The Demon Deception (10 page)

Sam sat down in the chair across from
Lazarus, “Yeah, well, I became a Florida resident. My uncle has a
house down there, so I use that as my address now. That way I can
have a concealed carry license to use outside of New York, and I
don’t have to worry about state income taxes. Basically a win-win
for me, though the property taxes here still rip me apart.”

Lazarus looked at Sam. When he met him ten
years ago, Sam wasn’t what you would call a worldly individual.
Things like tax shelters were not high on his list of things to
know. Lazarus approved of the changes, “Good choice.”

Sam took a drink, “So, about the concealed
carry. Expecting trouble so soon?”

Lazarus mirrored his movements and felt the
cool liquid slide down his throat, “Not from Lilith. That would
violate the parameters of our working agreement. I think that her
boss wouldn’t understand too well if she broke our agreement this
quickly. We can expect her to make her move shortly after we deal
with the incursion, though, if not during.” He took another drink,
“But, she might spread the word around. If others found out, they
might do her dirty work for her.”

Sam smiled, “And since we have to deal with
nefarious individuals to procure our supplies, you think we may
have to deal with problems along the way.”

“Yes. Unfortunately, sometimes word travels
even when you wish it wouldn’t. I have no doubt that Lilith will be
using her influence to track us the entire way. But, better safe
than sorry. Sometimes, it’s not primeval immorality and evil you
have to worry about. Sometimes it’s just a thug with a gun. Better
to be able to deal with the situation instead of standing there
flat footed, looking foolish before he kills you.”

Sam understood. As a Marine and an iron
worker, he understood about risk management and mitigating the
vagaries of chance and other people’s poor, or malicious, choices.
Besides, with the amount of hardware they’d be carrying on this
particular mission, somebody may want a big score. There were a lot
of gangs that would literally kill to get their hands on the
weapons that he and Lazarus acquired along the way.

Still, if there was going to be trouble,
there was no better man to face it with than Lazarus. Sam had faced
the minions of hell with him. Lazarus would always have his back,
California notwithstanding. Sam was yanking Lazarus’ chain when he
mentioned California. In fact, he was proud that Lazarus had such a
good opinion about his capabilities that he didn’t worry about Sam
dealing with the three lycans on his own. Dealt with them he had
indeed.

It was unfortunate that there had been a
group of state police and California National Guard cutting down
marijuana plants not five miles away from where the big battle
against the vampire coven and their lycan body guards occurred. He
had to run three miles across rough terrain, to the old Ford
Bronco, to get clear of the area. Then he had to drive through
pitted logging roads until he was able to get to Nevada. All of the
weapons were sold to a survivalist in Reno for a reduced sum of
money, and the Bronco was left with the keys in it in a bad part of
Las Vegas. The survivalist wasn’t stupid. Those weapons wouldn’t
see the light of day until the apocalypse, whenever that might
be.

Sam asked, “When do you want to get on the
road?”

Lazarus replied, setting the empty bottle
down on the table, “Well, I’d like to pay a visit to Myra before I
leave. But I want to get to the first site pretty quick.”

Sam nodded, “When you go to see Myra, give
her my respects.”

Lazarus smiled at the idea, “Sure.”

----------------------------------------------------

He stopped at a flower shop and bought a
dozen red roses, and took a bus cross town. Along the way, women
smiled to see him with the flowers, thinking that he was going to
see his girlfriend or his wife. He was, though they didn’t
understand the circumstances. He just smiled back at them. He got
off the bus at the gates of Union Field Cemetery, a Jewish cemetery
between Queens and Brooklyn. He walked through the gates, and calm
replaced the bustle outside. As far as the eye could see there were
Stars of David on the monuments. He took in the dignified
monuments, well-tended lawn and the trees turning scarlet and
orange. The quiet of the cemetery made him thoughtful. The chill
from the morning remained.

As he walked, he looked at the row numbers to
find the one that he wanted. The area he was looking for was older.
Myra Rothstein had passed in 1964. He met her in 1920, just after
the passing of the Volstead Act. Myra was related to Arnold
Rothstein, the Jewish racketeer, which was, in a roundabout way,
how Lazarus met her. At least, the second time he met her.

