THE DARK HIGH MAGISTER OF CLADIS ABADDONIS SAT in his holy Barcalounger, eating fish and chips from his silver TV tray. He’d spent a good deal of the previous day getting bent, cracked, and stretched by the chiropractor downstairs in room 4. Today, his back felt a little better, but the smell of bleach from the cleanup in room 8 was spoiling his lunch. It was always some damned thing around here. No wonder so much of his flock had run off with those San Diego bastards. What could he offer them, other than discounted cod and fries? It was a sad state for the Lodge, but that might all be changing soon. It better, he thought, or, to his secret shame, he might have to—if not quite defect—at least strike an alliance with his enemies down south. His old Datsun was on its last legs and the no-money-down deal from those San Diego Volvo shits was sorely tempting. But no, he wasn’t ready to throw in the towel for a Bluetooth radio. Not quite yet, he thought. The Magister still had some tricks up his stained and fraying sleeve. But they depended on other people, some of whom were late.
He poured more balsamic vinegar onto his fish, then checked his watch. A moment later, Adept Three and Acolyte Six came panting into the sacred chamber.
Adept Six said, “Sorry, Dark High One. There’s construction down the block and we had to park clear over on Seventh Street.”
“We ran all the way,” said Acolyte Three.
The Dark High Magister waved for them to calm down. “It’s fine. I’ve been listening to those jerks banging away for days now. What are they building?”
“A Red Lobster, sir.”
“A fish restaurant. Well, that’s just great. Why doesn’t City Hall come down here and shove a big ole corkscrew up my ass? Right up it.”
“We could always sabotage it,” said Acolyte Three. “Superglue the locks shut. Sugar in the gas tanks of the bulldozers.”
“They have video surveillance these days, dumbo,” said the Magister. “They’ll see you and that’s two more members of the Lodge gone. No. This is a sign that we have to move faster bringing Lord Abaddon back to this wretched world. Let Red Lobster see how it feels to be skull-fucked when a thousand-foot bottom-feeding sea bastard comes a-calling.”
“But, Dark High One. We run a seafood restaurant, too.”
The Magister draped his napkin over his unfinished cod. “Everything has its reasons, especially Lord Abaddon. Besides, the restaurant will be gone soon. The moment we retrieve the Convocation Vessel. Speaking of which,” he clapped his hands together, “how did the raid on the Caleximus pricks go?”
“It was awesome,” said Acolyte Three.
“Yeah. Really well,” said Adept Six.
“Don’t be shy. Details, boys. Details. I barely get off the throne these days except to crap and get bent like a pretzel by that jerk in room four. I want to see our moment of triumph in my mind’s eye.”
Adept Six and Acolyte Three looked at each other. The acolyte, the junior member of the Lodge, smiled shyly at the adept, like he was doing him a big favor by letting him go first. “You know, sir, I’m not really much of a public speaker.”
“Don’t be nervous,” said the Magister. “What did you do first?”
“Um. Adept Four pretended to buy a peach cobbler.”
“And?”
“He didn’t.”
“Then what?”
“He threw the cobbler on the ground. The van came around with the rest of us and we got out.”
“What happened then? Come on. I want to feel the mayhem,” said the Magister.
“We knocked over a table and stuff went everywhere,” said Acolyte Three. “I stepped on some cakes.”
“Good for you. That almost makes up for you puking in the sacred chamber.”
“Thank you, Dark High One.”
“I slipped on some butter cream and hurt my knee,” said Adept Six.
The Magister looked at him hard. “Not exactly Purple Heart–worthy, eh?” he said. “But tell me, did you put the fear of Cladis Abaddonis in them?”
“Oh, yeah. Right in them. And on them. Like a whole bunch of muffins.”
“And scones,” Acolyte Three added.
“Right. We covered them in misery and scones.”
“Excellent. Then what?”
“Then we ran away.”
“You ran?”
“There were security guards coming.”
“We didn’t really run,” said Acolyte Three. “We just got in the van and expeditiously fled.”
“Yes. That,” said Adept Six.
The Magister leaned back in his lounger. His back pinched him hard. When Abaddon came back, that fraud in room 4 was right up there on the annihilation list with Red Lobster. “You weren’t kidding when you said you weren’t a public speaker.”
“Sorry, Dark High One,” Adept Six said.
“What about you, Acolyte? Did you suffer any crippling cupcake injuries? Lose a leg to a fritter? An ear to some sprinkles?”
Acolyte Three leaned forward a little, showing a tiny bruise. “I get a lemon bar in the eye. It really stung. But it was good, too. I think she used real lemons, not like the plastic ones you get from the store.”
“That’s the kind my mom used,” said Adept Six.
“Mine, too.”
