Driver asked, still puzzled.
“Felon has an edge.” Tiny piped up now, smiling at the assassin. “Don’t you, Felon?” The salesman had a hand on his own gun.
“I can kill them. You can too.” Felon flexed his shoulders. “They run when there’s trouble. Turn to energy, but if you hurt them bad before they’ve turned, you make them solid again-no Powers. They can be killed.”
“Okay, so what are we going to do, Felon?” Tiny seemed nervous. He started pacing. Driver knew his friend’s moods. The salesman wanted to know how to work this deal. “Is he worth anything to us?”
“Yes!” Felon snapped over his shoulder. “Demons, Angels, and I think Fallen are involved.” He shook his dark locks. “Balg is up to something.”
“Felon,” Tiny pressed his palms against his temples. “If I understand this. You’re on the run from Heaven and Hell.” He pointed at the nun. “ And City Authority.” Tiny swung his face at Driver, a reckless grin on his face. “You offer us a hundred thousand each?” The salesman hung his head. “That isn’t near enough.”
“Go.” Felon snarled. His red-rimmed eyes burned.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa!” Tiny shook his head and made calming gestures with his hands. “Where would we go? If all this stuff is true, we’re probably marked men already. No.” Tiny began to pace. “No. We stand a better chance with someone who has an edge. And, we need the money.” He muttered almost to himself. Then, he flicked his shrewd blue eyes at Felon and the Marquis. “Now, be careful how you answer this, and don’t be flip.” He stopped pacing. “Doesn’t God have to be involved in this?”
“Angel,” Felon barked at the Marquis, “is he involved?”
“He is always involved, but we Angels are his ministers, and of course the faithful among the Second-born, the humans, act as his servants.” The Marquis sniffed nervously.
Driver had a growing realization in him. Ministers? “This all reminds me of the time the Castiglioni brothers went up against the Papedakos, clan out in Old Vegas just after the Change.” He looked at Bloody and laughed. “It’s gangs!” Then Driver realized the ridiculous nature of the whole situation. “Oh Christ! I’m startin’ to believe this shit.”
“Gangs.” Felon nodded over at Tiny. “Balg said two groups of Fallen Angels were involved. There are three. The third group is the majority.”
“What group is that?” Driver adjusted his grip on his guns.
Felon grabbed the old transvestite by the shoulders. “Take us to Lucifer!”
Driver noticed a wild look in the assassin’s eyes. The Texan looked over at Tiny, and then around at Bloody. Both wore blank looks.
“Second-born,” the Marquis said haughtily, “you ask too much.”
“Take us to Lucifer,” Felon smiled wolfishly. “Or you’ll be Elan .”
Panic registered on the Marquis’ face. His lips traced the word “no.”
“ Elan.” The assassin gripped the Angel’s throat. “I’ll paint this place with your blood.” Felon glared. “Take us to him, and I’ll let you go.”
“Lucifer?” Driver felt like someone cut his break lines.
“Why?” Tears started from the Marquis. “We are ruled by the Bible, and they by the Unholy Compact. None but the Fallen can tread those damned paths lightly.”
“Bullshit.” Felon sneered. “You’re Firstborn. You’ll survive.”
“I must have your word that you will not harm him,” the Marquis insisted, hands out and begging. “You cannot even try.”
“I swear it,” Felon said quickly, left hand over his heart.
“Then I will take you,” the Marquis whispered, brushing at his dress, eyes on Felon’s gun. “It is not far, and few protections lie between.”
“You’re going to see Lucifer?” Tiny asked, his eyes wide. “The Devil.”
“I can trust him.” Felon stared.
“We’ve got to talk danger pay,” Tiny said.
“Don’t come.” Felon grabbed the Marquis’ arm. “Fifty thousand extra if you do. Or go-now.” The assassin smiled painfully. “Lucifer might be your only chance. You’re marked men.”
