The Dirty Streets of Heaven: Volume One of Bobby Dollar (35 page)

That wasn’t going to happen.

As I reached the middle of the square I heard the first startled screams from the late-night crowds, and I knew the
ghallu
was after me again. That was one less thing to feel bad about—at least I was taking it away from my friends—but if the next part of my hasty plan didn’t work, I definitely wasn’t going to make it to Ash Wednesday this year.

A couple of teenagers riding double on a motorcycle almost knocked me over in their hurry to escape the square, self-selecting themselves as key ingredients in Part Two of my plan: I knew that if I didn’t get back into some kind of vehicle I wasn’t even going to make it to the far side of the plaza before the demon pulled all my bits off. I ran after the motorcycle kids and caught them in a few strides. I yanked the one in the back off his seat, then jumped up behind the driver and, before he realized quite what was going on, lifted him up and tossed him over too. I leaned down over the handlebars and fumbled the bike into second gear—it was a newish Yamaha, and I hadn’t ridden one in a
while—then yelled back at its driver where he lay on the ground, “Tell me you got insurance. You do, right?”

He said something I couldn’t quite make out—I told myself it was,
“Yes, plenty!”
Then I gave it all the throttle I could, and it leaped ahead. The engine was surprisingly strong; the front wheel came up off the ground for a moment, but I leaned way forward and brought it down, then blasted across the square as fast as I could, weaving in and out of startled revelers who were beginning to panic and run in different directions—perhaps because of me, perhaps because of the giant, steaming, horned terror that was chasing me.

I almost dumped the bike getting out between a couple of official vehicles on the far side of Beeger Square but regained my balance and accelerated again along Main Street as I left the crowds behind. I was aiming for the open-air Riverside Shopping Center since it would be closed for the night, and I couldn’t really afford to dodge pedestrians much longer. The
ghallu
was just behind me, something I could hear even though I didn’t dare risk a look back at the speeds I was traveling. Up and down curbs and through pedestrian alleys not meant to be traversed at sixty miles an hour—I was coming damn close to killing myself and sparing the ancient demon-thing all the trouble. But somehow I bounced up an inactive escalator without popping a tire and made it to the upper esplanade of the Riverside Center. Now I risked a look back and saw the black shape coming up the escalator behind me. It had dried and was already ablaze again, flames licking its silhouette, gleaming red eyes fixed remorselessly on me.

The upper level of the Riverside Center has shops all along one side, but the other side is open to the manicured bank of the Redwood River below. I needed to get to the far end of the shopping center where the water widened and deepened, but the roof was full of cement planters and benches and little kiosks that sold waffle cones and candy and other useful things, padlocked now, so I had to ease up on the throttle enough to slalom through them all. I could actually hear the slap of the
ghallu
’s feet on the esplanade behind me, still in close pursuit. The monster was all but tireless, but I definitely was not.

There was no way to jump the iron fence at the end of the esplanade, so I did the only thing I could: at the last second, with the fence ten yards away, then five, four, three yards, I clambered up and stood on the seat, spreading my arms, then jumped as high as I could.

The Yamaha smashed into the fence at something over forty miles an hour with an explosive, grinding clang. Carried forward by momentum, I flew through a shower of sparks as a whole length of iron pickets tore free with the motorcycle still tangled in them like a dophin in a net. The broken fence tumbled awkwardly down the embankment, carrying the bike with it. I watched it in almost slow-motion clarity, because I was plunging through the air toward the green water far below.

I hit the water in the clumsiest, most painful cannonball dive imaginable—really, I’ve seen people land burning aircraft more gracefully. But the important thing was what happened next: I splashed down into the river at a place where it was deep enough to absorb the energy of my fall. I also somehow managed to stay conscious. When I stopped moving and began to float to the surface again I pulled the bar’s siphon hose from my belt and ripped off the little faucet, then put the end of the hose in my mouth. I held my breath as long as I could as I drifted up, then poked the other end of the hose above the
surface. When I reached a place where I could put my feet on the bottom and still get the tip of the hose out of the water, I stopped moving and tried just to stay still.

I was well out into the middle of the river, and I didn’t think that anything that had howled so much at being hosed down would wade out into so much water if it couldn’t even see me. I was hoping being underwater would hide my smell, too.

It had been a desperate plan, and one of the things I hadn’t had a chance to consider was what it would feel like to be submerged in fifty-degree water, breathing through a plastic tube. It wasn’t so bad for the first couple of minutes, but even with my stronger-than-human constitution I was shivering so badly by the ten-minute point that I began debating whether it was really worse to be captured or killed by that creature than to die of exposure in a river full of cold water.

I gave it one more minute, then crept slowly into the shallows and staggered ashore on the cement bank at a spot hidden under a pedestrian bridge, soaked and shivering. No sign of the
ghallu
, but I didn’t move any further until I saw that the police and other emergency workers were gathering along the esplanade where the bike had gone through the wrought iron fence, pointing to the spot where everything had hit the water. Some of the twisted wreckage protruded above the surface. I figured they’d be sending in divers to look for my body soon, so I clambered out on the far side of the bridge and did my best to squeeze most of the water from my clothes, hoping that when I was done I’d just look like a bum who’d had a hard, hard night. Cold and miserable? Don’t ask.

I called Sam but nobody picked up, so I left a terse message to let him know I was alive. I hoped he was the same, but the creature had hit him very, very hard, and I was worried. I tried Monica, too, but also without luck. I was seriously worried that my incompetence might have gotten all my closest friends and colleagues killed, but I couldn’t worry long because I knew for a fact that the
ghallu
was still out there somewhere, that I had no car and no silver bullets, and that by now Eligor must have spies all over town.

