What Would Satan Do? (9 page)

Anna sat on the floor, legs splayed, hair tousled and sticking out to one side as if she were recovering from an amorous encounter.  “What just happened?  Was it a terrorist attack?”  She glanced around, searching for terrorists in much the same way that non-mechanically-inclined folks open the hood of a broken-down car hoping to find a wire or hose that has come unplugged.

“I—” said Liam, suddenly aware of the destruction all around him.  “I gotta go.”  He left the airport, unsure of what had just happened, but with enough wits about him to know that he should walk slowly and not do anything to garner undue attention. 

A week later, Liam was clearing out his dorm room, still wondering what the heck had happened, and afraid to go anywhere for fear it might happen again.  A man knocked on the frame of his open door. 

“Liam?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Cas Boehner.  I’m with the CIA, Special Activities Division.  Mind if I come in for a minute?”

They had a nice talk.  And then Liam spent the next ten years in far-off, exotic locations – the kinds of places where you have to dump sand out of your shoes every night and have a thick enough skin not to mind being called things like, “American devil” or “Capitalist Pigdog.”  And in all that time, he’d had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to bother with relationships.  In fact, his companions christened him, “The Monk.” 

It wasn’t until he returned to the States, to friends and neighbors who constantly pressured him to find a woman, that he’d even considered the possibility.  And still, with every woman he met on all the blind dates he’d been on, he’d felt absolutely nothing.

Liam was supposed to meet Lola for drinks at a restaurant just off Lake Austin Boulevard.  He’d been told to look for the blonde who looked not entirely unlike the movie actress Scarlett Johannson.  Unlike 99.999% of the male population, he’d actually had to consult the Internet to figure out what Ms. Johannson looked like. 

There was a jazz trio playing on the restaurant’s porch when he arrived.  An under-nourished trumpeter was doing his best Miles Davis impression on “‘Round Midnight.”  The sunlight was fading, and the deck was lit by colored lanterns strung up in the trees and a couple of torches.  There was an easy breeze blowing here and there, carrying the scents of the burning torches and spicy Mexican food. 

Liam threaded his way through the worn wooden benches scattered about the ambling deck, scanning the faces of the few folks sitting outside.  He was just about to go inside when he spotted her – off to the side, a woman with lazy blonde curls, reclined on a bench, propped casually back on her elbows, her back against the table top as she watched the musicians.  She wore old blue jeans and a loose, red sweater with the sleeves pushed up.

He stopped.  “Well, God damn.”  His stomach felt as if it had suddenly been granted a vacation from gravity, and it took him a second to realize that he’d stopped mid-step and was staring at her.  He willed himself to move forward.

“Lola?”  He felt his throat tighten as he said the name, as if he needed to cough or choke or – he wasn’t sure what. 

She tilted her head, looking at Liam out of the corner of her eye.  Her lips were pursed and there was just a hint of a wry smile in her eyes.  “Yeah?” 

“I’m ... Liam,” he managed to choke out.  His eyes watered.

She leaned forward, offering her hand and an easy smile.  “Lola Ford,” she said.

He shook her hand, wondering what the heck was going on; why he was feeling so out of sorts.  Sure, blind dates were supposed to be uncomfortable, but this wasn’t his first.  And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen his fair share of stressful situations before.  Like the time he’d walked in to find a terrorist under a dog pile of prostitutes dressed in cheerleader uniforms – all of whom had turned out to be decidedly un-cheery when he’d had to shoot the guy.  But the combination of the lights, the breeze, her full lips – it was all enough to make a shy, bald Buddhist reflect and maybe rethink his life.  Liam’s head spun, and he suddenly felt like he’d dressed too warmly.

“You want to get a drink?” he said, trying to pull himself together.

She looked up at him, her pale blue eyes bright with intelligence.  Her whole demeanor was cool and languid as she held up a bottle.  “I’ll wait for you here.” 

He found himself standing and staring again, unsure of what to do next.  “Um, okay.  I’ll be right back.”  He trotted off toward the bar, feeling – he didn’t know quite what he was feeling.  Renewed, or something. 

A few minutes later he returned with his own beer and a fresh one for her.  “Did you see this crap with Governor Whitford?” he asked.  It was a terrible opener, but he’d just blurted it out.  He scowled, angry at himself for being such a clod, and then for caring that he was being a clod. 

