A Fate Worse Than Death (12 page)

“You got ID?” he said in a voice that seemed to be coming from the bottom of his stomach.

“I need ID?” I replied, attempting to feign ignorance. I didn’t have to try that hard.

“No ID, no entry,” the bouncer said, as a couple of people pushed past us and into the club.

“Those other people didn’t need ID,” I said, pointing through the door where the people had disappeared.

“You ain’t those other people. You wanna get in, you gotta have ID.” And though his point needed no underlining, he underlined it anyway by turning his arm muscles into something resembling an armoured tank.

“You’re right, and I’m so sorry for wasting your time,” I said, and then I quickly departed before any military exercises could be conducted on my face.

At the next three clubs I tried, I encountered similar situations. It seemed that for some reason I was the only person in Hell who required ID to get into a club. It also seemed that, judging by appearances, the security industry in Hell was a family business.

As I walked away from the fourth nightclub, a sign on the other side of the road caught my attention: Free Entry to All – No ID Required. I approached the side of the road. The chances of crossing didn’t seem good. The traffic was bumper to bumper, with every car moving at something close to the speed of sound. There wasn’t even space for a fly to get across.

I stood on the side of the road for ages. A couple of times, I took a tentative step forwards, but the screaming of horns sent me scurrying back. There was clearly no way I was going to get across. My only option now was to take extreme measures, to commit an act that under any other circumstance I would never consider. I was going to have to use a pedestrian crossing.

The very idea of finding a pedestrian crossing in Hell seemed about as likely as finding a gold nugget in a septic tank. Which made it all the more splendid when I happened to spy one barely a block up the street. I pressed the call button and I waited. I waited and waited, pounding again on the button at regular intervals. Eventually, it became apparent that the lights weren’t about to change. I would have to abandon any hope of getting to that ID-free nightclub that beckoned so loudly.

Still, as I walked away, I couldn’t help taking one fleeting glance back. Amazingly, the traffic had stopped, and a green Walk sign shone like a beacon. I skidded around and raced back to the crossing. Of course, I was too late. A red Don’t Walk had reappeared and the traffic surged forwards again.

I screamed and swore and stamped my foot down on the ground, which felt suspiciously soft underfoot. I lifted my foot. A thick, brown, and extremely pungent substance clung to the bottom of my shoe, and from the corner of my eye, I noticed a mangy cur running away along the street. I swore slightly more loudly, then took off the shoe and beat it repeatedly on the side of the road. At that moment, the rain began to get much heavier. I jammed the shoe back on and ran to the shelter of an adjacent steel awning, which promptly collapsed under the weight of the rain, giving me a thorough drenching. I hurried under a more substantial shelter and stood, shivering.

“Feeling down, bud?” It was a soft voice, coming from out of the darkness behind me.

“Not me, I’m high as a kite,” I said.

“Oh yeah? Looks to me like someone took the wind out of your sails. But you know, I just might be able to help.” A figure stepped out of the shadows. A small man in a large, grey cloak, he fidgeted and twitched with the nervous energy of a flea.

“You can help me all right. Just tell me what sort of place is this that a man can’t get into a club without ID?”

“ID you say? Well it’s lucky you’ve found me, because it just so happens that IDs are my specialty.” He extracted a small cardboard rectangle from a pocket within his cloak and held it up in front of me.

“Guaranteed to get you into any club anywhere.”

I took a look. It seemed to be legit. I nodded.

“I’m so glad I could help you,” said the man. “That will be six thousand diablos.”

“You haven’t helped me much,” I said, doing a quick calculation in my head. “I’ve only got four thousand diablos left.”

“Okay,” he said. “How about we compromise. Let’s make it four thousand diablos.”

“Come on. A man in a club needs cash. I’ll give you two thousand.”

“Three thousand, five hundred.”

“Two thousand, five hundred.”

The little man thought for a moment, then grinned. “You got yourself a deal.”

I took out thirteen notes and handed them to him. He took the notes and handed me the ID.

“I’ll just get you your change,” he said. But as he reached into his cloak, he let out a sudden gasp and fell forwards onto me. I reached out to grab him, allowing him to wrap his arms around my waist to steady himself. He caught his breath and thanked me, then promptly disappeared back into the shadows. It was only a couple of seconds later that I thought to check my pockets. As expected, I had fallen for the oldest trick in the book. The envelope with the remaining diablos was gone.

I placed the ID in my pocket and walked back into the rain, a crazed grin on my face. I was in Hell, flat broke, soaked to the bone, and with no idea what I was supposed to be doing here. But what did that matter? I had ID.

