A Fate Worse Than Death (2 page)

He must have registered my surprise because he continued. “This is all a bit exciting for me. I’m a big fan of detective stories.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely adore them. My very favourite thing to do in my spare time is to curl up with a really great detective novel. Well, it would be, if I actually had any spare time,” he added, somewhat wistfully.

I still wasn’t quite sure what to say. Spare time was something I’d had more than enough of lately. Luckily, Peter was happy to continue.

“So how did you score those slugs? Shootout with gangsters? Gunfight with Mr Big?”

“Not exactly. If you really want to know, I was doing surveillance on a bunch of Girl Scouts.”

“Girl Scouts?” Peter stopped mid-stride, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

I nodded. “Rumour was they were running a fake cookie racket.”

“Oh,” said Peter.

“I know it doesn’t sound so flashy, but believe me, these were no ordinary Girl Scouts. Their troop leader was the daughter of Tommy Bostino.”

“Who is Tommy Bostino?” I could hear Peter’s interest perk up again.

“You haven’t heard of Tommy Bostino?”

“Should I have?”

“If you came from where I’m from, you would have. Tommy Bostino is the biggest hood in town. He’s the number one boss of the Bostino family, and as far as vicious mobsters go, the Bostinos make the Corleones look like the von Trapps. Pick a racket and you can be sure they’ll have a hand in it. Protection, gambling, drugs—”

“Fake Girl Scout cookies,” Peter helpfully threw in.

“Isn’t it nice when a kid takes an interest in the family business?”

“So was he the one who took you down, this Tommy Bostino?”

“Nah, Tommy’s above that sort of stuff. He called in my old chum Bully Malone to do the dirty work.”

“Bully Malone.” Peter rolled the syllables around his mouth like a tasty morsel. “Let me guess. Hired muscle for the Bostino family, right?”

“Dead on the money. Tommy Bostino’s number one triggerman. Bully’s whacked more people than a strap-happy schoolteacher.”

“Did you get him back? Did you wing him?”

“I’m not really sure. I vaguely recall getting a couple of shots off, but in all the confusion I’ve got no idea if any hit. Also, I might have been a little under the influence of . . . ” I held up the flask and waved it around.

“Oh,” said Peter again, looking at the flask disapprovingly.

“If your life’s work was reduced to tracking a bunch of eight-year-old girls, you’d be drinking too,” I growled. “But if I did get him, I suppose he’d be somewhere up here. Maybe you’ve seen him. Tall guy with sandy brown hair. Solid build. Has a neck like a rhino.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Peter. “Besides, we’d probably never find him in this crowd.”

“I guess not,” I said, and then I had to stop. We had arrived.

The Pearly Gates arched before us, their sculpted curves reaching a graceful point far above our heads. In the clear blue light they shone with milky translucence—a lot of oysters must have worked their butts off for a lot of years to produce this much pearl. The outer faces of the Gates were covered with carvings representing religious moments of great import: Moses and the Ten Commandments, Jesus on the cross, Shiva doing that thing with his arms.

Inside the Gates, there was a series of booths. Within each booth, an inspector sat, dressed in the same uniform as my friend the bellhop. More inspectors raced around in front of the Gates, frantically trying to herd the people from the head of the line towards the next available booth. The whole scene managed to combine all the organisation of a stampede with all the joy of an immigration queue.

Peter led me towards a side door that bypassed the madness. We walked through a short passage and came out the other side. I stood for a moment, blinking in disbelief. I was in Heaven.

It was hard to believe I had actually made it here. Then again, given that I wasn’t likely to be here for long, I figured I’d better make the most of it, before I ended up . . . wherever I ended up.

So far, my brief glimpse of Heaven met all expectations. In front of me, a magnificent palace gleamed and glittered and glistened and glowed, and if I could think of any other “g” words, it probably would have done those as well. Its stones were so pure and white they made the Pearly Gates look like they needed a good scrub. Its pointed towers soared so high, they seemed to reach to the very heavens of Heaven.

Peter indicated a pair of broad doors in the palace wall.

“You must enter the palace, Jimmy Clarenden. Your fate awaits.”

On hearing Peter’s words, I felt a deep sense of foreboding.

“I don’t have to actually go in yet,” I said. “Why don’t you and me find a bar someplace? We can share detective stories over a couple of drinks.”

“No, Jimmy. You have been summoned. You must go now.”

“Can’t you at least come with me?”

“You must face your fate alone,” Peter intoned. “And besides, as you just saw, I’ve got a huge amount of work to get through. But maybe we can catch up sometime. Why don’t you take my card?”

