What Would Satan Do? (5 page)

“I see,” said Robertson.  “How did this happen?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Robertson leveled a serious look at the detective. 

Schmidt took the cue.  “So, he said he was having an argument with some guy who’d managed to park here without a permit or something.  Said the guy drove off in a huff and then all the sudden he’s on fire.”

“Odd,” said Robertson.  “He doesn’t seem to be in much pain.”  He pointed to the parking attendant who, for a guy on fire, seemed to be having a pretty good time.

“Well, he was kind of screaming and stuff when we showed up.  And after we couldn’t put him out, the paramedics tossed him a handful of heavy-duty painkillers.  He’s apparently not feelin’ too much right now,” he said, waving his elbow at Robertson in a conspiratorial-chicken-wing, “You know what I mean?” way.  Robertson just stared.  Schmidt cleared his throat and put his chicken wing away before continuing.  “And anyway, you look real close, you can see his skin ain’t burnin’ or nothin’, so I don’t know, you know?  It’s just ... weird.”

“Hmmm...”  Robertson edged closer to the flames.  This wasn’t the first incident recently where he’d been called in to investigate weird stuff involving fire.  Not even close.  Some kind of sick, pyromaniac fuck was definitely on the loose in Washington, D.C. 

“Oh,” said Schmidt, “and apparently one of the elevators is all fucked up.  Like really fucked up.  Big hole in the ceiling.  Not sure if that’s connected, though.”

“Tell me, was he able to provide an identity?”

“An identity?  For who?”

“For ‘whom’,’” corrected Robertson.  “I want to know who he was talking to just before he got set on fire.”

The cop shot Robertson a look that, if spoken, probably would have involved the F-word.  “Said he drove a white car.  Maybe a sedan.  But that’s pretty much all he knew.”  He looked back over at the flaming parking attendant and sighed.  One of the firefighters was tearing open a package of marshmallows.  “They got video, if you want it.  Tape’s over there in the office.  Apparently, most people park here under contract, but I doubt it’s any of them that did it.  I guess we could try to run the plates.  You know, if you want.”

“I want,” said Robertson.  “Get me the tape.”

Chapter 6.
    
Magic Queso from Heaven

The little bell on the door of the guitar shop jingled as Raju Singh came in for his afternoon shift.  “Dude,” he called to Liam, who was sitting on a couch in the back office, watching T.V., “your chakras are all fucked up.  I am telling you this all the way from here.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” said Liam, without looking up from an assortment of take-out containers filled with chicken and various ancillary fajita-making materials.  “I’ve been meaning to have them un-fucked, but haven’t had the time.  You know how it is.”  He pulled the lid off a container of queso. 

“No problem.  But you should remember to un-fuck them soon, or you’ll be in some serious shit.” 

Raju was practicing to become a self-help guru.  He didn’t have any applicable knowledge or formal training
per se
, or even much of a clue really.  In fact, all he knew about spirituality was what he’d garnered from a couple of evenings spent surfing the Internet, alternating between hits from a search engine and hits from his industrial-grade bong.  Even so, he was supremely confident that he was The One.  He was going to change the world.  Or at least make a lot of money and be surrounded by hot chicks.

“Liam, I am thinking that maybe the time is ripe for me that I should be sharing my spiritual wisdom with the customers.  What do you think of this plan?” 

“Raju, shut up.”  Liam saw no reason to indulge Raju’s spiritual pretense, or his affected Indian accent for that matter, if only because Raju hadn’t had either when Liam had hired him.  And the fact was, Raju already spouted his B.S. at the shop’s patrons every chance he got.  Of course, it didn’t really matter.  The kind of musicians who came to Liam’s store weren’t about to stop coming in just because of a wacko, pothead clerk who saw himself as the next non-denominational spiritual guru.  “You want some fajitas?  I got guacamole this time.”

“Shit, yeah,” said Raju, forgetting to use his accent.

The bell rang again and Raju hurried back out to man the counter.

“Hellooo?” called a voice.  It was Festus – Festus P. Bongwater – a bearded seminary dropout who represented the wild-eyed, I’ve-just-spent-five-years-on-a-desert-island-and-these-are-my-coconut-friends demographic among the employees at Liam’s guitar shop.

He pulled what looked like a very large grasshopper off his shirt and threw it back out the open door.  “Damned locusts again,” he said. 

