By Blood We Live Part 50

This story, which first appeared in the online magazine Aeon, is inspired by cla.s.sic and contemporary hard-boiled fiction. But while the characters of Das.h.i.+ell Hammett and Robert Parker may have found themselves in similar situations, none of them ever had a client or a mark quite like this...

I'm given the a.s.signment by an angel-I mean that, an angel-one wearing a high-end Armani suit with an Ermenegildo Zegna tie. A loud red one. Why red? To project confidence? h.e.l.l, I don't know. I'm having lunch at Parlami's, a mediocre bistro on Melrose where I met my first ex, when in he walks with what looks like a musical instrument case-French horn or tiny tuba, I'm thinking-and sits down. We do the usual disbelief dialogue from the movies: He announces he's an angel. I say, "You're kidding." He says, "No. Really." I ask for proof. He says, "Look at my eyes," and I do. His pupils are missing. "So?" I say. "That's easy with contacts." So he makes the b.u.t.ter melt on the plate just by looking at it, and I say, "Any demon could do that." He says, "Sure, but let's cut the bulls.h.i.+t, Anthony. G.o.d's got something He wants you to do, and if you'll take the job, He'll forgive everything." I shrug and tell him, "Okay, okay. I believe. Now what?" Everyone wants to be forgiven, and it's already sounding like any other contract.

He reaches for the case, opens it right there (no one's watching-not even the two undercover narcs-the angel makes sure of that) and hands it to me. It's got a brand-new crossbow in it. Then he tells me what I need to do to be forgiven.

"G.o.d wants you to kill the oldest vampire."

"Why?" I ask and can see him fight to keep those pupilless eyes from rolling. Even angels feel boredom, contempt, things like that, I'm thinking, and that makes it all that more convincing.

"Because He can't do it."

"And why is that?" I'm getting braver. Maybe they do need me. I'm good-one of the three best repairmen west of Vegas, just like my sainted dad was-and maybe guys who say yes to things like this aren't all that common.

"Because the fellow-the oldest bloodsucker-is the son of...well, you know..."

"No, I don't."

"Does 'The Prince of Lies' ring a bell?"

"Oh." I'm quiet for a second. Then I get it. It's like the mob and the police back in my uncle's day in Jersey. You don't take out the don because then maybe they take out your chief.

I ask him if this is the reasoning.

The contempt drops a notch, but holds. "No, but close enough."

"And where do I do it?"

"The Vatican."

"The Holy City?"

"Yes."

"Big place, but doesn't have to be tricky." I'd killed men with a wide range of appliance-the angel knew that-and suddenly this wasn't sounding any trickier. Crossbow. Composite frame, wooden arrows-darts-whatever they're called. One to the heart. I'd seen enough movies and TV.

"Well," he says, "maybe. But most of the Jesuits there are vampires too."

"Oh."

"That's the bad news. The good news is they're p.i.s.sed at him-the oldest vampire, I mean. They think he wants to turn mortal. He's taken up with some twenty-eight-year-old bambina who knows almost as many languages as he does-a Vatican interpreter-and they've got this place in Siena-Tuscany, no less-and he hasn't bitten her, and it's been making the Brothers, his great-great-great-grandchildren, nervous for about a month now. Handle it right and she just might help you even if they don't."

"You serious?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she wants to be one, too-she's very Euro-goth-you know the type-and he just won't bite her."

No, I don't know the type, but I say, "She's that vindictive?"

"What woman isn't?"

This sounds awfully s.e.xist for an angel, but I don't argue. Maybe angels get dumped too.

"Does he really?" I ask.

"Does he really what?"

"Want to be mortal again."

"He never was mortal."

"He was born that way?"

The eyes-which suddenly have pupils now, majorly dark blue ones-are starting to roll again. "What do you think? Son of You Know Who-who's not exactly happy with the traditional wine and wafer thing, but likes the idea of blood and immortality."

"Makes sense," I say, eyeing the narcs, who are eyeing two Fairfax High girls, "but why does G.o.d need someone to kill him if he wants to flip?

He takes a breath.

