WHEN HE FINALLY REACHED LOS ANGELES, THE stranger took out his guidebook and walked to Griffith Park. Once inside the park grounds, he headed for a particular sycamore tree. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he picked up a stick and wandered the trails, peeking and probing under the bushes. Nothing. He went up another trail, past the observatory and the tourists taking selfies with the hazy city in the background.
Redecorating, he thought. That’s all this place needs.
Eventually, he reached the abandoned zoo. In a long-disused tiger cage, the stranger found an old sleeping bag, but nothing else. He couldn’t even smell anything. All the familiar scents were masked by the smog, the musk of long-gone animals, and the sweat of everyone else who, over the years, had used the zoo as an open-air squat. The stranger took out the guidebook and scanned the park map looking for other likely sites.
As he trudged up a long trail that wound higher into the park, a young couple strolled past him coming the other way. They were radiant. The woman was in a light summer dress and the man was in a blue polo shirt and white designer slacks. L.A. elites. Graceful and glowing in their beauty and privilege. The stranger barely glanced at them. His mind was somewhere else, rearranging buildings. That’s why he started a little when the couple approached him.
“Hi. I’m Darla and this is my husband, Christopher,” said the woman. “I was wondering, do you know the way to the Hollywood Wax Museum?”
The stranger shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m not from around here.”
“Oh. I saw you had a guidebook and thought you might know,” said Darla.
The stranger held the book out to her. “You’re welcome to look if you like.”
“That’s the problem,” said Christopher. “We lost our bags and both of our sets of reading glasses were in them. If it’s not too much trouble, could you look it up for us? Thanks.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your bags. Of course I can help. There’s a wax museum around here? I might have to visit there myself before I’m done.”
Darla gave him a sunny smile. “Oh. Are you here on business?”
The stranger thumbed through the guidebook. “Very much,” he said.
“What kind?” said Christopher.
Darla leaned in. “The reason my husband asks is that you don’t look much like a businessman. More like a fucking bum.”
The stranger looked up. “Do I really?”
“In that filthy coat and shitty shoes? What are you? A junkie? A dealer? Both?” said Christopher.
“I didn’t think my coat was that dirty.”
“Filthy,” said Darla. She cocked her head and looked at him. “Nothing at all like what an actual businessman would wear.”
“Thank you. I’ll have to do something about that,” said the stranger. He flipped to the guidebook’s index. “Now, it was the wax museum you wanted . . .”
Christopher pulled a switchblade from his pocket, snicked it open, and took a step toward him. “Fuck the museum. I know a dirty dealer when I see one. How much are you carrying? Empty your pockets. I want all of it.”
“You don’t need the knife,” said the stranger. He dropped the guidebook and put up his hands. “You can have all of it.” He closed them and when he opened his hands again, gold poured out onto the ground.
“Damn,” said Christopher dismally.
“Fuck me,” said Darla miserably.
The stranger took the knife from Christopher’s hand, broke it in two, and threw the pieces into the bushes. “Is this how you spend your days? Show me your real faces.”
“We can’t,” said Leviathan, his Christopher face turning red with embarrassment.
“We can change our bodies a little, but the only thing real we can show are our teeth bits. Because they scare mortals so much,” said Beelzebub. She grinned, showing hideous gray choppers.
“Wars. Murder. Famine. Cancer. And your contribution to Lucifer’s cause is shaking down hobos?” said the stranger.
“And tourists,” said Leviathan.
“And priests,” said Beelzebub. “And librarians. And bus drivers. And that rude counterman at the tapas place on Fairfax. What was it called?”
“Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue,” said Leviathan.
“Hush,” said the stranger, and they both hushed very quickly.
Beelzebub looked at the ground, dragging her gorgeous white shoes through the debris on the trail. “We do diseases, too, sometimes. Leviathan has tuberculosis.”
“And I cough a lot in crowds.” He put a hand to his mouth and coughed violently a few times. When he was done he looked at the stranger like a mutt that had just learned to fetch.
“Do you really have tuberculosis?” said the stranger.
Leviathan shrugged and put his hands in his pockets. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.” An old couple went past them on the trail, heading up the hill. The stranger stopped talking to let them pass. The old woman smiled to him as they went by. He smiled back, curious where they were going.
