by R. E. Vance
I drove home with an unfamiliar feeling of happiness. I had to admit, at first it was uncomfortable, then I realized what it was and let it wash over me. But as soon as I arrived, the feeling drained away like someone had ripped the bottom off of a bathtub.
Hellelujah! I really, really wished I had never left the hotel in the first place.
↔
My typically empty hotel driveway was filled with Others who gathered to catch a glimpse of the biggest event—to them, at least—since they became mortal. The human fanfare was considerably less with a few local journalists mulling about.
From the gate I could see both sides of the hotel’s turnstile entrance decorated with enough balloons to lift a city bus. Two velvet ropes lined either side of a red carpet, holding back the gawkers that pressed on both sides with their cameras ready. Several gargoyle security guards stood at attention and, despite being made of rock, wore black suits, sunglasses and those funny earpiece things.
I’m not much for crowds so I reversed to the back entrance, expecting that the kitchen entrance would be a quiet way into the hotel. Instead I found a flashing squad car, an angry woman and … Penemue.
GoneGodDamn it!
↔
I’d like to say I was surprised when I saw a squad car with a horse trailer attached to it, but I wasn’t. Generally, when Penemue was up to no good, the police were involved. For a fallen angel who had been kicked out of Heaven and Hell, you’d think he’d have learned how not to get caught.
What did surprise me was the Honda Civic that was also parked in the narrow driveway. A human woman in a suit with ’80s shoulder pads and bright red lipstick was yelling at the angel Penemue and a teenage boy who went by the name “EightBall.”
“They’re the ones who vandalized my shop—who else could it be?” She held up a stack of flyers for the two police officers to see. One of them was Officer Steve, the youngest of the Billy Goats Gruff. (Yes, they’re real. I was just as surprised as the next guy.) He wore a Dick Tracy coat and hat and had a toothpick in his mouth. The cop stereotype he was currently sporting was a step up from the London Fog overcoat and wool hat he used to wear in his Sherlock Holmes phase. As a fairy tale creature, Steve learned from stories. I guess he was working his way up the cop-cliché spectrum. Personally, I could hardly wait for when he got into Miami Vice.
Officer Steve was standing next to another cop whom I didn’t recognize, partly because he was new and partly because he was human.
“Here, look at this!” The woman pulled out a sheet from the stack of flyers and showed it to the human officer. “They did it.”
EightBall raised his hands up in an “I surrender” gesture and said, “I’m just a human,” as if that was all the defense he needed.
The woman spun on the teenage boy and flung several flyers at him. “I sincerely doubt that you are human at all.” Her right hand, now free of flyers, whirled at the tattoos on EightBall’s face. They were his tags and the tell-tale sign of the HuMans, a gang of Other-haters. Think of them as progressive Neo-Nazis who didn’t discriminate against race, religion or ethnicity—as long as you were human. The kid still had all the signs of the gang—his bald head covered with religious symbols like yin yang, the “Wheel of the Dharma,” the Star of David and a vertical infinity sign on his forehead that, coupled with his dark complexion, made his head look like an eight ball. Sort of.
Up until a year ago EightBall had been HuMan’s local chapter leader. Then he met the drunk angel at his side, who—for reasons of his own—helped him see the error of his ways. That said, Penemue was a fallen angel, which meant that, although EightBall had been saved from gang-life, he had not been saved from mischief.
The cop lifted his hands in a calm-down gesture. “Ma’am, without witnesses we can’t just—”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” the woman shot back. “As a member of our race, I thought—”
“ ‘Race’?” the human cop said, lifting an eyebrow.
“Yes, race … as a human I thought you of all people would understand.”
“All I know is that you have one thousand flyers with the wrong logo on them. Sounds like a printer mistake, not vandalism.”
She leaned in close and read the human cop’s name tag. “Like I told you, Officer Conner—when I got the flyers, they were fine. Then that one comes into my shop. And when he leaves, all the flyers had changed.” She pointed an accusing finger at Penemue, who adjusted his tweed vest before yawning.
