Freudian Slip (6 page)

Once in her office building, she made a beeline for the newsstand and coffee bar in one corner of
the lobby. He said, “Buy a paper, buy a paper, buy a paper, buy a paper, buy a paper.”

Thankfully, she did. And as Julian soon discovered, he was front-page news: “Shock Jock Clings to Life.”

Well, he mused, at least he was alive. He hadn't been shuttled down to Hell, or sent up to Heaven.

As Kate walked, Julian noticed more than one appreciative stare. So, apparently, did she. He saw her blush a little. The black skirt she wore fit her perfectly, about two inches above the knee, and she had on black heels with a strap around her ankle. Fuck-me pumps, he decided. The blouse was hot. It was colorful, sort of tropical, like a watercolor on silk. And she had her hair pulled up, but with some loose pieces around her face. He was ready for Leslie. And he hoped she was, too.

They rode the elevator up to the eighth floor. “You work for a publishing house,” he said to her. “Hmm. Maybe I should write my memoirs when this is all over.”

They got off the elevator, and she waved to the receptionist, a guy.

“Hi, Todd.”

“Girlfriend, you look sexy today.” He smiled at her. He lowered his voice. “You go march past
the office of that whore and knock her dead.” Then he winked.

She stopped in her tracks. “Who told you?”

“She did.”

“
She
did?”

“Well, not exactly. She went into Tammy's office. As soon as she got in. Told her everything. I don't think they realized I was in yet—nobody else was. I heard everything. She's a bitch, and you just nail her ass.”

Julian smiled. This was going to be good.

Kate walked briskly into the hallway, but she stopped about halfway down. He could hear her hyperventilating.

“Kate,” he whispered in her ear. “No, don't do this to yourself. She's a bitch. Don't let her ruin your job. Come on…walk past her. You look fucking hot. Fucking
hot.
Work it. Come on. It's in you.”

She pulled her head up, lifted her chin and walked past an office. On the open door was a simple brass plate that read, “Leslie Winters.”

A woman called out, “Kate!”

Kate halted for just a minute.

“Ice-princess mode, Kate,” Julian told her. “Frosty, bitchy, don't give her the time of day.”

Kate turned her head a fraction of an inch. Her eyes were cool, though up close, Julian could see
she was trembling ever so slightly. He put his hands on her to steady her, hoping that she could somehow feel him.

“Kate…please. Can we talk for a minute? I made the hugest mistake of my life, and I am so sorry, and I would do anything to undo this,” Leslie pleaded.

Julian sized up the bitch. Kate was all wrong, he decided. Leslie wasn't anything. Yeah, she was blonde and tall, and she was attractive—he'd seen that in the photos. But now he saw it was all…fake. Kate had a natural sexiness that was just starting to come out.
He
was bringing it out—and damn proud of himself for it.

“Undo what?” Kate asked.

“Good one!” Julian said.

“This. Us. David. I was an idiot. You're my best friend and I really, really screwed up. It was a stupid, awful lapse in judgment.”

Julian leaned in closer to Kate, “Tell her to fuck off.”

Kate's lip trembled.

“Don't you dare, Kate!” he screamed at her like a drill sergeant. That seemed to make her lip tremble more. So he softened. “Don't. Don't, don't, don't. Please don't.” He put his mouth close to her ear, whispering.

“How…” Kate's voice was so quiet, Julian saw
Leslie lean forward to hear her. “Do you propose undoing screwing my boyfriend, Leslie? Are you going to unfuck him?”

And with that, Kate turned and marched down the hall, leaving Leslie openmouthed. Julian jumped up and down. He high-fived himself and danced a spontaneous jig.

“Kate.” He leaned in and kissed her. “Kate…you did it.”

In her own office, cluttered but homey, she shut the door and sat down at her desk. A picture of her dad was on the shelf nearest to her, and every inch of shelf, desk and empty chair was covered with books and manuscripts and papers.

With the door shut, the tears came. She reached for a tissue and blotted at them.

Julian hated tears. A lot. He felt helpless. What the hell was he supposed to do? He stroked her hair, and just whispered to her, “You did good. And in a few days, that bitch won't be more than a blip on your radar. I promise.”

She calmed down eventually, and Julian looked at her. He never had a sister. Never had anyone he looked after like this. He kind of hated it. And he kind of liked it. Which, he guessed, was appropriate since he was stuck in Neither Here Nor There.

G
US WAS ENJOYING
a small pot of Earl Grey tea and warm scones with a dollop of raspberry preserves when he got a call from his immediate supervisor, Albert, to come to his office.

This was never a good sign.