Music throbbed out through the walls of the first nightclub I found, making the whole street vibrate. I strode confidently to the door where, right on cue, another oversized gorilla in an undersized suit jumped into my path and demanded ID. I smiled at the great ape, calmly took the ID from my pocket, and handed it to him. He stared at it uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he turned back to me.

“Is this meant to be some sort of joke?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Now will you please let me through? I have ID.”

“This is not ID,” the bouncer growled, and he held up the card for me to see. Whatever had once been written was now smudged beyond recognition by the rain.

At that moment, something inside me snapped. I lunged at the bouncer, attempting to grab him by the throat. He just laughed, picking me up as if I were a sack of feathers and swinging me roughly from side to side. I tried to fight him off, pummeling him with my fists for all I was worth, but I made as much impact as a single raindrop on a bone-dry desert.

An excited crowd gathered outside the nightclub to watch the show. Like a mob of jackals, they could sense that someone was about to get hurt. And we all knew it wasn’t going to be the bouncer.

But suddenly, the crowd pulled away. The bouncer slowed his swinging, then dropped me to the ground and took a couple of steps back.

“Is there a problem here?” said a voice that sounded strangely familiar.

I looked up. A figure stood over me. It was a tall guy with sandy brown hair. He had a solid build and a neck like a rhino.

It was my old friend, Bully Malone.

I STARED
AT BULLY MALONE
. Bully Malone stared back at me. At least here was one mystery solved―my gunwork outside that Girl Scout hall had been more effective than I’d given myself credit for. It looked like I’d taken Bully out for good. Not that it helped me much now.

“I asked if there was a problem here,” Bully repeated. He spoke softly but his voice was hard, like a satin veil on a pile driver.

“No problem here, Mr Malone,” the bouncer said. “Just trying to keep undesirables out of the club.”

“Well, it just so happens that this particular undesirable is with me,” said Bully. “So are you going to let us both in, or do I have to get you to do a little dance first?” He took out a gun and pointed it at the bouncer’s feet.

“Right away, Mr Malone, come this way.” The bouncer stepped away, ushering Bully towards the door like a game show hostess pointing to a new car. I felt Bully’s powerful hand come down on my shoulder, and before I knew it, I was lifted up and pulled through the door into the darkness of the club.

The room was small but crowded. All heads turned towards us as we entered, and all conversation suddenly ceased. Even the band stopped playing and promptly left the stage. In the short time since his death, Bully had clearly wasted no time making himself known to the residents of Hell.

Bully dragged me along a hastily cleared path towards a table in the back corner of the club. He made a small movement with his gun, and the couple who were seated at the table quickly stood up and disappeared into the crowd.

“Just my luck. One table free,” said Bully. “Why don’t you take a seat and we can have a friendly little discussion?” He pointed towards one of the recently vacated chairs with his gun. It looked like this discussion was going to be as friendly as a pre-dinner chat between a goldfish and a piranha.

I sat down. I can’t say I was thrilled at the idea of spending the evening with the man who had murdered me, and whom I had, in return, dispatched to Hell. But it didn’t look like I had much of a choice. If there was going to be a discussion, I decided it would be better if I set the agenda.

“Okay, Bully, I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “But try to look at it from my point of view. I had a job to do. It wasn’t a job I particularly wanted, but a fellow in my position can’t afford to be choosy. So when I suddenly see you coming out of that Girl Scout hall with a semi-automatic pointed at my forehead, what else was I supposed to do? I didn’t want to shoot you, Bully, but you didn’t give me much of a choice.”

“Don’t think you can talk your way out of this one, Clarenden,” snarled Bully. “I don’t care what you say. You killed me. You, a lousy little nobody, killed me, the meanest, toughest hit man in town. I don’t like that, Clarenden. It’s not good for my image. So what do you think I should do about it?” As he spoke, he slowly lifted the gun until it was pointing at my chest.

“What difference does it make what you do about it,” I snapped back. “It isn’t going to make you any less dead, is it.”

“Maybe not, but it will make me feel a whole lot better.” Bully raised the gun further, so it was now pointing at my face. “So let’s hear you talk. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t blow you to—”

“What are you going to do, kill me a little bit more?” I interjected. Bully looked at me blankly, his mouth wide open as if he hoped to catch a fish in it. Emboldened by his obvious confusion, I kept talking. “We’ve reached the end of the line, you and me. There’s nowhere left for you to blow me.”

Bully still looked puzzled, but he lowered the gun. “Okay, you got me there. But let me tell you, I can still make Hell a pretty unpleasant place for you.”