The stranger turned his attention back to the miscreants. “The real question I have is ‘What am I going to do with you?’ Let you go to continue with your pathetic attempts at mayhem—”
“Yes. You should do that,” said Leviathan.
“Or do I drop the whole park into a fault line? Or just you two? I don’t imagine those bodies you’re stuck in would react well to magma.”
“Please don’t,” said Beelzebub. “We’ll be in so much trouble.”
“Plus, it would hurt a lot,” said Leviathan.
“Help me and I’ll let you go,” said the stranger. “You know what I want.”
Leviathan and Beelzebub pointed in different directions and talked at the same time.
“We just saw him . . .”
“The other day . . .”
“He didn’t look so good . . .”
“But Qaphsiel was closing in on the box.”
“Stop,” said the stranger. “The box?”
“Yes,” said Beelzebub. “He knew sort of where it was.”
“Sort of?”
“Yes. He was still looking, but was certain he was going to find it.”
“Finally,” said Leviathan, chuckling. “What a boob, right?” When the stranger didn’t chuckle back he stopped abruptly.
“Did he say this to you directly?”
Leviathan and Beelzebub looked away.
“No,” said Beelzebub. “We more or less inferred.”
“Body language and all that,” said Leviathan.
“Psychology.”
“But he didn’t actually tell you that he knew where the box was?”
“No,” said Leviathan. “But he had the map and was studying some buildings on it.”
“And he was more manic than usual,” said Beelzebub. “Believe me. We’ve been keeping an eye on him and he was excited about something.”
“Where is he now?”
“Um . . .” said Leviathan.
“Yeah,” said Beelzebub. “As the mortals say, we kind of dropped the ball on that.”
The stranger put his hand on Leviathan’s shoulder and squeezed. Bones cracked. “You lost him?”
Leviathan spoke through very large, pointed, gritted teeth. “There was a Christian publishing convention in town. So many souls to tempt and corrupt.”
“What he’s saying is that we got a little distracted,” said Beelzebub.
The stranger let go. Leviathan grimaced and shook the broken bones in his shoulder back into place. “Ow.”
“All right. Listen to me,” said the stranger. “You find Qaphsiel. If he has the box, let me know. If he’s close to the box, let me know. But don’t get involved with getting the box yourselves. That’s his task. Let him do it.”
“Of course,” said Leviathan.
“We’d be delighted,” said Beelzebub.
“Now get out of my sight,” said the stranger.
Leviathan and Beelzebub transformed back into their attractive human forms and walked quickly down the hill.
“Thank you,” said Beelzebub.
“Yes. Thanks,” said Leviathan.
“We’re ever so grateful.”
“Really. We really appreciate—”
“Go!” bellowed the stranger.
The fallen angels ran down the hill, slipping and sliding in their expensive shoes, grabbing each other to keep themselves from falling. The stranger couldn’t deal with them anymore. With the stupidity of this world. He walked up the hill in the direction the old couple had taken.
Eventually, he reached a picnic area crowded with families. Parents. Children. Pets. The noise, smells, and messy clamor of humanity. The stranger stood off to the side, taking in the spectacle. Husbands staring at other men’s wives. Wives staring daggers at their husbands. Children screaming, running wild. The stranger was delighted. He counted the sins, ran them through a mental calculator and shook his head.
Redecoration.
Of course, it wasn’t entirely their fault, he thought. They were mortals. Simpletons. But after his encounter with Leviathan and Beelzebub, the place was becoming all a bit much. His mood and expression curdled. He imagined fault lines. Wildfires. Freak tornadoes.
A young girl in a blue dress, about five, ran by chasing balloons. Her eyes were red and her face was streaked where tears had mingled with dirt. She picked up her balloons from the bushes where they’d blown and cried even harder. The stranger could see that they were knotted together, a rubbery tangle of colors and shapes. The little girl saw him staring and dragged her balloons to him.
The stranger heard a man’s voice calling to the girl. “Carly. Come away from the strange man, honey.” The stranger looked over and saw a short man with thinning hair. Sure. Let your children run wild, he thought. Run right to a stranger who could make it rain brimstone and ice down on all of you.
The young girl held up her balloons.
“It popped,” she said. “See? Right in the middle.”
