Hell You Say

by Josh Lanyon

  We were sitting on the rock wall, still gabbing, when Guy glanced at his watch, said, “Good God. It’s five o’clock.”

  I couldn’t believe it. It felt like we’d been gone an hour or two. “We should get back.”

  He nodded, then smiled faintly. “The sun’s bringing out freckles on your nose.”

  “It’s probably sand.”

  He reached up to brush a finger along the bridge of my cheek. A gentle touch. “The sand isn’t rubbing off.” Our eyes met — held.

  He was going to kiss me.

  I laughed and rubbed my nose, getting to my feet.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Guy sitting very still. Then he relaxed and also rose. We climbed back up the rocks to the highway.

  * * * * *

  The shop was closed, the upstairs flat very quiet when I got home. Quiet and empty. I tried to imagine coming home to someone who welcomed me, who looked forward to seeing me.

  I went into the bathroom and wiped my soap message to Jake off the mirror, shaking my head at my earlier jitters.

  Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a beer, checked the machine for messages.

  Nothing.

  I headed back downstairs to view my e-mail. Several Internet orders, a couple of e-mail Christmas cards from friends, the usual spam, and the usual offers of spam blockers.

  I opened blackster21’s e-mail.

  Nothing.

  I decided to post another message to Dark Realm.

  Los Angeles novice urgently seeking Blade Sable. Any information welcome.

  I combed the web for the demon Gremory. There wasn’t much to be found, although a site called Lemegeton listed all seventy-two demons from the Ars Goetia and gave their availability status. Amon, for example, was noted as “currently Bound by Mindspring,” while Gremory aka Gamori was down as “currently available.”

  Bored and strangely restless, I signed off and went upstairs.

  The answering machine light was blinking. I hit Play.

  Guy, sounding unexpectedly self-conscious, had phoned. I called him back.

  For once he answered right away. We chatted briefly. He said very casually, “There’s a club in Hollywood called Hell’s Kitchen. Supposedly Betty Sansone and her crowd hang there most Monday nights. Would you like to go?”

  I hesitated. Jake generally chose Monday nights to put in an appearance, but I doubted I’d be seeing him anytime soon — now having attracted the interest of Angus’s defense team and Jake’s own colleagues. I didn’t want to wait by the phone in hopes that he might show, but I didn’t want to have to explain what I was up to on the off chance that he did call.

  From the moment Angus had been arrested, I had considered any promise — let alone one given under duress — to stay off Jake’s turf, null and void. If Jake knew anything about me at all, he had to know I wasn’t going to stand by while the cops railroaded Angus into prison or a nuthouse because they hadn’t the imagination to look further than their own noses. That didn’t mean he would be pleased to find out that I was playing detective again. The situation was dicey enough between us.

  “I’m not sure I can get away. Can I let you know?”

  “Of course,” he said, disappointed.

  I felt a little disappointed myself.

  * * * * *

  Sunday I was going through a box of books I’d bought on eBay, when Lisa called with a spur of the moment invitation to go over to the Dautens’ and watch NFL football.

  I can just about tolerate college football. Overpaid, steroid-enhanced goons wrecking each other’s joints for a few feet of turf? Thanks, but no thanks. Not for all the beer and spicy wings I can hold.

  “It’s San Francisco at Cincinnati,” Lisa parroted, like she had any idea what that meant.

  Eyes on a copy of The Pale Egyptian by R.M. Friedlander, I replied, “I’m not from San Francisco. I’m not from Cincinnati. Why would I be interested?”

  “Because Bill asked you. He knows you went to school at Stanford. He wants to see more of you.”

  “He’s seen plenty this month alone. I’ve had dinner twice with him. How much bonding do I need to do with these people?” I flipped open the book to the copyright page. Copyright 1989 by Robert M. Friedlander.

  Velvet, standing a couple feet away, said, “I can manage. It will be dead today.” Which showed how little she knew. Our customers would not be sitting home chugging beer and cheering on the gladiators. With two weeks to go to Christmas, they would be out on the mean streets, plastic in hand.