“And here I was thinking Hell was one big fun park. In the last half hour I’ve been ripped off, I’ve been robbed, I’ve been drenched, and I’ve been swung like a pendulum until I thought my brains were going to slide out my ears. If you really think you can give me a worse time than the one I’m already having, I’d like to see you try.”

If Bully had looked confused before, his face now moved past nonplussed and settled at utterly bewildered. “Listen, small guy,” he shouted. “You’re pushing your luck. Nobody talks to me like that. I’m Bully Malone.”

“Sorry, but I’m going to have to correct you. You used to be Bully Malone, but now you’re just another dead guy.” I paused for a moment, hoping that some of this might actually sink in, but when his face didn’t move, I kept going anyway. “You may think you’re the big man and I’m the little man, but when it comes down to it, we’re really not that different. We were both small wheels in a big machine. We worked because we had to, and sometimes we killed because we had to. But when we got taken out, the machine didn’t stop moving.”

Bully continued to stare uncomprehendingly. Then, suddenly, his face broke into a grin. “I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, but I have to admit you’ve got guts. There’s not too many guys that could kill Bully Malone and then look him in the eye afterwards.” Then his expression hardened again. “But you gotta understand, I can’t just let this slide. I got my image to consider. I gotta get my respect back.”

“Seems to me you don’t have too much of an image problem. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, your image is better than it’s ever been.”

“What are you talking about?” Bully’s brow wrinkled as his brain struggled to make sense of what I was saying. Given it had never had much of a workout while he’d been alive, it was a big ask to expect it to start functioning now.

“Look at it this way,” I said. “You may think you got respect while you were alive, but was that really the case? Did people respect you for who you were and what you did, or was it all due to the Bostino family?”

“What have the Bostinos got to do with this?”

“Quite a lot, Bully. As long as you worked for them, you could never be sure if the respect you got was all due to that association. But now that you’re on your own, there’s no doubt. The respect you’re getting is for you and you alone. But don’t just take my word for it. Have a look at these people. They’re absolutely terrified of you.”

I’ll never know if Bully really understood what I was saying, but in some way it seemed to satisfy him. “Yeah,” he said. “They
are
terrified of me.” He pointed his gun at a gentleman sitting at a table beside us. “Hey you, give me a handstand,” he demanded.

“Right away, Mr Malone, sir,” the man squeaked. He stood up and then crouched down on the ground, attempting to support himself on his shaky hands. He swayed unsteadily for a couple of seconds before collapsing into the crowd, sending drinks flying.

Bully roared with laughter. “Maybe you’re right, Clarenden. Maybe I don’t have to take you out after all.”

“Call me Jimmy,” I said. “And don’t forget you’ve already taken me out once. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Getting killed by you isn’t so bad after all. I still got my respect, plus I haven’t got any of those crazy Bostinos to worry about.” Bully shook his head. “I tell you, Jimmy, I’m not going to miss the Bostinos. Complete whack jobs, every last one. Did you ever meet them?”

“Never had the pleasure, Bully. They had a gang of trained assassins to ensure that nobody except their closest advisors ever got close to them.”

“You’re right, I trained them,” Bully chuckled. “Let me tell you something about them Bostinos. First, there was Billy Bostino. He got his leg shot off by accident during a poker game, and he had to have a wooden stump attached. I had to kill him because Tommy Bostino didn’t like the thumping sound he made at night when he went to the bathroom.”

“I can understand that.”

“Then there was Freddy Bostino. Freddy had this superstition about his fingernails. He would only clip them once every two months, on a full moon. I had to kill him because Tommy Bostino didn’t like how he got cut every time he shook Freddy’s hand.”

“That would annoy me too.”

“And not forgetting Franky Bostino. Franky had one green eye and one blue eye.”

“And let me guess. You had to kill him because Tommy didn’t like those colours.”

“Nah, Tommy was colour blind. I killed Franky because he had bad breath.”

“That’s a pretty big crime in my book too. So I guess that would make Tommy the craziest one of them all.”

“Not for much longer though,” said Bully, sounding as close to thoughtful as he was ever likely to get.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s on his last legs, the old man. They say he doesn’t have much time left. And I’m glad I won’t be around when he goes. With nobody left to lead the family, it ain’t gonna be pretty.” Bully paused for a moment, then he grinned broadly. “But I don’t have to worry about them no more. I’m finally free, and that deserves a drink. Stay here, I’m buying.”

Bully stood up and strode across the room. Although the crowd at the bar was packed six deep, somehow he had no trouble getting straight to the front. And as for the service he received, I’d never seen a barman move with such haste—like a wind-up doll with a fast-forward button.