He knelt and looked at the knotted mess. The balloons were wound around each other to resemble some sort of dog, but the dog’s torso had a hole in the side. The stranger looked at the father. The father started over.
“Carly. Come to Daddy, honey.”
The stranger took the balloons from the girl and held them up to his lips. Then he blew across them. The dog’s body slowly inflated. The girl’s red eyes grew wide. The stranger put the dog on the ground just as the father reached them. Before he could grab the child, the stranger let go of the balloon dog. It ran a few steps, turned, and barked at the little girl. When she went over to it, the dog jumped into her arms, barking excitedly.
“Thank you! Thank you!” the little girl shouted and waved to him.
The stranger nodded. “You’re welcome.”
The girl set the dog on the ground. It bounded away and she laughed as she chased after it. When the stranger looked up, the father was standing a few feet away, his hands balled into fists. But he didn’t look the least bit dangerous. He watched his daughter running after her new pet.
“How did you do that?” said the father.
“Your daughter is very polite,” said the stranger. “But you don’t spend enough time with her.”
The father turned to him. “Excuse me?”
“I can tell these things. Time flies. People grow old. Worlds end.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
The stranger went to the father and spoke very quietly. “It’s not too late to stop being an asshole. Almost. But you have a little time left.”
The father stepped back and took out his phone. “If you don’t leave right now I’m going to call a cop.”
“Time management. It’s the key to the universe,” said the stranger. He laughed and went back down the hill listening to the happy sounds of the girl and her new dog.
At about ten in the morning, Coop awoke from weird dreams. The spiders were still there. Dozens of them. But now, some of them looked like Salzman and some like Nelson, Woolrich, and Mr. Lemmy. Others resembled the prison warden at Surf City, Mr. Babylon, the tentacled twins from the DOPS, the gill people from Jinx Town, the fanged Vin Mariani girl, and all the werewolves that had chased him and Giselle out of the bar. The spider people all had on little top hats and tap shoes, and carried tiny canes. They did a complicated dance routine on their web to the tune of “Singin’ in the Rain.” The worst part was that they were pretty good. Yes, the spiders’ voices were a little high and grating, but it was a lavish production number, with a band and lights and cannons shooting confetti at the end. In his dream, Coop couldn’t help but applaud, and he woke up in bed clapping. So much for sleep. He got up and put on coffee.
There was a knock on the front door exactly at noon. When Coop opened it, Bayliss stood there, her expression a bit happy, a bit surprised, and a bit puzzled. “You’re here,” she said.
“I said I would be.”
“I know. I just wasn’t sure.”
Coop stepped out of the way so she could come in. “You want anything?” he said. “Coffee? A drink?”
Coop motioned to the sofa and she sat down. “I’m fine, thanks.” She looked around the apartment like she was a paleontologist trying to put a mammoth together from teeth and a couple of toe bones.
“Did you hear about the big earthquake?”
“Here?”
“No. San Francisco.”
“Fuck San Francisco. L.A. is where the world is going to end. Not up in kale country.”
“I guess you’re right.”
When Coop looked over, he saw her examining the place with her eyes. “It’s not my place. It’s Morty’s,” he said.
“That makes more sense. It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting your place to look like.”
Coop poured himself a cup of coffee. “And what would my place look like?”
“I’m not sure,” said Bayliss, a look of distress creeping across her face. “A little . . . darker?”
“Why do people keep saying stuff like that? I’m a cheerful guy. Look, this mug says ‘World’s Best Crook.’ That’s fun, right?”
Bayliss looked at the mug and shook her head. She said, “I think it’s a little bit sad in a way.”
Coop held up his free hand. “Okay. I’m not happy-go-lucky. But trust me, I’m goddamn delightful to be around when I’m not being thrown into vans and strange men aren’t going to make my friends into cat food.”
“I understand entirely. Actually, I don’t. No one’s ever kidnapped any of my friends. Not that I know of. No one’s ever brought it up.”
“Then probably no one’s kidnapped them.”
“Probably not,” said Bayliss. She clapped her hands on her knees. “So, what are we doing? How is all this going to work?”
Coop leaned against the counter and sipped his coffee. “Here’s the situation: a whole lot of people want the box, but we only have one, so we’re going to have to be smart. At least smarter than them, which, considering some of this crowd, isn’t going to be that hard.”
