Dead Nolte (19 page)

“There’s no way, that runt was Satan,” Charlie said in
disbelief. “There is no way the Prince of fucking Darkness is three and a half
foot tall.” Despite his words, the phrase ‘dynamite comes in small packages’
came to mind and it made the little dude seem even scarier.

“I didn’t say that. He must be some representative, or
something, a principality or a demon. The witch called him Baal. She said he
was dangerous, but she must have forgotten to mention the motherfucker has
tasers for fingers.” Ron glanced at the rear view. Any thought of his leg was
becoming synonymous with a quick look to see what was sneaking up on them.

“Maybe I’ve been pronouncing it wrong all this time. There’s
a Baal in the Bible, but I never heard it pronounced bale.” Dynamite popped to
the forefront of Charlie’s thoughts again.

“Who the fuck was he, did they have midgets in the Bible?”

“Some god the Canaanites had. They sacrificed babies to him.
Heated up big bowls until they were white hot, then tossed in a baby to sizzle.
Can you believe we used to do shit like that?” Charlie stifled a piss chill;
the mental image of an infant, sliding around in a white hot cauldron unnerved
him. A red hot chunk of steel had burned through his shoe once when he was
welding; the pain was incredible and unending. “That idiot back there wasn’t
any kind of a god.” He said, “He was just your average, run of the mill, circus
ninja.” He said this more to convince himself, than Ron.

“Need to borrow a diaper, Cupcake? You looked like you were
pissing yourself when Too-tall had you by the leg.” Nolte wheeze-laughed, from
the back seat. “I know, I almost pissed myself laughing.”

“Motherfucker! I thought I put you down, back at your
house.” Ron reached over the back seat swinging blindly. Nolte leaned away from
the flailing arm, wheezing and laughing even harder.

“You cock munchers can’t kill me.”

The car jerked violently in the road and Ron gave up on
smacking Nolte, for the moment. “The next time I get my hands on you, you will
suffer before you have a chance to pop out of sight.”

“Wish in one hand Cupcake, wish in one hand.” Nolte
chuckled.

“All the times throughout my life that I had wished you were
dead, I come to find out, you’re more of an asshole dead, than alive.”

The laughing from the back seat subsided with a small cough.
“That half pint, half a fag back there is Baal,” Nolte said, quietly and
suddenly serious. “He’s some fucking big shot demon. Motherfucker buys souls
for the Devil.” He clicked his tongue twice in the side of his cheek, trying to
draw attention to himself. “The old boy gave me a pretty good deal; I think; he
threw in my jimmy enlargement for free.” He patted the front of his diaper.
“Would either of you rentboys like to take a gander?”

Careful to remain out of arm's reach, Nolte repositioned
himself in the middle of the back seat, causing Ron to wince at the squishing
sound the old man’s diaper made. “What do you faggots think you’re going to do
with my nest egg?” he asked.

“Shut the fuck up,” Ron replied, wondering if he could break
the shithead’s nose without running off into the ditch.

 
“Oh no, did widdle
piddle boy get his feelings hurt, when Tiny Tot kicked his ass back there?”
Nolte chided.

Widdle-piddle boy went back to the brothers’ childhood, yet
it still carried some sting. “Shut the fuck up,” Charlie said, he turned in his
seat to face Nolte. “That was your first and final warning.”

Nolte recognized the look and he knew Charlie meant it, but
that didn’t confront him, he was here to punch their buttons until they broke.
“You can stick your first and last warning straight up your ass Nancy-Boy, are
you going to fight widdle-piddle boy’s fight..." Nolte was silenced by a
familiar metallic click.

The passenger seat exploded with a large flash. The air in
the car was replaced with an ear ringing cloud of smoke. The smell of gunpowder
flooded the vehicle. Ron slammed on the brakes, grabbing at Charlie’s hand to
prevent him from cocking the derringer and firing again. Looking down he
realized Charlie had fired the pistol through the seat back, in order to shoot
Nolte. He’d shot his fucking car!

Ron flipped on the dome light. “What in the fuck are you
doing?” He screamed, barely able to hear himself over the ringing in his ears.
“You shot a fucking hole in my seat!” He looked back at Nolte, who was pointing
to a dark spot on his chest and yelling at Charlie. His lips were moving
rapidly, it appeared that he had much to say about the discharge of the
firearm, but the muffled, “murum, murum” Ron was hearing, didn’t seem to
translate into any real language. Everything seemed to be happening in a slow,
surreal cloud of very loud gun smoke. The wound in Ron’s seat looked fatal.

