Kill the Dead (Sandman Slim 2)

“I’ll pass. But you have fun with the beautiful people. I bet they’ve missed you.”

“Every bit as much as I missed them.”

“Try not to do anything too stupid, okay? If you piss off Lucifer and get sent back to Hell, I’m going to be on a coal cart right behind you and I don’t want to go back again for a good long time.”

“The next time I go back to Hell it’ll be because I mean to.”

“Gee wow, that’s a comfort.”

I put on the butler suit and the new shoes. Everything is a perfect fit. Lucifer must have had his tailor run the thing off for me. He would have to do it after eyeballing me for just a couple of minutes. That’s impressive, even for a Sub Rosa rag sewer, but then having the lord of the abyss looking over your shoulder is probably even more motivational than an employee-of-the-month fruit basket.

My only problem with the suit is that the jacket is too tight for me to wear a gun without looking like I have a conjoined twin. Allegra took me to a local fetish shop and I had them make me a kind of leather shoulder holster for the na’at. It fits under my left arm pretty well, and unless I get the urge to do jumping jacks at the party, it should stay hidden. If I was designing the suit myself, I would have run a twelve-inch Velcro strip from the pants cuff up the leg so I could strap the black knife under it. For now, I just slide it into my waistband behind my back. I check the bedside table for anything else I might want to take with me.

“What’s that?” Kasabian asks.

“It’s an electronic cigarette. Supposed to be better for you than regular ones. You want it?”

“I might not have balls anymore, but I still have a little pride, so no.”

At ten, my phone rings. The limo’s arrived to take me to pick up Lucifer. I go downstairs and out the back of the store, trying to get out without anyone seeing me. I know it’s stupid to use the door when I can just as easily go out through a shadow, but I like using the door at Max Overload. I think I’m the only person I know who still has a normal door.

The limo is just like the kind you see in the movies. Long, shiny, and black. The driver opens the rear passenger door for me, and then gets back in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t say a word for the whole drive, probably because his throat has been cut from ear to ear and looks like it was sewn up by a blind man with bailing wire. This is going to be an interesting night.

When we’re down the block from the hotel, I dial the number Lucifer gave me last night. Yeah, I have the devil on speed dial.

The phone rings once and a voice I don’t recognize says, “He’ll be right down. Wait for him in the lobby,” then hangs up.

I tell the limo driver to wait in the parking lot outside the lobby. The staff seems to know that someone important is on his way down because none of them tell me to move the car. None of them even look at me. Does everyone at the hotel owe Lucifer a favor?

There are thirteen well-dressed people in the lobby when I go in. I’m pretty sure I know what this means. They confirm it a few seconds later when Lucifer steps out of the elevator and all thirteen jump up like kids on the last day of school. A woman in an expensive Jackie Kennedy black dress and pillbox hat leads the pack. Her face is young and her skin is perfect, but when she takes off a glove, her hands are like buzzard claws. Old as King Tut and dry as a Death Valley rattlesnake’s eyeteeth.

“Master,” she says, breathy and excited. The million-dollar coven behind her mumbles the word in stage whispers like stuttering ghosts.

“Amanda, lovely to see you,” Lucifer says, all diabolical charm. “I have someplace to be, so I’m afraid I can’t stay and chat.”

The old woman with the Lolita face smiles like a maniac when he says her name.

“We don’t want to keep you, Master. Will you be in L.A. long?”

“I’m not sure.”

“We’d like to hold a special Mass for your arrival.”

“No need. But thank you all the same.”

Amanda is disappointed, but keeps smiling. Her heart is going like the drum solo in “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” Lucifer hasn’t touched the woman’s buzzard hand, and while he’s probably technically smiling, you’d need a microscope to be sure. His contempt for these people is so obvious, it’s even giving me the creeps. I don’t know if I’m on bodyguard duty yet, so I stay put.

Amanda pulls back her hand and reaches into the huge damned purse that all old ladies seem to carry. I take a couple of steps toward her, just to make sure she’s not taking anything too sharp or explosive out of her bag. Lucifer couldn’t look more bored. She pulls out a carved whitish-yellow box and hands it to Lucifer. As he takes it he gives her a tiny nod. The Rosemary’s Baby Mouseketeers behind her start mumbling “Master” again. Lucifer shifts his eyes toward me for a second. Now I’m on the clock.

I move in as Lucifer raises his left hand and touches the top of Amanda’s head, like he’s blessing her. She’s thrilled and, to tell the truth, I like the move, too. A priest would have blessed her with his right hand, but Lucifer put his devil horns on and went lefty. If we had some pea soup we could do a scene from The Exorcist.

I put an arm up, and when Lucifer takes his hand off Amanda’s head, I get between him and the crowd and stay there while I walk him to the front door. Amanda yells, “Praise thee, Master! Praise thee!” Lucifer ignores her. As he gets in the car, the limo driver opens and closes the passenger door behind him and gets in the front. Guess now that the big man is here, I don’t rate door opening. A good thing to remember. I’m back with the ruling class, where everyone knows their place. Except for me, but I don’t think Lucifer is going to be shy about telling me whose ass to kiss and whose to punch. I open my own door and slide in the back of the limo.

“You’re like all the Beatles rolled into one. Getting you out of there is like them trying to get out of Shea Stadium after the concert in ’65.”

“I was there that night. The sound was terrible.”

“You knew them? They didn’t make a deal with you, did they?”