Sleeping Late on Judgement Day

sixteen: letting it bleed

ONE OF those northern weather fronts had dropped down on us from somewhere in the neighborhood of Alaska, so as I drove across town I kept the defroster on and the windshield wipers at full speed. It was a cold rain, and I would much rather have been sitting in a warm apartment that still smelled like Caz (although with the Amazons each taking two steamy showers a day, the scent was almost gone). The Tierra Green Apartments had the oldest, most pathetic water heater outside the Third World, and its pilot light went out at least a couple of times a week. The women hadn’t had regular hot water in months, and they were taking full advantage of it now.

I was listening to Let It Bleed by the Rolling Stones, a nearly perfect album both for rainy days and for considering the end of the world as we know it. Not that I was really planning to overthrow all of Heaven, just part of it—one certain, very powerful part of it, to be precise—but even so, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “Love In Vain” seemed disturbingly appropriate.

I parked out on Parade along the waterfront, still hoping to keep my recently painted car hidden from prying eyes, and checked for people following me as I took a roundabout walk to the Compasses. My fellow heavenly advocate Kool Filter was huddled in the doorway of the Alhambra Building, trying to stay dry under the awning, but since the rain was blowing sideways he wasn’t doing very well.

“A silent protest against the unfairness of the city’s smoking laws,” I said as I walked up.

Kool offered me a fist. We bumped. “Silent, hell. I’ve been bitching about it for years. But it doesn’t make much difference when nobody’s listening.”

“Our true condition in this world writ small.”

He gave me a look. “What’s that shit mean?”

“You know. We all work for shadowy forces, follow rules we don’t understand, and when we complain, nothing happens.”

“I don’t know what happens when you complain, man,” he said, grinding out his most recent cigarette in a puddle. “But I know when I do it, I get my ass kicked by the Mule.”

I liked Kool. He was a good guy, a straight shooter—my idea of an angel. “Did you ever think that maybe it’s all bullshit?” I asked.

“Yeah. And it is.” He paused and eyed me again. “Hang on, what are you saying, exactly?”

“That maybe the folks we work for aren’t as perfect as they seem. That maybe some of them are corrupt. That some of the things we’re doing aren’t just to help people or to bring glory to the Highest.”

Kool laughed. “Shit, boy, what’s got into you? Our bosses aren’t perfect? Some of what we do is bullshit, and the rest is dubious?” He lit another cigarette. “I’ve got only one thing to say to that: so what else is new?” He let out a cloud of smoke. “But it pays the rent.” He smiled. “In a metaphorical sorta way, anyhow.”

I left him there, huddled in the doorway, trying to keep the rain off his nice clothes. The thing is, Kool was probably right. Maybe all my co-workers, every angel in every city, had figured this all out already. Maybe I was just refusing to go along with the way things were. Caz had called me a romantic several times, and it hadn’t sounded like a compliment.

The Compasses was about what you’d expect on a Wednesday afternoon—some regulars and a couple of out-of-towners passing through. Pretty much every angel in the Bay Area knew where the good bars were, the safe bars where you could take off your halo and let your hair down, so to speak. I saw Jimmy the Table and several other familiar faces sitting at one table, and Monica at another with Teddy Nebraska. Monica waved. I hadn’t had much chance to talk to her lately, but Monica Naber is another one who falls into the category of “good people”—even if, like me and most of my friends, she’s not really a people.

I let Young Elvis corner me for a minute and tell me about what he’d done lately to his ’72 Camaro, a bunch of upgrades which sounded flashy, expensive, and pointless—just the way I like it. But having so recently put my beloved AMC Matador Machine on the block, I wasn’t really in the mood. I begged off with the excuse I needed a beer, which had the advantage of being true, then made my way up to the bar. Kacey the relief bartender was on duty while Chico was in the back doing inventory, so after she gave me a beer I headed to the stockroom.

The room back there must have been part of the original Masonic lodge, at least judging by the early twentieth-century floral wallpaper that still hung in strips where the wall was visible. Now most of it was covered by shelving racks, and although one side was taken up with freezers full of bar food, the rest of it was stacked with bottles. It was actually pretty fascinating, all the different bottles that booze came in, different shapes, different colored glass, with the one common factor that enough of what was inside would get you blotto. In previous days I would have happily pulled down a couple of the more esoteric ones for a test drive, but I was here on business. My own business, but business nonetheless.

I didn’t see any immediate sign of Chico, so I called his name. He stood up, wearing an apron with a bunch of pockets, looking like the sweetest Suzy Homemaker in maximum security prison. He glared as if he wasn’t thrilled to see me. I sometimes wondered if Chico and Alice from the office were secretly married, or at least long-separated siblings.