Lola stared up at him for a second, a slight, ironic smile on her lips.  “Yeah,” she said, nodding slowly.  “I saw that.”

“Pisses me off,” he said. 

Lola’s eyes narrowed.  “Wh—?”  She stared at him some more, her eyes shifting from sparkly to intense.  “Why?” she asked.  “What’s it to you?”

“Oh,” he said, sensing the shift in her attitude.  He smiled and shrugged.  “No reason.  Just making conversation.”  He looked away, feigning a sudden interest in a nearby bench.

Lola continued to stare.  “Did someone put you up to this?”

“What?”  He turned back from the riveting wooden seat.  “Well... yeah.  It’s a blind date.  I mean, you must know Mrs. Lynd is …”  He shrugged.

She sat forward.  “That’s not what I meant.” 

“Then, I’m not sure what you’re—” he said, but then he stopped.  She seemed pissed now.  “No, no one put me up to anything.”

“I’ve got to go,” she said, and stood up.

“What?  Where are you going?  Wait a second!”

But she didn’t wait, and the first woman Liam had found even remotely attractive in ten years was gone.

Chapter 10.
          
Death Star and Swanky Hotel with Goldfish, Go!

A shitload of cars was crammed into the street in front of an expensive hotel.  Politicians and celebrities milled about, casting surreptitious glances at one another to gauge who looked the most important or fabulous, and headed toward the hotel’s dramatic entryway.  Cameras flashed and sparkly dresses sparkled amid sounds of fake laughter and self-congratulatory bullshit, while a small army of young men in cheap-looking red jackets scrambled here and there, trying to clear out the vehicular congestion.  It was just another, ordinary fundraiser in Washington, DC.

And then a Lamborghini screeched to a halt immediately in front of the hotel, having somehow weaved its way through the automotive throng.  An instant later, the door popped open and a distinguished-looking gentleman in a pinstriped suit climbed out.  He scowled at the glitterati, flung his keys at the head of one of the valet kids (who responded by bending over and clutching his face), and strode off into the building.

Immediately inside, the entryway opened up into an enormous ballroom.  A million tiny lights hung from the ceiling, sparkling and twinkling and shimmering like a starry nighttime sky.  The regular lighting had been turned off, replaced by moodier illumination that painted the walls with deep hues of purple and blue.  The fancy people gasped and giggled and pointed as they entered.  Satan did not.  His last trip to Earth had been before the Industrial Revolution, and he’d actually seen the night sky back before the air had been filled with burnt dinosaur juice and flooded with artificial light. 

He shoved past the tuxedoed and ball-gowned herd as it oohed and ahhed its way into the ballroom, unimpressed by the array of high-ranking politicians, celebrities, and Hollywood powerbrokers who had crammed themselves into the building.  He’d seen plenty of those in Hell, and when you’ve corrupted Eve, tempted Jesus, tortured countless Popes, and even turned your back on God (in person), who cares about a few Senators and a Supreme Court Justice or two?  He threaded his way through the crowd, scanning the faces and muttering to himself about the bovine nature of the slow-moving party goers.

He carved an erratic path through the crowd, and finally made his way toward a large, graceful staircase that curved up toward a landing – an excellent vantage point.  He hopped up on the lower steps, but then turned impatiently to have a look.  Somewhere, out there in the crowd, was his quarry:  George Lucas – the man behind Star Wars.

Satan thought of him as “The Creator,” feeling that it was a good title and far more apt for the man he sought than it was for that arrogant wanker who usually claimed it.  One had only to watch the movies to know, to understand, nay, to
feel
that
this
was a man who knew exactly how to communicate myth.  This was a man who
understood
.  And besides, Satan – whose own supernatural capabilities had imbued him with a certain open-mindedness and concomitant inability to distinguish between science fiction shows and, say, news broadcasts – thought the Creator might know how to get a hold of a Death Star.

Lucas was apparently a big fan of the Senator for whom this party had been thrown, and he was, if Satan understood correctly, scheduled to make an appearance.  The idea was to use his celebrity to help draw out other supporters.  Satan suspected that he was not among those whom the Senator had hoped to attract.  But whatever.

