The Dirty Streets of Heaven: Volume One of Bobby Dollar (30 page)

After about a year and a half we graduated from training to actual work—counterstrike, which meant we went into situations that had gone wrong and did our best to put them right and also, quietly, to send a very strong message to the other side that such things would not be tolerated. I have no idea what was going on in other CUs, but CU
Lyrae
was strictly reactive.

I’ll gloss over the nearly eight years, Earth-time, that I spent as an Angel of Vengeance. Suffice to say that some of it was exhilarating, much of it terrifying, quite a lot disgusting, and almost all of it dangerous. Our territory, like my advocacy beat these days, was mostly San Judas, although we ranged as far afield as the Pacific Ocean on the other side of the mountains, or occasionally to other parts of Northern California. After all, the Lord’s vengeance has no limits, so what’s a county line or two? That was something Leo used to say. Another favorite of his: “The only thing dumber than angels are the dumb bastards who think you can train ’em.” He was a good man when he wasn’t making you want to disappear from self-loathing over something stupid you’d done. I wish I knew if anything was still left of him, soul-wise. It’d be nice to think we might meet again someday in some higher Heaven.

As to how I came to leave the Harps—well, I couldn’t exactly tell you. That’s because I don’t remember it. One day I woke up in a CU hospital facility. The last thing I remembered was that we had been sent after a particularly nasty gang of drug cowboys that Leo said was Opposition-backed and which had a lot of Belle Haven and Ravenswood under its sway. According to Sam, who was there with me in the hospital when I woke up, I was ambushed, and two of the earthbound angels with me were blown to pieces on the spot, but the bad guys took me back to their warehouse base to question me. By the time Sam and Leo and the rest found me, I had been in their hands for about three days, and the body I was wearing was extremely dead. With some luck
they managed to get me back to base and into another body, but I still wasn’t right for a long time—Hell can inflict damage that isn’t just physical. You can see why the thought of Grasswax’s last hours had some impact on me.

Anyway, after that my superiors decided I was in no fit shape to continue in the Harps. Although I begged to stay on in some other capacity, they instead offered me a transfer back to the Celestial City, to heal and be retrained. But I didn’t want to go back. I liked Earth. In some weird way I still can’t fully explain I felt comfortable there in a way I hadn’t exactly felt in Heaven. So I inquired about jobs in San Judas and was told that there were openings for advocates.

I saw Leo in Jude a few times after that—he’d drop by The Compasses and we’d have some laughs, but of course he couldn’t tell me what he was doing since I was no longer cleared. Sam and I stayed friends, too, although we weren’t as close as we later became. Then Leo died.

I don’t know the details very well, and I still don’t like to think about it. As I may have mentioned, it wasn’t him dying that was hard to take, and it sure wasn’t surprising—he had a dangerous job—but the fact that he couldn’t be resurrected, and that some people suggested it was because he’d made enemies upstairs. Which nobody wanted to believe, because…well, where did that leave the rest of us?

Not too long after Leo’s death Sam quit the Harps and came to work for the advocates as well. He told me he’d been thinking about it long before I was invalided out, but losing Leo had been the final straw. He had a lot to say about his reasons, although he shied away from specific details except to say that some of the jobs he’d done had been really, really bad. Worse than anything I’d ever seen.

Okay, so now you can guess the answers to some of those things you’ve probably been wondering, like why I know a gunsmith as weird as Orban, and how I met some of my more obscure friends. And, of course, why I wanted nothing more at this moment than somehow to escape the whole mess I was in as quickly and painlessly as possible.

I was driving west when the phone rang, heading for the Camino Real to shop for a new motel—people pay way less attention to you when you check in during the daytime—and noticing that the Carnival decorations seemed to have spread out of downtown and all across the city. I squinted at the phone. It wasn’t a number I recognized.

“Go,” I said.

“Top flight! Excellent to reach you, Mr. Bobby! And to find you not yet dead!” It was Fox, the albino jitterbug.

“How the hell did you get this number?”

He only giggled. “No time for such, Dollar-man! You wanted meeting? You want big auction? Price is Right? Studio audience? You got it!”

“Are you saying it’s on?”

“Tomorrow night. Midnight.” He hummed a snatch of music to himself, but I couldn’t make it out. “Be there or be square, Mr. Bobby!”

“Be where?”

“Don’t know yet. But I promise—I call as soon as I know.”

“You didn’t tell them I’m bringing…the thing they’re interested in, right? Because that’s not going to happen. I want to agree on a price,
then
I’ll arrange the delivery.”

“Don’t worry, Dollar-Bob, don’t worry. Everything will be right in the rain.”

Before I could ask him if he meant “right
as
rain,” he was gone. So now on top of all the other shit I had to deal with, I had twenty-four hours to figure out how to conduct an auction with a bunch of criminals or worse for something I had never seen and couldn’t even name.

We sure know how to have fun in San Judas.

I
’VE ALWAYS preferred the city at night. I believe that San Judas, or any city, belongs to the people who sleep there. Or maybe they don’t sleep—some don’t—but they
live
there. Everybody else is just a tourist.

Venice, Italy, for instance, pulls in a million tourists for their own Carnival season but the actual local population is only a couple of hundred thousand. Lot of empty canals and streets at night, especially when you get away from the big hotels, and the residents pretty much have it to themselves when tourist season slows during the winter.

Jude has character—everybody agrees on that. It also has that thing I like best about a city: You can never own it, but if you treat it with respect it will eventually invite you in and make you one of its true citizens. But like I said, you’ve got to live there. If you’re never around after the bars close, or at the other end of the night as the early workers get up to start another day and the coffee shops and news agents raise their security gates, then you don’t really know the place, do you?

