rivaled those of the angels. She was not a woman to be trifled with.
“What do you need me to do?”
“For starters, we need to do something about Scarlett.” His look made it clear that by “we” he meant “me”.
“It’s not like she’s gonna listen to me. She’s a grown angel who does what she wants.”
“I’m not asking you to put a leash on her. I’m asking you to give her another focus.” His words set my mind off on a tangent. I reined it in.
“Like an angelic hand grenade, you want me to pull the pin and toss her at Asmoday?”
“Crudely put, but yes. We do not need Baalth distracted by her misguided holy crusade while Asmoday waits in the wings. It also wouldn’t hurt for her to cause Asmoday a little grief.”
“Fair enough. What else?”
“I want you to pass this on to Baalth.” He slid a folder across the desk. “This is all the intelligence we have regarding Asmoday’s attempted coup. Make sure Baalth understands the precariousness of his situation.”
I picked up the folder and shook my head as I flipped through it. “I’m all for leveling the playing field a bit, but don’t you think we’re going a bit too far by providing him with firsthand information?” I met Abraham’s eyes. “We’re playing with fire just by tolerating Baalth. We sure don’t need to be hopping in bed with him.”
“Our options are limited, Frank.” I could see the frustration on his lined face. “We don’t stand much of a chance against Asmoday as things are now. If he manages to usurp Baalth’s place, there’ll be no stopping him. Our best bet is to play the factions against each other in the hopes they weaken themselves, giving us an opportunity to take advantage. As it stands, Baalth is our safest bet.”
I hated when the old man was right. It happened a lot.
“I guess I’m playing errand boy.”
Abraham gave a crooked smile, celebrating his victory behind a mask of professional composure. “Be sure you’re fully equipped. If Asmoday realizes you’re playing Baalth against him, you could be in for some trouble.”
And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to…
I stood up, the leather of the seat peeling away from my skin with a perverse sound. I couldn’t help but grin. “I’m already in trouble. You’ve got little old me walking into the wolf’s lair to let him know the jackals are outside.” I threw my hands in the air. “This sheep is screwed.”
“Always the optimist,” Abraham chided.
“I don’t need to be psychic to see my future.” I rubbed my ass as I headed toward the door.
“One more thing, Frank,” Abraham called out before I left. “There’s a rumor Veronica is back in town.”
His statement hit me like a brick. I looked back at Abraham hoping to see a sparkle in his eyes, some indication he was joking. There was none. I hung my head and left the office, my skin clammy and cold, hands shaking.
As I headed off to face certain doom, caught between the two most powerful demons ever to walk the earth, all I could think about was that my ex-wife was in town.
Death couldn’t come soon enough.
Keep Your Enemies Close
A couple of phone calls later and I had a meeting with Baalth set up. Lucky me.
He agreed to meet at a rundown strip mall in Old Town, at the edge of downtown El Paseo. Even in this one horse town with a bum hoof, Old Town stood out, though not in a good way. The entire neighborhood was one short step from being condemned. The only thing keeping it from being leveled were the healthy bribes that flowed from Baalth’s coffers to the City Council. These under the table transactions also bought Baalth a healthy dose of freedom when it came to law enforcement in Old Town. The only time the police showed up was when Baalth requested their presence or the national news got whiff of something big and it couldn’t be swept under the rug. Even then, the residents of Old Town understood in the end, no matter what, Baalth was pulling the strings behind the scene. He was the law: judge, jury, and willing executioner. To paraphrase the Vegas commercial, what goes on in Old Town, stays in Old Town, usually in a shallow grave or hastily converted BBQ pit.
Full of rat-infested tenements, immigrant clothing shops, low-end car dealerships, and bustling pawn shops, Old Town was a haven for criminal activity.
Those who frequented the area were either crooks or victims, all too poor to escape.
