opposite Rhoda Gerwitz.

  With three minutes to go I swung into the TraveLodge parking lot and ran for cover. This wasn't just rain; this was the kind of deluge that city idiots say will be good for the crops, and farmers swear at. Using my highly trained powers of deduction, I guessed that room 311 would be on the third floor and got into the world's slowest elevator. By the time the doors slid open again, I'd had plenty of opportunity to review my life in detail and to wrap the fingers of my right hand around the automatic I'd taken from Alice's glove compartment. Using my left, I rapped at the door to 311.

  "It's open," Harker called from inside. "Come in."

  "Sure," I said. "Right after you open it."

  I stepped back, clutching the gun in my windbreaker pocket, and waited. After a moment the door swung open and Harker stood there.

  "I was about to leave," he said.

  "Might have been a good idea. Open the door all the way. Slam it against the wall."

  He did. He was wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, his tie partly unknotted. He hadn't shaved in days. His left hand was in his pocket.

  A double bed covered in an unappealing shade of pumpkin stood against the far wall. "Take your hand out of your pocket," I said, "and hold your other hand in it. Good. Now, back up slowly and sit on the bed."

  He did as he was told. I pushed at the door and it banged against the wall again.

  "Nobody here?" I said, stepping into the room.

  "You think I'm crazy?"

  "One question at a time. That the bathroom?" I gestured at a door to my right.

  "No," he said nastily. "It's the sitting room. I always insist on a suite."

  Through the open door behind me I heard the rain increase in volume to a dull roar. "Let's go take a look," I said. "You first."

  "Oh, come on," he said. "I told you I was alone."

  "But that's a lie," I said pleasantly. "I'm here too. How can I trust you when you can't even tell the truth about something as simple as that?" I took the gun from my pocket and gave it a little wave in the direction of the bathroom. "After you, darling."

  He grumbled, but he did it. I made him stand in the bathtub with his back to me while I checked the dressing room and the closet. All empty.

  "Well, golly, Ambrose," I said, following him back out into the living room, "I'm sorry about all this. But these days, you know, a girl can't be too careful."

  "You want me to sit on the bed again?" he asked sullenly.

  "Let's not pout. The bed looks very comfortable. Sit, sit."

  He did, and I reached behind me to close the door. There was a blur of movement to my right and the man who had come in and positioned himself behind the door while we were in the bathroom caught me at the base of the skull with something hard and heavy. As I headed for the carpet I saw Harker start to stand up, and then there was nothing but darkness and the mermaids singing, each to each.

  It was the smell that woke me up.

  My skull was clanging "The Anvil Chorus" and there was a red film over my eyes, but the smell pushed its way through. It was a sharp smell, but not fresh. It was a smell I hated.

  I'd been lying facedown on the polyester carpet, and the blood from the cut on the back of my head had run down over my face. I had to wipe it from my eyes before I could focus.

  What I saw was a two-year-old's view of the world: carpet, table legs, and the bottom of a pumpkin-colored bedspread. Fighting the gravity of Jupiter, I lifted my head and saw a pair of black shoes dangling over the edge of the bed.

  I laid my head back down on the carpet and said, "Shit." Sleep seemed like a good idea. I closed my eyes. Then whatever obscure corner of my brain was still up and about sounded the alarm to let me know that sleep was, all things considered, not really such a good idea. A fragment of Jack London pushed itself in front of me, something about people dozing off happily in the snow.

  It took me maybe two minutes to get to my hands and knees and another minute, with some help from the table, to stand up. I had to wipe my face again before I could look around. Scalp wounds bleed ambitiously.

  Ambrose Harker or Ellis Fauntleroy lay on the bed, clutching a pillow to his middle. He looked startled. The pillow had a couple of little black holes in it. The smell in the air was cordite, the stuff that makes guns go bang.

  I held my head in one hand and picked up the pillow with the other. It was heavier than it should have been because it was saturated with blood. The pillow had functioned as a silencer and Harker's stomach had functioned as a target. Both had functioned flawlessly.