Anyway, that’s the city I love, the nighttime city, but unfortunately that was the part I couldn’t really enjoy at the moment because so many different people and things that liked darkness wanted to hurt me.

Still, I was feeling a tiny bit better. I’d stopped back in to see Orban at the end of the day and now had a hundred rounds of high-quality .38 caliber silver ammunition, thirty of which I’d already transferred into speed loaders, making for some very heavy pockets. Orban had also loaned me a car, one of several he kept around the place, and my
Matador was now hidden out behind the pier where Orban kept some of his bigger projects under tarps. (I was parked next to an M41 Walker Bulldog and couldn’t help wondering if the tank was meant for a local client.) So now I was out tooling around in a lumbering decades-old Pontiac Bonneville that had about three-quarters of its armoring job finished. Who the hell puts armor on an ancient whale like that? Must have been where the owner lost his virginity or something was all I could figure. Anyway, driving the thing was like piloting a cabin cruiser in a shallow inlet, but at least it was sturdy. Oh, and I felt much,
much
less conspicuous now. I love my whip, but it’s only a notch more anonymous than the Batmobile.

Before going back to Orban’s I’d checked into my motel-du-jour and taken a nap, which had helped my hangover a little bit. I’d also had dinner and a couple of cups of coffee, and now I was out driving. It clears my head and helps me think, especially when I open the windows and let the air knock me around a little. I definitely needed the oxygen that night, so I took the Woodside Highway up into the hills and tooled south along Skyline, looking down through the gaps in the tree line to see the scatter of ground-hugging stars that is a city by night.

I know it’s going to sound particularly bizarre coming from an angel, but I’ve always had an almost mystical feeling about San Judas. It’s a strange town in a lot of ways, not as cosmopolitan as San Francisco or as funky-ethnic as Oakland, and with a long, checkered history of economic bubbles and collapses. Despite the presence of Stanford it’s not really considered a world-class city, but there’s something about the place that got into my blood and has just stayed there. I can imagine living somewhere else but not permanently. I like the smell of the bay, I like the hills at night, I like the old downtown buildings with their now slightly shamefaced Gilded Age opulence, I like the alleyways and hidden courtyards and whitewashed churches of Old Spanishtown. I like the bars at the waterfront and the stories you hear in them. Jude is like one of those favorite books where you find something new every time you open it.

You can’t get much in the way of radio up on Skyline unless you have satellite. The Pontiac wasn’t finished with its conversion yet so it had nothing but a cassette player, of all things. Still, I wanted music badly, and I’m not much of a singer so I pulled over at a vista point and
fumbled around in the box of ancient tapes on the floor of the shotgun side until I found a collection of Gregorian Chants, which made better thinking-music than the impossible alternatives (which ran to the likes of Loggins and Messina and
Chicago VI
). The tape actually played, which surprised me—it must have been in the car for decades. I wondered if someone had died in this four-wheeled sleigh back in the mid-seventies and just lay there mummifying along with his stupid tapes until Orban cleaned out the interior.

Accompanied now by melodiously moaning monks I reached misty Santa Cruz and turned around, still waiting for everything to fall into place, for the secret design to be revealed at last, or at least for the universe to give me a hint about what to do next, but the universe was keeping its mouth shut. I came back the slow way through the redwoods via Highway 9. By the time I got back to the top of the Woodside Highway I was so deeply tangled in my own thoughts that the sudden ring of my phone almost startled me into driving that big old car off the road. I was hoping it wasn’t a client, and this time I got lucky: it was Fatback, which meant it must be after midnight. I was surprised at how quickly the time had slipped away.

“Mr. D, that you?”

“I’m here, George.” I started down the hill. “Not too many miles away from you, actually.”

“You want to drop by? I think Javier’s got a few beers in the refrigerator.”

I’d had a nice hot shower before I came out and the thought of getting my clothes full of that smell didn’t really appeal. Also, I still needed to think. “I’ve got a client I have to go see, George—sorry. I’ll see you again before too long.”

“Yeah.” He sounded wistful. “It’s always nice to have visitors.” He seemed to hear himself because he quickly became businesslike. “Hey, D, you sure are piling up the work for me here. That Walker guy, Grasswax, Habari, what else? Oh, yeah, the albino, Eligor, your
ghallu
-thing, your Magian Society, and now you want to know about all these new dead guys?”

I was guessing by “new dead guys” he meant the owners of the latest missing souls. “Well, if you had someone working for you during the daylight hours you wouldn’t find all this crap waiting for you when you come back from Pigtown.” I immediately wished I hadn’t
said it—it sounded mean-spirited—but if it bothered George he didn’t give any sign.

“Yeah, right. Like I’m going to hire another full-time employee on the piddly amounts
you
pay me, Bobby. This is the first work you’ve given me in at least a couple of months. Just because people are trying to kill you, suddenly everything’s rush, rush, rush.”

“Very funny. Look, all those new guys are…” I paused. “I’m having trouble remembering, George—did I tell you what’s going on?”

“What, you mean with more missing souls? Yeah, creepy. And these are them?”

“These are
some
of them,” I said. Monica had sent me a list that now had five names on it. “Just the locals.”

“Wow.” He seemed genuinely impressed. “So it’s happening other places?”

“As far as I know. But they must be hushing it up—in fact, if you haven’t heard about it, both sides must be hushing it up like crazy.”

“Heard lots of rumors, but the psy-ops boys from both sides are smart, Bobby. They don’t try to deny or undermine a story like that, they just put out even more rumors, more and more until the original signal disappears almost entirely in the noise.”

“Well, I need whatever I can get on the new guys.” I had decided that since it was no longer just Edward Walker’s soul that was missing it might be useful to know what he had in common with the newest cases, if anything. “And did you find any more about the Magians or, what was it, Kephas?”