When Lazarus came to New York, it was to talk
to Arnold Rothstein. One of his earners was dealing with demonic
powers. Joey Donovan wasn’t happy just being an earner, he wanted
to be the big boss. Joey didn’t have the talent to rise above his
station, though. The only way Donovan could ever get into that
position was with a little help.

While Rothstein was a reprehensible human
being, dealing in numbers, prostitution and anything else he could
get his hooks into, he wasn’t dealing with demonic powers to feed
his corruption. Rothstein was safe from Lazarus. Lazarus doubted
Rothstein would be standing at the right hand of God when the time
came, but Rothstein wasn’t his problem.

Donovan wasn’t as lucky. Lazarus couldn’t get
to him without going through Rothstein, though. Donovan was not a
smart man, but he was brutal enough to be a good earner for
Rothstein. It was much more trouble trying to get to Donovan
without Rothstein’s permission than with it.

Money talks, so Lazarus posed as a wealthy
business man from Israel, which, in a way, he was. Still, he
pressed flesh and greased palms, and got to a place where he and
Rothstein could talk. He brought evidence that Donovan was creeping
up on Rothstein, some of it real, some of it fake. Rothstein bit,
and let him go after Donovan.

In the process, he met Myra, Rothstein’s
cousin. Rothstein was one of the main men in organized crime in New
York City. Strangely though, Myra was considered to be the black
sheep of the family. The difference was, Arnold Rothstein was a
Jewish man, and Myra Rothstein was Jewish woman. She was also a
free spirit. She was an actress and a singer. She didn’t want the
staid life of a Jewish wife and mother. She was much happier taking
part of the wilder side of New York life.

The first time he met her was in a speakeasy
in Brooklyn. He didn’t know she was related to Arnold Rothstein,
and she didn’t pay any attention to him. She spilt her drink on
him, and snarled at him for getting in her way. He was amused by
the dark haired beauty, but he had other interests that night.

Rothstein and Lazarus met at an upscale
restaurant a few weeks later. The restaurant had a very exclusive
clientele. Lazarus saw her walk in, and once again he was struck by
her beauty. She walked in on the arm of a Protestant that Rothstein
knew, and Arnold was not happy at all. He stood up, walked over to
the couple, and said something to the man. The man’s face blanched,
and he quickly left Myra with Arnold, saying, “I’m sorry Mr.
Rothstein, it won’t happen again.”

After the Protestant left, Arnold talked, and
Myra listened. Myra tried to argue with him, but he wasn’t having
any of it. The smile she walked in with disappeared, and was
replaced with a frown and sullen silence. Rothstein led her over to
the table where Lazarus was sitting. Rothstein pointed at a chair
and said, “Sit.”

Arnold retook his seat, and introduced her,
“Please, let me introduce my cousin, Myra.”

Myra tried to ignore Lazarus, rolling her
eyes. Lazarus smiled at her petulance. He spoke, “Sorry, Mr.
Rothstein, that won’t be necessary. Your cousin and I have already
met.”

She was startled, and Arnold was curious.
“And where did you two meet, Mr. Bethany?”

Lazarus smiled at her, “At the Bedford Nest,
in Brooklyn. We were partaking in, ah, some libations of a
liberating sort, and Myra here decided to not only pour her drink
on me, but also to disparage me for being in her way when she did
so.”

Myra’s eyes widened, “Hey, I remember you!
You knocked the drink out of my hand.”

Lazarus shook his head, “No, I was standing
there, and you turned and spilled your drink on my suit.”

Myra poked him in the arm, “No, I don’t think
so! It wasn’t like that! I wasn’t the one moving, you were.”

They continued talking. Rothstein was
ephemeral at that point, and he could see what was happening. He
didn’t care, since Lazarus, or Eli as he knew him, was Jewish, and
rich. That alone would keep Myra’s mother, his aunt, happy, and by
extension, him also, since he didn’t have to listen to her kvetch
about her daughter.