  I let the pillow drop, and Harker made a rasping sound that trailed off into a gurgle. It was the last sound he ever made, and like all the others, it was louder than life.

  My gun was gone. I should have known it would be gone. It didn't take an advanced degree in ballistics or an I.Q. much higher than room temperature to guess whose bullets had made such a travesty of Harker's viscera and whose prints were all over the gun.

  After I washed the blood from my face I wiped everything I remembered touching and locked and closed the door behind me. A lot of good it would do. Somebody had the gun, and it wasn't anybody who wished me well.

  On the drive home I had all I could do to turn four oncoming headlights into two and wonder where I'd put the iodine. By the time I'd scaled the driveway on all fours my head was slamming alarmingly and I was beginning to get mad.

  The door to the house was open.

  The message light on the answering machine blinked accusingly, but there was no way to know whether it had been Al Hammond or Mrs. Yount who'd called, because the cassette was gone. II — Judgment

  Chapter 10

  "If God doesn't want us to get drunk, why did He create alcohol? That's a good question," Dixie Cohen said, as though someone else had asked it. He was coasting into the final third of a sixteen-ounce bottle of Singha. I was lagging behind his pace while his ex-wife, Chantra, and my ex-girlfriend, Eleanor, sipped white wine together in the far corner of Eleanor's Venice apartment.

  "Look at this group," I said. "The evening is rated double-ex."

  "Dream on," Eleanor said without looking up. She and Chantra, who was an ex-Charlene, were looking over galley proofs of Eleanor's most recent book, Two Fit. Its literary aim was to help weight-conscious couples support each other in their fight against flab. Its publisher, an ultra-fit New Age vegetarian who, I'd been delighted to see, was losing his hair faster than most people lose cheap sunglasses, had proclaimed it an Important Book. Even more Important, he'd suggested in hushed tones, than her first, Creative Stretching, the third printing of which was selling briskly in better coed gyms and running stores from coast to coast. She'd already received an advance for her third work, The Right-Brain Cookbook, a new look at the old idea that some forms of nourishment qualified as brain food. I'd suggested it as an unpleasant joke and she'd taken it seriously enough to get a large number of dollars as encouragement from her publisher. Some joke. This was one of a number of social events designed to test what I sourly regarded as a completely spurious collation of creativity-enhancing recipes.

  Dixie hefted his bottle and knocked back most of what remained. Chantra was going to be driving. "The first drunk," he intoned, warming to his subject as his blood alcohol rose, "after the Flood, of course, was Noah."

/>   "The Flood," I said politely, picking for the thirtieth time that evening at the large bandage decorating the back of my head.

  "Aha," Dixie said, eyeing my half-full bottle with more than a trace of envy. He rapped his own bottle with his signet ring and it made a hollow noise. "The Flood, indeed. Indeed, the Flood." From across the room Chantra said to Eleanor, "But what about complex carbohydrates?" I took Dixie's bottle away from him, poured three fingers of beer into it, and handed it back. "God had two chances to prevent the formation of Alcoholics Anonymous," Dixie said, drinking, "before and after the Flood. He blew it both times." He burped. "Good thing, too."

  "Carbohydrates are in chapter thirteen," Eleanor said.

  "Are you going to explain, Dixie, or do you want someone to ask you?" Chantra said. "Volunteers? Is there anyone in this room sufficiently immune to boredom to ask Dixie why God allowed alcohol to survive the Flood?"

  "I think you just did," I said, getting up and going into the tiny overheated kitchen to grab a couple of fresh beers.

  "Unless I'm deeply mistaken," Chantra said, "I've heard it before."

  "According to Rabbi Eliezar-" Dixie began happily.

  "No less," Chantra interjected.

  "Woman, hold thy tongue. According to Rabbi Eliezar, no less, Noah took onto the ark a vine that had been cast with Adam out of Eden. Adam had his own problems with the grape, as you may recall. The oldest profession, actually, is probably that of wine-maker."

  "No whores in Eden." I popped the bottle caps. "No money. Nunc die gelt, ergo nunc die bimbos," I said in Latin and several other languages.

