The Dirty Streets of Heaven: Volume One of Bobby Dollar (47 page)

I spoke the formula for a secure report, then described what I had just found and read. When I was finished, I took the envelope out of my pocket and showed it to the cube, then held the pages up one after another in front of that giant paperweight full of clouds and bright sunlight. When I’d finished the sweetly androgynous voice said,
Your report has been received
.

I was just getting up to go when the voice came again.
Archangel Temuel will speak to you.
I was a little surprised.

Doloriel, I’ve just seen your message.
My supervisor was nothing but a voice coming from the brilliant clouds.
This makes it all the more important that you attend the summit conference, which has now been officially decreed. Be my eyes and ears.

Which was a weird thing to say. Because the summit conference was
going to be as stuffed with angels as a clown car full of guys in big shoes. Did Temuel mean he wanted me to be his own private source? I could understand that, I guess—anybody who’s ever worked in a bureaucracy could—but coupled with his remark about my misremembering his Clarence comment, it unsettled me a bit.

I didn’t reveal that, of course. “Just give me the details.”

It starts this Friday. You won’t have to travel far. It will be at the Ralston Hotel, in your city.

I probably looked a little surprised. I don’t know if they can actually see us through the heaven box, but I explained my reaction anyway. “Right here in Jude? Not in, I don’t know, Vatican City or something? Vegas? I know those Hell guys love to convention in Vegas.”

Perhaps because the…problem began in San Judas, our superiors and the Opposition both think it would be the best place to discuss the issues.
Did he sound a little worried or was he just irritated with me for asking questions?
And as you can guess, Angel Doloriel, there are many issues, crucially important issues, and your new report only adds fuel to a fire that is already burning. Can I count on your focus and cooperation?

The Bobby Dollar credo: When speaking with management, answer anything that could have more than one meaning as though the obvious one is the only one you noticed. “Of course, Archangel. Thank you for your confidence in me.”

You’re welcome. And thank you for your hard work on the Walker case. I’m sure your report will cause quite a stir in the highest circles.

And with those even more ambiguous words he was gone. The cube mellowed to a faint golden glow, then even that vanished, but not before something about the unearthly quality of the flaring light caught my attention. I couldn’t help thinking about Habari’s astonishing display of power, of how Edward Walker had talked about the reverend doctor’s hand glowing like a magnesium flare when he opened a Zipper in that hospital. Had it been the same brilliant, ineffable light I had just closed my eyes against? Could Habari somehow be connected to Heaven after all? Or could Hell mimic that very, very recognizable radiance? I supposed it was possible—after all, that was the Devil’s traditional schtick, to seem fair but be foul, or something like that. But then again, it was a living mortal who had been tricked, so maybe they hadn’t needed to work all that hard. I suddenly wondered if someone like me could perform that trick, too—if any angel could do it.

I left the office doors locked behind me and clambered back over the fence into the courtyard of the little office complex next door. When my feet hit the ground, I turned and found myself about a foot away from a grinning, corpselike face. I had my new automatic from Orban out and my finger on the trigger before I realized it was my dancing acquaintance, Mr. Fox.

“Jesus!” I said, taking a step back and putting the gun in my pocket. I hate to take religious names in vain—it’s frowned on for guys in my line of work—but sometimes it just jumps out. “What are you doing sneaking up on me? I almost shot you!”

“No sneaking, Dollar man! Saw you climbing over the fence and thought we must have a chitter-chat.” He laughed and did a quick time step. Only then did it occur to me to look around the offices facing the courtyard. Only one employee sat at a window desk, a young black woman, but she was staring at me and the paper-white Asian guy with alarm. She was also fumbling blindly for her phone.

“Come on.” I headed for the way out. “Tell your story walking. I think that lady’s calling the cops.”

“No fear. Foxy has friends on the police. Friends everywhere.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re so popular. I’m not.”

We reached my car, and he hopped into the passenger seat without being asked. He looked around appreciatively, like I was his prom date and this was the limo. “You don’t have your old car anymore, Mister Bobby.”

“No. Where can I drop you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, just brimming with good cheer as I put it in drive. “When we going to do some more business, Mister BD? Only two of our auction crowd shot dead—many more to choose from!”

I weighed whether there was anything to be gained from further exploration in that direction, but after seeing how quickly and savagely Eligor had jumped on our “secret auction,” I didn’t really want to put any more people in harm’s way.

“I think I’m out of the artifact-selling business.”

He gave me a look of comical sorrow. “Truly? But there are many adventures yet to be had! Are you certain? I could conduct things in a more discreet manner—only one buyer at a time, strictly vetted by yours truthfully, Foxy Foxy!”

I was beginning to wonder if this guy was going to be popping up
unexpectedly for the rest of my life. “No. Seriously, no. I don’t want to sell anything.”

“Pull over here,” he said abruptly. We were in the middle of a street a few blocks from Beeger Square. “Think it over, Dollar Bob. There are oh-so many ways to do this!”

Frustration momentarily overcame discretion. “Look, I don’t
have
it. I don’t have the feather. I
never
had it, but I was trying to find out what everyone thought I had. Now I know, so I don’t need any more buyers.” I pulled over into a bus stop in front of Survival of the Fittest. Various people on running, spinning, and rowing machines inside watched as the door swung open and Fox popped out in all his pale, pirouetting splendor. He was laughing again but his eyes were sharp, and his affect was the most serious I’d seen from him. “Ah, don’t try to fool the Fox, D-man. Foxy knows better. Do you think I put my so-good reputation on the line, if I didn’t know for certain you had the feather? I smelled it on you.”

“What…?”

