It was a reasonable evening, so I took a beer and went outside to the courtyard to think. I finally saw a neighbor, a young guy in a suit who kind of half-waved at me (like a man meeting a dog that may or may not be dangerous) before scurrying back into his apartment. The people who lived in this semi-expensive oasis in the middle of a poor neighborhood seemed to be the kind of folks who were making money but were never at home; singles who drove to Tahoe every weekend to go snowboarding or something. I wondered what they’d think if they knew an angel had sublet the demon-woman’s apartment. I’d be willing to bet they wouldn’t have cared as long as they didn’t have to make small talk with me on their way from the garage to their sturdily bolted doors.
My cell rang, which startled me a little. The call failed, so I walked away from the apartment until I got a whole bar. It rang again, and I picked up but didn’t say anything.
“Bobby?”
I was slightly relieved. “Clarence. How are things for our littlest angel?”
“What’s going on with you?” he asked. “Everybody in the Compasses is saying you quit or something.”
I laughed, despite myself. “As if. You know what the retirement plan for ex-angels is? Neither do I, because there’s no such thing. I just asked for a little time off.” But I wasn’t thrilled with the idea my colleagues were already talking about it when I hadn’t had an official reply from Heaven. “How did you hear about it?”
“Who hasn’t?”
Alice. Why was it that you couldn’t get the time of day out of our superiors without a feasibility study and an environmental impact report, but Alice could announce my business to everybody she talked to? “Nah, I didn’t quit, I’ve just got stuff to do. In fact, I need to talk to you. Is your car working?”
“I have one I can use.”
“Good. Meet me in the Crescendo Club parking lot. It’s on the Camino Real between Santa Cruz and Valparaiso.”
“You mean now?”
“No, I was thinking right after the Last goddamn Trump—you know, while everyone else is hurrying to final judgement. Yes, now.”
“But I just got in!”
“Sorry, but I really need you to meet me there. Do not—repeat, do not—bring Wendell. And do not even consider calling Garcia G-Man Windhover. If something goes wrong with your ride, let me know, and I will come all the way up to Brittan Heights and get you, even though it’s been a long fucking day where once again bad people tried to injure me, and I am exhausted and sore.”
“I said I’ve got a car.” The lad was sullen as a scolded teenager.
“Good.” I remembered that the Amazons were still out at Junior’s. “I just thought of something. Better make it about forty minutes.”
• • •
I drove the Camino Real with a burger in one hand. Here’s an important Bobby Dollar lesson for life: You cannot eat a good burger with one hand if you don’t want stuff in your lap. Luckily I have had years of driving-while-eating experience: I know to use the wrapper as a picnic blanket so I don’t show up to meet the recently dead with pickle chips and mustard splotches on my crotch.
Clarence was parking an obscenely large car when I got there, the kind of thing that looked like it should be towing water-skiers. I pulled up next to it.
“What the hell is that?” I asked. “Company ride?”
“Mine’s in the shop. This belongs to my landlady.”
“I never would have guessed. Come on, hop in.”
“Why? I thought we were going to have a drink and talk?”
“No, I picked this place because it stays open late so your car won’t get towed. We’ll drink and talk, all right, just not here. Don’t worry, your landlady’s wheeled yacht will be fine. Nobody’s going to steal it because nobody knows how to drive a Toledo Steam Carriage anymore.”
He just gave me a look. The kid was learning. “Where are we going?” he asked as we sped back across town.
“I’m taking you to meet the rest of the team. But where we’re going is a secret, and that really means secret this time. You don’t tell Wendell or G-Man or your landlady, and especially you do not mention it to Alice, who would immediately broadcast it to the entirety of Heaven and Earth. Understood?”
“Why would I tell Alice?”
“I don’t know, I’m just trying to make a point. Shit has gotten real serious now, and it’s going to get seriouser soon.”
“‘Seriouser’?”
“Fuck the shut up, kid. Listen. From now on, I am at war. To the extent that your existence is tragically but irrevocably linked with mine, so are you. Got it?”
He was silent for a while as we made our way down the Embarcadero, the height of the buildings going up and down like a bar graph depending on how wealthy the part of town. “You know,” he said at last, “I really didn’t appreciate that threat the other day.”
I didn’t really know what he was complaining about—I’d stuck a pistol in the Amazons’ faces, but they weren’t bitching. “Well, I’d say sorry, but I’m not. I am totally not kidding—I’m at war. Nazis were trying to shoot me today, and believe it or not, armed fascists are actually the least of my worries.”
“But I’m already risking my career, Bobby. Actually, I’m risking my soul for you and Sam. Why do you keep treating me like I’m some stupid kid?”
Okay, I admit I felt a sting. “Look, I’m doing the best I can, but I’m not real trusting by nature. When I trust people, I usually get fucked over. And as for you, hell, I’m not even sure I like you yet.”
“Thanks a lot.” But he sounded almost as amused as angry. “I just thought maybe you didn’t trust me because . . .”
“What, because you’re gay?” Now I got angry. Good thing I’d finished my burger long ago or there would have been dill chips flying everywhere. “Shit, do you really think I care? I’ve been to Hell, kid! I could care less what you or anyone else does for love and companionship in this stinking universe. I do not care who you get sexy with. Got it? Do. Not. Care.”
“Actually, I was going to say, ‘because I tried to arrest Sam.’” He laughed. “Wow, somebody kind of made a big old Freudian mess all over themselves, huh?”
“Shut up.”
As you can see, I won the argument. Because my car, my rules.
• • •
After I introduced him to the Amazons, who were still wiping mayonnaise from their faces when we came in, and wearing the happy glow of a couple of world-class cheeseburger virgins who’d just had their cherries popped in a big way, Clarence walked around Caz’s apartment, eyes wide. “This is crazy,” he said. “I mean, the decor, it’s . . .”
“Don’t.” I was a little sensitive about it.
“I didn’t mean anything bad.” He paused in front of the desk, where I had been working on Caz’s laptop. “Is this safe? I mean, if you’re trying to keep your location a secret.”
“I’m not stupid, Junior. It’s a proxy connection—several proxy connections, in fact. If Hell couldn’t find Caz through this, Heaven won’t be able to track us either.”
(A quick aside: when I first moved the Amazons into the apartment, I looked through Caz’s computer to make sure there wasn’t anything on it that would compromise her safety if the Amazons saw it. Doing that felt creepy, but necessary. But the really weird thing was that, other than factory-installed apps, her computer had only about three or four things on it, all of them completely innocuous, like local restaurant reviews. Seriously, it was like examining your grandmother’s computer, except with fewer cat pictures. Even with all the precautions she’d taken over the connection, I guess somebody like Caz, born a century before Leonardo Da Vinci, still didn’t feel all that confident about technology.)
The laptop screen Clarence was staring at was full of Google Earth satellite photos. I had also covered about forty pieces of scratch paper with complicated (and probably useless) attempts to figure out the angle of the photo from Donya Sepanta’s garden, and thus narrow down the location of her house for a close-up search. I started to explain all this to Junior, but the little upstart interrupted me. “I get why you think you’ve found Anaita’s secret identity. But why don’t you just find her address the normal way?”