He thrust a card into my hand and then he was gone, disappearing back through the Pearly Gates. I was sorry to see him go. He seemed like the sort of friend any dead guy would be glad to have.

As I approached the palace doors, I told myself I had nothing to worry about. This was Heaven. Only good things happened here. There was no reason to be nervous about anything.

I didn’t find myself to be terribly convincing.

The knocker on the right door was shaped like a lion’s head. I rapped once, not particularly vigorously, hoping that maybe no one would notice. No dice. The door opened straight away.

A tall, somewhat stooped man in a black suit stood in the doorway. He had heavily lidded eyes, perfect for appearing completely disinterested, and a long, arched nose, perfect for looking down over.

“Can I help you?” His voice was even less interested than his eyes.

“Jimmy Clarenden’s the name, but it’s not urgent. I can come back later if it’s not a good time.”

“On the contrary, Mr Clarenden, it’s a perfect time. Please follow me.”

He led me down a short hall and into a long, narrow room. There was a television and a coffee table covered with the sorts of magazines you’d usually find in a dentist’s waiting room. This observation didn’t make me feel any less uncomfortable.

The room was packed with people. Some sat, tapping their feet impatiently, while others paced nervously from side to side.

“It looks like there are a lot of people waiting,” I said.

“God will see you now.” The man in the black suit strode across the room to a small door on the far side.

“I’d hate to think I was jumping the queue.”

“God will see you now.” He opened the door and indicated for me to go through.

I went through.

I was in a small chamber. The whole room glowed with an unearthly light, making it hard to discern anything. Before me, I sensed rather than saw a figure. It was impossible to make out any details, but I got the feeling this was an extremely old figure.

I had a pretty good idea who this must be. The moment had arrived. I was facing my maker. This was the time when, for better or for worse, Jimmy Clarenden was going to receive his judgment.

The figure stirred. He cleared his throat. He spoke.

He said, “You’re probably wondering why I summoned you here today.”

I STOOD
IN THE MIDDLE
of God’s chamber, averting my eyes from the blinding glare. Part of me wanted to bow down before Him. Another part suggested I should be prostrating myself fully. A third part convinced me that total paralysis was the preferable option. I might have made some incomprehensible noises. In short, I completely failed to come up with any kind of coherent response. Presently, He spoke again.

“I’m sorry. It’s the light, isn’t it. Give me a moment. I’ll just turn it down.”

Within the haze of light, I could just make out the movement of an arm. Then, gradually, the glow diminished, and before too long I began to be able to make sense of my surroundings, if “sense” was the right word to use.

Everything within this chamber was utterly ordinary in the most magnificent way. The couch against the far wall wouldn’t have looked out of place in a cut-price motel, save for the fact that the legs were mahogany and the cushions were rich red velvet. The old cathode ray television sitting opposite had been carved from a solid block of granite and featured a screen of shimmering crystal. The patterned wallpaper on all sides was embossed with gold thread, while the floral curtains that hung over the single window were woven from sheer silk. As far as I could tell, the only things missing were three flying ducks on the wall, cut from twenty-carat diamonds.

God Himself was sitting on the couch. He was a stout old man, dressed in a robe not dissimilar to Peter’s but somewhat more worn. He had a large round head, capped by a thick shock of ragged white hair and underscored by an equally ragged white beard. His skin was rough and lined, His nose was bulbous, and His eyes glistened from beneath a hedge of bushy eyebrows. He looked exactly the way God was supposed to look, only slightly shorter.

“That’s better,” He grunted as He placed what looked like a gem-encrusted remote control back on the armrest. “Now Mr Clarenden, as I was saying, you’re probably wondering why I summoned you here today.”

I tried to open my mouth, only to discover my tongue had gone missing. I sent a search team to look for it. It seemed to have found a hiding place at the back of my throat, right behind my tonsils. I sent a retrieval team down to try to bring it home. Mission accomplished, I finally managed to speak.

“I think I know what you’re about to say, and I’m ready to face it. I know I haven’t lived the best life I could have, but I’m fully prepared to accept my fate.”

God gave me a puzzled look for a moment. Then He let out a throaty, husky chuckle.

“You think that’s why I called you here? You think I would go to all that effort and have Peter escort you directly through the Gates, just for that? Absolutely not. It’s definitely not that time for you yet.”

My tongue was gone again. This time, it was way past my tonsils and halfway down my throat. I could only look at God with a gaping mouth, like a puffer fish at a dentist appointment.

“You mean I’m not dead?” I finally managed to squeak.

“That’s a difficult question to answer. There are certain rules of the natural world that even I am not able to circumvent. In order to bring you up here, you’ve had to go through what was essentially a death experience, and I apologise for any discomfort that may have caused. Still, you have been summoned for a very specific purpose before your time is supposed to be up, so I guess technically you’re not really dead. By the way, can I offer you a cigarette?”