“How many is a whole lot of people?”
Coop thought for a second. “Three principal people that I know of. Plus, of course, their backup goons. Then there’s various other clowns who may or may not know about us yet. Basically, a lot of people.”
Bayliss frowned. The scenario didn’t seem to go down well with her. “What are we going to do?”
Coop set down his coffee and said, “Lie to all of them and hope we get away with it.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”
“It isn’t. That’s why it has a chance of working. With this many people involved, you don’t want to overcomplicate it. Come on, you must do this stuff all the time at the DOPS.”
Bayliss shook her head. “I mostly do surveillance. Data gathering. That sort of thing.”
“Now you get to do something else. You’ll love it.”
Bayliss brightened. “You think so?”
“No,” said Coop. “It’s terrifying. You’re going to hate it. So am I. We’re going to have to be fast on our feet, but if you listen to me, we have a better than fifty percent chance of getting out alive.”
“That much?” said Bayliss. She frowned again.“I should have worn flats.”
“You sure you don’t want a drink?” said Coop.
“I’m fine.”
“You relax. I’m going to make some calls.”
“May I see the box?” said Bayliss.
Coop pointed. “It’s right on the kitchen counter.”
“You didn’t think to hide it?”
“It’s next to the whiskey. There is no safer place in the apartment.”
Bayliss went over and picked the box up. “I wonder what’s really inside?”
“On the bright side it’s full of jelly beans, but probably it’s full of spiders.”
“Not everything is full of spiders.”
“Enough are, so why take chances?”
Bayliss set the box down. “Okay. Let’s do it.”
“I’ve got to make some calls to get things going,” said Coop.
“I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
Coop picked up his phone and dialed. “Mr. Lemmy?” he said.
“Speaking.”
“This is Coop. Morty’s friend. You know, the bum.”
“I know who it is, shit pile,” said Mr. Lemmy. “You’re the only one with this number. What do you want? You have my box?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Fast,” said Mr. Lemmy. He actually sounded less furious for a second. “See what happens when you’re motivated? Okay. Bring it by my place. Here’s the address—”
“I don’t want your address. If you want the box you’ll meet me at my address.”
“Don’t fuck with me, ball sac,” said Mr. Lemmy, his voice sliding back to barely controlled rage.
“I’m not meeting you someplace you can bump us both off,” said Coop. “We’re going someplace public and then everyone’s going home happy. If you want the box, that’s the only way it’s going to happen.”
He could hear Mr. Lemmy’s breath on the line. He sounded like a tiger with heartburn. Coop waited, worried. Everything depended on the players saying yes.
“Okay, smart-ass,” said Mr. Lemmy. “But remember that I’ve got your friend. You fuck with me and being in public isn’t going to save you or your schmuck friend.”
“We’re meeting tomorrow at eight. Here’s how to get there. It’s a little tricky, so you’re going to want to write it down. People call it Jinx Town. Ever hear of it?”
“Oh, God. This isn’t some fruit bar, is it?” said Mr. Lemmy.
“Don’t worry. Your virtue will be safe. You have a pen? Here are the directions,” said Coop. He told Mr. Lemmy about the star on the Walk of Fame. There wasn’t any real reply. Just a dry laugh on the other end of the phone before the line went dead.
“How’d it go?” said Bayliss.
“Like if the phone was any bigger he would have reached through and ripped out my heart.”
“Nelson sounds like that when he calls me sometimes.”
“He’s a little ray of sunshine, your partner.”
“I look at him as my last training test. Can I work with him long enough without shooting him to get a promotion?”
Coop went and poured more coffee. “Why, Agent Bayliss, I’m shocked to hear you harbor such hostile intentions toward a fellow agent.”
“Not intentions. Just something I think about when blowing out my birthday candles,” said Bayliss. She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Who’s next?”
“Did you get Salzman’s number?”
Bayliss took a slip of paper from her shoulder bag and handed it to Coop. He dialed. Someone answered but didn’t say anything. “Hi, Salzman. It’s Coop. Remember me?”
“How did you get this number?” Salzman said. His voice was cold enough to give an iceberg pneumonia.
“From Bayliss. She’s with me right now. Want to say hi?”
