Sleeping Late on Judgement Day

forty-seven: pointed questions

THE OLD Bobby would have lain around a few days and then would have sobered up and started knocking shit over, trying to make something happen and get some answers. Because there were a lot of things that still needed answering.

Why wasn’t anyone in power talking to me? What about my trial? Was I still all but convicted of treason against the Highest? My heavenly superiors had to know about Caz, and Eligor, and Hell, because I’d spilled my guts to Pathiel-Sa when they had me in custody. Not to mention all the bigger questions, like what Anaita had meant when she said she should have killed me “even before” I was an angel. And that vision I’d experienced when she was brainwashing me—vision, memory, whatever it was—still made my mind itch. It had felt so real—realer than real, if you get me. Was it a glimpse of my before-death past?

Questions and more questions as far as I could see, without the smallest hint of an answer. Now I knew how my friend George the pig man must feel—shoulder-deep in shit and pretending it was normal life.

Like I said, the old Bobby would have been making trouble all over town, trying to figure it out, but this time I couldn’t get started. Despite the surge of vitality that had sent me out to the Compasses, I just didn’t care enough. I felt like a party balloon a few days past the best-use date: nobody was holding my string anymore, but instead of flying I was sort of bumping along about halfway between floor and ceiling, unable to reach either the top or the bottom. Drifting and doomed.

It’s not like I didn’t think about ending it all. I mean, really, what did I have left? Caz gone, snatched from me again. Sam gone too, at least the Sam I knew and loved, probably forever. My bosses still with the guillotine blade hanging over my neck and not bothering to tell me whether I should get up and get on with things or just lie there and wait for the drumroll to finish and the blade to drop. But it wasn’t that easy, anyway. As you’ve already seen, death and angels don’t always go together—our fates are not in our own hands. The chances were good that no matter what I did to myself—even if I went to the Ephorate and insisted on making a full, public confession of every rule I’d broken—I might only be recycled into another body, this time with obedience reflexes more in line with current workplace standards, a bleating Bobby-sheep who didn’t ask questions. But what if they recycled me, and I still remembered what it was like to be discontented in the pastures of the Lord? And couldn’t do anything about it?

So the next couple of days dragged past, and I let them drag me along. Christmas, once only a vague nightmare, crept closer and closer, like a determined, tinsel-covered zombie. I drifted, bounced, drank, slept, and watched television with the sound off. Clarence tried several times to get me to come out, but I declined. I knew he’d try to talk me into something, and right now I couldn’t handle something. I was having enough trouble with nothing.

• • •

Okay, here’s the truth, embarrassing as it might be. When my archangel finally contacted me, I was walking back from Oyster Bill’s and a late breakfast, and I was actually trying to figure out whether I should take the toast crumbs wrapped in a napkin in my pocket and feed them to the pigeons in Beeger Square or go home and watch Maury.

I had decided on the pigeons, because I figured at least somebody should benefit from my shitty life, even if it was flying rats, when I noticed a small, Middle-Eastern looking man walking beside me. It wasn’t exactly the same body I’d seen before, but I was beginning to recognize the Mule’s Earth-body-language, if you know what I mean.

“Bobby.”

“Temuel.” I kept walking. Beeger Square wasn’t too crowded on a chilly December pre-noon.

“Don’t be angry, Bobby.”

“Angry? Me? Because you handed me over to my bosses to be put on trial?”

“You know that wasn’t my choice. I know you know that.”

“Oh, really? Funny, because I wouldn’t say I know anything like that.”

I picked the first bench that didn’t have spilled milkshake congealing on it and sat down. Temuel sat beside me. As I unfolded the napkin full of crumbs, a particularly bold pigeon dove down to get first choice. Startled, I nearly took its head off. I still hadn’t entirely recovered from being in Hell, even months later. I didn’t like things jumping at me without warning.

“If you truly thought I sold you out, then why didn’t you tell them about me?” Temuel asked. He looked exactly like the kind of harmless old guy, maybe a professor of Semitic Languages, you’d see sitting on a bench like this. I wasn’t sure where I fit in, although the pigeons appreciated me for about thirty seconds, until the crumbs were gone.

“I did. I told Pathiel-Sa about you. I told that sweet-talking witch everything.”

“That’s not what I meant. You couldn’t help that. But you didn’t mention me to the ephors when you were on trial.”