Another swarm of the giant bugs had arrived the week before – on the same day that someone tried to hold up the shop.  It had been a disaster – the locusts, dealing with the cops, the cops mistaking Festus for a perpetrator of some sort and arresting him – but they’d got it all worked out eventually.  There were still a few straggler bugs, however, who had not managed to fly off with the rest of the sky-darkening swarm.

Raju looked up, spreading his hands over the countertop territorially.  “Dude, you’re not supposed to be here.  This is my shift.  You need to fuck off.  Right now.”

Festus waved him off and leaned over the counter, keeping his voice low and conspiratorial.  “Hey, man,” he said.  “I need to ask you a favor.”

“What is up, my friend?”  Raju glanced over his shoulder, to make sure Liam wasn’t within earshot.  Raju’s vague antipathy toward Festus took a backseat to any opportunity to conspire or otherwise be sneaky.

Festus looked toward the back too.  Liam was busy downing tortilla chips and yelling at the television.  “Is he watching the news again?” asked Festus.

Raju turned to regard his boss.  “Yeah, I know.  What the hell, right?”

They shook their heads, and then leaned back over the counter in their conspiratorial huddle.

“Listen,” said Festus, “I really need you to drive me somewhere tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Raju, “when?”

“Eight o’clock.”

Raju stood and slapped the counter.  “This will not be a problem for me, my friend.” 

Festus took a deep breath, preparing to lay out his case, and then stopped.  “Really?” 

“Most definitely.  Not.  Most definitely not.  Not a problem.”

“Well, okay.  I’ll meet you here first thing tomorrow morning!”

“Okay,” said Raju.  “Wait, what?”

“You’d rather come pick me up?  That’s fine.  You know, whatever.”

“No, no, no,” said Raju, pressing his fingers to his temples as he tried to wrap his brain around the incomprehensible, absurd notion of being up as early as eight in the morning.  On a Sunday even.  “There is no way I can help you.  It is not possible.  This is much too early.”

“Well … can I borrow your car?” asked Festus.

Raju became apoplectic.  “Can I borrow your car?  Can I borrow your car?  What kind of question is this?” 

“Hey, mmrph,” said Liam.  His hand, apparently unaware that he was trying to speak, stuffed another bite of fajita into his mouth.  “Look at this bullshit!”  He pointed to the TV.

Festus and Raju stepped into the back office.  The television showed Texas Governor Dick Whitford giving a speech.  “That guy is the fucking anti-Christ,” said Festus.

“Didn’t he die?  I thought he was dead,” said Raju. 

“No, not dead.  Undead maybe,” said Liam, pointing to the screen that showed a very not-dead Governor.

Raju’s eyes grew wide.  “You mean he’s a zombie?”

Reasoning that spending too much time answering the questions of a complete idiot can lower one’s IQ, Liam had long ago made it a rule simply to ignore most of Raju’s queries.  He kept watching the news as he tried to liberate the last of the queso from the prison of its Styrofoam container.

“Are you sure he’s a zombie?  I mean, I guess he looks pretty dead, but still, you know?” Raju reached for the empty bowl.  “Man, we’re out of queso,” he said.  He held the bowl up to the light and scraped at the bottom with a chip.  “Dude!” said Raju, dropping his accent again in order to set out his first employee-relations dispute of the day.  “I wanted some of that, you queso-hogging fuck.” 

Liam pointed the remote at the TV, and cranked the volume.  The television distracted Raju for a second, but then he turned back to berate Liam some more over the cheese sauce. 

“Oh hey!” he said, snatching up a fresh container of queso.  “You got more.” 

“I,” said Liam, “use my powers for good, not evil.” 

Raju stared at Liam for a moment, trying to figure out just what the heck his boss was talking about.  But then he just shrugged and scooped up some more queso. 

They watched in silence as Governor Whitford disappeared off the screen and an anchor woman came on.  With shockingly white teeth and an oddly motionless helmet of blonde hair, she explained that the government of the State of Texas was stepping up, and stepping in, to fill a void left in the Louisiana state government in the wake of Hurricane John.

“Oil,” said Liam. 

“No, no, no.  Queso,” said Raju.

Liam either ignored Raju or he just didn’t hear him.  “This ... this is just...”

Festus looked at Liam.  “What?” 

“Whitford’s a total dirt bag.  A real piece of shit.”