Bayliss shot him a panicked look. Coop waved to her that it was all right.
“What do you want?”
“I have your box,” said Coop.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. And by the way, you owe the DOPS a new microwave.”
There was a long pause before Salzman said, “How did you find it?”
“I was heating up a Hot Pocket and out it came.”
“You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m sure of you. You want the box.”
“Which brings us back to the original question: What do you want?”
“A million dollars.”
Coop heard him chuckle. “Naturally. And I bet you’d like a pony for your birthday. I don’t have a million dollars.”
“You have all kinds of shady connections. Get it. By tomorrow.”
“Where and when?”
“Eight o’clock. Jinx Town. The top dark floor.”
“I think I’ve changed my mind. Put Bayliss on.”
“Sorry. She went out for ice cream. I like pistachio. What kind do mooks eat?”
“Put Bayliss on or kiss your million dollars good-bye.”
Shit.
“Hold on.” Coop held out the phone to Bayliss. “He wants to talk to you.”
She took the phone and spoke softly. “Hello? Yes. We really have it. Yes. I’m the one who gave it to him.” Bayliss didn’t say anything more. She just listened and turned very pale. In a minute, she handed the phone back to Coop.
“You okay?” he said.
“Fine. Can I have a glass of water?”
“What did he say?”
“I’d rather not go into it.”
“Okay.”
Bayliss sat at the kitchen counter. “What exactly is a Tijuana necktie?”
Coop went to the kitchen to get her water. “It’s something you wear when you buy a piñata,” he said.
He brought out the water and handed it to her. “I think you’re lying,” said Bayliss.
“Maybe I’ll get you a real drink. Just a little one,” said Coop.
“Maybe that’s a good idea. How many more calls are there?”
“Just two. You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to be.”
“No,” said Bayliss. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not be alone for a while.”
“I can order us a pizza.”
“That would be nice.”
“It’s not very good pizza.”
“Then I’ll have another drink with it to kill the taste.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Coop called and ordered an extra large with pepperoni and mushrooms. Then he dialed the number he’d been given by the jackass who said he had Giselle. He waited to make this call so he had a chance to get his thoughts and temper under control before making it. The phone rang and went straight to voice mail. Giselle’s voice telling him to leave a message was a queasy noise in his ear. When the line clicked he said, “This is Coop. I have the box. I’ll give it back to you in Jinx Town. Eight o’clock tomorrow. Top dark floor. Giselle knows how to get there. Don’t be late.”
He hung up and sat down. “Now I need a drink,” he said.
Coop poured bourbon into his lukewarm coffee and reheated it. He and Bayliss drank in silence for a few minutes. Coop put Singin’ in the Rain in the DVD player and turned the sound off. Bayliss watched, sipping her drink. The pizza arrived and Coop brought in plates for them.
“You feeling better?” he said.
Bayliss nodded. “I’m fine. I was just caught a little off guard. More than ever, I’m looking forward to seeing this through.”
“Me, too.”
Bayliss looked past Coop to the TV. “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a fan of musicals.”
“I’m not,” he said.
“Then why . . . ?”
“Don’t ask or I’ll tell you and spoil your pizza.”
“I might need another drink before I go.”
“Me, too.”
Coop picked up his phone and dialed another number. Sally Gifford picked up.
“Hey, Coop. What’s shaking? You ever get laid?”
“Hi, Sally. As a matter of fact I did, but what I’m really calling about is a job.”
“What a busy beaver you are these days. Tell me about it. How much are we going to get?”
“Here’s the good news,” he said brightly. “There’s absolutely no money in it.”
“Huh,” said Sally. “It sounds like you said no money. What aren’t you telling me, Coop?”
“I need your help. Someone took Morty and Giselle, and won’t give them back.”
“Wait. That chick who dumped you? Who would kidnap Morty?”
“Very bad people who’ll get even worse if you don’t help me.”
He heard Sally sigh. “I don’t know, Coop. It sounds like maybe you’re talking about a gun situation. I like you and I like Morty, but I like my body, too, and I try to avoid things that are going to put holes in it.”
“It’s not just about Morty,” said Coop. “The truth is, if this doesn’t work, we’re all going down. You, me, Morty, Giselle, Tintin, and even that little cat of yours.”
“My cat?” said Sally.