The Home Office of Neither Here Nor There was a labyrinth of offices and cubicles. When Gus first arrived, it had taken him what seemed like half a century to really learn every office, not to mention the entire 48-volume Celestial Resources Manual. His last supervisor had been transferred to New Souls—the department that handled pregnant women—and Gus was assigned to Albert. In general, Albert allowed him a great deal of autonomy. So being called to the office usually meant trouble, and if Gus was going to take a wild guess, honed from many years in Neither Here Nor There, his guess was that trouble had a name: Julian Shaw.

Gus turned up outside Albert's door and knocked softly, half hoping he'd gone to lunch, which would not be unusual for absentminded Albert.

“Come in,” Albert called out.

Gus sighed and opened the door. His supervisor was sitting behind his enormous desk, case files spread all over it, trademark hair standing straight up—usually a sign he was having a rough day. Albert Einstein was a tough supervisor—one of the toughest in the district because his expectations were so high, but he was revered for his work in quantum physics and in understanding why some people were attracted to others. According to Albert, it had to do with recycled particles that recognized each other. Of course, his explanation was a lot more complex and involved formulas that no one but the Boss understood. Gus just took it at face value.

“'ello, Albert,” Gus managed to squeak. Albert made Gus nervous. It was bad enough having a demanding supervisor let alone the smartest man in the history of the universe.

“Have a seat.” Albert smiled at him. Then he stood up, pulled the shades on the windows, which overlooked the lunchroom, and locked his door. “We need to talk,” he whispered, putting a finger to his lips, which were nearly covered by his bushy mustache.

Gus felt an anxiety attack coming on. He was going to be fired. He didn't know why, but he was going to be fired, he was sure of it!

Albert walked over to the stereo on his shelf. The way it worked in Neither Here Nor There, Gus knew, was you simply thought of the music you wanted to hear and it emerged from your speakers. Gus was partial to Beethoven's Ninth, though over time, he learned to appreciate Etta James and Ella Fitzgerald. Albert, however, stood before his stereo, and the next thing Gus knew, ABBA was blaring.

This was very bad.

For whatever reason, over the years, the workers in Neither Here Nor There had discovered that ABBA was almost like a cosmic scrambler. If you wanted to discuss something and not have the Boss hear you, ABBA did the trick. No one knew whether it was because ABBA's harmonies were so distracting, their tunes so saccharine, or the Boss simply hated them, but, regardless, ABBA it was.

If Albert was playing ABBA, then something very serious was afoot.

“Now,” Albert said, sitting down. “We need to discuss Case File #1,997,024.”

Gus gulped. “Kate Darby?” If he had been able to sweat in Neither Here Nor There, he would have been soaked, drenched.

“Yes, and that Julian fellow assigned to her.”

Gus nodded. It was coming. He was about to be fired.

“I need to ask your opinion.” Albert lowered his voice. “Is it possible the Boss has made some kind of mistake? A celestial error?”

Gus's eyes opened wide. “That's practically unheard of. Not since She didn't foresee Roger Staubach's Hail Mary pass.”

Albert nodded. Staubach, a devout Catholic and Dallas Cowboys quarterback, had thrown the original “Hail Mary” pass in the 1975 game against the Minnesota Vikings. The Boss had bet against Dallas to lose—a friendly wager between her and Gabriel. Unfortunately, no one told Mary—
the
Mary—and when Staubach said a prayer to the mother of the Son, the pass was completed. “I know,” Albert muttered. “It doesn't happen often. But this Julian Shaw? He's an utter disaster as a caseworker.”

Gus winced. “I was afraid of that.”

“Ask me what he's doing right now.”

“I'm afraid to.”

“Don't be scared, Gus,” Albert said, pulling on his hair in a nervous habit. “Ask me.”

“Certainly, Dr. Einstein. What is he doing right now?” Gus asked, but he really didn't want to know.

“He's somehow managed to cajole our poor Kate into a lingerie store on her lunch hour.” Albert turned to his laptop and fired it up on the Cosmic Superhighway. “According to this latest report from one of our Operative Angels in the Village, Kate Darby's spent $483.72 on
thongs.
”

Gus cleared his throat. “Um, excuse me, sir?” he stammered. “I don't understand. Thongs?”

“Yes. Do you wish to tell me how they could spend that much on underpants with only a string up the fanny? Gus…I think we have a problem.”

ABBA was now singing “Dancing Queen.”

“You know, Albert…he never struck me as caseworker material. But I—I—” He stammered. “I was following orders.”

“I have done a thousand calculations on him, and each time, the result is pure disaster. Well, now what? The Boss has assigned him to us, and
you've
got to get him in line.
Helping
Kate is the number-one priority.
Thongs
are not. Gus, if we're not careful, we can both kiss our retirement package goodbye.”

Gus nodded.

“You do understand me, Gus?”

He nodded again. “I'll speak to him, Albert.”