“Nobody asked me.” Which was only partly true, of course. Even during the trial I’d begun to figure out something more complicated than mere treachery was going on with Temuel. In fact, in a few ways he seemed to have taken risks to protect my secrets—Caz’s apartment still seemed unknown to the authorities, for one thing. I’d dropped by the place one day in a drunken fog and had a look around, but it had been too painful to stay more than a few minutes. Still, I’d found no sign that Heaven had been there.

“Okay,” I said, “you did a few things to make sure I had something to come back to. Did you work something special with the cab, too? Because it doesn’t seem to show up on the heavenly radar for some reason, so they have to follow me the old-fashioned way. I’m guessing that was something you arranged.”

Temuel nodded, almost shyly. “I was wondering if you’d noticed.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Thanks.” But, strangely, I wasn’t feeling very grateful at that exact moment. “So what do you want from me now? It’s all over, right? Anaita got taken down and you seem to be free and clear, but I’m still waiting to see if I get the inquisition treatment. Did you want to know if I’d go on keeping my mouth shut about you?” I tried to see the answer in his face, but Temuel was giving nothing away. “I guess I’ll do my best. But I spilled it all to the Angel of Conciliation already, so somebody in Heaven knows more than enough about both of us to drop us into the Pit for a term of forever-to-longer. It’s only a question of why they haven’t used any of it yet. In other words, if you’re worried about keeping your wings, I’m not your biggest concern.”

“No! That’s not why I’m here.” The archangel seemed a bit frustrated. “I can’t talk about any of it yet, but I wanted you to know that I haven’t forgotten about you. You have no idea how complicated things are right now, how . . . delicate.” He patted my hand. It felt just like being patted by a human being.

“And that’s all? ‘Good luck, Bobby, I’d like to help you but it’s complicated’? Okay, leave me out of it for a minute, then—what about Kainos and all the human souls living there? Did they just get disappeared?” And my girlfriend along with them, I almost said, but even now my habit of secrecy was strong. “What about Sam Riley and the other Magians who were betrayed by Anaita? Do they just stay dead? Or do they get recycled into something more manageable, angels who don’t ask questions?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“You know, I’ve heard that before, and it’s not really what you expect from friends.”

“I’ve never been your friend.” He didn’t bother to make a reassuring face, but I must admit he at least looked sad. “Heaven, Hell, Earth, it’s all too complicated for anything as simple as friendship, Bobby. But I’ve tried to do right by you, and I’ll keep trying.”

“So this whole visit was to tell me what? Not to give up?”

“I’m not worried about you giving up. I’m more worried about you pushing things too far when the time isn’t right.”

“What the split-level Hades does that mean? Time isn’t right? I just brought down an angel who was running the biggest anti-Heaven scam since Satan tried to invent upward mobility.”

“Funny you should mention that,” he said, and for a moment I thought I might actually hear something useful. Then Temuel stood, ran a hand over his balding head, adjusted his glasses, and gave me another one of his wise-old-uncle smiles. I was really getting sick of that particular facial expression. “I have to go.”

I couldn’t even think of anything cutting to say. Like I said, half helium, half regular old air, dragging my string along the floor. I watched him walk away across the park. A couple of pigeons too stupid to know the crumbs were gone kept me company until I finally got up and headed off in the opposite direction.

• • •

If it had been a day like the last few, I would have gone back home and saluted the passing of noon with a drink or two. But somewhere in my subconscious I’d been waiting for Temuel to check in, one way or another, and now that he had (and had given me a lot of nothing), I couldn’t turn off my unhappy thoughts. I wandered up and down the waterfront and the dark, narrow blocks around it—oh, sorry, the Pioneer District—and considered the differences between disappearing into a bottle and just doing the job properly by stepping off a dock and into the cold green waters of the bay. For a while I listened to a guy with a guitar playing an okay version of an old Slim Harpo song that people only remembered because the Stones recorded it. The guy wasn’t that good, but he wasn’t that bad either. Eventually the proprietor of the nearest souvenir shop came out and gave him five bucks to play somewhere else, a win-win for everyone.

Strangely, it was a message from Orban that pulled me away from the hypnotic green waters of the bay and my empty, uncaring mood. He called to say that he’d finished the sale on the Matador Machine to the guy in the Pacific Northwest and that he had the rest of my money.

So it was official. My car was gone.

