“Because that kind of thing just doesn’t happen. It’s the literary equivalent of an urban legend. I don’t know if Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus was the start of it or not, but bargaining away your soul to a minion of Hell has become a . . . a cultural trope that has no basis in actual practice. Sort of like the Easter bunny, but more sinister in its implications.”
“You’re saying you don’t believe in Hell?”
Morris shook his head slowly. “I’m saying no such thing, no sir. Hell really exists, and so does Satan, or Lucifer, or whatever you want to call him. And the other angels who fell with him, who were transformed into demons as punishment for their rebellion—they exist, as well. And sometimes one of them can show up in our plane of existence, although that’s rare. But selling your soul to the devil?” Morris shook his head again. “Just doesn’t happen.”
“But how can you be sure?”
“Because, among other things, it makes no sense theologically. The disposition of your soul upon death is dependent on the choices you make throughout your life. We all sin, and we all have moments of grace. The way the balance tips at the end of your life determines whether you end up with a harp or a pitchfork, to use another pair of cultural tropes.”
“What makes you such an authority?” Stone asked.
“Apart from what I do for a living, you mean? Well, I suppose my minor in Theology at Princeton might give me a little credibility, along with the major in Cultural Anthropology. But far more important is the fact that we’re talking about the essence of the Judeo-Christian tradition, Mr. Stone. The ticket to Heaven, or to Hell, is yours to earn. You don’t determine your spiritual fate by playing Let’s Make a Deal—with anybody.”
“But it worked, goddammit! I bargained for a return to success, and success is what I got.”
“What you got was confidence. You may have had a little good luck, too, but most of it was just you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Of course. You must know how important confidence is in business. If you believe in yourself it shows, which causes other people to believe in you, too. And that’s where success usually comes from. You were convinced your business problems were going to be fixed, and thus you acted in such a way as to fix them. You assumed your failing marriage could be repaired, and so you went and repaired it. And so on. They call that a ‘self-fulfilling prophecy.’ Happens all the time.”
“My God.” Stone sat back in his chair, relief spreading over his face like a blush. But in a moment, he was frowning again. “Wait a minute—Dunjee, with his contract and the rest of it. I didn’t imagine that, I didn’t dream it, and I don’t do drugs that would give me those kinds of hallucinations.”
“I have no doubt he was there. That’s why I asked you what name he was using, and what he looked like. Your description was very accurate, by the way.”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Oh, yeah,” Morris said, with a broad smile. “When you deal with the occult, it pays to keep track of the various frauds who pretend to supernatural powers. A lot of my work involves debunking con artists.”
“Con artists? That’s what Dunjee was—nothing but a con artist?”
“Exactly. His real name, by the way, is Manfred Schwartz, and he ran that particular scam very lucratively for a number of years. He would look for successful people who had fallen on very hard times. He’d show up, go through the routine he used on you, get a signed contract, then fade away.”
Stone’s brow had developed deep furrows. “I don’t get it—how could he make money off that kind of thing? He didn’t ask me for a dime.”
“Not at the time, no. His approach, as I remember, was to visit a number of people, across a wide geographical area. He would go through his ‘deal with the devil’ act, then wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“For his ‘clients’ ’ fortunes to improve. Some of them would never recover from their adversity, of course. Those folks would never see ‘Dunjee’ again. But Manny chose his victims carefully—people with brains, guts, and ambition, who had just been dealt a few bad hands in life’s poker game. People who might very well start winning again, especially if Manny convinced them that the powers of Hell were now on their side. Then, after they started to pull themselves out of their hole, Manny would show up again.”
“Before the ten years were up?”
“Oh, yes, long before. He’d say he was just checking to confirm that they were receiving what he had promised—and to remind them what the ultimate price would be. Then he’d sit there, looking evil, and wait for them to try to buy their way out of their contract.”
“Oh, my God,” Stone said. “I see what he was doing, the little bastard.”
“Sure. Manny would act reluctant, which would usually prompt the victim to offer even more money, which he would finally accept—in cash, of course. Then he’d make a ritual of tearing up the contract, and go off to spend his loot. It’s a perfect example of the long con, because the mark never knows that he’s been ripped off.”
“Wait a minute—Dunjee never came back to see me. Never!”
“I’m not surprised,” Morris said. “Because Manfred Schwartz was picked up by the FBI on multiple counts of interstate fraud—something like nine and half years ago.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Manny never came back to extort money out of you after your life got better, because Manny’s life took a turn for the worse. He’s currently serving fifteen to twenty-five in a federal pen—Atlanta, I think.”
“But I never heard a thing—the feds never asked me to testify.”
“Probably because Manny hadn’t received any money from you yet, so technically he hadn’t committed a crime. Besides, I expect the government had plenty of other witnesses to present at his trial.”
Stone leaned back in the easy chair and appeared to relax for the first time since he had shown up at Morris’s door.
“Feeling better?” Morris asked with a quiet smile.
“Better doesn’t begin to describe it,” Stone said. “I feel like . . . like I can take a deep breath for the first time in ten years.”
“Well, then, I’d say that calls for another libation.”
Morris took their empty glasses back to the sideboard. While mixing Stone’s bourbon and water, he unobtrusively opened a small wooden box and removed a couple of capsules. Using his body to shield what he was doing, he popped open the capsules and poured their contents into the drink he was making. He stirred the contents until the powder dissolved, then poured a Scotch for himself.
Morris gave Stone his drink and sat down again. The two of them talked desultorily for a while, then Stone said, “Man, I suddenly feel really wiped out.”
“Not surprising,” Morris said. “With the release of all that tension, you’re bound to feel pretty whipped. Anyone would.”
A few minutes later, Stone’s speech started to slur, as if he had consumed far more than two drinks. His eyelids began to droop, and then they closed all the way. Stone’s head fell forward onto his chest, and the nearly empty glass dropped from his fingers and rolled across the carpet, before coming to rest against a leg of Morris’s coffee table.
Morris called Stone’s name at a normal volume, then again, more loudly. Receiving no response, he slowly stood up and went over to the unconscious man. He put two fingers on the inside of Stone’s wrist and held them there for several seconds. Satisfied, he gently released Stone’s arm.
Morris then went into his bedroom and came back carrying a small, square-shaped bottle with a gold stopper. Back at the sideboard, he poured several ounces of a clear liquid from the bottle into a clean glass. He stoppered the bottle, then took the glass back over to his chair. He put the glass on a nearby end table, but did not drink from it. Then he glanced at his watch, picked up the latest issue of Skeptical Inquirer from the end table, and settled down to wait.