The Getaway God (Sandman Slim 6)

“No. She’s back on Earth. Still, with the crazy-­ass way things are going, you might meet anyway. And I don’t mean down here.”

Wild Bill pours us more drinks. Cindil sips hers. I don’t think she’s tasted alcohol recently. I haven’t tasted this Hellion swill in a while. I left a bottle of Aqua Regia with Bill once. Since he hasn’t pulled it out, my guess is he’s finished it off.

“What are you talking about, son?” he says.

I look back at the legionnaire. We could be playing badminton with a baked ham for all he cares. I keep my voice low anyway.

“This is just between the three of us. I’m hoping that Lucifer can square things away Hell-­wise, but it’s not looking good. If he can’t, I’m taking you both out of here. Be ready to leave in a hot second if I give you the word.”

“I’m ready right now,” says Bill.

I shake my head.

“This isn’t the right time. Be patient. And trust me.”

Cindil finishes her drink and Bill pours her another.

“You can leave here?” she says.

“This one can go any damned place he likes. He just visits with us Hell-­bound folks when he gets bored carousing with monsters and disreputable types back home.”

“Back home on Earth,” she says.

I toss back another drink. It tastes better as it numbs your taste buds.

“Yes. I can go back and forth.”

“Why can’t we come with you now?”

“It’s like I said, it’s not time. There are consequences for everyone when I steal a soul from Hell. I have to wait until the good outweighs the bad.”

I stole Father Traven?

?s soul from Hell a month before. Things haven’t been the same between me and Mr. Muninn since.

“How will you know when it’s the right time?”

“I’ll know. Trust me. I have someone watching Hell. If things get bad, I’ll be back for both of you,” I say. Then to Bill, “Until then, meet your new barback.”

Bill raises his eyes at that.

“Barback? I hardly get enough customers these days to justify my existence much less help’s.”

“Yeah, but you’ll take her because I owe her. She’s dead because of me.”

Bill nods at that. Pointless death and the guilt that comes with it are things a gunfighter like him understands.

He looks Cindil over. She’s drenched in bloody rain. Her hair hangs limp around her face. My coat is a ­couple of sizes too big and she’s still wearing her devil horns.

“You ever tend bar before?” he says.

She looks at me, then back at him.

“At friends’ parties sometimes.”

“See? She’s a natural,” I say. “And she ran her own eating establishment down here for almost a year.”

She frowns.