Part 8 (1/2)
”Simon? He gets a little more time.”
Lucifer takes a long drag on the Malediction and puts the necklace back with the other soul souvenirs.
”That's all you people ever want. A little more time in a world that all of you, in your heart of hearts, secretly despise.”
”I don't keep it a secret.”
”And that's why I like you, Jimmy. We're alike in so many ways. Plus, you're so very good at making things dead. That's what you're going to do for me while I'm here. Not kill so much as prevent a killing, namely mine. You're going to be my bodyguard whenever I'm out in public.”
”You're the devil. You gave G.o.d a rusty trombone and lived to talk about it. Why would you need a bodyguard?”
”Of course, no one can kill me permanently, but this physical body I inhabit on earth can be injured, even destroyed. Wouldn't it be embarra.s.sing if it turned up riddled with bullets? We don't want that kind of negative buzz just as the production is getting off the ground.”
”You need a new PR guy, not a bodyguard.”
”All the most famous people travel with private security these days, don't they? You're mine. Sandman Slim by my side, ready to snap necks at a moment's notice. That will be quite a photo op. For both of us.”
”That's exactly what I want. More people knowing who I am.”
Lucifer laughs.
”Don't worry. The civilian media won't see either of us. This is purely for the benefit of our sort of people.”
”The Sub Rosa.”
”Exactly.”
”Is that who owns the studio?”
”No. It's a civilian gentleman, but most of his staff is Sub Rosa. The studio even has an outreach program, providing unskilled jobs to Lurkers that want to crawl out of the sewers and into the real world.”
”Sub Rosas get the corner office and Lurkers get to clean the toilets. Same as it ever was.”
”That sounds like cla.s.s warfare, Jimmy. You're not a socialist, are you?”
”Considering who and what I am ...”
”An abomination?”
”Right. Considering that most Sub Rosa probably consider me a Lurker, do you really want me around so one of them can say something cute at a party and I have to pry his head off with a shrimp fork?”
Lucifer seems to think for a moment, sets down his drink, and leans forward in his seat. He speaks very quietly.
”Do you think for one second that I would allow any of the walking excrement that infests this world to insult me or anyone in my employ? You might be a natural-born killer, but I specialize in torment that lasts a million years. You think you've seen horrors because you were in the arena. Trust me, you have no idea what real horror looks like or the terrible things I've done to keep my throne. You'll be by my side while I'm in Los Angeles because in this task and in all others, I'm as much your bodyguard as you are mine.”
It's moments like this, when Lucifer gets rolling and the words and the intensity start flowing, that I understand how one lone angel convinced a third of Heaven's worker bees to turn the dump over. And that was just the third with the cojones to follow him. I have a feeling that a lot of other angels listened, but were too scared to join the party. If I was some lower-cla.s.s grease-monkey angel caught in the cross fire of an argument between Lucifer and Aelita-oh wait, I am-I'd probably think twice about giving G.o.d the finger and running off to never-never land with Satan and the Lost Boys. But I'd still go.
I want to ask what that part about us being each other's bodyguard means, but when he gets like this, it's scary to ask direct questions, so I go another way.
”What do I have to do as your bodyguard?”
He picks up his drink and relaxes like nothing ever happened.
”Not much. I don't expect any trouble, but all the major celebrities travel with their own security these days. Who better for me to have by my side than Sandman Slim? All you have to do is remember to wear pants and occasionally look menacing. Really, you'll be less my bodyguard and more of a branding opportunity, like Ronald McDonald.”
”It sounds better and better all the time.”
”You've already taken a lot of my money and you're not in a position to pay it back, so let's not argue the point. You know you're going to take the job. You knew it before you walked in here.”
”When do I start?”
”Tomorrow night. Mr. Ritchie, the head of the studio, is throwing me a little welcome party. We'll make our debut then.”
”I have something I have to do later tonight.”
”I'm not going anywhere tonight, so feel free.”
”Does Kasabian know about all this?”
”Why would I tell him my business? His job is to send me information.”
”What's he been telling you about me?”
”That you're at loose ends. That you're depressed. That you're drunk much of the time. That ever since you locked up Mason, all you've done is kill things, smoke, and drink. You need to get out more, Jimmy. This will be the perfect job for you. You'll meet lots of exciting new people to hate.”
”I hope you're a better salesman when you're buying suckers' souls.”
He pours us both more Aqua Regia. When he holds out the pack of Maledictions, I take one and he lights it for me.
”I'm not a salesman. I don't have to be. People offer me their souls every second of every day. They bring them to my door ready to eat. It's like having pizza delivered.”
”You're making me hungry. There any food around here?”
”You want to eat with me? You don't know much mythology, do you? Persephone's story?”
”Who's she?”
”She was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld, where she ate a single pomegranate seed. She was able to return home, but for the rest of her life she had to spend half of the year with her husband on earth and half of the year with Hades in the Underworld.”
”Was she hungry when she ate the seed?”
”I expect so.”
”Then what's the problem? I once ate some greasy scrambled eggs at a truck stop near Fresno and puked and s.h.i.+t myself for two days. That was six months in h.e.l.l right there.”
Lucifer picks up a phone next to his chair.
”I'll call room service.”
LATER, MY PHONE goes off. It's Wells texting me the address of where I'm supposed to meet him. I go out the Alice in Wonderland clock and down to the garage, where top-of-the-line cars are laid out like Christmas morning on repo-man island. There's a white '57 T-bird with a white top. I pop the knife into the ignition, fire it up, and head outside. On my way out of the lot, I nod to the valet I gave the Bugatti to. He raises one arm and gives me an unsure little half wave. He won't be able to keep the Veyron, of course, the cops and insurance company will make sure of that, but I hope he gets to have some fun before he has to ditch it.