Still clutching the towel-wrapped skull beneath his arm, Francis walked across the weed-covered parking lot to what had been the Rubber Ducky Car Wash until the current recession had made people realize that their mileage was just as good with a dirty car. He approached the open concrete bay where filthy cars had had their offending grime washed away and peered inside.
He could feel that this was the right place and walked farther into the bay. Inside the cool space, he found a door, its glass window covered with cardboard. It had probably led to the manager’s office, but Francis sensed that at this particular moment there was something far different on the other side.
He tried the handle and found it locked. He gave it a bit of a jiggle and waited a few seconds before trying it again. The second time was a charm. The door opened with an ear-piercing squeak, and Francis
found himself looking down a long, stone corridor, at the end of which was another heavy wooden door with a red neon sign announcing METHUSELAH’S.
Francis strode down the hallway as the door to the car wash slammed closed behind him and was replaced by a wall of moist-looking rock. But he wasn’t looking at where he had been; he was thinking about where he was going. If there was any place where he could learn more about the creation whose head he carried, it would be Methuselah’s.
Placing a hand on the cold metal handle, he squeezed the latch and pushed the heavy wooden door open into the warmth of the bar. It was dark inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, and when they did, he found himself looking into the not-so-friendly face of the minotaur bouncer who charged toward him on cloven feet, horned head lowered menacingly.
“Phil, you ugly son of a bitch,” Francis exclaimed, reaching up to slap the creature’s thick skull between his ears and horns. “How the hell have you been?”
“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve walking through that door like you own the place,” Phil said, getting so close to Francis’ face that he could have easily reached up to give the gold ring hanging from the beast’s flaring nostrils a good yank.
The minotaur’s dark, animal eyes bored into the fallen Guardian’s, and Francis began to think that maybe he had made a mistake when the bull-man let out a barking laugh and pulled the fallen angel up into his thick, muscular arms.
“We all thought you were dead,” Phil cried, practically squeezing the life from Francis as he spun him around. “Hey, boss,” he called out, dropping Francis and turning toward the wooden bar across the room. “Look who it is.”
Francis watched the large stone man behind the bar drying a beer mug with a filthy rag.
“Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” Methuselah said. The expression on his stone face changed ever so slightly, but Francis knew he was smiling. “How are you, Francis?”
“I’m good,” the former Guardian said, strolling across the floor to the bar, Phil at his side.
“Didn’t I say he was still alive?” the minotaur said, throwing his powerful arm around Francis’ shoulders. “I said it would take a lot more than Tartarus going ass end over teakettle to put Francis down for the count.”
“You did say that,” Methuselah agreed, still drying the inside of the heavy glass mug.
“Nice to know that somebody’s got a little faith in me,” Francis said as he grabbed a stool and took a seat, placing the towel-wrapped skull atop the bar.
There were some strange-looking folks sitting on either side, and as he made brief eye contact with them, they decided they no longer wanted to sit at the bar and slunk off for the privacy of one of the many tables that littered the floor.
“Great to have you back, Francis.” Phil gave him one last hard slap on the shoulder before returning to his post at the front door.
“I never even knew he liked me,” Francis said to the stone man.
“He just about broke down in tears when he heard the rumors of your untimely demise,” Methuselah said, slinging the dirty towel over a broad shoulder. “What can I get you?”
“The usual would be nice.”
“Your buddy was in here not too long ago,” the bar’s owner said as he picked up a glass tumbler from beneath the bar and turned to a display of dusty old bottles behind him.
“Chandler?” Francis asked. “Yeah, he’s still got my key.”
“You don’t need a key.” Methuselah shook his head as he poured a drink for Francis. “You’ve got the all- access pass now.”
“And Phil loves me.”
“And Phil loves you,” Methuselah agreed, placing the drink in front of him. “Think that gets you a free appetizer once a month or something.”
“Sweet.” Francis took a large swig of the ancient Scotch. “Remind me of that the next time I’m in.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
They were silent then, the sounds of the bar-multiple voices conversing softly in myriad languages, forked tongues lapping eagerly at libations, the ghost of Roy Orbison singing from the vintage Wurlitzer jukebox at the far end of the establishment-reminding Francis that he’d been away for a while.
And how good it was to be back.
“More?” Methuselah held up the old bottle.
“You twisted my arm,” Francis said, pushing the tumbler toward him.
“So, you on the clock?” Methuselah asked, tipping the bottle’s golden contents into the empty glass.
“Not right now.”
“Looking for work? I got a few freelance gigs that could provide you with some nice shekels for one or two of those medieval playthings you like to collect,” the stone man said as he placed the glass stopper back into the bottle and passed the tumbler to Francis.
“Actually, I’m poking around for Chandler,” Francis said. “Got something I want to show you.”
“A free appetizer doesn’t make us that intimate,” Methuselah joked.
Francis smirked, sliding the wrapped skull toward the bartender. “I thought you might be able to tell me something about this.”
“What’s the Seraphim gotten himself involved with this time?” Methuselah asked, unwrapping the towel with thick stone fingers. “Holy shit,” he exclaimed, staring at the skull.
“Were my suspicions right?” Francis asked, taking a drink.
Methuselah picked up the skull and carefully ran his fingers over its rough surface. “Whoever’s responsible does exceptional work,” the barkeep said, his stone eyes scrutinizing the object in his great hands. “I’d love to see the rest of it.”
“Yeah, too bad it was destroyed in a fire of divine reckoning.”
“Hate when that happens,” Methuselah said, setting the skull down on the bar, gaze still riveted to it. “Where did you say it came from?”
“I didn’t,” Francis replied. “When it was whole, it and a few others attacked Chandler, but that’s pretty much all I know. It’s got something to do with a case he’s working on.”
“Doesn’t it always?”
“From your mouth to my ears.” Francis held up his glass in a toast. “From what I was told, it looked completely human.”
“You don’t say,” the stone man said. “If I had known this level of golem quality was out there somewhere, I’d have seriously been thinking of an upgrade.”
Methuselah was one of the oldest original human beings on the planet, but far too many years of wear and tear had caused his body to break down. Wanting to continue with the long-lived existence he’d grown accustomed to, the old man had decided to transplant his life force into the body of a golem.
He was the first person Francis had thought of upon seeing the stone skull Remy found.
“So it is a golem?” Francis asked.
“It’s a golem, all right,” Methuselah confirmed. “But it’s top-of-the-line.”
“I don’t suppose you have any idea who might be responsible for this little creation.”
Methuselah’s head and neck made a harsh grinding sound as he shook it. “I’d love to meet him, though,” he said. “Having my soul transferred into something like this would be like going from an Edsel to a Ferrari.”
“Know anybody who might be able to tell me more?” Francis asked. He swiveled on the barstool, looking out