“Hey, Dollar. What you want?”

“Just a few minutes of your charming personality, which will give me the courage to make it through another gray day.”

“Hey, guess what. Fuck you.”

I love Chico. He’s the nicest angel I’ve ever met who doesn’t like anything or anybody. Except customers, and that’s only for their money. Other than that, he really hates them. Since he can bend an iron pipe in his bare hands and is a pretty fair shot, too, I can’t help wondering sometimes what very peculiar branch of Heaven spawned our bartender. Maybe that was the secret—maybe he and Alice had both come out of the same Counterstrike unit. “Right back at you, big boy. Actually, I need a favor.”

“Needing ain’t getting.”

“You know those silver salts you use in your shotgun?”

He looked at me as though I was standing on his foot and hadn’t figured it out yet. “Yeah?”

“Where did you find them?”

He shrugged and turned back to his inventory. “Friend of a friend. You know.”

“Do you think your friend could get me some?”

“It’s just silver nitrate powder. You can buy that shit on the internet. How much do you need?”

“I don’t know—fifty, hundred pounds?”

He laughed harshly. “Shit, dude, that’s going to set you back twenty thousand bucks or something—it’s fucking silver! You going big-game hunting in Hell?”

It would have been funnier if I hadn’t just got back a few weeks earlier. “No, man. But I got an idea I want to try.”

“Well, don’t tell me about it. It’s bad enough you brought that big demonic motherfucker here and tore up my bar, man. I don’t want to lose my license because you’re doing some crazy shit.”

At least I knew where to start. Maybe Orban could get me some kind of Weapons of Mass Destruction Discount on the stuff. “Cool, man. Don’t worry. I wasn’t even here. Thanks for the advice.”

“Hey, wait a second,” he said as I reached the door. He slid a couple of bottles back into a shelf and stood up. “I almost forgot. I got something for you.”

“Just for me? It’s a bit early for Valentine’s Day, Chico—it’s not even Christmas—but I’m touched.”

“You know why I like you, Dollar?” he said as he led me across the storage room and into the boxy little cubicle he uses as the Compasses’ office.

“Why?”

“Trick question. I don’t.” He reached in and picked something off the desk, handed it to me. It was a sealed envelope with my name on it—my earthbound name. “Some guy in a suit left it for you. Asked when you’d be coming in next. I told him, if it was up to me, not for years.”

I looked at the letter. I didn’t know what it was, but I already didn’t like it. “Are you really still pissed about that Sumerian monster wrecking the bar? It was Sam’s idea to come here, y’know, not mine.”

“Two assholes, one brain.” Chico led me out of the cubicle. “Don’t trust either of you.”

Back in the bar, I finished my beer and decided I could allow myself one more. I had a quick catch-up with Jimmy the Table, who wanted me to come in for the next Friday night poker game, now being changed to Thursday nights (although it was still apparently going to be called the Friday Night Poker Game) but I begged off.

“We never see you anymore, Bobby,” he said sadly. “Sam, either. You guys find some new place to hang out?”

“Don’t know about Sam, but I prefer to drink at home with my stereo, my collection of great books, and the two oversexed Ukrainian girls who live with me.”

“Kidder,” he said. “Well, don’t be a stranger.”

“No more than usual.” I leaned in and gave Monica a kiss on the cheek, thumped Teddy Nebraska on the shoulder in a comradely way (because I seemed to make him nervous, and I kind of enjoyed it) and then wandered out. I really wanted to open the letter, but I thought I should be a bit discreet. Half of what I was up to these days needed to be kept secret from Heaven, so the middle of the most popular angel bar in San Judas might not be the best place to read my mail.

The rain had slacked a bit, but I was still cold and wet when I reached my car. The good thing was, it was now a lot easier to see if I was being tailed through the nearly deserted streets. Still, I drove a circuitous route out of downtown just to be on the safe side, keeping my eye on my rearview mirror, but I didn’t see anyone tailing me.

I stopped to pick up a few sandwiches at a deli I like. I didn’t really know what Amazons ate, although so far the answer seemed to be “everything that isn’t nailed down,” so I just took my best shot. Then I headed back to Caz’s place.

It occurred to me as I pulled into the secure garage that since I’d sent a message back to Caz, or tried to, I was hoping to hear from her again. The problem was, I’d moved since the nizzic found me, and the new place didn’t have windows, so I’d have a hard time knowing when it found me again. Something else I’d have to think about.

