“Thank you,” says Amanda, grabbing my hand. I pull it away when she pulls it to her mouth like she’s going to kiss it. She helps Luke to the back of the clock.
Muttonchops makes several small bows on his way out.
“Praise you, Lucifer.”
I shut the door behind them and take the attaché case to where Traven is sitting. Pop the locks.
“Are those what you were hoping for?” Traven asks.
“Oh yeah.”
What’s in the case is a bit like the buffet. A smorgasbord of firepower. It’s good stuff too. Not as flashy as I was afraid it might be. There’s a silver Sig Sauer .45 and a little .38 Special derringer. A nice pistol to have in your pocket for when you’re feeling not so fresh. There’s also a Desert Eagle .50, a gun I hate even more than the Glock. It’s a pistol you see in movies because it’s as big as a turkey leg and shiny as a silver dollar polishing a mirror. When we see it we’re supposed to admire the guy who has it because he can handle something so manly and powerful. What we should be thinking is that unless he’s whale-hunting, the only reason anyone has a gun that size is because he can’t aim worth a damn, so he has to blow garbage-can-size holes everywhere hoping he hits something important. I set the Desert Eagle aside.
There’s a completely impractical but heartwarming .40 mare’s-leg pistol. It’s like a short rifle with a lever action to chamber each shot. I don’t know if I’ll carry it but I’ll definitely keep it around. The last gun is a Swiss 9mm folding pistol. It’s the flashiest piece in the case but still semipractical. When it’s closed, the folder looks like a black lunch box, but hit a switch and it springs open into a 9mm pistol with a rifle stock. Candy would die and go to Heaven and Houston and back if I gave it to her. I might do it but I’m not sure I’m going to give her any bullets. She might like the bang-bang sound too much to be trusted. I’ll take her shooting and see how it goes.
I get the Glock out of the duffel and put it on the table with the pistols.
“Want a gun, Father? These are troubled times.”
“We’re always living in troubled times. It’s why we have religion.”
“Is that why? I thought it was so I could get rid of all the change people gave me that week.”
“You have a very practical view of the divine.”
“I’ve seen how the sausage is made.”
Traven picks up the Sig, weighs it in his hand, and sets it down gently.
“Is that boy really going to be tortured in Hell?”
I shrug.
“I was just giving them something to think about. I can send anyone anywhere I want. And don’t get too weepy about the kid. Everyone has a lousy time Downtown. Even Lucifer. I’ll tell you about my recurring lost-toner-cartridge nightmare sometime.”>Someone is knocking on the grandfather clock. Traven sets his plate down on the table. He looks like he’s waiting for the seven plagues to stroll out of the clock.
Three people come in. A trinity. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our boredom.
There’s Amanda Fischer, a high-society babe with a young woman’s face and a crone’s hands. Plastic surgery or hoodoo? Your guess is as good as mine.
With her is a man about her age carrying a briefcase. He’s balding and seems to be compensating for it by growing bushy muttonchops. He looks like her husband. Maybe muscle or an over-the-hill skinhead. The third one is a dark-haired young guy with a bland pretty-boy face and dressed so perfectly in Hugo Boss he can probably recite back issues of GQ by heart. All three of them are caked black with sin signs, like they crawled here through one of Cherry Moon’s tunnels.
The disappointment on their faces is spectacular. Samael is Rudolph Valentino handsome. When they see my scarred mug, they wonder if they’re in the right room. Maybe they stepped through the wrong magic clock.
“Hello,” says Amanda. “We’re here to see our master, Lucifer.”
“You’re looking at him, Brenda Starr.”
“I’ve seen you before. You’re his bodyguard.”
I take a bite of a rib and suck the barbecue sauce off my fingers.
“Do you think Lucifer has access to only one body? Look into my eyes. Can’t you sense my power and glory and all the other shit that makes your crowd moist?”
“Do you know who you’re talking to? Watch your mouth,” says Muttonchops. He has a high-toned British accent. The kind that says, “I’ve never opened a door for myself my whole life.”
“Why do I care who she is if she doesn’t know who I am? Doesn’t the fact I’m in here with many tasty snacks tell you something?”
“Yes,” Muttonchops says. “That you’re a clever enough impostor to fool the hotel. But you can’t fool us.”