“This was meant to be,” Steven Mulvehill said as he put the car in park. He turned the engine off and climbed out of the vehicle with a paper bag held lovingly in his arms. “While at the liquor store I said to myself, if I was meant to share this bottle of fifteen-year-old Scotch, there’ll be a spot for me in front of the lucky individual’s humble abode.”
He partially pulled the bottle of alcohol from the bag to give Remy an enticing peak at the contents. “And as luck would have it, you were the first house on my list.”
Remy smiled in spite of what had just transpired there on the street. It was good to see his friend, and a drink was just what he could use about then.
Marlowe continued to bark as if insane from inside the hallway, capturing the homicide detective’s attention.
“What’s the matter with him?”
Remy shrugged, retrieving his keys again and heading to the door.
“I think he smells something bad in the air.”
“So who were they again?”
Mulvehill poured himself some more Scotch as he waited for Remy to answer.
“I thought you didn’t like to know about the weird shit,” Remy said, swirling the ice around in his glass as he reclined farther in the patio chair on the rooftop deck of his building.
Mulvehill dropped a handful of ice from the full bucket into his finger of alcohol. “Normally I don’t, but I’m fascinated by the concept of anybody smacking you around.”
Remy set his glass down on the patio table and reached inside his pocket to remove the business card.
“They were Denizens,” he said in explanation. “Fallen angels.” Mulvehill returned to his seat across from his friend, sipping on his ice-filled drink as he sat down.
“And these are the guys that used to be in… y’know.”
He motioned with one of his hands, pointing to the ground, not wanting to say the word.
“Hell,” Remy finished for him. He found it interesting that the legends and stories of the prison realm had made it so that humanity was terrified of the place as well, even though their kind would never see it. Hell was only for those who had fallen from their servitude to Him.
“Right. They used to be in Hell, but now they’re here and they like to beat you up.”
Remy was taking a drink and laughed. “That’s right,” he said, wiping a dribble of Scotch from his chin. “They just love to kick my angel ass.”
Marlowe, who was resting by his chair, suddenly sat up at attention.
“No kick ass. Marlowe will bite them,” the Labrador said with what he intended to be a menacing growl.
Remy reached down and stroked the dog’s soft black fur. “Of course you would have. You’re the bravest animal I know.”
“Yes, Marlowe very brave,” the animal agreed.
“What’s he going on about?” Mulvehill wanted to know.
“He just wants to reassure me that he would have protected me from the bad guys that smacked me around.”
The homicide detective nodded. “Now, why were they threatening to shoot your dog again?”
Marlowe lay back down on his side with a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and almost immediately drifting off to sleep.
Remy shrugged, the ice in his tumbler tinkling like the bells of Christmas.
“Do you have run-ins with these fallen guys… these Denizens… often?”
“They have a tendency to run in darker circles than I usually like to travel in, but lately I’ve found myself entering those places more often.” Remy had some more to drink.
“They’re not very nice,” he continued. “Like most organized crime families, really. They gather in groups, as if looking to find what they’d once had with their angelic hosts in Heaven, only there’s very little interest in serving God now.”
Mulvehill shook his head as he shifted in his seat, uncomfortable with the complex world of the supernatural. “And you wonder why I drink so much?” he said, finishing the Scotch in his glass.
“No, not really. You’re just a drunk.”
They both had a good laugh. It had been quite some time since Remy had laughed—since he’d really laughed. It felt good, and for the briefest of moments, he had the most unusual idea that he wouldn’t be sad forever, that eventually he would be able to think about something other than how much he missed his wife.
Wouldn’t that be something, he thought, knowing that it was likely very far away, but still having a sense that it was there, somewhere beyond the horizon.
“So we’ve established that they’re bad guys and they like to do bad things as a way of flipping the bird at God,” Mulvehill said, grabbing the bottle of booze and pouring himself another. “Now do you have any idea what you did to piss these bad guys off?”
Remy shrugged again, attempting to form some kind of image from what little information he had. It was becoming more likely that Karnighan’s missing property could very well be the legendary Pitiless, and that they could have been stolen by persons of an angelic persuasion.
Smelled like you, the voice of the rottweiler Luthor echoed in his head.
He could only begin to wonder what the Denizens’ involvement in this would be.
“I think their Satan has an interest in the new case I’m working on,” Remy said as he tipped his glass toward his mouth, letting what remained of the ice fall into his mouth.
Mulvehill almost choked.
“Their Satan? Are you saying that their boss is the fucking Devil?”
Remy chuckled. “It’s not what you think,” he explained. “Satan is a title… a designation, like capo or don in the Mafia.”
“Almost gave me a heart attack,” Mulvehill said. “So their leader—their Satan, if you will—has an interest in your case?”
“It appears so,” Remy answered. “But at this point what that interest is I haven’t a clue. I suppose I should probably find out.”
Remy went for the bottle again, offering it first to Mulvehill.
“No, thanks,” the homicide cop said, placing the flat of his hand over his glass. “I think the drunk’s had about enough.”
“Suit yourself,” Remy said, splashing a bit more of the golden liquid into his glass.
Mulvehill rose from his seat and stretched. “Probably should think about getting home. For some reason it’s always harder for me to get my ass out of bed after a night of visiting with you. Wonder what that’s all about.”
Remy swished what he’d just poured around in his mouth before swallowing.
“Haven’t got a clue,” he said. “Maybe you could come by tomorrow night and we can discuss the possibilities as we finish this off?” He held out the half-empty bottle of Scotch.
“That’s a good idea,” Mulvehill said, slowly making his way toward the stairs that would take him down into Remy’s home.
Marlowe stood, gave himself a good shake and followed the homicide detective to the doorway.
“Steven,” Remy called out to his friend. He held the bottle in the crook of one arm, the two empty tumblers in his other hand.
Mulvehill turned, giving Marlowe’s black tail a playful swat as the dog passed. “What’s up?”
“Do me a favor?” Remy asked, coming to join him.
“If I can.”
“Keep your ears open,” he asked. “If you hear anything from your friends in Burglary about weapons—antique guns, knives, or swords—give me a call.”
“Antique weapons,” Mulvehill said, his eyes searching Re-my’s for more.
“Yeah, if you hear anything, think of me first, all right?”
The Boston homicide detective put an arm around his shoulder as they headed for the stairs.
“With the weird shit, you’re never far from my thoughts.”