“My goodness,” said the Magister. “How did either of you survive the slaughter? I have to admit, I’m disappointed in the level of carnage in your story. Did anyone at least draw blood?”
“Adept One ran into the van and broke his nose,” said the acolyte.
“Not our blood, you idiot. Them. Did you leave them bloody and bruised?”
“No, sir,” said the adept. “But we did get this.” He handed the Magister a brown paper bag.
“It’s heavy,” he said as he took it. When he looked inside, he smiled. The Magister reached in and pulled out several neat rolls of quarters. “Now we’re talking,” he said. “You got their cash drawer. Excellent. How much did we walk away with?”
“One hundred and six dollars and eighty-three cents,” said Adept Six.
The Magister curled his lip. “It doesn’t put us quite up there with Donald Trump, but it’s better than nothing,” he said.
“Thank you, Dark High One,” said the adept.
“Yes. Thank you,” said the acolyte.
The Magister dropped the cash on the TV tray, which bowed a little under the weight of all the change. “Now, I have a little secret I can share with you,” he said.
Adept Six’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me the Caleximus bunch have the Convocation Vessel!”
The Magister put a hand to his brow. “Why would you even say that? Isn’t that the first thing I’d bring up when you got here? ‘Hello, boys. How was your day? Oh, by the way, get ready for fiery doom because our mortal enemies are about to call down Armageddon on us.’ Don’t you think that would be something of a priority announcement?”
“Sorry, sir. Of course, Dark High One. I’m just a little nervous with the end so near.”
“Sure. It’s understandable.”
“Are we worthy of hearing your secret, sir?” said Acolyte Three.
The adept gave him a look, as did the Magister.
“Don’t do that. Just because he’s a moron doesn’t mean you have to be a suck-up.”
The acolyte looked at the floor. “Sorry, sir.”
“Never mind. Here’s the secret: I know where the Convocation Vessel is.”
The adept and the acolyte looked up at him. “Where?” they said, almost in unison.
“I don’t know exactly a hundred percent where it is, but I have a pretty good idea,” said the Magister. “You see, it turns out your little Twinkie assault did more good than you think.” The Magister looked at his charges, pausing for dramatic effect, though he wasn’t sure they’d know what dramatic effect was if it came in wearing a tutu and hit them both with a Hello Kitty sledgehammer. As seriously as he could, he said, “We now have an agent among the Caleximus heretics.”
“Who?” said Adept Six.
“Oh, no. That’s still my little secret for now. Suffice it to say that after your humiliating attack, he’s lost faith in their false god and is ready to tell us everything we need to retrieve the Vessel.”
“Where is it, Dark High One?” said Acolyte Three.
“A man named Coop has it,” he said.
“Then let’s go and take it from him.”
“Yes, why didn’t I think of that? Maybe because I don’t know where he is because those Caleximus boobs don’t know where he is. But they’re looking for him. That’s the important thing.”
“Should we be looking for him, too?” said Adept Six.
“Why should we? We have our mole. He’ll tell us when they’re closing in. We’ll wait for them to find him and then swoop in and take him right out from under them.” He looked at the adept. “There are still twelve of us, right?”
Adept Six nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Thank goodness. Yes. This will be a breeze.”
“What about Lord Abaddon?” said Acolyte Three. “He’s been waiting for us to call him back since the new moon.”
“Well, he’s just going to have to hold his britches a little longer just like the rest of us, isn’t he?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Magister took his now greasy napkin off the remains of his fish and chips. “Okay, boys. That’s the new business. Is there any old business we need to get to?”
“Room 8, sir?” said Adept Six.
“Of course. I almost forgot,” the Magister. “First off, please tell everyone who helped that even though I never got any change back from the cleaning-supplies money, I and the entire Lodge appreciate their efforts.”
Adept Six shuffled his feet nervously. “There wasn’t any change, Dark High One.”
“You lost it, didn’t you? Just admit it and all will be forgiven.”
Adept Six nodded. “I swear, I put it right on my nightstand . . .”
“I knew it. For like ten seconds I thought you’d stolen it, but after your exciting tale of the Apocalyptic Pie Fight, I realized you had the imagination of a damp sweat sock.” The Magister turned and pointed at Acolyte Three. “From now on, you’re in charge of the money. Got it?”
The acolyte beamed at him. “Yes, Dark High One. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Slippy McClumsy over there.”
Acolyte Three started to thank the adept, but when he saw the look on the man’s face he knew he was no more than an inch from being beaten to death with the coins from the bake sale. He just gave him a quick nod and turned back to the Magister.
“Is there any more business?” said the old man.
“Weren’t you saying you wanted to rent out room 8, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Magister. He took some three-by-five cards from his pocket and gave each of the men a pile.
“Go around to some of the universities and put those up on the bulletin boards. The last time we put an ad on Craigslist, all we got were weirdos and Frank, and we know how that turned out.”