As I huddled there shivering I couldn’t even raise Clarence the trainee, which made me wonder if everyone was just avoiding me out of self-preservation. I didn’t want to try to walk dripping down brightly lit Veterans in search of a motel, and I didn’t know of even a homeless shelter I could get into at this time of night. Which left me but one option.

I called the number I never really thought I’d use. Nobody answered that one either, but I left a message.

Fifteen minutes later the big black car pulled to the side of Veterans near the place where, still drizzling river water, I was crouching out of sight of the road. I scrambled up the embankment and, keeping my head low, opened the passenger side door. As I pulled myself in, something hard and extremely gunlike pushed against my forehead.

“You realize this taxi ride isn’t free, don’t you, Dollar?” The Countess of Cold Hands had a very steady grip on the pistol, no tremor. “Either you’re going to tell me everything you know and everything you think you know, or they’re going to find a floater that looks like you in the Redwood River tomorrow morning.”

It’s hard to argue with the barrel of an automatic pressing against your glabella. “You have my angelic word on it.”

“Lovely,” she said with perhaps just a hint of sarcasm. “Buckle up.” She removed the barrel from my forehead but kept it pointing toward me. It was a big Czech 9mm with what looked like silver plating, I was guessing platinum or chrome. Very flashy, though.

She stared her disapproval as I arranged myself wetly on the leather
upholstery, then she swung the big car out onto Veterans. “You smell like pond scum and duck shit, Dollar. I’m guessing you might have found yourself in over your head.”

“Ha ha.” The unamused way I said it was slightly undercut by my violent shivering. “Could you turn up the heat?”

“I’m not sure you can take it any hotter,” she said, but dialed it up a couple of notches anyway as she nosed through traffic, the gleaming automatic now tucked between her thighs. “And after you tell me what I want to know, where will I be taking you?”

“Right now Hell itself would make a nice change.”

She frowned. “You have no idea how unfunny that is.”

I
HAVEN’T MET that many women, human or angelic, who actually like to drive. In my experience they seem to be much more pragmatic about the whole thing than we are. For most males, driving is an extension of their masculinity; they have little fantasy scenarios going all the time—races, chases, and dramatic combat with other drivers. Females, on the other hand, generally seem to view driving as something you do to get somewhere. I know, crazy.

As we sped away from the scene of my most recent escape from the
ghallu
, I noted with interest that the Countess of Cold Hands was not one of that usual type. She was aggressive, and she drove fast, but with a self-assured inattention, too. She also drove mostly one-handed, but that might have been because her not-so-dainty CZ 75 automatic was in her left hand now, resting on her thigh but pointing in my direction.

“So why did you have a chauffeur before? Because you seem to like doing this.”

“You mean Cinnamon? Most of the time I’ve got better things to do than drive. But as I told you before, things have changed—I’ve been forced to downsize a bit.” She knifed between two trucks and then slid neatly to the right into the exit lane. We had been on the Bayshore, but as we pulled off and headed west on University my Dollar-sense started tingling. I thought for a moment we might be heading toward the Walker place, home to Posie and her idiot boyfriend, and I wondered if I was about to find out I had been a bigger sap than I already t
hought I was—that the Countess had set me up from the beginning for some reason I couldn’t yet see. But then again, why would she need a reason? We were on different sides, weren’t we? We were blood enemies.

Just as I was planning my escape (or my counterattack, if that sounds more manly) she made a sharp turn off the main thoroughfare toward the brightly lit but seedy little district known as Whisky Gulch, an oasis just outside the legal limits of the Stanford family’s anti-booze crusade. It had been the hub of the local jazz scene in the 1950s and revived briefly with a couple of discos in the seventies, but had fallen on hard times since then. Still, some of the clubs like The Glo-Worm had been there since the Great Depression, and scarcely a one hadn’t seen some important San Judas citizen arrested or shot on its premises over the years. It was funny to think that this den of revelry and bad behavior stood so close to the manicured, leaf-blowered streets of Edward L. Walker and his neighbors.

“Slouch down,” she said suddenly as we tooled down the main drag. “Too many eyes on this street.”

“This car has got tinted windows.”

“I’m not worrying about human eyes.”

I slid down until my head was level with the glove compartment. From this close proximity I couldn’t help looking over at my driver, who I realized for the first time was not wearing some kind of exotic wrap-around dress but a silk dressing gown. It had slid entirely off her left leg, and I watched her slender but muscular thigh and calf muscles bunch and relax as she worked the accelerator and brake pedals. It was very interesting.

“Keep your eyes to yourself, Wings,” she said after some moments.

“You really don’t want me to look? I thought you lady demons were all about seduction.”

“What you don’t know about lady demons would fill several books too long for you to read, Dollar.”

I laughed despite myself, despite my broken ribs and the gun pointing at me. “Whatever. Where are you taking me?”

“Someplace to get you dried off and less conspicuous while I think about where to dump you. And so you’ll have a chance to tell me what you know in private.”

“And that would be…?”

“Don’t you ever just shut up?”

I get that a lot.

We drove through a dark neighborhood of tall apartment buildings, not the nice kind they had out on University Avenue with their gleaming frontages and doormen in uniforms but the kind where people dried their washing on their balconies, and broken children’s toys slowly turned into bleached fossils on patches of crabgrass-studded dirt that had once been lawns. The sidewalks were empty, of course—it was well after two in the morning—but the litter suggested they were usually full of people with nothing much to do. Our tires crunched through bottle glass as we turned into a downsloping driveway.