I’d loved that car, had spent hours with it, searching for replacement trim and the right paint and upholstery, shoveling money into the pockets of mechanics to make it run like new, and now it was leaving my life. Lot of that going on. But where losing the Matador should have felt like a death, the actual news was more like a pinch, so much less than I’d expected that it hardly registered. Did I no longer give a damn about anything? Or had my priorities changed? Because as I walked along Parade through clusters of chilly tourists, I found I did still care about some things. I cared very much.

Caz had called me a wounded romantic, a self-destructive optimist, but I wasn’t feeling either very romantic or optimistic. Still, there’s a part of me that needs to get knocked down to remind myself of why I get up, and that part seemed to be awakening again. Heaven wasn’t going to tell me anything. Temuel couldn’t tell me anything, or at least that’s what he wanted me to believe. Sam was gone, Caz was gone, and even the ephors who should have been grilling me like a Junior Burger didn’t seem to give a damn.

But I still gave a damn. I still needed to know what had happened to me, and why.

I walked back to my place and climbed into that ugly-ass taxi, then headed west, over the hills and toward the ocean.

• • •

The surf was midwinter-impressive below the onetime nunnery. Half a dozen women in gray were dutifully hanging washing on a line outside the cabins down below the house, although I couldn’t imagine that bedclothes and nun’s habits were going to dry very fast in the biting breeze off the Pacific.

One of the nuns opened the front door and tried to tell me that Gustibus wasn’t at home. I didn’t care whether he was or wasn’t, to be honest, because I wasn’t going to leave that easily, and I didn’t really have anywhere else to go. I said I’d wait, and made my way down the hallway toward the big room, which really upset Sister Kremlin or Sister Igor or whichever one it was, but she was apparently too Christian to get into a wrestling match with me.

I had scarcely found myself a place to sit in the midst of all those tables littered with books and papers when Gustibus appeared through a side door, tying the rope on his weird Buddhist Warrior Pajamas like I’d got him out of the bath. I could see the nun hovering in the doorway behind him (she was now holding a broom) but Gustibus apparently didn’t think he’d need her help quelling the invasion; he closed the door gently but firmly behind him.

“Thought you weren’t here,” I said.

“Nice of you to drop by, Mr. Dollar. Perhaps next time you could call first?”

“Sorry. Old habit of mine. People who don’t want to see me find it easier to avoid me when I let them know I’m coming.”

“Perhaps. But I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”

“Didn’t say you were. You still interested in swapping information?”

He looked me over, then went to get two glasses from a tray and poured water into both of them. “Some refreshment?”

“Sure. You had the glasses ready. Were you expecting someone? Like me?”

He gave me a look that was a little amused, a little irritated. “Why would I be expecting you?”

“Never mind. I’m here because I want to know more about a particular angel.” I checked my notes. “Yep, that’s all. Just some info on one little angel. I’ll take hard evidence, interesting stories, completely dubious scuttlebutt—you name it.”

“Oh? And what do I get in return, Mr. Dollar?”

“The inside information on how a major angel fell. You’ve heard about Anaita?”

“I confess that I have. In fact, even if I hadn’t, the fact that you’re still around suggested she was out of the picture.”

“Yeah. Well, I was there when she was taken down. And it’s an interesting story. What do you say? You game to trade?”

He drank his water, eyeing me over the rim of his glass. “And what angel is it you want to know about? Because that might make a difference. One of the ephors in charge of your case? Someone involved in the Magian movement, one of Anaita’s dupes?”

“Nope. I want you to tell me all about an archangel called Samkiel.”

I’m betting that name won’t mean anything to you, but trust me, you’ve heard it. Gustibus recognized it, too, because he looked surprised. “Really?” He shook his head as though I’d offered to hock him a priceless antique for the price of a cheap bottle of wine. “Very well. Let’s talk.”

And so I told him about the snow and ash on Kainos—all the way up to the last moments when the angels came and my best friend died in my arms. I told him everything, even the things I’d rather have forgotten. When I didn’t tell him enough, Gustibus asked questions—good questions, hard questions that I didn’t always have the answers to myself. It really made me wonder about him, because it might just have been the hunger for truth of a true historian, but there were times when it seemed to go deeper than that.