“Yes, sir,” said the acolyte.
The Magister said, “Anything else?”
Adept Six pointed a finger. “Yes, you might want to move—” He never finished the sentence. The change from the bake sale collapsed the golden TV tray. The rolls of change mostly survived the fall, but fish and chips were scattered all over the sacred chamber. The Magister wiped his hand on his napkin and tossed it onto the floor with the rest of the mess. “Get out the bleach, boys,” he said. “We have a room 8 situation in the making.”
The Magister started to get up, but a back spasm dropped him back onto his lounger. He sighed. The goddamn end of the world better happen goddamn soon, he thought. If it wasn’t exploding acolytes decorating his rooms with meat wallpaper, it was Red Lobster horning in on his damned fish business. He made a silent prayer to Abaddon that the Caleximus bunch weren’t quite the fuckups he’d always told his flock they were. Just let them find this Coop asshole. That’s all I ask. Then rise from the ocean and drown the world, Abaddon. Starting with San Diego.
The Magister watched the acolyte and the adept picking the food and money off the floor, counting the rolls of pennies and quarters in his head. There had to be twenty pounds at least. A nice haul, he thought. They’d go well in the seat cushions with the other Lodge funds, all of which he’d converted to coins. The Magister calculated that his chair weighed more than four hundred pounds these days. When Abaddon returned and the floods came, he wasn’t taking any chances on floating away. He, his throne, and his lousy back were going down when the first waves hit the land, and there was nothing those assholes in San Diego, Caleximus, Red Lobster, or any of his dumb-ass flock could do about it. The Magister closed his eyes and crossed his fingers.
Find Coop, you sons of bitches. Find Coop.
It was eight in the evening. The two women sat across from Mr. Babylon in his favorite booth in Týden Divu, the Jinx Town bar so recently and rapidly exited by Coop and Giselle. The women—Giselle and a somewhat nervous Bayliss—were sipping Manhattans. Babylon was drinking a Roy Rogers with obvious distaste.
“I hope you don’t mind me not joining you for real drinks, ladies,” said Babylon. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Not at all,” said Giselle. “We’re just happy you could meet us on such short notice.”
Babylon swirled his drink, giving it a look of curdled loathing. “My pleasure. I’m always open to business opportunities. Though this one will, I’m afraid, cost more than many.”
“The good ones always do,” said Bayliss.
Good for you, thought Giselle. Get her away from Nelson and get a couple of drinks in her, and she takes off. I’ll have to remember that. Giselle took a quick glance around the bar. No one was paying them the slightest bit of attention. She had to concentrate hard to cloud so many minds and make sure they wouldn’t remember her, but that and her blond wig seemed to be doing the trick. She just had to remember not to drink too much.
“How did you find this place?” she said. “Are you a fan of the dark floors?”
Babylon looked over at the gaming tables, then back at the women. “I’ve always enjoyed them. Much more peaceful than the wet or dry ones, and away from the hustle and bustle of the light floors.”
“Unless you’re looking for shoes. Then I love the light floors,” said Bayliss. Giselle had briefed her on the layout of Jinx Town, but now wished she’d do a little shutting up about it. No more drinks for her.
“Don’t discount the dark floors for shopping,” said Babylon. “There are some exceptional places nearby. I get most of my suits here.”
“Thank you. Maybe I’ll take a stroll later.”
“Just take a clove or two of garlic with you,” said Babylon. “The exsanguinator riffraff can be a bit annoying.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve worked with vampires before,” Bayliss said.
Reel it in, thought Giselle. She kicked Bayliss lightly under the table.
“Really? Where?” said Babylon.
“Oh, here and there,” Bayliss said. “You know how it is. Business takes you all sorts of places with all sorts of people.”
“Indeed,” said Babylon.
“Would you mind telling us a bit more about the box?” said Giselle before Bayliss could cram her foot in her mouth again. “Is it everything I’ve heard it is?”
Babylon finished his drink and held up his glass for another. A waiter nodded in his direction. “It depends on what you’ve heard. There are a lot of rumors and tall tales.”
“Since we’re the buyers, if you don’t mind, we’d like to hear it from you,” said Giselle.
“The box, to put it simply, is an edge,” Babylon said. “Nothing less than luck incarnate. It’s what every entrepreneur needs. A constant and reliable edge on the competition.”
“There are stories floating around that it’s something else, too,” said Bayliss.
Babylon shrugged. “Stories about the box are as numerous as Scheherazade’s thousand and one tales. Recently, an associate of mine plucked it away just as a couple of low-rent doomsday cults tried for it. Each thought they could use it to set off their rival Armageddons. Have you ever heard of something so silly?”
“Lucky you found it before they had a chance to test it out. Then we might not have had the pleasure of meeting you.”
