What Would Satan Do?

by Anthony Miller

  The knock was polite – a tiny bit timid, even. It was certainly not the knock of a man carrying a shotgun. Unless, of course, the man carrying the shotgun was just a neighbor who was returning the weapon after borrowing it to do some spring cleaning or something. But then it would be unusual for a well-meaning neighbor to show up with the weapon actually aimed at the front door, or to load a shell into the chamber prior to knocking, making that “chig-chig” sound that, in movies, so often precedes a lot of noisy, unpleasant carnage.

  Liam and Lola waited for the man to bust down the door. But then there was another polite knock. A little firmer this time, but still fairly dainty, as if the knocker had just wanted to make sure that the knockee had actually heard the knocking – without being too obtrusive or anything.

  Lola shrugged, gesturing at the door, and mouthed, “Should I answer?” Liam leaned out from behind the plant briefly and shook his head. Lola glared at the plant some more.

  There followed a moment of silence, during which Liam and Lola exchanged confused, slightly worried looks through the foliage. Then the door knob rattled a bit, indicating that the man with the shotgun was quietly checking to see if the door was unlocked.

  Lola dropped her head into her hands and sighed. She looked up at the house plant, her palm and fingers splayed across her face, and rolled her eyes. She pulled her hand away, however, at the sound of smashing glass.

  The butt of the shotgun appeared briefly where just before there had been a pane of glass in the window next to the door. It caught on the gauzy curtains, which tore as the gun was pulled back through the window. A hand appeared, and began groping around near the door knob.

  “Ow! God damnit, sumbitch!” The hand withdrew quickly, and after a short spell during which Liam and Lola could hear further swearing, the butt of the gun reappeared to knock out the remaining shards of glass from the window pane. Then the hand came back, groping around some more until it found the deadbolt and unlocked the door. It was another, eternally-long twenty seconds before the door finally creaked open.

  The man poked his head into the room. He wore faded jeans that had a yellowish-brownish hue and were covered with mud splatters. His flannel shirt had probably been red once upon a time, but now it was a pale, brownish-pink. And of course, he had the obligatory red-neck mullet. (Why anyone – even a stupid redneck – still sports this universally-derided hair style is one of the great, ineffable mysteries of life.)

  The man stepped all the way into the room, and pushed the door closed – with a light “click” – behind him. He moved slowly, the shotgun dangling in one of his hands, as if it were just a stick he’d found and had liked the look of. He kept his body very still as he crept forward. In fact, only his eyes – which were wide open and worried-looking – moved as he took in his surroundings. Their frantic scanning of the room overcompensated for the lack of motion in the rest of his body. But somehow he failed entirely to notice the woman sitting on the couch directly in front of him.

  “Um, hi,” said Lola, offering a perfunctory wave. “Want some lemonade?”

  “Shit!” The man jumped back.

  At this point, it would not be unusual to be informed that the man in question “jumped a foot into the air.” In fact, however, most people who don’t play professional sports can’t jump anything like twelve inches off the ground. This particular redneck was no exception. He did jump, but he only cleared and inch or two, and most of his panic response was directed to his arms, which flailed about, waving his shotgun this way and that. He eventually got himself under control, and clutched the shotgun to his chest. This would have been a great move had he come armed with only, say, a teddy bear, but issn’t the sort of thing that is generally regarded as proper shotgun-attack protocol.

  Lola’s smile was pleasant and comforting. She raised her eyebrows, as though she were awaiting an answer.

  The man smiled back and let out a sigh of relief, he let the shotgun dangle by his side. “Well, yeah,” he said. “That’d be right nice.”

  For a second, Lola’s jaw hung open as she stared at the man with the shotgun who had said that, yes, he would, in fact, like some lemonade. She quickly wiped the surprise off her face, replacing it with the same pleasant smile. But then nothing happened. And after a few seconds more, nothing continued to happen. Tension crept into her smile, and the muscles in her cheeks bulged as she clenched her jaw.