To my absolute lack of astonishment, Halyna and Oxana were watching television when I got there, one of those horrible reality things where the host confronts people over paternity and infidelity. They seemed to be enjoying it, so I dumped several of the sandwiches onto a plate and slid it in front of them.

“When is something going to happen, Mr. Bobby Dollar?” Halyna asked, but I noticed she didn’t take her eyes off the sleazy boyfriend who was shouting back at the studio audience, “You don’t know nothing ’bout it! You don’t know nothing!”

“This man crazy,” said Oxana, amused as only the young can be to find out how stupid lots of people are.

“No, really. We want to help you,” Halyna said. “When can we help you?”

“Sooner than you’d like, probably, so enjoy the time off.” I took a pair of rubber gloves out from under the kitchen sink, then went to Caz’s desk where the light was better. Most of the lamps in the main room were hidden behind gauzy draperies, so that the place looked more than a little like a bordello. I’d been a bit taken aback the first time I saw it, until I’d realized that Caz, however sophisticated she’d become over the course of several hundred years of afterlife, was still at heart a medieval girl. She had probably dreamed of living somewhere like this when she was young—some idea of Moorish luxury that would have been quite different from her cold home in Poland.

Once I had the gloves on I checked the envelope again, but it hadn’t been mailed so there wasn’t much information to be had, only my name—“Mr. Robert Dollar,” which was actually kind of funny—written on the outside in felt pen.

The inside was different, if only because the paper was fancy business letterhead, embossed with a familiar symbol:

Dear Mr. Dollar,

it read, clearly printed from a computer document in so-very-1990s Helvetica 14.

It has come to my attention that a truly unfortunate error has been made by some of my employees invading your privacy. I assure you that I personally would never have allowed it, and that when I heard that matters had gone so far as a physical encounter between you and my overzealous subordinates, I disciplined those responsible.

We are not enemies, Mr. Dollar, and we should not be enemies. I hope I can prove that to you. In fact, we have many goals in common and my organization could be helpful to you in reaching yours. I would very much appreciate a chance to discuss this and other matters with you. Please come to my office on Friday at 15:00 and let me explain.

I apologize for the unusual way of communicating with you, but you seem to have changed your address, and I had no other way to reach you.

If for any reason you cannot make Friday’s appointment, please call, and I will be happy to set a new one. It is important that we speak and important that we have no further misunderstandings.

Sincerely,

Baldur von Reinmann

Regional Director

Sonnenrad.org

There was even an address—378 Centennial Avenue, San Judas, CA 90460. Right in downtown, convenient to stores and large coliseums suitable for torchlight rallies.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed as I read it. Physical encounter? Herr von Reinmann must have been referring to his hired strong-arm guy beating the (almost literal) holy shit out of me. But it had all been a misunderstanding, of course. We could work together, me and the Nazis. I would find them very helpful.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just like Poland did.”

I jotted down the address and time, but didn’t bother hanging onto the letter, since other than humor value it wasn’t going to give me anything else useful. I got the pastrami sandwich I’d bought for myself, reheated some of the morning’s coffee, and sat down to eat. By the time I was cleaning crumbs off the table, I’d decided that the Black Sun creeps were too dangerous to be ignored, especially if they had supernatural monstrosities like the Nightmare Children at their disposal. I needed to understand better how they fit in to the whole Eligor-Anaita-feather-horn mishegoss. The quickest way to learn that would be simply to accept their invitation.

• • •

That night, I made a laundry list of the things I was going to need before visiting Baldur and the Blitzkrieg Boys. The Amazons had retired to bed to practice their horizontal calisthenics, so when I’d finished the list, I took a beer and went out into the courtyard of the apartment complex to stretch my legs. There were lights on in a few of the other apartment windows, but so far I hadn’t seen any of the neighbors. That made sense, of course—Caz would have picked a spot for her pied-a-terre where she wouldn’t have to come into contact with others very often. But since I now knew I’d had neo-Nazis practicing black magic above me for weeks in the old apartment, I wondered if I was being too casual about who might be sharing these new digs.

I stayed out for almost an hour. The storm had swept through, but the chilly air hadn’t. It was pretty cold even for an angel, but I was determined to give a messenger from Caz a chance to find me, and the nizzic had seemed to make all its visits after dark. But my only company at this hour was a dog somewhere down the street, who barked loudly and hoarsely, over and over, until he gave up in strangled despair, only to start again a few minutes later, protesting the stupidity of a world where the humans got to sleep inside and be safe and comfortable while he was outside in the cold.

“I know that feel, bro,” I told the dog, then finished my beer and went back inside.