Seraphim (47 page)

Gamble’s last statement immediately assumed the proportions of a boulder, one now teetering precariously above Eli’s road equipment. “Oh?”

“We’ve been hoodwinked.”

Eli leaned in. “I’m sorry?”

“Who you thought was Katherine Bently is, in actuality, an angel.” He was fuming now. “A reneging, backstabbing cunt of a half-breed seraph going by the name of Amy McNeil!”

“Half-seraph?”

“And half-man, Father,” Gamble said, his fury now but a flicker in the space of a breath. “I personally placed those seraph cocksuckers on the endangered species list when Greenpeace still meant Martian pussy, and followed through with their near-extinction when I killed all but one over a century ago. That one got away, and has been in hiding ever since, trying to bring its numbers back, albeit in a diluted way.”

“Seraphs are real?”

“They are indeed, Father. But, as I said, Amy McNeil and the rest of her crew aren’t quite AKC registered.”

Despite such rumors in the Old Testament, Eli couldn’t believe it. “Angels? Breeding with man?”

“You mean like, is man ‘doing the deed’ with the principalities, ‘bumping nasties’ with the cherubim, playing ‘hide the sausage’ with the thrones? Is that the kind of hanky-panky to which you are alluding, Father?”

“Well, yes.”

“Nope. Angels don’t procreate in that sense. You’d be better off knitting booties for a pair of estranged bookends. You see, God and His heavenly hosts literally don’t screw each other.” He raised his eyebrows. “Figuratively, however, I’m beginning to suspect otherwise.”

“Then, there really is a God?”

“Holy turtle shit, Father! Do I have to put it in neon for you? Yes! There is a God!”

Eli stared at the cement floor, the cracks provoked by years of settling not so unlike the ones now extending even farther from the edges of his already tenuous belief system, reaching into its core.

“What does she want?” Eli asked.

“To put an end to me,” Gamble said flatly. “And to you, of course.”

“My painting,” Eli said. “The seraph with the sword, it was giving us a message.”

“Of course it was,” he said, then began contemplatively tapping his chin with a finger. “I have to say, they’ve grown some rather large balls of late.”

“Have they,” Eli said, bewildered.

“Oh, don’t worry, Father,” Gamble said. “They can rattle their sabers all they want. The truth is they get squeamish when it comes to spilling blood.”

Eli nodded.

Gamble slapped his hands together. “Well, ready to hop through ol’ number seven?”

Eli turned and stared at his newest window. The burst of exaltation that should have followed that request rose to but a feeble murmur in his chest. “Yes,” he said simply. “But...there’s just one thing. I was wondering about my wings. I thought they were going to be—”

“You pitiful little shit!” Gamble said, his breath instantly rancid. “Do you think I’m some dry cleaner you can intimidate? Looky Joe, you claim ticket show you
owna awf
one cheap-cheap
Polyesta
suit, no Gucci. No Gucci
fo
you, Joe. I here when you
bwing
in bargain suit to my
chop
, cheapy-cheap. So you no try pull wool over eye.” He brushed Eli’s cheek with his finger, his normal inflection returning on a churlish chord. “You want the pretty stuff, then go to work for the other side. But let’s face facts—your skewed sense of fashion is the reason you’re working for me in the first place.”

Eli stared ashamedly at his naked feet. “Perhaps I had my priorities mixed up.”

“You’re more interested in aesthetics than you are the big picture,” Gamble said. “May I suggest that you get your shit together?”

“I’m fine...I’m...sorry.”

“Apology accepted!” Gamble said ebulliently. “Now, just one little thing before we split this taco stand.” He pointed to the plastic bowls beneath each of the windows. “What the fuck are those?”

“I...I keep them there just in case the couriers get hungry.”

“You mean, for the last twelve-odd years you’ve been offering them dog food?”

“Well, yes.”

“You’re a devoted little fleshsack, I’ll give you that. But, they don’t like
Purina
any more than you do, Father. You never noticed that all this time? The hundreds of pounds of uneaten horsemeat that you must have thrown out all these years? Christ, you’ve been continuously insulting them for well over a decade,
and you’re still alive?
I don’t know of who I should be more ashamed—you or them for not tearing you apart years ago.”

“Told ya,” said Josephine, hobbling down the stairs. “The monkey-bats only like people food.”