  Liam, meanwhile, just sat and watched from behind his houseplant, causing nothing to happen. It was only a quick, sharp look from Lola that roused him to action.

  His first two steps toward the man were fluid – almost languid – and completely silent. And then, just as quietly, he pounced. He snatched the gun, tossed it onto one of the couches, and grabbed the man’s wrist, which he twisted and pinned to the middle of the man’s back. Then he shoved the man forward, toppling him over the coffee table, and grabbed a handful of the man’s shirt, pulling it back tight against his throat. Liam knelt on the small of the man’s back, bearing down with the full weight of his body.

  Liam looked up at Lola. She scowled. If they had been in a relationship, it would have been clear to everyone in the room that Liam was unlikely to get any that evening, and quite possibly the next. But they weren’t, and so Liam just shrugged and dug his knee into the man’s back some more. The man made a pathetic mewing sound.

  Liam leaned in and spoke into the man’s ear. “I’m going to let go of you. When I do, you will not try to escape. You will stand and do as I say. Understood?”

  The man whimpered and nodded his head, inasmuch as it was possible to do so with his face wedged in between a coffee-table book and the nastier bits of a small statue that some artist had carved as a tribute to the virility of well-hung and ripped youths everywhere.

  Lola scoffed. “They teach Jedi mind tricks in the CIA?”

  Liam looked up. His eyes were deadly serious. “Go check on the others. Take the gun.”

  “I have one already,” she said.

  “Um, okay.” Liam shrugged. “Use yours instead.”

  “I’m taking this one too,” she said.

  Liam let out an exasperated burst of breath. “Whatever.”

  “Fine,” said Lola. She picked up the shotgun and cracked it open to check if it was actually loaded, and stalked off to find the others.

  Liam watched her leave, and then turned his attention to the redneck he’d pinned to the table.

  “Ready?”

  The man nodded, and then added, “Ow. Ow. Ow.” The position of his arm relative to his body would have made Gumby uncomfortable.

  Liam stood and stepped back. The man got up, shook his arm out a bit, and then glanced around casually as if he were just a visitor checking out the décor.

  “Okay. Walk.” The man turned and nodded. Liam pointed to a doorway off the side of the room. The man nodded again and set off for the other room, which turned out to be a kitchen.

  Liam followed the man into the kitchen, which appeared to have been designed solely for the purpose of being photographed for one of those fancy, “This is how people who are richer and better than you live” magazines. It was beautiful, but utterly unusable. Liam glanced around and noticed there wasn’t even a microwave. Large, untarnished copper cookware gleamed at them from hooks on the ceiling. The countertops – made from the Elgin Marbles – were endless expanses of spotless, open space. The cabinets were “antiqued,” which means that someone paid a lot of money to have them finished to evoke timelessness and Solomonic wisdom or something, without actually looking old. Mostly they just looked expensive. To top it all off, there were five separate floral arrangements.

  “Sit,” said Liam, shoving the man toward the island. He spun an uncomfortable-looking – but very fashionable – stool around. The man in the crusty jeans set down a piece of plastic fruit he’d been examining and hopped up onto the stool.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The man looked around, as if what he was doing he
re was pretty obvious. “I guess I’m sitting.” He nodded an earnest nod.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “‘Cause I was told.” He nodded. “They told us to come here.”

  Liam let out a tiny, barely-perceptible sigh. He’d dealt with recalcitrant interviewees plenty of times, but this wasn’t recalcitrance. This was stupidity.

  “‘Us’? Who is ‘us’?”

  “What?” The man squinted and shifted his jaw to the side as if he were concentrating real hard.

  “Is there someone else here?”

  “I saw that lady.” The man smiled. It wasn’t a smart-assed smirk. It was a smile of recollection. “She’s here. Wherever you sent her.” He nodded and smiled an earnest, open smile that would have made June Cleaver want to start handing out knuckle sandwiches.

  “Did you come here with someone? Were you alone?”