Myra and Lazarus hit it off. Lazarus asked
for Rothstein’s permission to escort her home from the restaurant.
Myra didn’t like that. When Rothstein left, he got an earful from
her. They argued. They argued as they ordered desert. They argued
as he paid the tab. They argued as he walked her home. They argued
as he walked her to her apartment. They argued as she opened the
door. Once he was inside, there was no more arguing until morning.
Lazarus fell deeply in love with her.

The wedding was huge, much bigger than
Lazarus wanted. He had no choice though, marrying Rothstein’s
cousin. Lazarus had the time of his life with Myra. They had an
apartment not far from the theater district. He thought of the
times when they walked naked through the apartment, listening to
Jazz records, learning to play guitar, talking about the New York
intellectual writers that were exploring Marxism. She thought they
were deep and original thinkers. He thought they were deluded.

A lot of the Cotton Club regulars spent time
at their apartment. She became a well-known painter, and patron of
the arts. He didn’t even have to contribute money to the
relationship. She established a following and was able to sell
quite a few of her pieces. He never cared about that, and she
didn’t either. It was something to keep her occupied when he wasn’t
there. When he was there, they had each other, and that was their
entire world.

Now, fifty years later, he thought about her
often. He loved everything she did. Later in life, she lived in
SoHo. Always the innovator, she moved there in the mid-‘50s, and
more artists followed her. She eventually learned the truth, but
she didn’t care. As she grew older, he stopped leaving to spend
precious time with her. He had responsibilities, but he put them
aside to stay with her. Their age drew them apart, at least
physically, her mortality and his immortality putting a wedge
between them. There was always the understanding, the kindness, the
deep love between them, though, even as time drew them apart. Now,
when he was in New York, he always paid his respects.

He found the monument, in the shade of an
ancient oak tree. He touched it, and his fingertips lingered on the
letters of her name. He brushed the few fallen leaves away, and
placed the roses on the ground in front of the monument. He sighed.
“Ah, Myra, my love, I still miss you girl. Oh, and Sam said
hello.”

He stood there for fifteen minutes, updating
her on what he had done since the last time he had talked to her.
He wished he could take back the years, and feel her breath on his
skin, taste her kisses, laugh with her, make love to her. He knew,
though, that all things come to an end. Hopefully, one day, they
would meet again. He finished by kissing his fingertips, then
touching the monument.

Too soon, the world intruded on his
reminiscence. As he stood there, a man walked up and stood next to
him. He looked over and recognized him, or, more exactly, he
recognized the type. Sometimes it was hard to differentiate between
them. The Archangel was well dressed, though with little flash,
dark suit, dark coat, white shirt, brushed oxford shoes, no
jewelry.

The leaves rustled around the man as a small
breeze sprung up. The clothes didn’t move with the wind. The
features were subtly wrong, though. No human could ever look like
that. The man was startling handsome, achingly so. White hair, eyes
so blue they looked like glacier ice, and pale, very pale, skin.
The light blue tie matched the eyes. The thing that stood out,
though, was the flawless complexion of the skin, no dimples, no
scars, no pores; also, no smile.

“What’s up, Uriel? Or is it Michael? Hard to
tell you guys apart sometime.”

He didn’t get a reply. Lazarus knew who it
was. There was a problem, if Uriel was here now. Angels don’t, as a
general practice, come down to talk to mortals. That would be
problematic. Angels are not known for being especially loquacious.
They usually smite something, and then they’re gone again. Lazarus
motioned towards the monument with Myra’s name on it.

“You know, it’s usually considered to
impolite to bother a man when he is talking to his loved ones,
especially when he’s standing at their grave.”

Uriel stood there, watching him. Archangels
don’t get sarcasm.

Lazarus spoke, “So, there’s something you
need to tell me?”

Uriel nodded. He didn’t say anything though,
which was a good thing. When angels speak, multitudes die. Lazarus
was pretty sure that the last time an angel said anything, it
resulted in the ten plagues that hit Egypt. It was like charades,
only without the hand gestures and silly faces. Lazarus had to fill
in the blanks, which meant it was going to be a one sided
conversation.

Lazarus thought about Lilith and the
situation. He ran the scenario through his mind. He picked up on
something, “How do you know that an incursion is going to happen,
if it’s from outside our universe? Do you have some kind of source?
Or is it just the ‘God, omniscient, omnipotent thing?’”