But I couldn’t deal with any of that stuff right at that moment, because I was stressed and completely exhausted from lack of sleep. I righted the upended furniture and cleared away some old socks and empty cans and bottles at the same time—a frenzy of cleaning that lasted at least a minute and a half. Then I stretched out on the couch, put on some quiet music to cover the midday noises from the street, and let myself get tugged down into unconsciousness.
And yes, the chain was on the front door again, the panel in the closet had been nailed back into place, and my gun was very, very close to my hand.
• • •
I woke up because somebody was knocking at my door. It could have been Girl Scouts with my seasonal Thin Mint assortment, or Amazon Scouts with more fast-food pies, or even Black Sun Scouts with a shipment of Blood Libel Mallomars, so I checked the spyhole before opening.
It was Clarence. Since he was one of the few people I didn’t think wanted to destroy me at the moment, I let him in.
“Hi, Bobby,” was his unambitious opening.
“Hi, yourself, Junior. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Hey, that’s nice. I drop by to see you and that’s what I get?”
“The only times you’ve ever come to see me is with Sam. Is Sam with you?”
He shrugged. “No.”
“Then why are you here?” It came out more unpleasant than I’d wanted. I was losing patience with visitors, known and unknown, and I was still stupid and cranky and felt like I’d barely slept. I looked at the clock—past 5:30 in the afternoon. Getting dark soon. Maybe it was time to rise up after all. “Sorry, it’s been a tough day. Come on in. Can I get you something to drink?”
He stepped in, but not too far in. He’d seen the place before, so it wasn’t disgust keeping him out, and in fact it looked better than usual after the tidying. “I can’t really stay, Bobby. I just wanted to see how you were doing. You haven’t been down to the Compasses lately. Did you know about—?”
“Walter Sanders,” I said, cutting him off. “Yeah. And he doesn’t remember anything useful.” Clarence knew some of the story about Walter, like the fact he’d probably been stabbed by someone who wanted to get me, but he didn’t know I’d seen Walter in Hell, or that I was now convinced that Anaita had arranged it. Until I knew for certain who among my angelic comrades was really working for whom, I was keeping a lot of this stuff to myself. “What about a drink? I have milk. Still liquid, even.”
Clarence made a face, but he still didn’t come all the way in. “Really, I can’t . . .” The kid seemed a bit nervous, actually. “My ride is waiting downstairs. I just wanted to say hi.”
Before I could respond to this preposterous statement—who would come all the way to my apartment and walk up the stairs just to say hi? To me?—a car horn honked outside. Wondering if it really was Sam and this was some elaborate maneuver to trick me into going out, I went to the window, unlatched it, and leaned out. There was a fairly pricey-looking recent model car double-parked in front of the building. (I had no idea what kind of car it was. That’s my gripe with the modern ones, they all look the same—like running shoes for giant robots, every damn one of them.) The person standing next to it, who had presumably leaned in to honk the horn, saw me and waved. He was vaguely familiar, good-looking, blond, and wearing what looked like an expensive cable-knit sweater.
“Oh, hi!” he called up. “You must be Bobby. Can you tell Harrison to hurry, please? We’re already late for our reservation.”
“Harrison” was Clarence’s official earthly name, short for Haraheliel. His co-workers just called him Clarence because we were jerks.
I smiled, sort of, and nodded to the man before withdrawing. I did not wave. I never wave.
“Harrison?” I said. “Your ride wants me to tell you . . .”
“I heard.” He was scowling like a scolded child, but there was something else going on, too.
“Who is that, anyway? I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“That’s Wendell. He’s one of us—an angel, I mean, an advocate. He works up in San Francisco, mostly around Cow Hollow and Dogpatch.” Now the kid actually colored, reddening from cheeks to forehead. “We’re kind of seeing each other.”
“Okay.” I didn’t know what else to say. You think with an afterlife as fucked-up as mine that I have any inclination to judge anyone else’s? Hell, I don’t even have the time to judge anyone else. “But I wish you wouldn’t have brought him here.”
“Bobby, I told you—he’s one of us!” He stopped, and I could see him going pale, the beginnings of anger. “Or are you trying to say something else?”
“Shit, kid, I don’t care if you date buckaroos or kangaroos. But I don’t like everyone knowing where I live, even if they’re on our side. Shit, especially if they’re on our side. I can’t really trust anyone right now, and it’s been a bad couple of days.”
“Really?” Now he felt bad for me, which made me want to hit myself in the face, but someone else had already done that. “I noticed the bruises and cuts. What happened?”
“Look, don’t keep your friend waiting. We’ll get together, and I’ll tell you about it, but not tonight.”
Eventually I persuaded him to go back and join Wendell and his stylish sweater, but even after everything else that had happened to me recently, it still felt a little strange. Clarence had never come to my place on his own before. Was it really that important to let me know he was gay? I’d already half-guessed. Or was something else going on?
Great, I thought. Now I don’t even trust the guys who I’m going to have to take into battle with me. And that was bad, because I was pretty certain into battle was just where I was going—and soon.
twelve:
melted frog seeks melted mate
I HAD ONE more client after Clarence left, a woman who breathed her last in a hospice in the hills, a peaceful exit after a long struggle with cancer, and although there were a few issues with the woman’s past, the prosecutor could deliver nothing serious enough to keep her from reaching the bosom of Abraham (or whatever exactly it is we help people reach).
Honestly, I wish I did have more answers for you. I wish I knew more about how things work. That would make a much more informative story, especially for those with a theological turn of mind. But I don’t. I’m an ordinary angel—a grunt. There are lots of us. Some of us live on Earth and wear mortal bodies and try to defend people’s souls against the lies (and sometimes unpleasant truths) of Hell. Beyond that, I just don’t know much. I mean, I regularly see the joyful saved both in Heaven itself and the Fields outside, but I can never get a clue to what they’re thinking and feeling: it’s like trying to talk to one of the people working at a theme park when they’re in character.
When I got home from the job, I put on some music, opened a beer, and began studying a bunch of information Fatback aka George had sent me. Nothing in the material was all that startling, but my porcine pal’s covering email provided some unwelcome news:
Bobby, here’s a bit more on the B. Sun and a lot of material about Persia. Honestly, I could dump hundreds and hundreds of articles on you about Persians in the Bay Area, but I’m trying to weed out the stuff you don’t need. If I’m getting it wrong, let me know.
You’ll have to do it by email, because I’m going out of town. I can’t take this place anymore, I don’t know what’s going on, it’s like living in that Amityville movie, so I had Javier and his sons clean out the trailer and they’re going to take me to go see this special vet I know near Visalia, where I can lie low. I’ll only have my portable equipment, but I can still help you out if you need it. But I just can’t stay here. I’ll be back in a week or so, I think.
So even the swine were starting to desert the sinking ship. Not that I blamed George at all, after having seen one of the things that was actually haunting my place, but I was beginning to get a bit paranoid. First, dancing nature spirit Foxy Foxy wouldn’t talk to me. Now George had been chased off to some luxury pig spa in Tulare County. Even Clarence the Junior Angel was acting a little loopy. What next? It’s not like I had a lot of friends in the first place.