“I’m afraid so. But now here’s the good news. If we do this job, even if there’s no money, we get to fuck over a lot of rich and important people.”
There was a second of silence on the line, then “Cool,” said Sally. “I’m in,” an edge creeping into her voice. “Nobody threatens Purr J. Harvey.”
“Great. Come by around five and I’ll tell you the whole weird story.”
“Not at that shitty bar you like.”
“No. Come by Morty’s place.”
“See you then.”
“Was that one of your criminal friends?” said Bayliss.
“Yeah. You’ll like her,” said Coop. “She shot her partner once, too.”
Bayliss coughed, choking on her pizza. “She shot someone?”
“Don’t worry. She didn’t kill him. He got a little handsy with her, so she put a forty-four pistol to his balls and pulled the trigger.”
Bayliss swallowed. “What happened to him?”
“The gun just went click. Sally’s a polite person and always keeps the first chamber empty for moments like that,” said Coop. “I’m not saying you should do anything like that to Nelson, but I’m just putting it out there as food for thought.”
Bayliss set down her pizza. “Trust me. If I ever pull my gun on Nelson, it’s going to do more than click.”
“You’re going to do just fine tomorrow. You’ve got more crook in you than you know.”
Bayliss smiled. “Thanks.”
“To be fair, I feel that about every cop.”
“I assumed.”
After Mr. Lemmy hung up, he looked at his men lounging around his office, drinking his booze and coffee. They really pissed him off right then. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with this shit. That’s these monkeys’ job, he thought. But then, they didn’t know what the job was. Still. All he did was feed them, give them money, and listen to them belch and brag about girls. It wasn’t dignified. He wondered if he should have listened to his father and gone into the family snow globe business. He remembered how the biggest decision his father ever had to make was whether to stick to traditional plastic snow in his globes or switch to glitter. Mr. Lemmy sighed. I’d like to stick this bunch in a big goddamn snow globe and shake some sense into them, he thought.
“Here’s the thing,” said Mr. Lemmy to his men. “This Coop creep wants to meet someplace called Jinx Town. Anybody ever heard of it?”
“I have,” said Baker. His father had been a butcher. That always amused Mr. Lemmy. A butcher named Baker. It wasn’t much of a joke, but at shitty times like this you had to appreciate the little things.
Baker went on. “It’s supposed to be a bad place, boss. Full of crazy people and weird things.”
“What does that even mean, ‘crazy people and weird things’? Speak fucking English.” It’s like pulling teeth with these morons.
Baker blushed a little and looked at Mr. Lemmy’s other heavies. “People into all kind of dark stuff. Magic. Voodoo. And there’s supposed to be, I guess the only word for it is monsters.”
“Monsters.”
“You know. Vampires and shit.”
The men laughed and Mr. Lemmy stared at him. “You really believe that shit?”
“Lots of people have talked about it,” said Baker. “Even my grandma. And she heard about it from her grandma.”
Mr. Lemmy closed his eyes for a minute, picturing bloody snow globes. “It’s a fucking fairy tale. The bogeyman,” he said. “Something to keep you in line. Guess that didn’t work out so well, you crooked prick?”
The men laughed and shook their heads.
“If it’s okay with you I’m going to bring some garlic,” said Baker.
Mr. Lemmy dropped his hands to his sides. “Bring a whole fucking salad for all I care. Just bring your gun, too. Because Coop and the guy in the other room? Both of those Mouseketeers are going to die.”
Steve checked Giselle’s voice mail and his blood pressure shot up like a Saturn V, but he didn’t want to let the rest of the congregation see. Still, it wasn’t the kind of thing he could let pass entirely. “That Coop jerked called,” he said. “And he hung up again.”
“Of course he hung up,” said Susie.
“No. I mean aggressively. Like he doesn’t take any of this seriously.”
He turned to Jorge. “How’s the boar coming?”
“Real good. He’ll be ready later tonight.”
“Good. Because Coop wants to meet tomorrow night.”
“How late? Cause I have jury duty in the morning,” said Janet.
“And I have to take my mom to the airport,” said someone from the back. Others muttered.
“Fine,” said Steve. “You don’t get to be there for this final battle. In fact, the only people going are me, Jorge, Jerry, and Tommy.”