“Changed?”
“Yes, changed!”
“How?” the human officer asked.
“I don’t know … magic?”
“Ma’am? You do know how magic works for Others. Since the gods left, Others have a finite time on the mortal plane. Every time they use their magic, they spend that time. In other words, they literally shorten their lives. Changing a thousand flyers would have cost the angel,” he looked over at the Gruff, “I don’t know—how long?”
Officer Steve looked at him pensively, pulled out his toothpick and sneered. “For that ace-high stack of flyers, see, I’d guess me a nickel.”
“A nickel?” the human officer asked. “What are we talking? Minutes, days, weeks?”
Officer Steve eyed the flyers. “Days, see …”
“Five days? Five days is a lot of time to spend on a bunch of flyers.”
“Miss Webb,” Penemue chimed in, “if I was going to spend all that time on you, I would have invited you for a drink. Perhaps a little bit more than a drink.” The angel winked.
“Oh hush, demon,” she said, turning to Penemue with Hell’s fury in her eyes. The woman, who was in her early fifties, looked like she should be going to Sunday Mass, not yelling at eight-foot-tall angels. She poked a finger at Penemue’s tweed vest and said, “I know all about you and why you fell. You went against God’s will by teaching us the knowledge of writing—”
“Without which, might I also point out,” Penemue said, “you would not have been able to make those flyers in the first place.”
“Poppycock! Don’t give me that.” She went toe-to-toe with Penemue, but given her height, she only came up to the middle button of his finely pressed shirt. “You have a second chance to atone for your sins. And it’s a second chance that I’m trying to help you people achieve—”
“ ‘People,’ ” the angel Penemue interrupted. He unfurled his wings and stretched them out. From tip to tip they were longer than a bus. “I very much doubt that I am a human. Now this young man, despite the numerous tattoos that litter his face, is indeed a human.” He nodded at EightBall. “A punk, perhaps, but most certainly a member of your homo sapiens race.”
“Now this is exactly what I’m talking about,” she said, turning to the police officer. “Are you going to help or are you going to just stand there?”
The human cop smiled with about as much sincerity as a shark has when apologizing for eating a school of guppies. “I understand, Miss Webb, but I’m not in charge here. He is.” He nodded at Officer Steve, who shifted from four legs to two with such a natural ease that it made me wonder why everyone wasn’t both bi- and quadrupedal at the same time. Pulling out his toothpick with an exaggerated flair, he pointed the wet end at Penemue and EightBall and said, “We know it was you, see! So why don’t you do us all a favor and fess up.”
“You see what I mean,” Miss Webb said to no one in particular. “Officer Conner, you must see how they are unfit to run things.”
That’s when I got out of my car. I was fine with her yelling at them on my property—the GoneGods know they probably deserved it. It was the way the word “they” rolled off her tongue, like Others were less than humans, like it was her charity that allowed them to live on this good green Earth … it boiled my blood. “Look here,” I started. “I don’t know who you think you are—”
Miss Webb shot me a look that would have frozen a tidal wave. “You! Jean-Luc?” She spoke my name like she knew me, but staring at the five-foot-nothing ball of
anger, I figured that it was a combination of having heard about me (after all, there were only a handful of humans that lived and worked in Paradise Lot) and her fury in the situation making her put in more familiarity than she had meant. I was wrong about that, just as I was going to be wrong about so much more before this night was over.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her an exaggerated salute. Officer Conner suppressed a grin.
The lady rolled her eyes and said, “Then you understand what it takes to help these creatures.” She turned to Penemue, who had folded his wings. “Do you hear me? Help! That’s what I want to do! Help!” She gave me a practiced smile. Up close she looked familiar, like we had met before … but then again, I knew her type well. She was one of those humans who were “trying to help” by forcing their beliefs, ways and traditions on Others—the “I know what’s best for you” type that cannot see anything but the narrow worldview they hold.
“And what do you want me to do, Miss … Miss …?”
She eyed me in confusion and said, “Sally,” like I should have known her name.