Satan scoured the room.  Where in the hell was he? 
Patience
, he told himself.  He took a deep breath and scanned the room again, more slowly this time, searching for The Creator’s unmatched pilatory bouffancy. 
There! 
There he was.  The silvery helmet of hair, so perfectly coiffed.  The beard.  It was definitely him.  Satan stepped down off the steps, adjusting his cuff links as he strode triumphantly toward the Hollywood icon, shoving aside a couple of old ladies as he went.

A very large, very serious looking man next to Mr. Lucas turned and, noticing Satan’s speed and trajectory, immediately positioned himself between the two of them.  The Devil considered his options, wondering how best to incinerate the man without causing a major scene, and didn’t notice when another, smaller man stepped into his path.  Unfortunately, the smaller man was much closer – too close for Satan to be able to react before they collided. 

“You fool!” Satan hissed.  “How dare you!”  He brushed frantically to get rid of the cooties and imaginary dirt on his pin-striped suit.  With a little growl of frustration, he grabbed the man by the lapels and lifted him up off the floor.  “Are you incapable of watching where you’re going?”

The party got very quiet.  None of the Hollywood types were strangers to tough negotiations or other dramatic tomfoolery, but even they were excited by the sight of a thin, distinguished-looking gentleman in an expensive suit ranting at another man while holding him suspended three inches off the ground.  The political crowd was less enthusiastic.

In any room full of politicians there will be a certain (
i.e.
, large) number of individuals who secretly spend their free time collecting child pornography, visiting airport restrooms in Minnesota for anonymous gay sex, or even just, you know, murdering people.  Those same politicians however, generally do not like to mingle with the hoi polloi, especially when the unwashed masses do something like – gasp! – raise their voices in public.  Satan’s noisy interruption was awful.  Just perfectly awful.  The elderly wife of some ambassador or other nearly fainted.

Agent Bob Robertson did not faint.  Instead, he stared right into the eyes of the man holding him in the air.  “You are under arrest, and you should put me down,” he said.  “Right now.” 

Satan finally noticed that all of the politicians and Hollywood hacks had gone into silent mode.  He felt their eyes on him and looked around, realizing that becoming unhinged right here, in the middle of the party, probably wasn’t going to help his chances of meeting The Creator.  He set the man down and patted his lapel.  “Nice to see you!” he said, as he tried to step around the impertinent little speed bump.

Robertson took a step back and pulled out a pistol, holding it low and close to his body.  “I’m Agent Bob Robertson, FBI,” he said.  “And you are under arrest for the bombing of the Washington Gas Company.  And a movie theater.  And a hotdog stand.  And for setting a man on fire.” 

“What are you talking about?” asked Satan.

“The parking attendant,” said Robertson.  He glanced to one side, then to the other, nodding to each.  Then he looked back to Satan.  “Lie down on the ground.  Now.”  Men in black suits began to converge, threading their way through the crowd toward Satan and Robertson. 

Satan exhaled.  He wasn’t going to get a Death Star, and that was pretty damned disappointing.  It wasn’t as if he really needed one, of course.  He had no intention of blowing up the Earth.  The moon, maybe, but that wasn’t really the point.  It was really just the idea of the thing.  Now, however, he needed to focus.  There were several burly men in tacky windbreakers headed his way. 

He grabbed Robertson, spun, and started backing toward the exit, away from the men.  Old ladies and men in tuxedos yelped as he shoved his way backward.  The men in windbreakers suddenly produced hand guns, and the crowd went into a panic.

Satan gave Robertson’s ear a hard yank and then whispered in the man’s ear.  “You will tell your men to back off,” he said, “or I will tear your ear from your head.  And then I will incinerate everything and everyone in this room.  You’ve seen my handiwork, have you not?”

“Go fuck yourself, you freak,” said Robertson.

“Wrong answer,” said Satan.  He moved faster now as the crowd streamed out of the ballroom, but the men with guns were closing in.  One of Robertson’s agents screamed as he burst into flames.  Another shot up into the air, sailing across the room before smashing into a wall.  He made a chirping sound as he hit and the air rushed out of his lungs.  His limp body slid partway down the wall, and then flopped forward onto the ground. 

Robertson’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide as he watched yet another of his agents go flying across the room.  Satan yanked his ear, hard enough that the man let out a yelp of pain.