  "Noah took the vine with him because he liked to eat grapes," Dixie continued as though no one had spoken. "Anyway, that's what he told everyone."

  "He could tell everyone, too," Chantra said. "There were only twelve or thirteen people after the Flood."

  "And that's just about the right number," I said, putting the bottles on the table. "Everything that's wrong with the world today comes from the fact that there are more than twelve people." My head hurt, and I rubbed the bandage again.

  "Simeon," Chantra said, ''what happened to the back of your head?" She'd been trying not to ask all evening.

  "I cut myself shaving."

  "When it came time to plant the grapevine," Dixie said doggedly, "Satan came along and offered to make sure there'd be a good crop. He suggested a sacrifice."

  "Blame Satan," Eleanor said. "If he didn't exist, we'd have to invent him."

  "These people were crazy about sacrifices," Dixie said. "They butchered a sheep every time they hiccupped. So Noah and Satan together, according to the rabbi, sacrificed a sheep, a lion, an ape, and a hog, using the blood as fertilizer."

  "Blood is high in nitrogen," Eleanor said, sounding interested for the first time.

  "Nitrogen, schmitrogen," Dixie said.

  "He shaves the back of his head?" Chantra asked Eleanor.

  "Only when he's going to meet someone behind him," Eleanor said.

  "So Satan and Noah," Dixie plowed stubbornly along, "slaughtered all these poor stupid animals. And their blood fertilized the grapes. And that's why, after the first drink, one is as mild as a sheep, and after the second, one is courageous like a lion. After the third, one is stupid like an ape."

  "One certainly is," said Chantra, who'd been keeping count.

  "And after the fourth," Dixie said, glaring at her, "one wallows in mud, like a hog."

  There was a silence that embraced the entire room. "That's the punch line?" I said.

  "I don't know how to explain this to someone whose idea of a theological authority is Don Rickles," Dixie said loftily, "but this is a sermon, not a joke."

  "And I don't know how to explain this to a dinner guest," I said, "but most people in a small, convivial social gathering would prefer a joke to a sermon."

  "California is so trivial," Dixie said.

  "Boy," I said, "I bet their tongues would be hanging out in New York."

  "Anyway, look what happened to poor Noah," Chantra said, coming to her ex-husband's rescue. "His own kid came in while Noah was sleeping it off and cut the poor old sot's balls off, or whatever he did."

  "The most mysterious hundred and fifty words in the Bible." Dixie was warming up again.

  Chantra emitted a ladylike groan. "I've made a mistaaaake" she wailed.

  "So crime doesn't pay," said Eleanor, trying to put a conversational cap on it.

  "I wouldn't go that far," Dixie said, taking a tremendous gulp from his bottle. "Look at the first murderer."

  "A Bible class," Chantra said to the air. "Fifty-one years old and he has to take a Bible class."

  "Fifty," Dixie said. "Fifty-one next week."

  "What did happen to the first murderer?" I was interested in spite of myself.

  "Say the magic word, win a hundred dollars," Eleanor said resignedly. She'd bandaged my head the evening before and she'd had enough of murderers for one week.

  "Cain," Dixie said triumphantly. "Clobbered his insufferable schmuck of a brother in a field. Why? Because Abel's sacrifices-there we go again with the blood and guts-were accepted, and Cain's weren't."

  I ran my personal mosaic of the Old Testament through my head and discovered that some pieces were missing. "Are you saying Cain got off?"

  "Got off?" Dixie said. "He got the biblical version of overcharging on his Visa and having his credit extended infinitely. Cain was a dirt farmer. Abel was a shepherd, the earliest record of the kind of rivalry that was the basis of every western John Wayne ever made. The shepherd's sacrifices pleased God and the farmer's didn't."

  "God's not a vegetarian?" Eleanor said. "Harold would hate this conversation." Harold was her rapidly balding publisher.

  "Tofu hadn't been invented," I said. One of the things that most deeply divided Eleanor and me was tofu. "Anyway, why would anybody think God was a vegetarian? Look how many millions of years he spent jury-rigging evolution so it could produce incisors."