Penemue pointed at the lady. “Sally Webb, daughter of missionaries Paul and Emily Webb. No known siblings save …” Crap, Penemue was doing his thing. Once upon a time he knew everything that was written, including all that was on a person’s soul. Of course that all ended when the gods left, but he still knew things about anyone born pre-GrandExodus. And not just you—he knew all about your parents, grandparents, great-grandparents … all the way back to the Cro-Magnon that spawned your particular line.
“Oh hush,” Sally said. She swept back a strand of hair that fell over her face and gave me a disappointed look that would have made Judith—my poltergeist of a mother-in-law—proud. “And as for what I want you to do, well, I had hoped that us being the only two human-run businesses in Paradise Lot that we would be fast friends.
“As I was saying, I run the salon down the way, and it would be good if we found a way to work together.” She handed me a card that read, “Being Human Salon.”
Frig … Miss Webb ran the local branch of a chain of cosmetic surgery hack shops that mutilated Others so that they looked more human. It was the kind of place that sought to snuff out what made these wondrous creatures unique, pushing them through some sort of cookie-cutter process. File those talons, clip those feathers, paste back those ears. For a small fee, they’d do a little nip and tuck—you know, the small stuff like removing those troublesome wings or ditching those horns. In other words, they were Operation Smile’s sadistic cousin.
As far as I was concerned, Being Human Salon was the worst of humanity “trying to help.”
“So—it was your shop that had that monstrosity of construction going on for months.” I pointed down the hill towards where her salon was.
“Yes,” she nodded. “I do apologize for the inconvenience. There was much to be done to get the shop up and running.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Regardless, you and I should work together, seeing how we are the—”
“Only human-run businesses in the city.” I did my best not to hide my anger, which is to say, not at all. Through gritted teeth I growled, “Agreed, but as the only human business owner in Paradise Lot, I’m not sure how I can be of service to you. I do offer a special Homo sapiens rate that you’re welcome to partake in—that is if you can prove that you are human.”
“Burn,” EightBall said.
“Be quiet,” Officer Conner and I said in unison.
The corner of Sally’s lips curled. “Fine, I can see I will get no help from either of you. And I guess I’ll just have to file an official complaint with the city. Good day, gentlemen.” She shoved the pile of flyers at me before getting in her car and driving off.
Several of the advertisements flew about, littering my backyard. I looked at the top sheet and saw what all the fuss was about. Top and center was the Christian fish symbol. Except the fish had legs and the outline was made from a DNA helix. Beneath it read, “Keep Evolving.”
Hellelujah!
↔
As soon as Sally was out of view, Officer Steve reverted back to four legs. “That dame rubs me the wrong way, see …”
I nodded. “Yeah, me too … Say, did you get those CSI DVDs I sent you?”
“I did, see, but I can’t stomach that show. Too dramatic.” He pulled out his toothpick and gestured to the human cop that it was time to leave.
Officer Steve sauntered to the horse trailer as Officer Conner looked at me. “You know, this isn’t going away. People like her will put up a stink. I won’t be surprised if I’m back soon to make sure everything’s on the up and up.” He looked over at Officer Steve, said, “Sorry, but he’s rubbing off on me. Officer Conner. John Conner.” He offered me his hand.
“As in humanity’s last hope against the rise of the machines?”
He didn’t even crack a smile. “Haven’t heard that one before.”
“I guess you haven’t.” I took his hand. His grip was firm, and for the first time I really looked at him. Typical beat cop uniform, piercing blue-gray eyes, and the kind of chiseled jaw that makes it on the cover of Harlequin Romance novels. “Jean-Luc,” I said.
“I know. Heard all about you from Captain Michael. And if half of what he says is true, then I’m sure we’ll be meeting again. And real soon, too.” He nodded at Penemue. “You all have a good night.”