He leaned back into the car, still twitching his skinny butt in front of the gym window. It must have looked to the membership like I was dropping off some hustler I’d picked up down at the waterfront. The expression on Fox’s face was so odd, I briefly considered bailing out of the driver’s door: he was, well, baring his upper teeth and whiffling his nostrils. Yes, I said whiffling. I don’t even know what it means, but that was what he was doing.

He nodded. “I still smell it. Maybe not so strong now, but the smell of a big angel is something Foxy knows very well!” He laughed again and backed out of the car. “Let me know when you are done telling silly tales. Remember: Foxy Foxy is your actual friend, Mister Bob from Heaven. He does not take sides. He wants to help you!” He gave me the smallest hint of a jazz-hands finale, then sauntered away whistling something that sounded like a Mongolian show tune.

As I sat there wondering what the hell he had been talking about, how I could smell like something I never had, and what kind of weird thing the slippery, strange Mr. Fox might actually
be
, my phone rang. It was Caz’s number.

“I’m glad you called,” I said quickly. “I really want to talk to you.”

She hesitated for a moment before she spoke. Her voice was strange,
flat. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to let you know I won’t be available until later today. I’m in an important meeting.”

“You can’t talk now? Okay, when? I really need—”

“Yes, thank you. I’m glad to hear that everything’s going well.” And then she hung up.

I had only seconds to sit wondering what
that
had all been about before the phone rang again; an even more familiar number.

“Sam?”

“So we’re on a first name basis, huh? That’s nice to know after you nearly got me killed and then didn’t even visit me while I was lying in the hospital, a crippled wreckage.”

“Sam, I wanted to! But Monica told me I shouldn’t—”

“Man, get your panties unbunched—I’m just giving you shit. What’s up?”

“How are you? Are you still in the hospital?”

“Broke out this morning. People with bedpans are looking for me in five states. You want to get lunch?”

It was after three in the afternoon but I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Yeah, sure. How about someplace nobody knows us?”

He suggested a Burmese place I’d never heard of in the Mayfield district, and I said I’d meet him.

As I was tooling up Broadway I saw the beggar guy I’d met the first time I’d gone looking for Fox, and it reminded me of something I’d been wondering earlier. I pulled over in a loading zone and walked out to the traffic island where he and his GOD BLESS YOU sign sat waiting for people to drop money in his cardboard box. It didn’t look like many people had bothered to contribute. I examined him carefully as I approached, but he didn’t seem to be anything but what he appeared, another sad character who’d fallen through the cracks of modern life. Here in Jude we’ve got lot of homeless vets hanging around downtown, and he had that look, right down to the fatigue jacket that had to be a bit hot on this warm early spring day. “Tell you what,” I said, taking a twenty out of my wallet and displaying it. “I’m going to show you something. If you can describe it to me, you get this.”

His expression went from interested to sour. “Oh, man, you ain’t going to wiggle your johnson at me, are you? I don’t play that way.”

“No, no. Nothing like that.” I looked around to make sure nobody
was nearby, then I carefully opened a Zipper (the Heavenly kind—get your mind out of the gutter) which hung in the air just at the edge of the concrete island, bright in the middle of its line but diffuse at the edges, like the arc of a marine welder. “What do you see?”

He followed my pointing finger. “Umm…I don’t know, man. That car dealership? Or that tall place there, the one with the dude washing the windows?”

“No, not the buildings. Right here. Just in front of you.”

He looked sad. “I don’t know what you want me to say, man. You pointing at a car?” He squinted, facing right at the Zipper which hung only a foot or two away. “Something else?”

“Look, I’m going to take your arm. Just walk a step this direction. I know it’s weird, but I’m…I’m checking atmospheric changes. Just tell me if you feel or see anything out of the ordinary.” I took his spindly upper arm and guided him forward. He felt like he was getting ready to run. One more step and he was standing right in the Zipper—or rather, right where it would be if it existed for him. But he couldn’t pass through it, even with me touching him.

“Hey, I don’t…” He was getting nervous now. I let go.

“Never mind, man, that’s exactly what I needed. Here’s your money.”

I left him there, looking after me as he rubbed his thumb back and forth across his new twenty. Clearly, whatever Habari could manage, an average earthbound angel like me couldn’t get an ordinary mortal into a Zipper.

As I got back in my car the phone ran again. Caz this time.

“Hello? Can you talk now?”

“For a minute,” she said. Her voice was still flat, which frightened me. She sounded like something had hollowed her out.

“Then I’ll make this quick—I really need to see you.”

“No.” And for the first time I could hear something else—pain. “No, we can’t. It was a mistake. All of it.”

“It wasn’t! Nothing that…nothing that good could be a mistake. Not if you felt the same.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was ragged. “Don’t you understand? It’s impossible.
We’re
impossible. Forget it ever happened. Forget me. Just…look after yourself, Bobby. Because things are going to get bad.”

“Caz, wait—!”

“Don’t call me any more. Pretend it was a dream, like I’m doing. Even in Hell we dream sometimes.”

And then she was gone. I kept calling back, but she wouldn’t pick up.

S
AM LOOKED rough, but anyone who wasn’t an angel would have looked a lot worse. He had purple-grey bruises on his face and an impressive zigzag-shaped scar on his forehead. He also walked like he had rickets. “Try the little pancakes with dipping sauce,” he said, wincing as he slid onto the bench across from me. “They’re real good.”

“You look like shit. I thought we were going someplace nobody knows us.”

“These people have two restaurants, one down near Shoreline that I go to all the time. I’ve never been to this one.”

I nodded, then ordered the pancakes and what appeared to be a spicy beef casserole. They didn’t have any Burmese beer so I had a Singha instead, which is at least from the same part of the world. Sam had some kind of fish soup thing and a ginger ale. “And get the bread,” he said. “It’s like Indian bread with lots of layers, a cardiac’s worth of butter in each piece.”