Ron jerked the pistol out of Charlie’s grip and threw it on
the dash. His foot slipped off the brake and the car lurched forward. Ron
punched it into park with the heel of his hand, a move that resembled what
Charlie imagined a well-executed Vibrating Palm thrust might look like.
 
“What in the fuck is wrong with you?” he
yelled, shoving a laughing Charlie against the door panel in order to get a
better look at the damage to his passenger seat in the dim lighting from the
dashboard. He poked a finger into the hole and noticed, Nolte was doing the
same to the hole in his chest.

“
You
motherfucker!” Nolte yelled.
“What if that doesn’t heal?” He pulled a small piece of leather from the
gunshot wound and flicked it at Charlie.

Charlie was struggling to catch his breath through his
laughter. “We may not be able to kill you, but I’ll do that again, just to see
the look on your face.”

Nolte held up his finger for Charlie to examine. “Is that
blood?” Without waiting for an answer, he looked down at his lap and pulled the
waistband on his diaper out, to look for further damage, possibly a ricochet
into his jimmy. “Fucking hell, I shit on my lighter.” The air in the car now
reeked of burnt gunpowder and dead guy shit. He pulled a ragged looking pack of
Pall Malls from the front of his diaper and inspected them for shit. “My smokes
are dry.” He said. Pulling a gnarled looking cigarette from the pack, he stuck
it in his teeth. Dusting some debris, probably gun powder, from around his
gunshot wound he leaned toward Ron. “Got a light, Cupcake?” Charlie recognized
Nolte’s Clint Eastwood, immediately.

Ron backhanded the cigarette from Nolte’s mouth. “Fuck
you
assholes.” He turned and gripped the steering wheel
hard. All three sat in silence for several long minutes, before Ron shoved the
car in gear. “There’s no fucking smoking in my car.” He said, as he took his
foot off the brake and stepped on the gas.

B
aal’s
driver was nowhere to be found when Michael and Jeremiel opened the doors to
little demon’s car. Both got into the front seat.

“You know Baal will find a way to follow,” Jeremiel said
flatly. “We should have done something with him.”

“Like what, take him to Gabe? And when he asks about the
shekel, we tell him we lost it? Besides, there’s still a remote chance Baal
could get his hands on it before us and when that happens, Gabe said you could
take him out.”

“He really said that? I can dispatch him?” Jeremiel asked,
the sound of his voice a mix between disbelief and giddy.

“By any means necessary.” Michael reiterated. “I’m not
saying that we don’t do our job, I’m saying there’s still a chance, as long as
he’s loose.”

“By any means necessary.” Jeremiel fell silent and listened
to the words repeat in his head. Suddenly he grabbed the door handle and flung
the door open.

“He’s after the coin and that’s good enough for me, I’m
dropping him.” Jerry was halfway out of the car when Michael latched onto his
jacket. “Hold on there, Buckaroo, only if he refuses to give us the coin.” He
pulled Jerry back into the car. He could see the disappointment in the angel’s
face. “Let’s watch the boneheads and wait for Baal to make his move.” Michael
reached for the seatbelt at the top of the seat. “We were sent to observe and
protect, remember that Broheim, you’re letting Shorty get to you.”

Jeremiel grunted. Few things pissed him off, but Michael
talking down to him was one of them.

Michael adjusted his seat back and pulled slack into the
seatbelt. He mined the female end from between the cushions and
semi-struggling, reached behind his back locking the male end into the female.
Catching Jerry’s curious look, “What?” he asked, slightly panting. “I’m not
listening to the dashboard dinging at me. I suggest you do the same. It had
been a long-standing argument, between the two, as long as cars had been around
in fact. Jerry’s anal retentive driving habits drove Michael crazy.

“Why go to all that trouble, why not just put it on right?”

“I don’t want to look like a pussy.”

Jeremiel shook his head as he pulled the shoulder strap down
in front of him and clicked the ends together. He checked his side mirror and
flipped the blinker, signaling he was pulling away from the curb. “Which way
did they go?” he asked, playing stupid for Michael’s benefit.

 
“You fucking do that,
just to piss me off.” Michael groaned.

“Do what?” Jeremiel smiled.

“The fucking blinker thing. You can’t keep your hand off the
damn thing. Blinker, blinker, blinker! Every time you fucking drive.” Like a
snake strike, Michael leaned across Jerry and snapped the lever off the
steering column. Immediately the wipers came on and the dashboard started
clicking, indicating a right turn.

“Thank you very much; I’m probably going to get a ticket,
now.” Jeremiel was no longer smiling. The wipers squeaked on the dry
windshield. “Oh yeah, my blinker use was way more annoying than that.”

“Just drive.”