  In my ear, Lisa’s insect voice persisted, “It’s three weeks to the wedding, Adrien. There remains a lot to do.”

  “Well, why would I be doing it?” I protested. “I’m not getting married.”

  “Do you not have any interest in this wedding at all?”

  Did she want an honest answer?

  “Have you read the papers lately? I’m kind of…”

  “Kind of what?”

  Danger, Will Robinson. I’d nearly strolled right into that crater.

  “Nothing. What time?” I wondered if maybe she and the big guy would take one of those year-long honeymoons like Victorian couples did. Maybe I could get Lauren and Natalie to work on that plan.

  Lisa happily relayed the details. I promised Velvet this would be the last time I’d leave her on her own.

  “No big thing,” she said.

  * * * * *

  The Dauten homestead was located in the Chatsworth Hills on a residential street that seemed to have seceded from Santa’s Village.

  The house on the left was going for a Dr. Seuss Does Christmas motif. There was a small-scale Whoville encircled by a miniature train track. The train bore a tipsy-looking Cat in the Hat along with the Grinch and his pup, Max. Lights flashing, whistle tooting, the dwarf train whizzed around the miniature Whoville in ceaseless and annoying activity. It appeared that the homeowners had actually hired an armed security guard to keep the onlookers at bay. Was hitching a ride on the toy train punishable by death?

  The house on the right aimed for a Nutcracker Suite theme. Candy canes lined the front walk. Fluorescent Sugar Plum Fairies were cunningly placed amidst the bushes and trees. A two-story Nutcracker Prince guarded the front entrance, while a giant inflated Clara bobbed gently in the smoggy night, hissing helium in a never-ending fart.

  By contrast, the billions of white lights adorning the roof and trees and bushes of Dauten Manor looked Spartan. I walked up the pseudo-cobblestones to the peacock blue door framed by two topiaries.

  I rang the bell, and Lisa answered, which was a jolt.

  “Darling, you’re late,” she reproached. “It’s already the first inning.”

  “First quarter?”

  “Mmm. Possibly.” Then she smiled, reaching for the case of Beers of the World I had picked up at Costco on the way over. “What a lovely job I did of raising you, Adrien.” Adding under her breath, “He’s in the den.”

  “He knows I’m coming, right?”

  “Of course! You’re going to bond.”

  Dear God.

  I followed her through the immaculate and beautifully decorated foyer, into an immaculate and beautifully decorated living room, through an immaculate and beautifully decorated dining room, into a less immaculate, but still beautifully decorated family room, which adjoined a kitchen that was full of girls. It sounded like an aviary. Or possibly a hen house.

  Actually it was only Lauren and Natalie.

  “Hi, Adrien!” they chorused.

  Did they all live here?

  “Hey there,” I said. I could not for the life of me figure out why they were all beaming at me with the delight of Aztec priests at the arrival of a well-nourished youth. What did they imagine this bonding ritual entailed?

  “For God’s sake,” shrieked Dauten from down the hallway. “The guy’s wide open!”

  Lisa made whisking motions toward the den.

  I went down a long hallway paneled with photographs of the Dauten girls throug
h years of bangs and braces and bustiers.

  The den was neither immaculate, nor beautifully decorated. It was a barn-sized room with a TV that took up an entire wall, two recliner chairs, and a long sectional sofa in a muted plaid. A book shelf held a collection of beer steins and golf trophies.

  Emma knelt at a huge coffee table littered with chicken wings and an assortment of dips and chips. She was laboring over a pile of colored pencils, rulers, and what looked like a Spirograph. Dauten lounged in one of the recliners. He held the TV remote control in one hand, a beer mug in the other.

  “Crrrrap!” he howled. “Go around the end! You idiot!” He glanced my way and said pleasantly, “Hello, Adrien. Grab a beer and pull up a chair.”

  I sat on the sofa, which was as wide as a twin bed. Emma looked up at me from under the fringe of dark bangs.

  “Hello. Who do you want to win?”

