The Dirty Streets of Heaven

like me, staggering around in meat bodies all the time, living mostly in three dimensions.

Anyway, the minister was waiting for me and he didn’t stand on ceremony, either. I scarcely had time to get both my feet on the Outside ground before he started asking me questions. The first were the obvious ones, many of which I’d already answered for him-what had happened here earlier today, what had I seen, what had Grasswax said, and so on. But then he started asking me what happened after I left him, and about The Compasses crew, especially Sam and his new pup, Clarence, all of which made me a bit uncomfy. I answered everything as honestly as I could, of course: I don’t even know if it’s possible to lie to a minister at work, and I certainly wouldn’t try it under any remotely normal circumstances.

When the fixer had grilled me for what seemed like most of an hour he suddenly clammed up, then after a pause long enough that it seemed he might be conferring with someone else I couldn’t see, he said, “Come With Us.”

He led me along the side of the house, me walking (even Outside it’s hard to make a human body do anything but act like a normal body) and him sort of gliding in front of me like an upright floor polisher with no one holding the handle.

“What We Are About To Do Is Irregular, Angel Doloriel, But So Are The Circumstances,” he said. “Remember, You Will Give No Answer Until We Indicate You May Do So.” I had no idea what he was talking about since he’d already asked me dozens of questions. Then we stepped into the Outside version of the Walker back yard, and I got the shock of my afterlife. I definitely owed Clarence an apology.

See, normally what I’d told him was right-people like us don’t get killed, only our earthly bodies do; the Opposition is just as good as we are at plugging the disembodied soul into a new sack of meat, then voila! Instant resurrection! Like I said, I’ve been through it a few times myself, leaving a corpse behind each time. And here was Grasswax’s mortal body, the earthly flesh-and-blood version of him, lying beside the pool in a puddle of chlorinated water, covered with a police blanket. And normally that would have been all-just a defunct carcass, and the real Grasswax’s slimy but immortal soul off to the Opposition’s Tijuana-style tuck and roll body shop. But as I stood looking through the frame of a little ivy-covered arbor in Edward Walker’s backyard, I could also see the Other Side version of Grasswax-the real Grasswax, just like it’s the real Doloriel talking to you now- and what had happened to him was a lot less pretty than just drowning in a suburban pool. In fact, it was disgusting and horrifying.

The ancient Norsemen used to have a punishment for traitors called the Blood Eagle, where they chopped through a guy’s back ribs and pulled his lungs out through the holes to make bloody wings. That would have been an unpleasant way to go, but the bullyboys of Hell had an even better method they called the Bloody Net. I won’t go into details, but it has to do with carefully pulling out the victim’s nerve bundles and blood vessels with sharp tools-while he’s still alive, of course-then hanging him up by that network of shrieking tissue and dumping nasty little things called Nerve Chewers on him to gnaw on the exposed bits until the lucky fellow finally expires. I’d heard of it, but I have to admit I never dreamed it was real. I also don’t understand how you do that to someone’s supposedly immortal form, but damn me if these guys hadn’t managed.

The real Grasswax had been mostly reduced to fibers strung between two trees at opposite ends of the yard, a sagging, shiny red hammock. What was left of the most important bits-and remember, this was the real Grasswax, the Outside Grasswax-still hung there, and I will never forget the expression on the remains of his face. I had never felt sorry for a minion of Hell before, but I did then. Remember, there’s no time Outside-it might have taken him days or even weeks to die.

“Shit,” I said quietly. The minster was standing behind me, staring imperturbably at the ghastly mess as though he saw worse all the time. Maybe he did, and if so, I was definitely scratching “fixer” off my list of potential career moves.

“Remember What We Told You,” the angelic thing with the white mask told me. “Answer Each Question Only After We Give Permission.”