As Bully made his way back through the crowd, I considered how I might take advantage of his unexpected camaraderie. It seemed unlikely that he knew anything about Sally and her connection to the Devil, but I couldn’t leave this club without making an enquiry along those lines.

“I’m glad we’ve sorted out our differences,” I said after Bully handed me a drink, “because as it happens, I’m after information. Perhaps you can help me.”

Bully scowled. “Listen, Jimmy, don’t push your luck with me. You’re still the guy who killed me. Now shut up and drink.”

I shut up and took a sip from the glass. It tasted a little like bourbon and a lot like raw sewage. I gagged and spat it back into the glass.

“I would’ve figured a man like you could hold his liquor,” Bully laughed.

“Liquor I can hold,” I said. “This is urine.”

“Get used to it, buddy. You’re in Hell now. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

“That’s what you think.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my little bottle. “Help yourself to a real drink.”

Bully grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “Now this is more like it,” he exclaimed. “Jimmy Clarenden, you might be a dirty, two-bit weasel of a private detective—”

“Easy on the compliments.”

“ . . . but I have to say you’re a man of good taste, and I like that. Now I suggest we take this bottle of yours and head over to the pool table. We can shoot some pool, and I can try to tell you everything you need to know.”

“Rack them up and do your worst.”

Judging by the number of balls on the pool table, it looked like a new game had only just begun.

“You fellows nearly finished?” said Bully as we strolled over.

“A-a-as it happens, we just f-f-finished this moment, M-M-Mr Malone,” one of the players stammered, shoving his cue into Bully’s hands.

“That’s good timing,” said Bully. “Now if you’d be so kind as to rack the balls, me and my friend Jimmy are gonna have a game.”

Both players immediately complied with more than reasonable haste and then vanished into the smoky blackness.

“Okay, Jimmy, why don’t you break.”

I chalked my cue, took a swig of bourbon, and settled over the table. I aimed for the spot just to the right of the leading ball, but I miss-hit and the white ball went spinning off to the left. The balls scattered around the table, leaving Bully with a simple shot on the number two ball. He leant over, carefully measured the shot, hit the cue ball with precision, and missed the shot to the right.

“Looks like there’s a slight roll to this table,” I said. “So how about you tell me a little more about life in Hell. Is this what eternal punishment is all about? Miserable weather, drinks that taste like excrement . . . ” I paused to take my next shot. “ . . . And pool tables with strange ideas about the laws of physics?” I added as I allowed for the roll and missed far off to the left.

“Nah, that’s just for leisure. Most of our time is supposed to be spent working.” Bully helped himself to more drink and then missed his next shot to the right again.

“What sort of work?” I asked as I sent the white ball spinning into the side pocket.

“Can’t speak for everybody here, but I’ve been put on garbage collection.” Bully retrieved the ball and then promptly sent it into the pocket on the other side.

I took the white ball out of the pocket, gave my mouth and throat a quick alcoholic lubrication, and made a shot that hit every ball except the one I was aiming at. “You haven’t been doing much of a job. The streets here are filthy.”

“Of course the streets here are filthy,” said Bully, striking the ball so hard that it bounced off the table and into a woman’s drink. “This is Hell. We’re not supposed to pick up the garbage here. We do it in Heaven.”

My ears suddenly leapt off my head. I waited for them to come down and reattach themselves before I continued. “You collect the garbage in Heaven?”

“That’s right,” said Bully, trying to brush off the profuse apologies of the woman with the ball in her drink. “Every night, we go up into Heaven and make sure it’s completely free of litter. Well, you wouldn’t expect the people in Heaven to have to do it, would you?”

“So that’s how things work,” I muttered, feeling like a tiny bit of a much bigger picture had just been unveiled. “You spend your life making a mess of things, then you spend your afterlife cleaning messes up. I suppose there’s some sort of justice there.”

“I suppose so. I used to say my job was taking out the trash, but now my job really is taking out the trash.” Bully paused, possibly overwhelmed by the complexity of his statement. Luckily, he found a simple remedy. “How about you give me more of that drink.”

I passed the bottle and then put the cue on the table. My interest in our game of pool had waned. “So shouldn’t you be in Heaven cleaning up right now?”

“Yeah, I should. Except right now we’re on strike.”

“On strike?”

“For shorter hours and better conditions. I dunno much about it because I’m only starting out, but from what I hear, there’s some new people that just took over the garbage collection operation. They’ve increased the hours we work and the quotas for the amount of rubbish we have to collect each night. So we’re striking in protest, and let me tell you, Jimmy, I’m all for it. Just because I lived a life of violence and bloodshed doesn’t mean I should have to put up with that.”