“Mother, not now, I—”

“Well, well, well,” she said. “I finally get to meet the big shot himself.”

Gamble held out his arms. “Mrs. Kagan, the pleasure’s all mine. Your son has told me so much about you.”

“It’s all true,” she said, avoiding the embrace. “So, are you the big cheese or just a sliver off the block?”

“Mother,” Eli warned.

Laughing delightedly, Gamble said, “My, my, but aren’t you a beauty! And in answer to your question,” he said, displaying a thin gap between his forefinger and thumb, “you’re this fucking close to finding out.”

“Just a sliver off the block,” she concluded, shaking her head. “When you get your stripes, give me a call. I want to talk to somebody who can tell me what the hell’s going on with my mind. Seems I lost it.”

Gamble looked shocked. “Why, Mrs. Kagan, you’re right as rain, old girl.”

“Don’t blow sunshine up my ass. I know when I’m crazy.”

“Alright, I concede. You are just a bit demented. But, hey, aren’t we all?”

She thumped her cane twice on the floor. “There sure ain’t anyone in this basement who isn’t, that’s for damn sure.”

Still smiling, Gamble said, “How incredibly charming you are. I’ll bet you’re a real stinker on bingo night.”

“I don’t gamble, Gamble,” she said. “I was wondering, though, can I keep Jacob?”

“Mother, go upstairs!” Eli commanded. “Mr. Gamble and I don’t have time for your craziness!”

She considered Eli reproachfully. “Shouldn’t you be out fighting crime?” Then she swung back to Gamble. “You think about it. I deserve something for my efforts.”

As she turned to leave, Gamble said, “I agree. Not only will I let you have your precious ‘monkey-bat,’ but how would you like to accompany your son as he makes his way across the thrilling lands of the new and improved Hell?”

Eli’s wings partially unfolded and began to quiver.

“Are there snakes?” she said.

“Josephine—may I call you Josephine?—how can there not be snakes where you’ll be going? Why, hon, they’re practically family.”

“I see your point.” She thought for a moment. “Alright, I’ll go. Will I need an overnight bag?”

“Of course not. Everything will be provided for you.”

Eli was beside himself. “No! She’s not coming with me!”

“As your travel agent,” Gamble growled, “I strongly advise that you take her along.”

Eli stared hatefully at his mother.

“And you won’t need that cane where you’re going, Josephine,” Gamble said. “Quite frankly, we don’t cater to the handicapped anymore. We could never keep anyone from parking in their spaces, so we just did away with the whole concept.”

“I’ll bring it just the same,” she said. “I might need something to shove up Eli’s ass.”

“She’s precious!” Gamble exclaimed, wiping a tear from his cheek.

“Go get ready, Mother,” Eli growled.

She started for the stairs. “Just let me run a brush through my hair. Oh, and give me a second to call Evelyn Rogers. Now, maybe I can finally outclass the old bitch and her ‘successful’ lawyer daughter.” She turned back to Eli. “You know, the one who can’t afford to run her commercials until after the eleven o’clock news? With all the rest of them ambulance chasers?”

Eli pointed to the stairs. “Just...go!”

As Josephine climbed the stairs, Eli said to Gamble, “How can you do this to me? She’ll just slow me down. No! She’ll bring me to a complete fucking stop!”

“Oh, come now, Father. You couldn’t be pulled away if you had a comet strapped to your ass. Besides, I’ve got just the task for your mother.”

“Task?” Eli was proud and horrified at the same time.

Gamble slapped his shoulder. “Requires just the push of a button.”

8.

As Duncan stepped onto the sidewalk, the air rushed in to fill the space where the shuttle had just been, creating a minor, though nonetheless startling, boom.

Squinting at the street signs some forty feet away, he found himself at the intersection of Gansel Street and Prashe Court, the latter dead-ending in a cul-de-sac. Upon that orientation, his knowledge of this neighborhood, if not the entire Boston area, returned.

Boston. His birthplace. His hometown.

Realizing that he was on the opposite side of where he should be, he crossed the road, the asphalt blushing blond under the street lights as he made his way along the gently steepening sidewalk.

If he pointed his ear just so, he could hear the crashing surf, almost a quarter-mile away. He could smell the ocean; taste it. Like two different women, he realized, the Atlantic and the Pacific carried their own unique fragrances, not to mention temperaments. Yes, there were some frightening corollaries between women and oceans. But far more comparisons could be built upon their mutual splendor, he knew, than could ever be made upon those damning predispositions of stormy intent.

