I turned to stare at him. “Why the fuck not?”
“Because I’m going to stay around for a while. I think I can guarantee that Mister Wilson is going to put on a very inept defense.”
“Jesus, how long are you planning to possess him for?”
Acheron winced. “I really wish you wouldn’t use that name around me. But to answer your question, I think I’ll stay with Mister Wilson past his sentencing – right up to the point where he’s about to be gangbanged in the prison shower for the first time. Then I’ll move on and let them have at him.”
“He won’t last long in that environment,” I said. “He’ll kill himself – I’d bet on it.”
“Will he? Knowing what’s waiting for him on the other side?” The smile that Acheron gave me was something I hope never to see again. “I’m quite certain that Mister Bigbucks here will prolong his life of misery as long as he possibly can – to postpone the eternal lessons in real misery that he will experience at the hands of my brethren in Hades.”
I just looked at him, unable to speak. Finally, I said, “That’s just… fucking diabolical.”
“Thank you,” the demon said. “I try.”
It was just past 2.30am, and we were taking our break in Jerry’s Diner, as usual. Tonight’s shift hadn’t been very busy so far, but Karl and I were both tired. Yeah, vampires get tired, too.
Karl drank some warmed-up blood and put his cup down. “Election’s tomorrow.”
“Yeah. I’ll have to get up early, make sure I vote before going in to work. You gonna send an absentee ballot?”
“No need. With daylight savings time gone, it gets dark around 5.00 nowadays. Polls close at nine. I’ll have plenty of time.”
After a while he said, “Think the Patriot Party’s gonna sweep?”
“A month ago, I’d have said ‘Sure.’ But with all the stuff that’s been happening…”
“I know what you mean,” he said. “You read the editorial in yesterday’s T-T?”
“Yeah – they practically called Slattery and his boys fascists.”
“They were practically right, too.”
“You think anybody gives much of a damn what the Times-Tribune says anymore?” I said.
“Guess we’ll find out tomorrow.” Karl took another sip of Type O. “Streets are pretty calm lately – the PP can’t bitch about that anymore. No car bombs the last two weeks. Supes have been quiet, too. Mostly.”
“Mostly – except for somebody staking that Kaspar guy.”
“I’m kinda glad we didn’t catch that one,” Karl said.
“Yeah, me, too.”
The creamer at Jerry’s comes in those little plastic containers, and I figured my coffee might just be drinkable if I added one more. Stirring it in, I said, “You hear the rumor about Ronnie Delatasso?”
“That he had his old man hit so he could take over the family business?”
“Makes a certain amount of sense, I guess. I mean, you look at a murder, what’s the first question you ask?”
“Cui bono?”
“Who benefits? – damn right. And Ronnie seems to be the main beneficiary of this particular homicide. I hear the Philly DA’s even talking about calling a grand jury.”
“Tell you the truth,” Karl said, “I wouldn’t care if it was the fucking Girl Scouts who hit the old man, long as Ronnie and his troops went back home for good.”
“Their war chest was probably running dry, anyway. Patton Wilson sure won’t be giving them any more money, and now that the Slide trade has dried up, thanks to Rachel and her…”
The front door opened, and a couple of gnomes walked into the diner.
I felt myself tense up. “Karl,” I said softly.
“I see ’em.”
The gnomes walked up to the counter, no weapons in sight. No conical hats, either. They were acting perfectly normal – for gnomes. I couldn’t hear what they said to Donna, but Karl could.
“We could have trouble here,” he said.
“What is it?” I slowly pushed the right side my sport coat back, for easier access to the Beretta.
“They want a couple of coffees,” he said. “One with cream and sugar, one just cream. And a toasted bagel, with butter. To go.”
“So what?”
“Donna just told them she’s out of bagels.”
We watched as Donna prepared two coffees, bagged them, took money from the gnomes, and made change. They left without even glancing at the other customers.
“Guess the bagel wasn’t such a big deal, after all,” Karl said.
“Good thing, too. I’ve never shot anybody over a…” The phone in my pocket began playing “Tubular Bells”. I checked the caller ID, and felt my stomach tighten. I told Karl, “I think I better take this.”
He looked at me. “Something wrong?”
“I’ll know in a minute.”
I touched an icon and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“So, a zombie walks into a bar,” a female voice said. “It’s more of a shamble, really, but he finally gets to the back and orders a Scotch and water. The bartender brings his drink and says, ‘That’ll be twenty bucks.’ So the zombie puts a twenty down on the bar and takes a sip of his Scotch. The bartender takes the money, rings up the sale, then says to the dead guy, ‘You know, we don’t get many zombies in here.’ The zombie shakes his head, which almost falls off, and says, ‘These prices… uhhhh… not surprised.’”
“Hi, Lacey,” I said. “I missed you, too.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Jeanne Cavelos, Director of the Odyssey Writing Workshop and sole proprietor of Jeanne Cavelos Editorial Services, provided her usual invaluable assistance when I ran into plot problems – which happened all too often.
Lee Harris, my editor at Angry Robot Books, deserves either sainthood or a knighthood for his patience with me – perhaps both. I’m not real tight with either God or Her Majesty, but I’m still going to see what I can arrange.
Miriam Kriss, my agent, provided invaluable advice and counsel – and no small amount of patience, either.
Linda Kingston made my life worth living. Seriously.
Terry Bear was always there for me.
ANGRY ROBOT
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Kill or cure
An Angry Robot paperback original 2014
Copyright © Justin Gustainis 2014
Justin Gustainis asserts the moral right to be
identified as the author of this work.
UK ISBN 978 0 85766 295 8
US ISBN 978 0 85766 296 5
Ebook ISBN 978 0 85766 297 2
Cover design by Argh! Oxford
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incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination.
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