  The man’s eyes went wide. He started to shake his head, but stopped. “Way—”

  Liam wondered whether the man wasn’t a lot smarter than he’d assumed. His face looked more surprised and worried than confused. Was this a new tack? Then it occurred to Liam that the man was looking at something. Something behind him.

  Liam spun, and three things passed through his mind in rapid succession: the words “frying pan,” a loud, clanking sound, and “ow.” He collapsed onto the floor, unconscious.

  Chapter 33. The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association

  Most people think the City of Austin is run by a mayor, a comptroller, and a council of elected representatives. Actually, that’s not true. In fact, most folks don’t really think this at all, but that’s only because most, when asked to rattle off a list of their elected representatives, get as far as “Who’s that guy who lives in the big white house?” before they have to turn their attention back to whatever is on TV. The city could be run by fairies and unicorns for all most people know. The truth of the matter, however, is that the elected officials do not run anything. (Nor do the fairies or unicorns.) The real power lies in the hands of a ruthless and callous band of crotchety old men – men hardened by years of street fighting and long nights at the bingo parlor. They call themselves the “Krijgsheren Wijsheid.”

  It is a silly name. The men who picked it did so because they thought it sounded mysterious and vaguely ominous, which is helpful for any organization in the business of doing Really Bad Stuff, such as attacking supermarkets en masse to hog all of the weekly specials, slowing down traffic, and kicking the crap out of all the damned know-nothing, whippersnappers around town. They also liked it because they tended to get a lot fewer angry letters from trademark lawyers than when they had gone around calling themselves “The Militant Arm of the American Geriatrics Association.”

  The town car sat, looming at Satan, Eli, and the old couple. It did not move – not even a little bit. It was almost timeless in its inert majesty, like a mountain, but smaller, and with tires and a radiator, and more bits of highly-polished chrome than is usually the case with mountains.

  A breeze blew through, bringing with it the smell of a nearby taco stand, and then flitted off in search of some place with more action.

  Satan glanced at Eli, who now looked very worried. Eli shrugged. They turned back to watch the car. The tinting on the windows made it impossible to see who was inside. And so they just stood there, watching and waiting as the land barge did nothing, and, occasionally, smelling the tacos.

  Finally, right when everyone was just about to return to their regularly-scheduled programming, the driver door opened. A foot, just visible under the lower edge of the door, stepped out onto the ground. The foot was wrapped in one of those soft-leather, orthopedic tennis shoes that old people wear. It shifted slightly, and a second, similarly-clad foot appeared next to it. There was a grunt (presumably of exertion), and the head of an elderly man appeared over the top of the door. The head was probably connected to the feet by a neck, a torso, and some other body parts, but it’s hard to say, because all of those body parts, if they were in fact present, were completely obscured by the door of the automobile.

  The old man squinted and peered around, taking in the scene, in much the same way that an eagle might scan a bit of prairie before streaking down out of the sky to capture and eviscerate a bunny. His face was tanned and etched with deep lines left there, presumably, by years of hard days spent out in the sun dealing with cows or doing some other badass thing that would have withered lesser men. His name was Herbert. His friends called him Herb, but then, his friends were all dead. Younger, still-alive types usually referred to him as, “El Jefe.”

  El Jefe slapped the roof of the car and instantly the three other doors opened. More grizzled, bird-of-prey-esque old men appeared. Each stood watch, like a sentry, at his car door, scowling and glaring and sneering at anyone and everyone who dared metabolize oxygen in the immediate vicinity. There weren’t all that many people around though, so the men contented themselves by aiming dirty looks at trees, birds, bits of litter, and other things they apparently found distasteful.

  The two old men from the back seats locked eyes, nodded, and turned simultaneously toward the back of the car. One – the taller, more upright of the two – popped the trunk. The shorter man leaned in – just a little at first – and then reached further and further, until the whole top half of his body actually seemed to be in the trunk. For a second it appeared that he might have become permanently lodged, legs dangling, in the cavernous hold at the rear of the automobile. But then he emerged with two very large firearms of the sort generally favored by guys who also like wearing ragged, makeshift bandanas and hunting Commies in lesser-known Asian countries. He handed one of the weapons to his tall partner. Then they closed the trunk and resumed their respective positions by the open back doors. They nodded at El Jefe, who turned to face Satan.