I barely registered what he was saying because at that moment something very tall and unpleasant tottered out of the Walker house. It was dull, shiny black all over, like a beetle’s shell, and trailed sticky black fibers from every limb. It had quite a few limbs. Its eyes looked like clots of blood illuminated from inside. I was assuming they were eyes, because they were side by side in the lump on the top of its body. Basically, it was altogether ghastly, the more so because every now and then it moved in an almost human way. Almost.

“Thizzz izzz the advoc-c-c-cate Doloriel?” it asked. If you recorded a shrieking chain saw, and then slowed it down until it sounded like it was playing through syrup, you’d have the voice, pretty much. The buzzing got into my bones and guts; just standing next to it made my stomach try to climb up my esophagus and flee the vicinity-I mean, it felt bad. This was no ordinary employee of Hell.

“Yes, Chancellor.” The minister said it politely, but I don’t think he liked being outranked by the Opposition. “We Are Pleased To Cooperate In Your Investigation. You May Ask Your Questions.” The minister’s voice floated into my thoughts. “This is Chancellor Urgulap of the Second Hierarchy. He is investigating the murder of Prosecutor Grasswax. We are extending him a professional courtesy.”

I don’t remember much of what the buzzing thing asked me, to be honest-just standing in front of it was one of the most unpleasant things I’d ever experienced (and I’ve seen a lot of nasty). Most of the questions seemed fairly ordinary, though, not that different from what the minister had just asked me. I looked to the fixer each time before I answered, and each time he gave me a little mental nudge that meant, “Yes, you may.” It was only after one question that he seemed reluctant to give his permission.

“And have you zzzzzpok-k-ken to any of your masterzzz or comradzzz about thizz matter?”

The heavenly minister hesitated at this one-I could feel it. He relented a moment later, but now I was a little spooked. I didn’t want to drop anyone else into danger, certainly not Sam or even his rookie tagalong. “Not really. Just my supervisor, Temuel.” After all, it would have been weird if I hadn’t discussed it with the Mule, and it sure wasn’t my job to protect middle management.

The chancellor stared at me with those squashed neon berries as if sensing my incomplete honesty. At last it turned and limped away. It must have opened a Zipper but I never saw it. One moment the Chancellor was there, a thing like a giant, melted bug standing upright on the patio beside the pool, then it was just gone. I can’t begin to describe the physical relief that came with its absence.

“Thank You For Your Assistance, Angel Doloriel,” the masked fixer said. “As You See, We Are Cooperating With The Opposition In All Ways Possible In This Matter. If Anyone Else Contacts You About This, Or In Any Way Shows Inappropriate Interest, You Will Immediately Alert Us. God Loves You. You May Go.”

And go I did. After all, Grasswax’s hideously mangled form was still hanging between the trees, the sightless eyes watching me with what seemed like disappointment.

Don’t know what you were expecting from me, Brother Demon, I thought as I stepped back into the world of time. I don’t want anything to do with the heavy hitters, either my side’s or yours.

Before I got to the Walker house I had been pretty certain I would drop by The Compasses on my way back, but now I felt unsettled right down to the soles of my feet, and I just wanted to go home and bathe myself in holy water. Since I didn’t have any holy water, vodka would have to serve, and the bath would have to be on the inside rather than the outside. I kept a bottle of 42 Below in the freezer for just these kinds of spiritual emergencies.

Monica had left a message on my phone wanting to know how things had gone, and I also had a reminder from Sam that we were getting together after work tomorrow for our monthly dinner (an old custom of ours I’ll tell you about another time) but I didn’t really want to talk to anyone. I wanted to get quickly and quietly blotto because I felt like a garage full of car alarms right after a major earthquake.

When I got through the door of my apartment I pulled out the vodka, cracked the cap, then poured myself a couple of fingers in a glass and put on some Miles as thinking music. As “So What” began to curl around my living room like cigarette smoke I took a fiercely cold swallow and tried to make sense out of everything that had happened in the last day, from the unprecedented absence of Edward Walker’s soul to the sudden passing of