“No thanks, I always did mean to give them up.” I assumed this was the response He would want.

“Suit yourself. Hope you don’t mind if I have one.” He took a gold cigarette case and a glistening silver lighter from out of His robe. Then He lit up a cigarette and puffed contentedly on it. “Dreadful habit, I know, but I just can’t help myself. My doctor hates it. Says it’ll be the death of me. Typical damn quacks.”

Sitting in Heaven and watching God smoking a cigarette was not quite how I’d expected this night to end, but a private investigator had to be prepared for all eventualities. And I couldn’t exactly say it was a blow to discover I wasn’t about to be sent down to the fiery pit. Maybe I was actually going to catch a break for once in my surprisingly extended life.

“So if I’m not dead, what am I doing here? I assume you didn’t invite me up for tea and cookies.”

“You assume correct,” said God, taking another puff on His gasper. “I need you for a job.”

“You need me for a job?” I echoed dumbly. It looked like there were some eventualities this private investigator was not prepared for.

“That’s what I just said,” God grumbled, somewhat impatiently. “I have an urgent need for the services of someone such as yourself. I have a . . . problem that is quite delicate and personal. And I am prepared to reward you well for your services.”

The prospect of being well rewarded for my services was possibly the strangest concept of all to me, but it was one I was more than happy to go along with. It was time to get down to business.

“Tell me about this delicate problem,” I said. “What’s this job I’ve been summoned here to do?”

God put the cigarette down on a diamond ashtray and cleared His throat again. “My son has gone missing, Mr Clarenden. I need you to find him for me.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Jesus?”

“No, not Jesus. Phil.”

“I thought your son’s name was Jesus.”

“It is.”

“Then who is Phil?”

“My other son. I have two sons. One is Jesus and the other one is Phil. Phil is the one I need you to find.”

“Where is Jesus?”

“I don’t know,” said God as He picked up His cigarette again.

“Do you want me to find him too?”

“No, no, no,” spluttered God, the smoke streaming from His mouth in three different directions. “I don’t know where Jesus is because he’s away at the moment. He often goes down to Earth to check up on things for me.”

“You mean the second coming has already happened?”

“The second coming, and the third, and the fourth. He’s learned to keep a much lower profile these days, after all that messy business the first time around. Still, sometimes it’s hard for him. People always want to follow him. He’s very charismatic. See, have a look at these photos.”

God pointed over to the shelf beside the television where a bunch of photos stood: a series of family shots of God and Jesus celebrating events such as birthdays, graduations, and homecomings. My eyes were instantly drawn to the younger man with the flowing brown hair, the beard, and the expression of inner calm. It took me a while to realise there was a second young man in the photos.

He was utterly ordinary looking. His hair was cropped short, and his clean-shaven face was pleasant but uninteresting. His mouth was permanently caught halfway between a smile and a frown, while his eyes never looked directly at the camera. He seemed to hang at the back of the photos, deflecting all attention to his more compelling father and brother. Compared to God and Jesus, he was like a dry cracker sitting next to a box of chocolates.

“This is Phil?” I indicated the other young man in the photos.

God nodded. “He’s nothing like Jesus. It’s not at all like him to go missing. He’s much more the stay-at-home type.”

“With digs like this, I don’t blame him. So what does he do while he’s staying at home?”

“He helps me out with . . . certain things.”

“What sorts of things?”

“Just a few odds and ends. A little of this and a little of that.”

“A little of this and a little of that can add up to quite a lot. A little more information would be helpful.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Clarenden. When I said this was a personal matter, I meant it. There are some things I am unable to share with you.”

God’s evasiveness was frustrating, but I wasn’t going to question it. Respecting a client’s privacy was an important part of the job. And besides, it didn’t seem smart to bring down His wrath upon me, at least not until I knew Him a bit better. I figured I’d better go with whatever He was prepared to tell me.

“Can you at least tell me when you last saw him?” I said.

“It’s been over a week now. He was supposed to be going out for lunch with Raphael—that’s one of my angels—but he didn’t keep the appointment. That in itself is completely unlike him. He’s usually very reliable. Since then, I have seen neither hide nor hair of him. I am concerned, Mr Clarenden. I don’t know if he’ll be able to look after himself. I need you to find him as quickly as possible.”

“I’ll do my best. But before I start, can I ask you one thing?”

“Anything, if it will help.”

“Why me?”

“What do you mean?” God finished His cigarette and reached into His robe to take out another one.

