The Perdition Score (Sandman Slim 8)

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. I just need some air.”

I say good-bye to everyone, put the Mitchum face back on, and walk back to Max Overdrive. I’m too restless to sit around or watch a movie, so I haul the bike gear and a flashlight around the side of the shop and go to work modifying the Hellion hog. It’s done by the time Candy and Kasabian come home and I’ve worked off enough nervous energy when they get there that I can act like a human again. But in the back of my mind I know that working for Abbot or not, I’m going to have to start killing people and it’s probably going to be soon.

IN THE MORNING, I bring a cold twelve-pack of beer into Max Overdrive and set it on the counter. Not beer like last night’s sewage. This is good stuff. Candy is already at work. It’s just me and Kasabian.

“What’s the occasion?” he says.

“No occasion. We haven’t had a drink together in a while. I thought it was about time.”

“Okay,” he says, more than a little suspicion in his voice.

I open the pack and hand him a bottle.

He pops the top with his metal mitts, but he doesn’t drink. He hands me the bottle.

“You first, chief.”

“Why do you immediately assume I’m trying to poison you?”

“Because you’re you. Now drink.”

I hold it up and drain half the bottle. Put it back on the counter with a flourish.

Kasabian looks at me. Waves a hand in front of my eyes. I remain upright and extremely not poisoned.

Finally, he says, “Okay. But I’ll pick my own bottle.”

“Don’t strain yourself.”

He takes one from the corner and opens it slowly, like it might be full of snakes on springs. He sniffs and takes a small sip. When his tongue doesn’t melt he takes a longer pull.

“Just because it’s not poisoned doesn’t mean I trust you.”

“I don’t blame you.”

I pick up my bottle and finish it. I’m not really much of a beer fan, but I can handle it if it’s the only thing around. Kasabian would get suspicious if I gave him beer and drank Aqua Regia. Kasabian, on the other hand, loves the stuff. He has four bottles by the time I finish two. I’m barely sipping my third when he cracks open his fifth. I can smell traces of alcohol in his sweat and his eyes tremble microscopically, too little for regular people to see, but I can pick it out fine. Kasabian isn’t smashed, but he’s officially DUI. Now I just have to keep him calm and focused.

“Do you mind if we talk about Hell for a minute?”

He sets down his beer and makes a face.

“Oh man. And I was just starting to feel good.”

“I don’t want a dissertation. Just a few questions.”

“I don’t like seeing down there, man. I just don’t.”

“Someone’s got to keep tabs on it.”

He picks up his beer again. Sips.

“Great. You do it.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Why am I always the lucky one when you want a weather report Downtown?”