“I didn’t expect the Devil too,” Driver said sideways to Bloody. “Wish we’d brought some bigger guns.”
48 – Whistles’ Bar
“Come on, Jughead!” said the Quinlan twin in the lead with a laugh and giggle. He swung a brick-covered panel out of the way to expose an opening in the foundation. Inside the building, dim light and a wooden floor waited. Muffled music jumped in volume and vibration when the hatch opened.
“Shut up, Pearface!” snapped the other, who flicked a look behind.
“That’s enough,” hissed Mr. Jay, “would you both please…God! Give it a rest.” He crawled into the cramped space with grumble and headshakes. Conan just snickered in the rear since he knew the nasty-verb was how the Quinlans worked in the dim dark and around war. Great friends of friends, but everybody else-watch out!
Conan thought it giggly that as remarkable as the strange new man-the magician-was he suffered the same red-face impatience as all grownups. Didn’t he know you just punch boys in the arm to shut them up or love them?
The Quinlan twins couldn’t believe it you could see and all that laugh-yak was coming strong on because of it. Why waste chitchat on the lip zip? But they’re looking and wondering where’s the punch-punch-punch enough already lads.
The Creature told the Nightcare fighters to take Mr. Jay to Whistles’ Bar. That was a place where a friend- in-need to the Nightcare’s cause and sniffle lived.
Conan knew the place and the fake grownup midget-type in charge. In fact, he knew more than anybody guessed. But, he only visited the place once in a long while, and kept his distance like he’d been told. The dangers were too great for such easy tea parties. Forever kids took trouble wherever they went.
But Conan knew that Whistles was not a dwarf like he pretended and everyone thought. Whistles was a forever girl about pre-Change ten with a gift for disguise under moustache, makeup and padding. Visitors to the bar came up with the nickname after the “dwarf” tried to kick a ten cigar a day habit by chewing a plastic whistle. Whistles picked the whistle up drinking, and couldn’t put it down. The little “man” never blew on it-just spit and chew.
Because of Whistles’ secret, she was a friend to Squeakers and Nightcare fighters, and had helped forever kids when she could. Especially if it came to hiding from Toffers and Sheps and scumbags that fucked forever kids.
The Quinlan boys were supposed to take Mr. Jay quick to Whistles because it was close to the Tower, and because if there was trouble, it was the closest place that might help on the long road home. Wah! Wah!
So they hurried up curving tunnels, shimmied through sewers and waded in gunk until the path led upward through a series of City maintenance ramps and stairs and gangways to the hidden door that opened onto Whistle’s basement. It was all uphill from here.
At first Mr. Jay grumbled about delays, but got it shortly later, thinking Whistles had to know they were around and might need help. A minute shuffled by on its knees and they were hidden behind some big beer kegs. Liz hurried up a pile of boxes and through a trapdoor that opened into Whistles’ office. Conan, like most fighters, knew the system. Get into the office and wait until Whistles comes in. Never be seen!
So they waited, the three Nightcare fighters in a dangerous wedge around the magician. Conan spent the time flying his murder-bloom through the air. About twenty minutes glided by on blades and Liz dropped through the trapdoor nodding and winking upward.
Weapons got sharp and dangerous when a door opened at the top of the stairs. Music came thumping down and the fighters got ready for war. But the throb of music sank with a bang and everybody phewed like there was no tomorrow. Mr. Jay craned to see the top of the stairs and boots came tromping down.
Whistles’ hair was black and stuffed up under a bowler hat of the same coal color. A bushy caterpillar moustache covered his chin, and the eyebrows were thick as a wrist. His shoulders cranked out wide and his belly was marshmallow puffy. He carried a big wooden box, and a red plastic whistle hung from his thin neck on a crackerjack chain.
“Liz!” the short man whispered in a deep voice. Conan was always spooked by the hidden-girl’s man- impression and had to breathe fast or wah wah start cutting-the voice was gravelly and deep.