Raju and Festus exchanged surprised looks.  Liam seemed to be taking this personally.  He seemed to be getting upset about a lot of things lately.  Usually it was over stupid, little things, like Raju frightening off customers with the six-foot “super bong” he’d constructed.  But this was different – this was some random political dude – and who the hell cared about that?

Liam glanced at his employee and his friend, and seeing the looks on their faces, explained.  “I had to deal with that dirt bag on more than one occasion,” he said, but then stopped, offering nothing further. 

“You sold guitars to the vice president?  That’s amazing!  Does he even play guitar?  I bet he sucks,” said Raju.

“Liam used to be in the military,” explained Festus.

“Oh.  Well, maybe that’s what’s wrong with him,” said Raju.  “Post-traumatic stress disorder or ... what’s that other one?  Rickets or something?”

“Scurvy?” said Festus.

“Yeah, scurvy.”  He pointed the barrel of a pretend handgun at Festus and winked.  “Liam,” he said, “we’re pretty sure you have scurvy.”

Liam didn’t respond.  He was too busy making angry faces at the TV.  On the screen, the anchor’s disembodied voice spoke over images of soldiers with little Texas flags on their shoulders passing out blankets and food, remarking about how odd it was that the Louisiana governor, lieutenant governor, and secretary of state had all been missing since the storm, along with most of the state legislature.

“What the fuck is the governor of Texas doing running Louisiana?”

“Looks like he’s just helping fix things after that big hurricane,” said Festus.

“Wait a minute,” said Raju.  “There was a hurricane?”

“Where the hell have you been for the last week?” asked Festus.  He shook his head with the special kind of condescension that comes from knowing more about current events than someone else, and turned his attention back to Liam.  “I really think they’re just helping…”

“No, there’s an entire federal agency that’s responsible for this sort of thing.  How the hell did he even pull this off?  Where is FEMA in all this?  Where is the National Guard?”  Liam was really starting to get agitated.

“Maybe FEMA needed some help?” volunteered Festus.

“Well, I’m sure they did, but that doesn’t mean they’re just going to hand over the whole operation to the ass-headed governor of Texas.”

“What was the hurricane called?  Where did it hit?” asked Raju.  Nobody answered, so he unleashed another barrage of questions.  “Why are you so pissed about this?  Who cares about Louisiana?” he asked.  “I went there once.  It sucked.  Though Bourbon Street was pretty cool.  There was this blues singer.  He was maybe five hundred pounds, and he sang this cool song about wanting to ‘be your backdoor man.’”

Now it was Festus’ turn.  “Seriously Liam, why are you so angry about this?”

“I don’t know.  Because it’s screwed up.  And wrong,” said Liam.  “And I’d be willing to bet that it has absolutely nothing to do with helping those folks get back on their feet.”

“Why?” asked Festus.

Liam looked up at them as if he were debating whether to bother explaining.  He sighed.  “A ridiculous proportion of the country’s refining capacity – something like 25 or maybe even as high as 30% – is there in Louisiana,” he said.  “Add in Texas, and you’ve got just over half of the country’s total capacity.  Also, there are four major oil pipeline entry points in the United States.  Two are in Texas.  One is just north of New Orleans.  Almost two-thirds of the country’s petroleum reserves are tucked away in salt domes in Louisiana.”

“And there’s more than that.  Texas ranks second only to California in terms of military bases.  Group Louisiana and Texas together, and suddenly California is a distant second.  This guy,” Liam shook his head, “now has the most powerful country on the planet by the balls.”

“Dude,” said Raju, sitting down on the arm of the couch, “how do you know all this stuff?”  This was the most serious conversation he’d had in years – at least since he’d started working at the guitar shop.

Liam returned from Angry Land for a second to stare at Raju.  “I used to do some work for the CIA.  You know that,” he said.

“I thought you were in the military,” said Festus.  “I just told Raju—”

Liam glanced over at Festus.  “Right,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  He slumped back on the couch, ranting quietly to himself.

Festus and Raju just stood there, looking around, not sure what to make of Liam’s sudden weirdness.  He was usually the sane one in the guitar shop. 

“That man,” said Liam, pointing at the screen, “is a bad man.  And now he’s put himself in a position—”

“What?  Position to do what?”

“I’m not sure.  Whatever it is, it’s not good.”

They watched in silence for a moment.