“I was just thinking there must be hundreds of brilliant, dead detectives up here in Heaven. So why ask me? Why go to all the effort of summoning me, a no-bit bum who hasn’t solved a case in five years, when you could have hired Sherlock Holmes or the French guy with the moustache or anyone else like that?”

God finished lighting the cigarette. “As I mentioned, this is a delicate business. My family occupies a privileged position here in Heaven. We enjoy a certain status which I am unwilling to compromise. Therefore, I have been forced to keep the fact of Phil’s disappearance a secret.”

“You don’t want anyone to know. I can understand that. But how does that affect me?”

“Think logically. If Sherlock Holmes, or someone like that, was to start nosing around and asking lots of questions about Phil, especially when no one has seen him for a week, people would begin to get suspicious very quickly. I’d be faced with a lot of highly uncomfortable questions.”

“It wouldn’t look good. It would weaken your authority.”

“Precisely. However, if a no-bit bum, as you so accurately described yourself, was to be looking around and asking the same questions, I suspect nobody would care too much one way or another.”

God’s point was well made. Not too tactful, but well made.

“I mean,” God went on, “what other detective would be so incompetent, he would let himself be outfoxed by a troop of Girl Scouts?”

“That was one mean troop of Girl Scouts.”

“What other detective would be so inept, he would hand a missing dog to a suspicious wife, and photos of an unfaithful husband to a bereaved dog owner?”

“I got confused. I’m not used to having one job at a time, let alone two. And besides, the husband and the dog were virtually indistinguishable.”

“What other detective would be so stupid, he would accidentally bug his own home and then spend hours transcribing his own conversations?”

“All right,” I growled, “I think you’ve made your point. Besides, this is a bit rich coming from the God who created Brussels sprouts and insurance companies.”

“Touché,” said God. He took another drag from His cancer stick and then continued. “I think you should know that despite all of that, I have complete faith in your ability to solve this case.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

I turned and took a couple of steps over to the television and back, considering the assignment. God’s barbs hadn’t exactly filled me with a warm glow of self-assurance. Then again, compared to some of those recent jobs, going undercover as a dead guy seemed like a definite step forward.

“So tell me, can you think of anyone who may have held a grudge against your son?”

“This is Heaven,” said God. “It’s a place of peace and love. It is not a place where people hold grudges of any kind. And definitely not against any of my sons.”

“You’re sure you have no idea what might have happened to him?”

“Of course I have no idea. If I did, I wouldn’t have hired you. What do you expect? Do you think I can see everything?”

“Actually, I thought you could.”

God thought for a moment, the cigarette smoldering in His fingers. “You’re right, I can see everything,” He said after a while. “But it’s the darnedest thing. Even I can’t seem to see what happened to Phil. It’s as if there’s some kind of shadow or darkness blocking my vision.”

Now
that
was something I definitely didn’t want to know more about. God’s talk of impenetrable shadows made me think again of the darkness I had floated through on my way into the light—the darkness I’d assumed I was going to be consumed by. I shivered at the thought and tried to force it from my mind by focussing on more cheerful things.

“Before we take this any further, I believe there is the issue of payment to discuss. You mentioned that you were prepared to reward me well for my services. Plus, I have my expenses to consider. How many dollars are we talking about?”

God laughed His throaty laugh again. “Did you ever hear the expression ‘money is the root of all evil’?”

“Of course.”

“Well it’s true. You’ll have no need for money up here. Anything you could want in Heaven, from any restaurant, shop, or market, can be acquired free of charge. No, I offer you a reward far more valuable than anything money can buy. Would you like to know what it is?”

Part of me groaned inwardly. I’d heard this line far too often from potential clients who had no intention of paying. But then I reminded myself that this was God talking. Presumably He’d have something better to offer than a group hug when the job was over.

I nodded.

“I present to you the most valuable payment anyone could ever receive. An opportunity to restore your life. To right all your wrongs and fix all your mistakes. What I offer is a second chance. What do you say to that, Mr Clarenden?” He lit up another cigarette.

I mulled over God’s offer. This job was clearly not going to be a walk in the park. Even the sorts of parks I was used to walking in—with rusted-out playgrounds, weed-choked lawns, and sinister figures lurking in the shadows—seemed bright and pleasant when compared to the impenetrable shadows that God Himself couldn’t see through. And yet, the idea of a second chance was pretty alluring. After the mess I’d made of my first attempt at life, the prospect of going back to have another shot was like sweet music to my previously tone-deaf ears.

It didn’t take long for me to convince myself that the positives outweighed the negatives. Sure, I might be taking on forces beyond imagining, but it seemed worth it for a chance to fix all of my mistakes. And it only seemed fair, given I had made an awful lot of mistakes.