“Good.” Albert stared at his stereo and changed the music to a classical station. He favored, as
everyone knew, the violin. Compositions by Mozart, Brahms, Bach and Prokofiev.

Albert leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. “Ahh, Gustav, this is Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 in G Major.”

Gus listened politely, but he really needed to be going. He cleared his throat. “Sir…is that all for today?”

“Yes, yes. That's all. Thank you, Gus. Other than this one, you're doing a fine job. Excellent. If you can swing this case in our favor, I will put you in for a promotion.”

“Thank you, Dr. Einstein, sir. Thank you.”

As Gus rose and left Albert listening to Bach in his office, he felt as if an ominous cloud was following him. He knew it. Julian Shaw was without a doubt a disastrous caseworker. And he had the potential to put a big black mark in Gus's career file. Forever.

At this rate, he'd be kicked out of the union.

B
ALAM WAS RECLINING
on a red-velvet-covered couch enjoying the striptease of two NYU coeds gone wild in a small apartment near 14th Street.

“Come here,” he urged the blonde—he thought her name was Cyndi. His favorite song blasted through the room—AC/DC's “Highway to Hell.” If only mortals knew the Highway was, indeed, paved with good intentions.

Cyndi giggled, drank a belly shot out of her best friend's naval, and approached him, topless. “You're such a little devil.”

“You have
no
idea,” he growled. She bent over and he licked along her nipple. Then he heard his cell phone.

“Damn,” he murmured. It was the hotline. From his boss, Lou.

He looked up at her. “Hold that thought. And the next one. And the next one.”

He sat up. “Balam here.”

“Listen, I hate to bother what, knowing you, is surely a decadent evening, but I need you in the office. Pronto.”

“See you in a few.”

Cursing under his breath, Balam stood and pulled on his pants.

“Ladies, we'll have to continue this some other time. Business beckons.”

“Ohhh…” The brunette pouted…what was her name? Angie? “You have to go?”

“Afraid so.”

She stumbled toward him, eyes glazed with tequila shots. “Come on,” she begged. “Don't you want to stay and play with us?”

“My guess, darling, is that you two are perfectly capable of playing without me. Perhaps I'll see you some other time. In fact—” he sized her up and down “—I have a feeling I will. You, in particular, are very, very naughty indeed.” He looked at the blonde. “You, on the other hand…” He sighed. “I suppose you'll go back to your home in Ohio after you graduate and forget all about the debauchery you enjoyed in the big city. Pity.”

He buttoned his shirt and surveyed himself in the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall—they had set it up so they could enjoy watching their escapades from all angles.

He loved his human appearance this go 'round. Drop-dead handsome—black hair, dark eyes, abs…killer abs. He was going to get laid a lot this journey.

Fully dressed, he left the girls grinding to AC/DC and stepped out into the hallway. As he walked, his devilish hearing picked up bits of conversation—the better to combat the Enemy. He knew, by the end of the hall, which resident was fighting with his wife, which one was cheating on her husband with the building super, and which one was trying to get laid by whispering empty promises into the ear of a drunken woman he'd picked up in the corner bar. That was what made the world go round for most twentysomethings, heck most thirtysomethings and fortysomethings and fiftysomethings, wasn't it? When the Bitch created humans and gave them the ability to procreate, She had no idea what She was doing. How it would consume them, their every waking thought—particularly for men.

He hailed a cab and took it to 666 East 66th Street. He took the elevator to the thirteenth floor—which conveniently did not even have a button in the elevator—the strange superstitions of humans. They were afraid of the number thirteen, black cats and breaking mirrors, when they
ignored the homeless and the hungry and everything God preached throughout time. Made his job easier.

Stepping off, he was in the pinnacle of luxury. The floors were gleaming marble, imported, he knew, tile by tile, from Italy. Two huge ivory tusks from an elephant faced the boss's door. On the wall hung looted art from Nazi Germany. He spied a “missing” Manet—apparently newly acquired by his boss since the last time he saw Lou. Balam smoothed his hair and greeted the receptionist, “Hello, Dorothy.”

The elegant woman smiled. Her perfectly coifed silver bob grazed her shoulders. “Hello, Balam. He'll see you now.”

He nodded at her as he walked past—but he didn't actually turn his back to her. Anyone who could murder three husbands in a Black Widow scheme for insurance money…Well, he didn't trust her. That was one of the tricky things about working in Hell. It was almost as vicious as corporate America. Then again, so many of those greedy bastards would end up working here. He knew they planned a nice corner office for Bernard Madoff.

He opened the door and stepped into the even more luxurious offices of Lucifer.

“Hello, Lou.”

“Balam.” Lou smiled at him. He'd chosen a body as handsome as Balam's own. “Care for a scotch? It's a single malt. Perfectly aged.”

“Sure.”

