So he’d bought the place in 1947? That was well over sixty years ago, and he didn’t look like he could be any older than that himself. Who was this guy? I didn’t get a Hell-vibe off him, but that didn’t mean much. You almost never did, unless they wanted you to. Maybe Gustibus was like my gunsmith friend Orban, who claimed to have lived centuries by the simple expedient of refusing to die.
I meet all kinds, I’m telling you.
Sister Kassia came back sooner than I would have expected, and set out a tray with a pitcher of ice water, a large bunch of grapes, some bread, and a wedge of white cheese.
“Try it,” urged Gustibus. “It comes from our own goats.”
I took a little, just to be polite—it was actually pretty good—and poured myself a glass of water. After popping a few grapes, I took my chair again. “If we did make this bargain, what kind of . . . information do you want? I mean, I don’t know you well at all, but to be honest, there are a lot of things I couldn’t or wouldn’t tell you even if I did.” Why should I trust this new guy Gustibus? I still didn’t entirely trust Clarence, even though he was another angel and Sam liked him.
“I don’t want names,” Gustibus said. “As you can see, I have my own sources for those. But what my sources can’t tell me is what it is actually like to be an angel of the Lord. I would like to ask you questions about your experiences, your day-to-day routine. In return, Mr. Dollar, I promise I will give you information that will help you—perhaps even make it possible for you to locate the rather unique horn you’re looking for.”
It was the first time he’d mentioned the horn, and the first time I’d had solid confirmation that Eligor’s token really was the thing everyone was interested in. I was relieved to know I’d been right, but I still took a moment before replying, since sharing with someone I’d just met felt like stepping off onto something shaky. “The horn, right. Do you know where it is?”
“No. But I can give you a few suggestions that may save you a great deal of time.”
“Such as?”
“I hardly think it fair that I show you mine before you show me yours.” The wintry smile returned; he’d amused himself. “Surely we can find some way to help each other?”
By now, I was beginning to almost like the guy, although I wasn’t any closer to trusting him. He clearly knew things about me and the other angels that most people didn’t know. “Any chance you could tell me a little bit more about yourself, Doc?” I asked. “Where you came from, how long you’ve been doing this, stuff like that?”
He smiled. “It will be a long time before you’ve earned enough credit for that, Mr. Dollar. But maybe someday.”
“Okay, then we’ll play it your way for now. How about I give you some of what you want to hear first, then you can return the favor? After that, we’ll swap back and forth.”
“Excellent. Tell me about your own experiences, please. Did you first wake up in Heaven or here on Earth?”
So I related the basics of my angelic life, starting with my first memories of waking up in Heaven, then continuing through my training in Camp Zion with my old sergeant Leo, and on through the early days of my work as an advocate. I stopped well short of the current mess, with no further mention of Eligor and nothing about my trip to Hell, or, most especially, of course, about Caz. I was economical with names and locations in general, and I kept the recollection to broad strokes, but otherwise told the truth as I remembered it. Gustibus made no notes, but I had a feeling that would come later, and that he wouldn’t have forgotten much.
“Excellent,” he said when I stopped. “And much of it quite informative. I know of Camp Zion, of course, but I have had little chance to hear about the Counterstrike Units from anyone who actually served in one.” His smile this time was less cheerful. “I have spoken with a few who received some rough treatment at their hands, however. Do you remember an armed encounter with Hell’s forces at a place on the bay called Guadalupe Slough? I believe your unit, the Lyrae, were involved.”
“Smugglers had a warehouse, and we hit it,” I said. “Nasty fight. It was a few years before my time, though.”
“Yes, you’re right. I had the occasion to speak to a gentleman who went by the name of Eduardo Stayner, at least in human circles, although he was better known to many as Freezegripe, a lower-order demon. He was on death row at Folsom Prison for his later role in a botched hijacking that had killed two Brink’s guards, and since he was confident he would receive a new body after he went to the gas chamber, then go right back to work for the same infernal masters, he felt comfortable telling me about the firefight at Guadalupe Slough. Your lochagos Leo apparently shot him in the face during the raid, and he was still somewhat perturbed about it. He’d healed, but the scars were still very prominent.”
“My heart bleeds for him.”
The smile again. “As did mine. A thoroughly unpleasant fellow. But he was the first live contact I’d had in a long time with any of the Opposition soldiers, and because I’m a good listener he told me a lot more than he intended.”
“Well, that’s interesting . . . sort of,” I said. “But it’s not really what I was hoping for when you said you thought you could help me.”
“It’s more interesting than you suspect. You see, a lot of what I’m going to tell you now first came from Freezegripe, although I’ve been able to confirm most of it from other sources.” Gustibus was still standing—apparently he truly didn’t sit—and now he walked to the window and leaned against the sill. Outside the sea had gone dark as the afternoon drew on and the overcast thickened. I noticed for the first time that not only was my host dressed like a hipster monk, his feet were bare.
“I suggest you pour yourself a glass of water, Mr. Dollar,” he said. “Now I have a few stories to share with you.”
I’m glad he suggested the water, because within a few minutes I was learning things that not only made my hair curl and my brain cramp, but also made the inside of my mouth feel very, very dry.
nine:
buddhist druid christmas
GUSTIBUS SAID, “I can tell from the way you talk about San Judas Tadeo that you care for the city very much, Mr. Dollar.”
“Really?” Nobody had ever accused me of that before. I mean, yeah, I guess I have a sentimental fondness for Jude, sort of along the lines of what you might feel for an alcoholic parent who loves you but keeps setting fires by accident.
“It is clear. But the problem is, you are not taking a long enough view.”
“You just talk, Doc. I’ll listen.”
Again the slight smile. He wasn’t so much cold or aloof, I had decided, as a bit otherworldly. I still wasn’t positive he was human, at least the ordinary, mortal kind.
“Very well,” he said. “Let me give you an example of what I mean. Back in the middle of the nineteenth century, at the height of the Gold Rush, the Barbary Coast of San Francisco was a worldwide hub for adventurers and fortune-seekers. One fellow, a gambler and occasional saloon owner—the deeds to these places were passed back and forth in innumerable games of chance—was a man named Portugee Jake. He was a famously dangerous fighter, and was said to have shot more than a few men dead with the pearl-handled Colt he always wore. He eventually went into whisky and made an immense amount of money selling to the other saloon owners, and the tales of the wicked parties he gave at his mansion on Nob Hill were legendary.”