  "Somehow," Dixie said, "I don't think the smoke from burning tofu would have brought Jehovah lickety-split to Cain's campfire. Anyway, who knows? Maybe Cain invented it. Never underestimate a Jew who needs a moment of God's time."

  "Intriguing speculation aside," I said, "Cain got a slap on the wrist."

  "A parking ticket in Beverly Hills would have given him a harder time, and this was his own brother that he killed. The Septuagint, the Greek Bible, which is more faithful to the original than the one King James cooked up, even suggests that Cain set Abel up, invited him to drop by some godforsaken field, you should pardon the expression, before he brained him. In a modern court of law we'd call that premeditation."

  "A parking ticket in Beverly Hills," Eleanor said. "That's serious."

  "So what was his punishment?" Dixie said rhetorically. "God told Cain he couldn't farm anymore, a blessing in disguise if there ever was one. No more scratching in the dirt to raise vegetables that he couldn't even sacrifice, much less gain a little weight on. So Cain threw away his hoe and cleaned up his boots or whatever they wore in those days, and founded a city, probably the first city in fact, a thriving little metropolis called Enoch. And he found a wife somewhere, we won't go into that, and had lots of kids and made it into the social register as one of Enoch's most important citizens, a regular pillar of society. Some punishment."

  "What about the mark of Cain?" Eleanor said.

  "On the whole," Dixie said complacently, "I'd prefer it to the mark of Abel. A big F, for fertilizer or N for nitrogen, if you prefer."

  I thought about Sally Oldfield. "Crime pays," I said.

  "You weren't on the job," Dixie said to mollify me.

  Eleanor sniffed twice and got up fast. "Oh, hell," she said, "something's burning." She hurried toward the kitchen.

  "Let's hope it's the vegetables," Chantra said. "Otherwise you may have to set a place for Jehovah."

  Over dinner, which we ate at a rickety card table that usually held the used Macintosh computer on which El
eanor did her writing, the conversation turned to the bandage on my head.

  "I got in front of the wrong person," I said.

  "If I'd known you were hurt, we would have canceled," Chantra said. Dixie, his fund of biblical insights exhausted for the moment, was chewing. Eleanor was banging pots together in the kitchen and casting resentful glances at me because I wasn't helping. "Simeon," Chantra continued, using a line that Eleanor could have written for her, "are you sure you're in the right line of work?"

  "If I weren't an investigator, I wouldn't have met you," I said with shopworn gallantry.

  "We were suspects," Dixie said reprovingly around a mouthful of potato. He had gravy on his wrists. Chantra, on the other hand, used her napkin more often than she used her fork.

  "Mr. and Mrs. Jack Sprat," I said. "Sure, you were suspects. Everybody was a suspect in that one."

  "No one in this room is sorrier about your head than I am," Eleanor said, putting an unrecognizable dessert on the table more loudly than was strictly necessary. "But I haven't done this much work alone since I was made blackboard monitor. And that was in fifth grade."

  "I'll bet you were an angel in fifth grade," I said. "If there are Chinese angels."

  "Why wouldn't there be? What do you think, there's a color line at St. Peter's gate?"

  "Please," I said. "You'll get Dixie started again."

  "Wrong Testament," Dixie said. "If I want fairy tales I'll go to the Brothers Grimm." He inserted a fork experimentally into the dessert. "What is this?" he said.

  "Pureed apples and cranberries," Eleanor said defiantly, "with creme fraiche, cinnamon, and raisins. Made without sugar or flour. Flour clogs the small intestine."

  Dixie lost interest visibly. "Potatoes were great," he said.

  "Lop sop," I said.

  "Simeon," Eleanor said. "I speak Cantonese."

  "You taught it to me."

  "This is not junk."

  "It's great," Chantra said with her mouth full. "I want the recipe."

  "Nothing would have made me cancel tonight," I said to Chantra. "I need some information on things of the spirit." Things of the Spirit was the name of Chantra's store on Hollywood Boulevard, an emporium of New Age panaceas ranging from cabalistic texts and crystals to aromatherapy.