When I was done, he answered my questions, and you’ll hear about those answers soon enough. All together, it made for a fascinating afternoon, and for a long time it was just the two of us, one speaking while the other listened. The ocean beat against the shore like a lover at a locked door, and the wind plucked at the shingles and rattled the windows.

• • •

By the time we finished it was early evening. I stood up, stretched, then fumbled in my pocket for my car keys.

“Oh, one last thing,” I said. “Just a minor question, not a trade. You don’t have to answer.”

He put his glass down and turned from the window. He, as usual, had stood during the entire time I was with him. “What might that be?”

“I was just wondering whether you might be someone else.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know, it sounds strange. But I couldn’t help thinking that if someone wanted to slip me information, even manipulate me a bit here and there, it would be nice if they had a cover as someone who knows a lot about Heaven while still being an outsider. Someone like you.”

“Ah. And in this solipsistic view of things, Mr. Dollar—Bobby—who would I be?”

“Don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. One of the ephors? My boss Temuel? Some other angel I don’t know? Heck, maybe not even an angel—there have to be lots of folks from Hell playing the long game up here, who wouldn’t mind the combination of getting inside information and making trouble for Heaven.”

His smile looked genuine, if a bit indulgent. “Should I remind you that you came looking for me, not the other way around?”

“Absolutely. Can’t argue with that.”

“And even if this conspiracy theory were true—although it most definitely is not—you know very well that such a mysterious double-agent version of Karl Gustibus would have to deny everything anyway. So the question is a bit pointless, isn’t it?”

“I guess so.” I got up. “Thanks for the briefing on Samkiel. I have a feeling I may find that very useful.”

Gustibus didn’t walk me out. The nun who’d let me in hours ago was still clutching the broom as I went past her on my way to the door, but at least she didn’t take a swipe at me.

I had a lot to mull over on my way back through the hills. I put on Sonny Rollins’ Blue Seven, good thinking music, and watched the trees swaying in what looked like the winds before a storm. The sky was dark. So were my thoughts.

I parked my gaudy yellow ride in the Tierra Green garage and headed for the stairs. I had decided to call Clarence, because I thought I’d better share some of this with somebody, and he was about the only person left who knew enough of the story to understand, not to mention that he’d handed me a major piece of it himself. But just as the phone screen lit up, and I started to put in numbers, something punched me in the back hard, knocking the wind out of me. I staggered, and it was harder to turn around than it should have been. I got myself swiveled just in time to see the pale, staring face of one of Baldur von Reinmann’s minions—Timon, the dark-haired one. His eyes were wide with an almost sexual excitement, and I could see sweat beaded all over his face in the pale light of the garage’s overhead light. He had a long, bloody knife in his hand, an SS dagger.

“The fuck!” I said, then he stabbed me again, this time in the belly. He grabbed me with his free arm so he could plunge the knife in several more times. My knees buckled and he let go of me.

“You killed him!” The words tumbled crookedly out of his mouth. “The most beautiful man, our leader! He could have been one of the world’s masters!” Timon’s dark hair hung in his face. He looked way too emo for a genuine murderer. “You ruined it!”

“No,” I said, bubbling blood. “You ruined it.” I was on my hands and knees, drizzling blood, trying to find a way not to shriek at the pain that had set the whole of my torso on fire, front and back. I was talking to distract him, but it felt like I was belching out fire and broken glass. I grabbed his legs with my hands and began to drag myself upright. He tried to pull away, but somehow it didn’t occur to him to stab me again. “Dumbass,” I grunted through clenched teeth. “You could have been a camp counselor. Or a Deadhead, or a fucking comic book fan, something decent.” And there it was, tucked in his belt like a birthday surprise for me—my own sofa gun, the Smith & Wesson.38 that he’d stolen at the museum. “But you had to hook up with a bunch of miserable racist Nazi shits—!” I did my best to punch him so hard in the nuts that he’d die, but I was pretty weak and only gave him a mild thump. As he stumbled back, though, I managed to hang onto the butt of the revolver.

It took him a second to realize what I was pointing at him.

“I bet you wish you’d taken up golf,” I said as his eyes grew wide. “Or collecting stamps.” Then I emptied the revolver into the middle of him. Like a good little fascist, he’d cleaned and reloaded it, so he got all five rounds. I don’t think the last two or three were necessary, but by that point I couldn’t actually see anything, and even the healthy crack of the.38 Airweight sounded like the tap of a distant hammer.

I died pretty quickly after that.