Lou waved a hand and the scotch materialized in a Waterford crystal tumbler with crystal-clear ice. Another minor annoyance of Hell. Nothing ever tasted quite cold enough. Ice was in constant demand. And Lou liked his pure ice from a glacier.

“Thanks, Lou,” Balam said and took a sip. “Smooth.”

“Nothing but the best for my top producer.”

“Thank you,” Balam said warily. When Lou complimented him, it usually meant a tough assignment. Some complication he hadn't foreseen.

“Balam, I'll be honest. We have a tiny little problem.”

“And that is?”

“Hold on.” Lou snapped his fingers, and ABBA piped through the sound system. Balam inwardly cringed. He hated “Dancing Queen.”

“All right, listen…you know Julian Shaw?”

“Yeah. He was a lock for a spot in our organization. I had big plans for him. I thought we could revamp the organization's radio station. Update it a little. Take over one of Sirius's satellites.”

“I would have thought so. But…he's working for Gus and Al over at Neither Here Nor There.”

Balam groaned. “What? Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Lou took a remote control and pointed it toward an immense plasma-screen television that hung on the far wall next to a painting by Marc Chagall. He pressed a button, and suddenly Balam was looking at the inside of a lingerie store.

Lou pressed another button, then another, so a picture-in-picture popped up—and there, though he wasn't visible in the ordinary screen, stood Julian Shaw, talking to an attractive brunette who was, apparently, buying an assortment of silk and lace panties.

“What the hell is he up to?” Balam asked.

“He is trying to fix her life.”

“And he thinks underwear is going to do it?”

“He's trying to get her over a messy split.”

“Thongs seem like something…I don't know…that
our side
would advocate. I don't know that we have anything to worry about.”

“Oh, no. Look at this.” Lou fast-forwarded. He pulled up a picture-in-picture.

Julian Shaw, the world's most infamous lesbian-porn-loving shock jock, was staring at the brunette while she slept.

“What?” Balam squinted. “One minute it's
thongs. Next he's…I think I might be sick. You're saying he
cares
about what happens to her? Who is she? What are her weaknesses?”

“Well, this is her best friend…” Lou pulled up another picture of an attractive blonde screwing a good-looking guy. “Frankly, after this little escapade, she may be headed here. That's the brunette's boyfriend. The brunette, by the way, her name is Kate Darby.”

“And the blonde, what's her story? She screwed her best friend's boyfriend?”

“Alcohol was involved. Classic. Trying to tell herself it was all the booze when you and I both know that…free will reigns. She wouldn't have done it if she didn't really want to.”

“All right, so…what are we looking at here?”

“We need Shaw. We've been working on him for years—listen, once he tried heroin, we had him. Even once he got clean, he was already so far over to our side. I don't want to lose this one. It's exactly the kind of case
She
likes to win. Like those deathbed conversions. We're ready to snatch the soul to Hell, winning one for the team, and then…then, after a lifetime of total evil and debauchery, they say they're sorry, welcome
Her
into their hearts, and She's willing to forgive it all. Let them through the Pearly Gates.”

“Are they really pearly?” Balam asked. Lou had been there…he never had.

Lou nodded. “Quite glorious. I'd never admit it to
Her.
” Lou shook his head. “Dancing Queen” began again. Lou had a loop for discussions like this one.

“So the objective,” Balam said, sipping his scotch, which, despite the ice, tasted lukewarm, “is to get Shaw back on the team.”

“Yes. But…here's the thing. If you could do it and also bring the blonde, the boyfriend
and
Kate Darby, that would be great. She's bitter. Ripe for the picking. That would be a coup. But whatever happens, don't lose Shaw. I know how that Bitch works. She's letting him rack up some points for the Good Side. Well, you just ensure he racks up some bad points while he's at it. Got me? We need this one. It's a matter of pride.”

Balam nodded. “Sure thing, Lou.” He had this urge that he sometimes had when he was around Lou, to ask him…To ask him the Big Question. What was She like? Lou had not only met Her, he had been Her favored angel. Until they had some sort of massive falling out.

But he didn't ask.

And the reason he didn't was he knew he couldn't admit to curiosity about Her. Religion had it all wrong. It wasn't lakes of fire and unbear
able thirst. It was a sense, always there, like something was
missing.
Balam likened it to feeling like you were trying to retrieve a memory…something on the tip of your tongue that should be part of you. Trying to remember something you did while you were drunk beyond belief. It was there, this calling, this…longing (not that he'd tell Lou that). But you were separated from Her for eternity. And…

He didn't want to think about it.

“You can count on me, Lou.”

“You're my top closer. Seal the deal with Julian.”

“Sure thing.” He set down his scotch and stood. How hard could this be? Julian Shaw was obsessed with sex, drugs and rock and roll. And lesbians.

More than that, he was a narcissist.

He was
destined
to be one of them.