Jeremiel pulled the car away from the curb and drove slowly
toward Baal, who was jumping up and down beside one of the cars parked in
Nolte’s drive, trying to look in one of the windows. Pressing the switch, he
rolled the dark window of the limo down. As they passed, Jeremiel gave the horn
a crisp toot. “See ya, I’m glad I’m not you.” He shouted at the small demon.

“It’s ‘Seeya, wouldn’t wanna beya.” Michael corrected.

“What did I say?”

 
“Never mind.”

The wipers started screeching against the dry windshield.

***

M
ichael truly cared about mankind, but
Jeremiel worried over them. It was his job to help the souls, lost on their way
to Heaven, to find their way and let go of their past. Of course, the light was
there to guide them, yet, for some reason, some became confused and would
wander about in the darkness. What seems obvious in life can lose all meaning
after passing. Everything changes for humans.

Some are disoriented. Sudden, unexpected death was behind
some of the confusion, but most of the souls that avoid the light, are just
scared to let go of who they are leaving behind. None of them realize, that it
will only seem like a few moments have passed before they will be joined by
them, or, if their loved one’s destinations are not the same, in a few moments
they will forget they even existed.

Though the names of those bound for Hell are not officially
erased from the Book of Life, until the Great White Throne Judgement, the Boss
already knows who is going to make the cut and who will not. Since suffering
and pain is nonexistent in Heaven, certain existences are completely erased
from the mind and from history, so that there will be no worries in Paradise.
To man, or rather, those who think there will always be one last shot at
redemption, it might sound cruel, but time on Earth serves a purpose and is
finite. Though love and mercy are abundant in Heaven, the opposite weight on
the scale is justice. You don’t get to have your cake and eat it too.

Jeremiel had watched the system the Boss had put in place,
for thousands of years, it was fair and it worked, the one problem he had, was
the ability man had to barter with his soul. From what he had observed over the
years, mankind was not intelligent enough to be trusted with a decision
concerning something of that value. However, there was no reason to speak out
about his thoughts or feelings, for he knew, like every other angel, that there
was a reason for everything and if the Boss felt he had left enough bread
crumbs for humans to follow, then he did.

Gathering souls wasn’t Jeremiel’s only job, as a matter of
fact, it took up little of his time, relatively speaking, most walked into the
light on their own, much of Jeremiel’s existence, since humans had been
created, had been spent fighting alongside them in times of war. He’d fought
Babylonians, Assyrians, Egyptians, Romans, Germans, Philistines, Moabites, in
fact, if the name ended in ‘ite,’ he more than likely had fought and killed
them. But, because of his moderate, passive nature, the other archangels didn’t
really see him as a warrior, he was the nice guy among them, but when it came
time to pick a fighting partner, time to get bloody up to the elbows, he was
always chosen first. Michael once calculated that as far as killing humans
went, Jeremiel had killed more than all the other archangels combined. “Jerry
has filled the Valley of the Kings, knee deep in blood.” was how he had put it.
It was nothing he was proud of, he just did his work, whatever that work may
be, with passion.

***

A
lice
watched Charlie and Ron from the back door; she wasn’t going to humiliate
herself by chasing them out into the yard. She would wait until they drove off
in their car and report their sorry asses for a DUI. Perhaps then, she could
arrange a prisoner exchange, the coin for their freedom.

Peeking out windows is contagious in Alice and Martha’s
families, once one of them has peered through a blind, or pulled back a
curtain, one by one the rest of the family will assemble at the windows and
glean their share of neighborly information, a habit that had first formed with
Nolte but had spread to them and then on to their husbands and children. It
wasn’t fences that made good neighbors; it was the amount of shit you could dig
up on one another.

“Wouldja looka there?” chuckled, RJ, “It’s one of them
trolls off the Wizard of Oz.”

Alice opened the back door a crack, just wide enough for her
mouth to poke through. “Junior, Junior-Junior! Quit playing with those hotdogs
and get in here. She had seen the cops cutting across the lawn and wanted no
interaction between Junior and law enforcement, they had nothing to hide, but
one
look
at Junior would give cops probable cause to
think they did. Besides, she had to get Junior-Junior inside before he saw the
midget, he’d been hounding Santa for an elf, ever since he was six years old.
If she didn’t get the kid’s attention before the midget did, she was sure he
would go out and try to touch it.

“You know,” RJ whispered, “I’ve heard that if you rub one of
those little guys on the head, it brings you luck. I’ve always wanted to try
one out before fishin’.”

“It’s the sins of the father that makes them small like
that; at some point, that little guy’s daddy did something perverse and
unholy.” Martha chimed in.

“I reckon so, but I’d still like to try my luck fishin’ with
one.”