“To Apocalypse averted,” said Babylon. He held up his glass in a toast.
“And new business ventures,” said Bayliss.
“Always that.”
Gisele smiled. While she concentrated on clouding the room, she was giving special attention to Babylon. There wasn’t any liquor in his drinks, so she was loosening him up a little herself. Not too much. A couple of Scotches’ worth. Just want him friendly and happy. Not stupid and horny.
She sipped her drink slowly and fantasized about cutting through the crap and beating Babylon on the head with a bottle of grenadine until he just gave them the damned box. Coop better be on the job, she thought. I don’t want to spend the whole night entertaining this bloated Scrooge McDuck.
Her phone rang. She excused herself and glanced at the number, quickly pressing the button to send the call to voice mail. The moment she did, Very Important People jumped into action doing Very Important Things.
Two floors below Týden Divu, Salzman sat in the mook bar and watched his call go to voice mail. That was the signal. He dialed another number and it only rang once before someone picked it up.
“Babylon’s distraction is in place. Are you ready?” he said.
“No,” said Coop.
“Let me ask that another way. Are you prepared to keep your part of our bargain?”
“As much as I’ll ever be.”
“You have your team with you? Including what’s-his-name?”
“Yes. Morty is here.”
“What about Phil Spectre? Safely ensconced in your noggin, is he?”
“Yeah. He’s already whining to get out of my head. He doesn’t like the idea of playing earthworm,” Coop said.
“Tell him to shut up and do his job.”
“That’s pretty much every conversation I’ve ever had with him.”
Salzman cleared his throat. “Once again, I have to remind you that the DOPS makes no guarantees for your safety. If you or the team gets caught or killed, it’s on you.”
“I never thought it would be any other way,” Coop said.
“Are you comfortable in the crawler?”
“I’m not so wild about being an earthworm, either. But I’ve been worse places for smaller payoffs.”
“Good luck,” said Salzman. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“Actually, you’re somewhere near the bottom of the top hundred things I’m worried about right now.”
“Call me the moment you’re clear.”
“You just make sure you take care of Giselle and Bayliss.”
“They’re doing fine. Just bring me the box.”
“And I’ll get you a Kewpie doll for your collection.”
Salzman turned off the phone and put it back in his pocket. He sipped his martini and thought about the things he’d do to Coop if he failed. No jail for that boy. There were more interesting and surgical things he could arrange for a fuckup that big.
Salzman looked around the bar, hating the other mooks, but himself most of all. Everything he’d done and everything he wanted was in the hands of a jackass, a civilian, and a paranoid ghost. Or, to be more accurate, a jackass, a jackass civilian, and a jackass paranoid ghost. If he weren’t already dead, he’d be worried. As it was, what he felt wasn’t dread, but more a dire fear of sameness. That tomorrow would be no different from today. He couldn’t even get drunk. His physiology wouldn’t let him. Maybe he’d go out and kill somebody. That was always fun. A random stranger. Maybe at a highway rest stop. Toss the body in a Dumpster. Blow off a little steam and get back to the office in time for Coop’s report. He checked his watch and got up. He’d have to get going if he wanted to beat the traffic.
At Týden Divu, Babylon was looking a little more drunk and restless than Giselle liked. Time to move, she thought.
“So, Mr. Babylon. How much money are we actually talking about for the box?”
“One hundred million,” he said without missing a beat.
Bayliss sat back in her seat. Giselle gave her a light rap on the foot with her shoe.
“Considering everything you’ve told us about it, that sounds like a reasonable price,” she said. “But, unless you’re ready to accept a personal check, it will take us a day or so to put together that much cash.”
He smiled. “As lovely as you ladies are, yes, I’m strictly a cash man. When can you get your finances together?”
“How’s Friday?” said Bayliss.
Babylon gazed at his disgusting drink like he was trying to channel Jesus, not to turn his water to wine, but his Roy Rogers to gin. “That’s reasonable,” he said. “Let’s say ten o’clock in the evening at the Bonaventure Hotel? I have a room on perpetual reserve.”
“Perfect,” said Giselle. “Now, I noticed you eyeing the gaming tables earlier. Fancy a game of something? Our treat, of course.”
“Do you play roulette?” he said.
“No. Maybe you could teach us.”
“I’d be delighted.”
“I’ll settle up our drinks and meet you over there,” said Bayliss.
When Babylon was on his feet, Giselle offered him her arm. He took it and they headed for the roulette wheel. She prayed that Coop was already on the move. Even with all the risks, she was a little jealous of him. He got to play Indiana Jones while the DOPS had her on a budget. If Babylon sucked at roulette, she might have to dip into discretionary funds, and the paperwork on that was murder. Better to be digging through Laurel Canyon’s sewers with a ghost in your head than worrying about this particular kind of crap.