  “Who are you?” barked El Jefe. His face had the steely aspect of an angry, weather-beaten fighter pilot, or maybe an old leather bag. The old feet poking out from underneath the door shuffled a bit.

  Satan placed an affronted hand to his chest and cocked his head as if to say, “Me?”

  “Yeah, you,” said El Jefe. A hand (presumably belonging to El Jefe) appeared above the door, holding a cigar. It placed the cigar to El Jefe’s lips. He clenched it in his teeth and squinted at the Devil.

  “I…” Satan puffed up dramatically, preparing to deliver a self-introduction of oratorical grandiosity sufficient to suit an avenging angel. But El Jefe interrupted.

  “Are you with the property company?”

  Satan paused and looked around for an answer. There didn’t seem to be one anywhere nearby. Fortunately the little old woman came to his rescue.

  “Oh, no. No, sir,” she said. “He helped us.” She pointed at the Devil, as if to clarify that he was, in fact, the “he” to whom she referred.

  El Jefe squinted some more and chewed his cigar at Satan. “Yeah?” He addressed the woman, but kept his eyes fixed on the Devil. “How’d he do that?”

  “Well…” The woman looked down, apparently unsure of how exactly to describe whatever it was that she’d just seen happen. But then her husband stepped out in front of her, holding his arm out and shushing her back gently.

  “He,” the old man pointed at Satan, “evaporated the man from the property company.” The old man gave a little nod and then stood with his chin up, ready for whatever response was headed his way.

  El Jefe rested his arm on the driver door and stopped mid-chew. “What?”

  The old man seemed to shrink. “That’s ... what he did.” He shrugged. “He just made the guy go ... poof.” He made a poofing gesture. Behind him, his wife shook her head and made a slightly different poofing gesture.

  El Jefe turned to Eli, who’d been standing at his shabby, flower-bathrobed version of attention. “Eli, is this true?”

  Eli nodded. “Uh, yeah. I mean, yes. I saw it. Right there.” He turned and pointed at the spot on the sidewalk. “Evaporated him,
just like that.” He snapped his fingers, but then, still holding his hand up in the air, seemed to reconsider his evaluation of the poofery or evaporation or whatever it had been, and let his hand fall. “You know, I’d say it was less evaporation than kind of a …” He searched for the word, but only found the incredulous eyes of the man with the cigar. “He’s— He’s an angel.” Eli turned and wafted his hands in Satan’s direction, like a game show presenter girl.

  Satan was just a popcorn and a soda short of being a sports spectator as he watched, turning his head back and forth as each person spoke. The power these men in the big car seemed to hold over Eli and the elderly couple was incredible. And wrong, somehow. They were so deferential, almost as if the men were kings or... gods! Idolators! He stepped backward slowly and cautiously, moving toward the spot where he’d tossed the flaming pipe of divine vengeance.

  “You evaporated him, huh?” asked El Jefe. Satan smiled and nodded. El Jefe smiled and chewed and rolled the cigar around for a while, ruminating. “You,” he said, addressing Satan, “aren’t one of Cadmon’s damned soldiers, are you?”

  Satan paused, mid-step. Who was Cadmon? “I don’t work for any—” He stared at El Jefe for a second, confused. “I am a servant of the Lord. An angel!”

  “See?” said Eli.

  “Yeah?” asked the man with the cigar. “I don’t see any wings.”

  They all stared at each other for a moment. El Jefe turned briefly to the man standing on the other side of the car and jerked his head toward the elderly couple, who were having an animated conversation of their own, and making increasingly strident poofing gestures at one another. With the old-man equivalent of a bounce in his step, El Jefe’s passenger marched over and ushered the couple back into their apartment building.

  El Jefe returned his attention to Satan. “So, where are they?”

  “Where are what?”

  “Your wings.”

  “Hmm ...” said Satan, scratching at his chin. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”