What an idiot, the pupils say. "Remember when China tried to give Taiwan a pair of pandas?"

I'm impressed. This guy's up on earthly news. "No."

"Taiwan couldn't take them."

"Why not?"

He takes another breath and I hear him counting to ten.

"Okay, okay," I say. "I get it. If they took the pandas, they were in bed with China. They'd have to make nice with them. You accept cute cuddly creatures from someone and it looks like love, right?"

"Basically."

"If You Know Who's son flips-goes mortal-G.o.d has to accept him."

"Right."

"And that throws everything off. No balance. No order. Chaos and eventually, well, h.e.l.l?"

The angel nods, grateful, I can tell, that I'm no stupider than I am.

I think for a moment.

"How many arrows do I get?"

I think he'll laugh, but he doesn't.

"Three"

"Three?" I don't like the feeling suddenly. It's like some Bible story where the guy gets screwed so that G.o.d can make some point about fatherly love or other form of sacrifice. Nice for G.o.d's message. Bad for the guy.

"It's a holy number," he adds.

"I get that," I say, "but I don't think so. Not three."

"That's all you get."

"What makes you think three will do it-even if they're all heart shots?"

"You only need one."

The bad feeling jumps a notch.

"Why?"

He looks at me and blinks. Then nods. "Well, each has a point made from a piece of the Cross, Mr. Pagano. We were lucky to get even that much. It's hidden under three floors and four tons of tile in Jerusalem, you know."

"What is?"

"The Cross. You know which one."

I blink. "Right. That's the last thing he needs in the heart."

"Right."

"So all I've got to do is. .h.i.t the right spot."

"Yes."

"Which means I need practice. How much time do I have?"

"A week."

I take a breath. "I'm a.s.suming you-and He-know a few good crossbow schools, ones with weekly rates."

"We've got special tutors for that."

I'm afraid to ask. "And what do these tutors usually do?"

"Kill vampires."

"And you need me when you've got a team of them?"

"He'd spot them a mile away. They're his kids, you might say. He's been around 2000 years and he's had kids and his kids have had kids-in the way that they have them-you know, the biting and sucking thing-and they can sense each other a mile away. These kids-the ones working for us-are ones who've come over. Know what I mean?"

"And they weren't enough to throw off the-the 'balance.'"

Now he laughs. "No, they're little fish. Know what I mean?"

I don't really, but I nod. He's beginning to sound like my other uncle-Gian Felice-the one from Teaneck, the one with adenoids.

Know what I mean?

I go home to my overpriced stucco shack in Sherman Oaks and to my girlfriend, who's got cheekbones like a runway model and lips that make men beg, but wears enough lipstick to stop a truck, and in any case is sick and tired of what I do for a living and probably has a right to be. I should know something besides killing people, even if they're people the police don't mind having dead and I'm as good at it as my father wanted me to be. It's too easy making excuses. Like a pool hustler who never leaves the back room. You start to think it's the whole world.

She can tell from my face that I've had one of those meetings. She shakes her head and says, "How much?"

"I'm doing it for free."

'No, Anthony, you're not."

"I am."

"Are you trying to get me to go to bed with your brother? He'd like that. Or Aaron, that guy at the gym? Or do you just want me to go live with my sister?"

She can be a real harpy.

"No," I tell her, and mean it.

"You must really hate me."

"I don't hate you, Mandy. I wouldn't put up with your temper tantrums if I hated you." The words are starting to hurt-the ones she's using and the ones I'm using. I do love her, I'm telling myself. I wouldn't live with her if I didn't love her, would I?

"And I live on what while you're away, Anthony?"

"I'll sell the XKE?"

"To who?"

"My cousin. He wants it. He's wanted it for years."

She looks at me for a moment and I see a flicker of-kindness. "You in trouble?"

"No."

"Then you're lying or you're crazy but anyway it comes down to the same thing: You don't love me. If you did, you'd take care of me. I'm moving out tomorrow, Anthony Pagano, and I'm taking the Jag."

"Please...."

"If you'll charge for the work."

"I can't."

"You are in trouble."

"No."