“Me? Why me? You ditched me the other night,” said Tommy.
“And now we’ll make up for it,” said Steve. “You get to be our point man.”
“What’s a point man?” said Tommy.
“It’s a basketball thing,” said Janet.
“That’s a point guard, I think,” said Susie.
“They’re playing basketball for the summoning box?” said someone in the back.
“I’ll come. I played varsity in high school. Until I blew my knee out,” said Freddy, one of Steve’s plaster men.
“We’re not playing basketball. Tommy is going to lead the charge,” said Steve.
“I feel sick,” said Tommy.
“Just make sure you don’t have to pee tomorrow. We’re going somewhere called ‘the dark floor’ in a place called Jinx Town.”
“See! I told you it was real,” said Jerry.
“We’ll see.”
“Should we bring flashlights?” said Jorge.
“We’ll have the boar. The boar won’t need a flashlight. Tomorrow is zero day, people. We’re going to get the box and bring our lord back to Earth,” said Steve. “Hail Caleximus.”
“Hail Caleximus!” shouted the congregation.
Tommy made a sound like someone stepping on a puppy’s tail and bolted out of the trailer.
“Will someone go and get that idiot?” said Steve.
A few hours later, when he was home safe in his bedroom, Tommy dialed a number. He barely spoke above a whisper. “Hello?”
“Hello. Who is this?” said the Magister.
“It’s me.”
“Speak up. You sound like you’re talking through a goose’s ass.”
“It’s me, High Dark One.”
“Dark High One.”
“Sorry. It’s me. Carol,” said Tommy.
“Carol. Do you have news for me?”
“Yeah. It happens tomorrow night at a place called Jinx Town.”
“Junk Town? What is that? Like Walmart?”
“Jinx. Jinx Town.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard of it. Lord Abaddon will smile on you for this, Carol.”
“You’ve got to get me out of here,” said Tommy, his voice cracking.
“Of course. Listen. When I give the signal, you forget everything and run to us.”
“What’s the signal?”
“‘Marvin Hamlisch banana sandwich.’ You might want to write that down so you don’t forget.”
“No. I’m pretty sure I can remember that.”
“Good girl. We’ll see you tomorrow night. Soon, Lord Abaddon will drown the world, saving only us, his true believers.”
“And me, too.”
“Of course, Carol dear,” said the Magister.
“Okay,” said Tommy, “I’ve got to go. Good night, Dark High One.”
“It’s High Dark One. No, wait. You got it right. How about that?” No one replied. Tommy was gone. The Magister dialed Adept Six.
“How is Fluffy doing?” he said.
“He’s hungry,” said the adept.
“Good. Keep him that way. His first meal will be the Caleximus traitor.”
“Yes, Dark High One.”
The Magister’s stomach rumbled. “Do we have any shrimp left?”
Adept Six shouted something, then came back to the phone. “I’m afraid they went bad and we had to throw them out.”
“Damn. I can’t wait to be done with this awful planet.”
“Should I send up some cod?”
“No,” said the Magister. “My show is coming on.”
“Show, Dark High One?”
Crap, thought the Magister. “Shoes. I’m putting my shoes on.”
“Of course.”
“Send some cod up in an hour,” the Magister said. “Then I’ll come down and pay my respects to Fluffy.”
“Be sure to wash your hands well. Fluffy likes cod.”
“Are you saying I’m unhygienic?”
“No, Dark High One. My apologies. It’s just that being this hungry, Fluffy has a tendency to bite.”
The Magister went across the room and uncovered the TV. His back twinged when he bent over.
“Now I’m annoyed,” said the Magister. “Send up the cod now, but leave it outside the door.” He hung up, not waiting for Adept Six to say good-bye.
He tuned in to The Price Is Right and even turned up the volume a little. It was a special occasion. This might be the last showcase I ever see, he thought. It better be a good one.
“Privyet.”
“It’s me,” said Salzman. “There’s been a complication.”
“What kind of complicated?” said Zavulon.
Salzman had to take a second. The Russian’s dubious accent was really starting to get to him. “The box has fallen into criminal hands. I’m going to need some help to get it back.”
“What kind of help you need?”
“How about some of those armored troglodytes of yours?” Salzman said.
“No problem. I will come, too.”