  “Hello.” I reached over and selected a barbecue chip. “I don’t care.”

  Her mouth dropped. Her eyes popped. I opened my mouth to retract this unsportsmanlike sentiment, but she giggled and returned to her squiggles. I realized that a twelve-year-old had successfully yanked my chain.

  Natalie slipped into the room, deposited a bottle of Carlsberg and a frosted pilsner on the table in front of me, gave me thumbs up, and slipped out again.

  I stared at the screen watching the burly ant figures race up and down the green field, my thoughts on the brief visit I’d paid the Library of Congress Web site before driving over.

  Robert M. Friedlander, born in 1954, had several literary works to his name. Unlike the early efforts of G.O. Savage, Friedlander wrote “beautifully written, critically acclaimed literary fiction that no one wanted to read.” He had stopped writing in 2000, which coincidentally was when Gabriel Savant had appeared on the literary scene with The Illuminati Initiative, which had rocketed to the top of the New York Times Best Sellers list.

  So you had two capable, but not particularly successful writers who had given up writing at approximately the same moment that the immensely successful Gabriel Savant had appeared on the scene with his “handler,” Bobby Friedman.

  Gabriel Savant’s prose reflected none of the literary flourishes of Robert M. Friedman or the pulpy excesses of G.O. Savage. It was fast-paced, easy-reading, well-researched mass-market fiction. But the thing that truly set these books apart was the author himself. By all accounts Savant was a marketing genius. He was tireless and inventive. He was handsome and charismatic. He was a publisher’s dream come true — and he managed to turn out a book every nine months like clockwork, while constantly touring and promoting.

  I remembered my first visit to Friedlander at the Biltmore. He had been printing off his laptop. His world disintegrating around him, his author-charge MIA, Friedlander had been running off a manuscript. Now who did that sound like? It sounded like 99.9% of the writers I knew.

  Emma spoke, interrupting my reflections.

  “Did you ever notice,” she said, tucking her long, dark hair behind her ear, “that if you change the ‘p’ in pink for an ‘o,’ it spells oink?”

  “No.”

  “It looks really funny.”

  “I bet.”

  “Halftime.” Dauten snorted. “They call this excuse for a Las Vegas floor show halftime? Emmy, do not look at this TV.”

  “Do you know what?” Emma said, fixing me with those doe eyes. “Santa spelled backward is Satan.”

  I did a double take. She continued to look at me, all rosy-cheeked and innocent. I mean, come on. What was I thinking. Damien?

  “It spells Atnas, doesn’t it?” I objected.

  She frowned at her paper. “Oh, yeah. It’s a mammogram.”

  I narrowly escaped spilling my beer in my lap. “Anagram, maybe?” I suggested.

  “Umm-hmm,” Her tone implied that this is what she had said. She went back to working on her crossword or Da Vinci’s code, or whatever the heck she was scribbling at so earnestly.

  * * * * *

  I didn’t want to go back home to my lonely flat after the noise and hubbub of the Dautens’ — not that I could take five minutes longer at my future in-laws. I didn’t know what I wanted.

  Yeah, I did, but that wasn’t possible.

  So I took a chance and went to see if Bob Friedlander had already checked out of the Biltmore Hotel.

  I didn’t bother inquiring at the front desk. He was either there, or he wasn’t. I didn’t want to give him a heads-up.

  The elevator opened onto the hushed hallway. There wasn’t a soul to be seen. I walked slowly to the room, thinking they could use more lights up here.

  He took a long time to answer my knock. I began to fear I’d missed him, when I heard the bolt slide.

  The door swung open. I had a glimpse of a tidy and impersonal hotel suite. No printer, no clothes strewn about, no booze, and no gun as far as I could see — which wasn’t that far. Bob appeared to be packed and ready to go.

  “Adrien!” Bob exclaimed with a distinct lack of pleasure. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “No.” I hadn’t wasted time on social niceties. Neither did Bob. “I don’t have time.” He started to shut the door. I reached out to stop him.