↔
As soon as the cruiser was out of sight, I looked over at EightBall. The boy, who may or may not have had his seventeenth birthday, wore the same black, collarless jacket as me, which, given that he worked for the hotel, made it look like the hotel had a dress code. We did not. Seeing it on someone else made me realize that I looked like a hipster priest, high-end chauffeur, Shaolin monk, Kato from The Green Hornet … take your pick, that style was stereotypical to them all. Had to admit—I liked it.
What I didn’t like was that I had no idea where EightBall had got his jacket. He certainly didn’t buy it with the salary of free room and board and the very occasional smile that I paid him with. Hey—don’t judge me, it was all I could afford. Given his colorful past, I didn’t want to know. I suspected some starkly naked mannequin somewhere.
Petty theft aside, the kid worked pretty hard, atoning in his own small way for all the brutal beating he subjected Others to in his angry days. At least that was the case. For the last couple months, he’d been acting out—coming to work late, doing a shoddy job and generally acting how I’d expect someone who was underpaid by a hundred percent to act.
And it all stemmed from his budding friendship with Penemue, the fallen angel who lived in the attic of the Millennium Hotel.
I snarled at the kid, “I leave you in charge for a few hours, and this is what happens.” I gave him my best “I’m not angry, I’m disappointed” look. Given what people have told me about the look, I’m pretty sure I just looked angry.
“But, but …” he stammered, helplessly pointing at Penemue, who had pulled out a bottle of Drambuie from only the GoneGods knew where. Popping the cap, he took a long, hard swig before offering it to EightBall.
“No, I don’t think so,” I said, glaring at Penemue. The angel rolled his eyes and took another sip from his bottle. I turned to EightBall. “No excuses. He’s an angel from Hell. He’s meant to tempt you. And you’re meant to resist him. Haven’t you read the Bible?”
EightBall shook his head to my rhetorical question.
“To be fair, the young human did deny me three times.” The angel’s eyes widened in an exaggerated expression. “Just like Jesus did the Devil.”
“After which the Devil took the hint and didn’t try to tempt Jesus a fourth time. Besides, that’s not the point,” I growled. “The point is that this is the biggest event this place has ever had—”
“An event to which the lad and I are not invited.”
It was true—the criteria you had to meet to get invited evidently did not include living in the hotel
. Guests had a plus one, but no one I knew was interested in taking a drunk angel or a former Other-hater to the party. As for the succubus Astarte who lived in my hotel, she could have gotten a date in the three heartbeats it took to direct blood south, but had little interest in attending.
“Not the point,” I glared at the angel.
“You were invited. Your mother-in-law was invited—”
“An invitation she declined,” I said.
“Indeed. Where is Judith anyway?” He was referring to Bella’s mother, who helped run the hotel. She ran the reception and … oh, yeah … she’s a poltergeist. Apparently, her disdain for me was so great that when it was time to shuffle off this good green Earth, she chose to stick around and haunt me. When the gods left a year later, taking their magic with them, she manifested as a bona fide, legless, floating ghost who still wore the same Sunday dress she was buried in. Whatever problems you may have with your mother-in-law, thank the GoneGods that she’s not an apparition. Hellelujah!
“Out,” I said.
“Out?” Penemue said. “But she never leaves.”
It was true. Judith was one of those prim and proper ladies that wouldn’t be caught dead wearing white after Labor Day, knows that Port must always be served to the person on your left and that milk must be poured into a teacup before the actual tea (or is it the other way around?). So when the gods left and she returned as a ghost, her pride and sensibilities went into overload. It just wasn’t ladylike to float around everywhere. She rarely left the hotel, let alone the city. But a few days ago she left to the mainland.
I pursed my lips. “We have a lot of work to do, and I don’t have time for this. Now, go get a broom and sweep up these flyers.”
EightBall stood up and saluted me sarcastically before running inside to get the broom.
“I’m glad you two are getting along now,” I said.
“Swimmingly. He’s teaching me how to be hardcore and for-real,” Penemue offered me a fist bump, to which I dutifully obliged. “Apparently, being tangible does not make one real, and one cannot be hardcore without first being for-real. Next he’s going to teach me something called the Harlem Shake.”