“That’s not necessary. It might be dangerous.”
“Good. I’m too long away from dangerous,” said Zavulon.
“All right. The rendezvous is at eight tomorrow night. I’ll come by your hotel at six thirty. Be ready.”
“We’ll be armored to the mouth.”
“Teeth. Armed to the teeth,” said Salzman.
“Spasibo.”
“Until tomorrow.”
Salzman poured himself a drink and wondered which one he should murder first. Eventually, he concluded that it should be the Russian. Coop was a nuisance, but that goddamn accent, he thought. If he wasn’t dead already, he might have to kill himself rather than ever hear Zavulon again.
Qaphsiel slept, despondent, on the top of the Griffith Park Observatory, his keen ears hearing the voices of people passing in the city below and hobos having sex in the bushes. Another perfect night, he thought. How many had there been in four thousand years? He started to add them up, but all the zeroes just made him even more depressed.
The box had seemed so close earlier, but Coop didn’t have it and wouldn’t look for it. Worse even than that, the map had stopped working again. And here he was, with nowhere to go and nothing to do but wander the city like all the lost screenwriters, failed directors, and stoned guitarists who’d come to L.A. with high hopes, only to be crushed under its giant, Technicolor, open-toe boots.
To cheer himself up, Qaphsiel tried to remember even worse times. There was that incident during the Inquisition when a Spanish priest tried burning him at the stake. Of course, angels don’t burn and neither do angelic maps. Unfortunately, his mortal clothes did, and it was quite embarrassing at a church in the thirteenth century. Qaphsiel had to wrap himself in the map like a sarong until he could find suitable attire again.
And there was that time on the Titanic. He had felt he was very close to the box then. In fact, he was certain that one of the well-heeled families on board had it. Then there was the iceberg and he wasn’t able to make it into any of the lifeboats. Qaphsiel sank to the bottom of the Atlantic with fifteen hundred other people. The difference between him and the others was that he didn’t drown. However, by the time he hit bottom, he was so waterlogged he wouldn’t float. He was forced to walk across the bottom of the ocean to land, trying not to think bad thoughts about you-know-who, God’s show-off son. That guy could have roller-skated the whole way to England. But no, Qaphsiel had to trudge through the silt the whole way, fighting off giant squid, confused sharks, and amorous merpeople. It took him weeks, and when he made it back to land and checked the map, he found that he’d been wrong the whole time. The box was back in America. For a fleeting moment, Qaphsiel considered walking back across the ocean bottom, but he’d had quite enough of that.
When he looked back on it, he wondered if it was the freezing ocean stroll that caused the map to malfunction in the first place. It took Qaphsiel weeks to make it back to America, a stowaway in the belly of a tramp steamer, the map stuttering and sizzling the whole way. He gave up and slept most of the way across the Atlantic. Once in New York, the map behaved for a while, and he started west, sometimes buying his passage with gold and sometimes riding the rails. He was very lonely. By the time Qaphsiel reached California, things seemed to be looking up. That was over a hundred years ago. And now that he was so close . . . of course the map had gone completely dark. Really, it was too much. He might spend the next hundred years on top of the observatory, refusing to get down and hunt for the stupid thing. How would Heaven like those apples? But he wasn’t going to do that. Qaphsiel was a good angel and not programmed for long-term tantrums. He’d start looking again in the morning. Maybe he’d get hit by another car. His leg still hurt from the last one, but the map had worked for a while. Maybe getting hit by a bus would make it work longer. That felt like the first good idea he’d had in a century. Tomorrow, he’d let a bus run him down and then check the map. In his sleepy state, the logic seemed flawless.
At that happy thought, Qaphsiel felt a small vibration in his pocket. He rolled over and took out the map. The stars and the landscape of the world were laid out before him, glowing and streaking with life and power. The map was working again. He wondered if someone upstairs had heard his misery and was throwing him a bone.
Qaphsiel studied the map and saw, dead center, something that pulsed and glowed. It was like a sun, but wasn’t. It was his prize. It moved slowly, a shooting star that hadn’t quite made it to its destination. All Qaphsiel had to do was watch and wait. This was it. This was the sign. Tomorrow, the box would be his. He clutched the map to his chest and lay back down, falling into a deep and happy sleep. He was finally going home.