“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.