Lawyers in Hell (20 page)

“Your Lordship, I most strongly object!” Pym protested loudly.

“Shut up, Pym.”

“Yes, Your Dishonor.”

Raum raised his eyes from the notes before him.  “Are both parties ready to receive my ruling?”

“Yes, Lordship,” Smith said, rising.

Marie, Henrietta and Pym followed suit.  “Yes, Demonic Lordship,” Pym acknowledged.

“On the first charge of the complaint, regarding breach of contract,” Raum began, steadying his spectacles on his long nose, “I find in favor of the defendant.  The plaintiffs did not demonstrate that the
caveat cadaver emptor
disclaimer had been sufficiently insufficient to constitute a breach of said contract.”

“Caveat cadaver emptor?”
Marie whispered to Pym, completely confused.  While she understood some Latin, legalese was beyond her.

“Let the deceased buyer beware,” Pym translated for her in a low, defeated tone.

“On the second count of the allegation…” Raum continued “…regarding false advertisement, I also find in favor of the defendant.  False advertisement applies only when the purchaser is purposely misled, not when the purchaser is inarticulate or imprecise when utilizing the product.  The advertisement clearly states that prophesies are interpreted by their individual owners and the
results
of that interpretation are not the responsibility of Prophecy Dolls, LLC.”

“On the subject of this frivolous lawsuit filed in my uncivil court, however…”  Raum scowled at Marie and Henrietta.  “…I find both plaintiffs in contempt of my court and sentence you as follows:  you
will
learn the difference between prophecy and career advice.  I sentence you both to be remanded into custody, where you will be taught the difference by a court-appointed advocate of this court’s choosing.”

“No
ooooo….”
Marie moaned, her eyes closing to keep her roiling stomach under control.  After a moment, she turned to Pym, who slunk away.

“My legions are awaiting my command to fight against
them
, that damned Erra and his Seven peerless champions, and His Infernal Majesty is
not
one to forgive an earl for being late to war with enemies of the realm.  Here in my courtroom
I
provide injustice, and injustice is what you two deserve.  Court’s adjourned,” the demon snapped, slamming his gavel onto the bench.  “I’ve got a battle to lead.”

“All rise!” the bailiff called out needlessly.

*

Marie blinked and looked around at the large dusty room, where indeterminate shapes hugged the walls and clumped in ragged rows.  Dim light from narrow windows revealed dust swirling on the air amongst the shadows.  Not a sound could be heard as she sat in the hard wooden chair.  So far as she could tell, they were alone.  Beside her, Henrietta shifted listlessly.

“This is worse than Unwelfare Housing,” Henrietta carped under her breath.

“I wish I could find a way out of this mess,” Marie complained.  Ignoring her friend, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back until it was resting against the wall.  “Or find someone who can.”

“You already have,” a voice said, right in front of her.  Her eyes snapped open and she found herself face to face with a wizened old man, a folder in his gnarled and arthritic hand.  She looked at the man with the folder in confusion:  a grayish man with a gray folder in a cavernously long gray room wrapped in dust and shadow.

“What?  Who?  Where?” she asked, baffled.

“You asked for a copy of the floor plan for the Mortuary, didn’t you?  ‘Help me save myself; I must find a way to escape from the dreaded Undertaker’s clutches,’ you said.”  The man wheezed tiredly, his grayish skin blending perfectly with their surroundings.  He pushed the folder forward.  “The note you gave my assistant said you’d be sitting in this very chair.  This shows everything, including the new ventilation system the Undertaker recently installed.”

“Wait, what…?”  Marie’s voice trailed off as she looked around and realized that the indeterminate clumps and shapes scattered about the room were wraithlike, dust-covered people.

A trail of footprints marred the dirty floor.  She followed it with her eyes and saw that the strange man had moved through the room without disturbing anyone else there.  Marie looked back at the old man.  “Where am I?”

“Decapitol Records Eternal Waiting Room,” the old man informed her patiently.  “We call it the Lobby.  Here.”  His hands were gray too, and skeletally thin.  He held out the folder.

Marie took the folder.  “I don’t understand….”  But maybe she did:  she’d wished for a way to save herself from the punishment that the demon judge had decreed for her and Henrietta.  Hadn’t she?

“Who does?” the man shrugged as he tugged on his gray shirt.  He rubbed his thin hands.  “Anything else?”

“How do I get out of here?” Marie asked him, looking around the shadowy Lobby through the thick air.  None of the others waiting in the room had so much as twitched since she arrived.  Some of the people sitting in the Lobby appeared to be sleeping, their shoulders leaning against their neighbors as they slumbered.  She clutched the gray envelope tight to her breast.  “Tell me how, tell me
now.”

“Well now, that’s the rub,” the old man smirked, his teeth blackened and worn down to nubs.  “You must wait your turn.”

His breath is almost as bad as the Undertaker’s.
  A sudden urge to vomit overwhelmed her.  “Wait my … turn?”  Marie swallowed nervously.  Nobody else in the room was moving.  How long would she wait here?  A month?  A year?  A decade.  She sighed.  “And my turn won’t come for a long time, is that it?”