  I said, “Bob, we both know Gabe isn’t staying out in Malibu. They have him, don’t they?”

  “Be quiet,” he said fiercely and grabbed me by the front of my jacket, dragging me into the hotel room. I didn’t resist; I wanted into that room.

  The hotel door slammed shut. Bob let go of me, breathing hard. “You’re crazy,” he said. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

  Same old song, same old story. “Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll go away. Who or what is Blade Sable?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Bullshit. You have to have some idea.”

  “Why the hell can’t you leave this alone? What the hell does it matter to you?”

  Not a bad question, but moot.

  I didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited him out. Jake had pulled that trick on me a couple of times, so I knew it was effective.

  After forty seconds (which is a sizable stretch of silence when you’re mad enough to throttle someone), Bob burst out, “Blade Sable was Gabe’s project. How many times do I have to tell you? Gabe was doing his own —” He stopped.

  “Gabe was doing his own thing,” I said. “And that isn’t how it works, is it? Gabe is the front man. You write the books. It’s a partnership, but not an equal partnership, because you do all the work, and Gabe gets all the glory.”

  His face, already flushed with anger, turned a medic-alert shade of puce.

  “What do you know? That’s the way we wanted it! We started out trying to write together, but it worked better this way. I don’t want what you call ‘the glory.’ I don’t want to get out there and meet my public — our public. You saw those freaks. You think I want to rub shoulders with that?”

  “Okay, so it’s a real partnership. But Gabe decided he wanted to write this book, this exposé.”

  “He’s always taken this stuff too seriously. The occult. He had to dabble — he had to experiment.”

  In other words, It’s his own damn fault.

  I guessed, “But then he connected with Blade Sable.”

  He ran his hands over his sparse hair. “He went to a party the last time we did LA. That was a year ago in October. I remember because we were doing a lot of Halloween tie-ins for Vertex of the Vampyres. Anyway, something happened. He saw something or overheard something. Whatever it was, it terrified him. I’ve known him twenty years, but I’ve never seen him like that.”

  “You have no idea what?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know the details, because he never shared any. Though he was scared, he kept poking, kept prying, kept trying to find out more. He thought it was huge, that it reached all the way to City Hall and beyond. He thought there was a book in it.” He added bitterly, “A book for h
im, not us.”

  “Where was the party held?”

  “I don’t know. In Los Angeles, I think.”

  I took a random shot. “Pacific Palisades? By the ocean?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did he say who was at the party? Did he ever mention any names?”

  “I told you, I don’t know the details.”

  “Did he write the book?”

  “I think so. He must have written a lot of it.”

  “Was it on that disk that disappeared?”

  “I think so.”

  “He must have had a couple of backups.”

  “I’m sure he did, but they wouldn’t be where I would find them. He didn’t want me to know what he was doing.”

  “The panic over the lost disk was because he was afraid this group or this person would find out what he was writing? He was afraid of them.”

  Bob nodded.

  Then why the hell had Savant brought that disk with him? Why had he told these people about it — because he must have told someone. I didn’t believe they saw it in a crystal ball.

  I turned my attention back to Friedlander. “What was the deal with that postcard? Why did you try to convince me that Gabe was safe when he’s still missing?”

  “They told me to. They told me to let it go. They said a postcard would be coming from Gabe and that it would prove he was alive. They said if I didn’t play along, he would be dead, and I’d be next. They said the police didn’t believe me, anyway, and it’s true. The police didn’t believe me. Or at least they pretended not to.”

  “Who told you all this?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see them. They called from a phone inside the hotel. They knew my room. They knew everything.”

  “When did they call you?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  I was tempted to prompt him, but I knew better. “Try,” I said.

  He thought hard. “Last Wednesday, I think.”

  “The day I came to see you?”

  He looked confused, then nodded. “The first time, yes, that’s right. They said to call you and tell you that it was all okay, Gabe was safe —”

  I interrupted, “They said to call me? They mentioned me by name?”

  “Yes. They said you were nosing around, that if you kept it up, they’d kill Gabe and then me.”