Having crossed from the even numbers to the odd, he was now able to better see the house, a large corner plot. Actually, he couldn’t see the house all that well, as it was nestled within a bosk of white pine and flowering bayberry, with brakes of witch-hazel and hobblebush pushing at the fence line, an ideal hangout for the neighborhood felids and skunks.

It was different in all the ways he would normally expect after twelve years.

It wasn’t his past quite yet. But he could sense that it was near, as if it were peeking at him from around the very next corner.

Two lots down, he stopped in front of an overgrown lawn where stood a lone flamingo. But this particular species was way far north of its native roost, that being any one of the priggish, geriatric-owned lawns of Dade County, Florida. The plastic body was pocked with holes, and its pink luster had been blanched the angry gray of a threatening nor’easter.

The yard bird was not what had drawn his attention, but rather a large gray dog. Upon closer examination, a wolf. There was a collar around its neck, a large silver tag hanging from it. It was an emblem of some type, but Duncan couldn’t quite make it out at his distance. The animal just stood there, staring at him. There was something peculiar about its eyes...

Suddenly, the smells of timeworn flax and linseed oil took to the wing from somewhere deep inside his memory: the stink of hay and musty rooms (stalls?), the feel of warm sunlight slicing through boarded windows, the texture of frayed rope and the trill of a rusted weathervane...

These memories were not his, yet something in the wolf’s eyes impassioned them.

Where were these memories coming from?

He didn’t know. But he did know that they were important. Since yesterday, he’d learned not to take anything for granted, not even a trip to the john.

Up ahead, reposed against a section of chain-link fence impounding the house, was the silhouette of a man.

Duncan stopped. Stared.

With a
ching-ing-ing
, the figure came off the fence. “There once was a detective named McNeil,” greeted the voice, the words steamy in the crisp night air. “I believe you know the rest.”

“Well, well, you must be the poet, Mr. Gamble.”

“The McDevil of the deities,” he affirmed.

“And let’s not forget Jack Fortune.”

“Oh, let’s,” Gamble said, scrunching his nose. “I never really liked him.”

Duncan’s heart was pounding like a River Dance troop on an ant-infested stage. Gamble might have had a stamp on his forehead declaring “Man Made,” but he was still very much a god, Duncan suspected, one who could shove a squeeze bulb up his ass, turn him into a perfume atomizer, and deliver to the universe his guts in little misty bursts, should the urge strike.

An image came to his mind, one of Mitch Dillard languishing in the slug’s jellied throat. “You murdered the photographer.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I did.”

Duncan couldn’t have run even if he’d wanted. His knees were locked and secured like the twin barrels of a shotgun. No, he wouldn’t give the sonofabitch the satisfaction. Nor was he about to do any bootlicking. Besides, he imagined that Gamble probably had more respect for someone who, like good old Rooster Cogburn, had true grit. Duncan knew his own grit was imitation, of course, but he wasn’t going to tell.

“Fuck you,” Duncan spat. “And fuck your mongrels.”

“Give your sphincter a rest, Donut. That’s not why I’m here.”

“You have no business here,” Duncan said. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“I’m afraid I disagree,” Gamble said, closing on Duncan. “On behalf of creation, this
is
my concern. And I’m here to try and persuade you from making the biggest mistake since Red Delicious were planted in Eden.”

“Persuade me from what?” he said, as if he hadn’t the foggiest idea what the man was talking about. There was a frankness in his voice, though, which Duncan strongly perceived to be genuine. But then, this guy was the archetype of deception. To even think about trusting him, he reminded himself, would be a grave mistake.

Gamble stopped just inches from Duncan, the purple tassels of his muffler groping the nearly fictional breeze like the beautiful but deadly tentacles of a sea anemone. Beneath his muffler, he was wearing a blue tattered pea coat with a yellow slicker beneath, a pair of equally frazzled tan dungarees, and a shiny new pair of fishermen’s galoshes.

Duncan didn’t know whether to address him as Mr. Gamble or Ishmael.

Gamble shook his finger. “You’re not only playing with your own existence, but existence itself. I have to tell you, going back in time is a gargantuan breach of principle.”