Junior and Junior-Junior immediately took up positions at
windows upon entering the house, never asking what was to be seen; only knowing
they had a duty to perform. They had just pulled back their section of curtain,
when Baal erupted in a flash of light.

“Goddamn! That little feller exploded!”

“Watch your mouth RJ; you will not take the Lord’s name in
vain.”

“What the hell happened to that little guy?”

“Looked like a lightning strike.”

“Are you really that stupid, Junior? There isn’t a cloud in
the sky.” Alice was still pissed about Junior’s earlier beer bottle stupidity
in front of the brothers, now he was compounding it with asinine observations.

“Hey Junior, you ever been fishin’ with a troll?”

“No, but I heard they’re good luck.”

Alice was pissed when the cops let Charlie and Ron go, the
cheap bourbon fumes coming off Ron were almost visible. She had thought about
pointing it out to the officers, to ensure they were taken into custody, but the
thought of rapist black women with brooms popped into her head. For all she
knew, those two might be the detectives investigating her involvement in
Nolte’s murder. The doctor had assured Martha that it had been a heart attack,
but that very well could be a ruse to smoke Alice out. Scolding herself, Alice
wondered, where all this guilt had been hiding when she had tried to find some
to feel?

“Is that my elf, Mamma?”

“Looky there, the troll is bouncing around the cars, kinda
reminds me of the circus.” RJ was beside himself, with what could only be
described as childlike fascination. He was also feeling lucky. “What do you say
we do a little fishing tonight, Junior?”

***

B
aal ran to each automobile in the
driveway, leaping up and down at the passenger side windows. It took several
leaps at each car to locate the ignition and to check it for keys. He was
careful not to touch the vehicles in case alarms had been set. He had no
further desire for human contact. Though he was quite sure the simpletons in
the house knew what he was up to, he had seen them peeking through the
curtains, however, he saw no need to alert the neighbors and draw their
unwanted attention, also. His driver was nowhere to be seen, so decided against
calling out for him. He thought the man useless, anyway.

The automobiles contained no keys; the motorcycle was
completely unfeasible; his only hope remained in a big brute of a contraption
decorated with large confederate flag and a bumper sticker which stated, ‘It
was better to be judged by twelve than carried by six.’ The height of the
vehicle had been modified so that Baal could almost walk beneath it without
bumping his head. Leaping up to look in the window was impossible and the door
handle was at least two cubits higher than his reach. Baal tried to jump
outside of time and back into the huge automobile, but his work restrictions
held him in place.
   

How could Gabriel put a restriction on his restrictions?
That it could detect his intentions were not entirely work related seemed
preposterous, yet displayed brilliant foresight on the part of the angel.

With the sensation of the anomalies in the shekel fading, he
ran to the garage. Bully, another automobile! Stumbling over the refuse stacked
in piles around the garage, he made his way to the white convertible. On tip
toes, he peeked over the edge of the door. No keys again.

Against the back wall of Nolte’s garage, Baal saw a
five-foot painter’s ladder. Running toward it, he stepped on a glass bottle
that sent him reeling across the floor, tearing his tailor made suit on a crate
of oily milk bottles. Someone was going to pay in pain for the damages caused
to his attire, he promised himself, as he struggled to his feet and brushed off
dust and debris.

A missing rubber footy on one of the ladder’s legs caused it
to screech like fingers on a chalkboard as Baal drug it across the concrete
floor of the garage. With time pushing him, he leaned it against the truck with
care and picked up his walking stick, he tucked it under his arm and
strategized his assent. Kicking the footy-less leg of the ladder a few times,
in order to ensure a steady climb, he ascended the ladder on shaky legs.

“Bully!” he said aloud. The keys were in the ashtray; at
least some keys were in the ashtray. Carefully he lifted the handle on the door
and opened it slowly, careful not to dislodge himself from the ladder. Baal
appraised the distance from the ladder to the seat, cursing Gabriel. Any
attempt to leap the distance would result in certain injury; being locked in
human form, put him at an enormous disadvantage. Deciding the distance to be
too great, he tossed his walking stick onto the seat and climbed back down the
ladder. He repositioned it directly against the seat of the truck and once
again attempted to climb into the monster. He was already sweating profusely
when he met his next obstacle; once again, his damnable legs were the issue,
the same reason he had to employ drivers.

From a sitting position, he could just see over the top of
the dash, but his feet barely went past the edge of the seat, even scooting as
close to the steering mechanism as he dared, his feet dangled impotently in the
air above the foot controls. He glanced around the yard and street for his
driver James, he could definitely be of assistance. Baal could not see him, nor
sense his presence; the coward must have bolted at the first sign of trouble.
The man had ruined any chance at a favorable letter of recommendation from
Baal.