“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. Find out who’s pulling the strings.”
Alby’s eyes narrowed. “What’s in it for me?”
“A few minutes ago, you were saying how bored you were. Wouldn’t you like a little excitement?”
“Excitement I could do with. Trouble, on the other hand . . . ” He indicated the door through which the cops had just departed.
I beckoned for him to come closer. I spoke in a whisper into his ear. “I can’t promise anything, but I believe I can make this worth your while.”
He thought for a moment. “Okay, you talked me into it. I’ll see what I can find.”
“That’s the spirit. Go and dig up some dirt for me. How about we rendezvous back here tomorrow?”
“Might as well. It’s as bad as any other place around here.”
As I left the tavern, I took one last look at Alby Stark nursing his glass of soda water. He might have made it into Heaven, but in his own way he was very much in . . . I think you know the place I’m talking about.
Chapter 5
BEFORE I RETURNED TO THE OFFICE, I went into a little sandwich bar to grab some lunch. Then I hit the shops to pick up some of the essentials I was going to need in order to function effectively as a private investigator. This shopping without money was one thing about Heaven I could definitely get used to.
Back in the office, I made some hasty renovations that put my new purchases to good use. Then I paused to consider my progress.
My morning expedition had been surprisingly successful. I’d already found two people with potential grudges against Phiclass="underline" Raphael, because Phil didn’t seem to share his enthusiasm for a charitable society; and Alby, because Phil had sentenced him to an eternity of peace and contentment. All right, so Raphael seemed about as dangerous as a pygmy Chihuahua in a steel muzzle, but you could never be too sure. Alby, on the other hand, was a completely different kettle of slimy gossip. I decided I would have to talk to Peter to find out more about how this special case slipped into Heaven.
Remembering what Peter’s workload was like, I figured I’d better give him a call first to see if he could fit me into his schedule. I checked the information on his card, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed the number listed for St Peter Inc.
After a couple of rings I heard a click and then Peter’s voice.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hey, Peter,” I leapt in. “It’s Jimmy Clarenden here and . . . ” I paused. Not only did Peter not seem to be listening to me, but he kept right on talking.
“ . . . You have called St Peter. I’m sorry, but I’m far too busy to pick up the phone at the moment. Please leave a message at the tone. I probably won’t have time to get back to you, but I’ll try my best.”
I should have expected that. I waited for the tone and then I spoke.
“Peter, it’s Jimmy Clarenden. You remember me, the mug with the bullet holes. I know you’re busy, but I was wondering if we could possibly meet up, like we talked about.” Then I left my number and hung up. The chance of a callback seemed pretty slim. If I wanted to find out more, I was going to have to do my own legwork.
I stood and was about to grab my hat and coat when there was a knock on the door. I opened it and a woman stepped in. Suddenly, my dimly-lit office was bathed in a surreal glow. A glow that, of course, emanated directly from my newly-arrived visitor. It was the third angel, Jessie.
She had medium-length, reddish-brown hair that descended in waves over a pale, slightly freckled face. Her eyes were soft brown, but her mouth was pulled into a tight frown. The robe she wore was long, its bottom swishing against her feet. Unlike at least one of her fellow angels, she clearly subscribed to the virtues of modesty, though as far as I could tell from the outline through the robe, she had nothing to be modest about. All in all, she cut a highly appealing figure. Not stop-you-in-your-tracks, knock-you-down-in-the-street, and rip-your-eyes-out-of-their-sockets attractive like Sally, but highly appealing nonetheless.
I showed her to a seat and went back to my desk. As she sat arranging her robe about herself, I quickly adjusted the Venetian blinds I’d just hung over the windows, attempting to restore the office to its previous state of gloom. Presently, she spoke.
“I just wanted to say how sorry I am, Mr Clarenden.” Her voice was soft. I had to strain my ears to catch it.
I said, “I can’t accept your apology.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because, to my knowledge, you haven’t done anything you need to apologise for.”
She looked down for a moment.
“Or are you apologising in advance, for something you’re about to do?” I continued.
She looked up again. Then she smiled. Just a small smile, for a fraction of a second, but it made a difference.
“I’m not apologising for anything I did,” she said. “I’m apologising for the way Sally treated you yesterday. It wasn’t right or fair.”
“You don’t have to worry about that—it was all my fault. I didn’t realise I’m supposed to be nice to her.”
“You’re a kidder,” she said. “But you don’t understand what you’re saying. You don’t really know Sally.”
“Are you going to tell me more about her?”
“I’m going to tell you to be very careful of her.”
“I’ve already learnt to be careful of her. She could skin a man alive with that tongue of hers, and as for those legs—”
“You think it’s a joke.” Jessie was staring at me with her head held high, but underneath the bravado, I could see how tightly her hands were clenched, and the slight tremble in her shoulders. There was no doubt this was an angel who was terrified of something. Or of someone.
“I don’t think anything is a joke,” I said. “When anyone warns me about someone, I listen. But I also wonder about the real purpose of the warning. Is there any reason I should be as frightened of her as you seem to be?”
Jessie looked away. Her eyes scanned the room, eventually alighting on the large picture frame I’d placed in the middle of the desk, from which the face of a young woman gazed out wistfully.
“Who is she?” she asked.
The change of subject took me by surprise. “She was my wife.”
“She’s very pretty. She must be missing you.”
“I doubt that very much. She left me for a smooth-talking shoe salesman many years ago.”
“A shoe salesman?”
“That’s right. She said she could never love a man with fallen arches.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”
“There are no wounds to open. A man in my business has to take the bad with the bad. But you didn’t come here to chat about my personal tragedies. And I don’t think you came here just to warn me about Sally. So what’s the real story? What do you want from me?”
She tore her eyes from the photo. “I don’t really know how to say this.”
“Words usually work for me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Fending off that question from pretty much everyone I meet.”
“And how long do you plan to keep fending it off?”
“Until you people stop asking and finally leave me in peace.”
“Do you take us for fools, Mr Clarenden?”
“Call me Jimmy, and I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”
“You really think you can tell us that you’ve just died and gone to Heaven. Come off it, Jimmy. Anyone who looks at you can see you’re not Heaven material. You’re here for some other reason.”
I shrugged. “So maybe I am.”
Her eyes widened. “So you admit you are?”
“I admit nothing. I’d just like to know why it’s such a concern of yours.”