I parked at a seedy pay-by-the-hour lot downtown and walked the rest of the way to Old Town, grumbling about the price. While the car belonged to DRAC and I really didn’t care whether some lowlife snatched it or not, I didn’t want to hear the endless diatribe about my carelessness. I’d heard it way too often.
Once on the strip, I pulled the hood of my dirty sweat jacket over my head and tried to appear inconspicuous, stuffing the folder Abraham had given me into my back pocket. Face toward the sidewalk, I peeked out of the corner of my eyes as I strolled down the walk. Harangued by the scads of shopkeepers trying to sell me everything from velvet Elvis paintings to generic prescription drugs, I pushed my way past them. I could smell the stinging aroma of green chili peppers being roasted nearby. It did nothing to hide the biting stench of the trash cans, which overflowed with rotting meat and decayed vegetables. Worse than either of those, I could smell the desperation of the Old Town residents, thick in the air. The cloying scent, like a losing high school locker room after a big game, stuck with me as I walked. Combined, it all smelled like Hell. I felt a little homesick.
As I neared the dilapidated electronics store where our meet had been set, the tinny sound of Black
Metal being blasted from an inferior car stereo drew my attention. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a beat up gray Chevy van driving slowly down the street, its windows down. I caught the gaze of the passenger as the van approached, his long black hair bouncing up and down as he mouthed the words to Emperor’s “Inno A Satana.”
He stopped singing when he saw me. His eyes turned cold and locked on mine. As the van rolled by, his gaze shifted to the mirror, watching me in the reflection until they rounded the corner. You gotta love the bravery of today’s wannabe Satanists. They still think they’re going to Hell.
“Forever will I bleed for thee, forever will I praise thy dreaded name,” I muttered, catching the rhythm of the vocal line as it faded away. I laughed as I wondered what those kids would think if they knew Satan had made up with God and moved on, leaving them behind. That’d ruin their whole world view.
At the shop, I put on my serious face. I had work to do. I pulled the door to the electronics store open and the sound of ringing bells cleared the song from my head. That was fine with me, I much prefer Venom anyway.
I glanced about and spotted a handful of tables and wobbly shelves covered with ragtag blenders and low- watt microwaves. There were a few old TVs and FM radios scattered about the shop, along with a couple of turntables, but nothing I could see was worth a damn. To top it off, a thick layer of gray dust covered everything. For a front, this one was real obvious. I guessed they didn’t have to try all that hard with Baalth’s money lining the local constabulary’s pockets. Corruption breeds apathy.
I looked to the counter and a short, fat guy wearing coveralls glared back at me. The sweat on his bald head reflected the sickly glimmer of the fluorescent lights. His hands were out of sight behind the counter, his arms wiggling. I was hoping it was a gun he was fiddling with down there and nothing else. Deep inside my head, I heard banjos playing. It brought a smile to my lips.
I stood there a minute before I realized he didn’t intend to say anything. “I’m here to see Ba-” I caught myself. “I’m here to see Mr. Smith.” That was the name they’d given me, seriously.
The fat guy gestured with a meaty thumb toward a curtained alcove at the back of the store. I gestured back. I don’t think he appreciated it. Without waiting for the limbed bowling ball to decide whether he was offended enough to get up, I slipped past the curtain. Beyond it stretched a narrow hallway that led to a closed door. I knocked and heard a muffled, “Come in.” I turned the handle and stepped through.
Inside the cramped room full of battered merchandise set on rickety shelves, a round wooden table sat in an opening near the back. Behind it sat Baalth. His flunkies D’anatello and Poe stood on either side of the door. I winced as Marcus pressed the barrel of his 9mm Browning against my temple.
“Make a move, I dare you,” Marcus growled. His attitude hadn’t improved any since the last time I’d seen him.
I could see his trigger finger quivering. “No, I think I’m good. Thanks.” I stood as rigidly as I could. Even though Marcus’s shot wouldn’t kill me, it sure as hell would hurt more than just my feelings. Disappointed, he pressed harder.