“Ayup,” the old man nodded, grinning.  “It’s hell, babe.  What’d you expect?”  And he was gone in a puff of dust.

Henrietta hadn’t moved all this long while.

“Someone’s going to miss this folder eventually,” Marie muttered as she closed her eyes.  “Come for it.  And when they come to get it, the only way I’ll give it up is if they show me how to get out of here.”

“Sssh,” Henrietta whispered to her, her own eyes still shut.  “I’m trying to sleep while
I
wait my turn.  Time will pass more quickly if we sleep.”

The two women waited quietly in the Lobby.  Someone would want the envelope, Marie was convinced.  Some important person would eventually come to get it.  She had the plans to the Mortuary – a bargaining chip.  When someone came for the plans, she would convince that person to take her and Henrietta to freedom.

Until then, she would wait.  Patiently, if she must.  She looked down at the gray envelope clutched to her chest:  her ticket to freedom.  And Henrietta’s, too.  Marie squirmed in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position.

Would she give up the plans to the Mortuary, when the time came?  Items of power came rarely to anybody in hell.  Even if it was a mistake, she now had her hands on one of those rare items.  The gray envelope held the power to someday set her and Henrietta free.  It was hope for her, and hope for Henrietta.  The wait would be but a small price to pay for freedom.

A little wait.  She could stand it.  Henrietta could.  However long the wait might be, waiting in this room was but a small price to pay.  Satisfied, Marie closed her eyes and leaned against Henrietta, using her larger friend as a pillow.

A very small price to pay, indeed.

Or so she thought, until something bumped her right foot, jittering on the dusty floor.  It was a cardboard box.

From that box, a muffled voice she well remembered said, “So, we meet again, Queen of France and dimwitted friend Henrietta.”  Rasputin’s voice was unmistakable, even through the cardboard.  “Let me prophesy for you, Marie and Henrietta, just how long we’ll be waiting here together …
until retribution finds you both!”

Rasputin’s voice screeched through the quiet waiting room like fingernails on a blackboard.

Measure of a Man

by

Deborah Koren

Lose your temper and you lose a friend; lie and you lose yourself.

– Hopi

Gunshots shattered the quiet, glass broke, and a man screamed.  Alan Bensinger jolted awake at the noise.  The lumpy mattress creaked on unsteady springs beneath him, and he gripped the edges of the unfamiliar bed in alarm.  He did not recognize where he was.  He sucked in air to calm himself and touched his chest, face, and arms.  He was in one piece; he was all right.

“Good morning,” a voice said.

Alan jumped.

In a chair a few feet away sat a short, broad-chested man, with blue-grey eyes in a face boyish despite the thick moustache.  Dark hair curled under the brim of a worn cowboy hat.

“Who are you?”  Alan knew his stare was rude, but he was unable to make sense of the man’s unusual outfit.  He wore black trousers held up with suspenders.  A partially unbuttoned blue shirt showed the pink of a well-washed union suit beneath.  The rolled-up sleeves exposed muscular forearms.  Alan’s gaze dropped to the man’s waist where a gun-belt was buckled, the silver handle of a pistol in obvious sight.  Alan swallowed.

“I hear you’re an attorney,” the man said and pushed his hat back on his head with his thumb.

“I … where am I?”

The man gestured to the window.

Alan got cautiously to his bare feet.  He was wearing long johns himself, he found.  He brushed the material with one hand, self-consciously, then looked around.  The small room seemed old-fashioned somehow.  Maybe it was the floral wallpaper, or the lack of carpeting on the floorboards.  A low chest of drawers held a pitcher, water basin, and a folded white towel.  He saw no adjoining bathroom, nor any modern accessories, not even a light switch.  The window seemed cloudy, and he scrubbed at the glass with his fist before realizing it wasn’t a film of dust, but the imperfections in the glass itself that marred his view.  He glanced over his shoulder at the visitor, then thumbed open the latch and pushed the casement wide.

The second floor window faced onto a dirty street.  The buildings across the way – a general store, a saloon, and a stable – looked old.  Not built old, but time-period old.  He’d never seen a street like it in New Hell.  It was crowded too, and the people bustling past looked
old
too, cowboys and farmers and women in head-to-toe dresses.  It was like peering onto a movie set for a Hollywood Western.  Two cowboys cantered by on what he took to be horses until he looked closer and recoiled in horror.  They were shaped like horses, they moved like horses, but their ropy sinews appeared spun of human body parts.  Arms and legs twisted, re-shaped – and, on the hell-horse’s wither, a gape-mawed face stared outward with one eye.

He spun back toward his guest.  “Is this a joke?”

The man smiled.  “Welcome to New Bodie.”

Alan managed to keep his mouth shut and not echo the town’s name like some idiot just off the bus.  Or stagecoach.  “Look, Mister…?”

“Masterson.  William Barclay.”

“Look, Mister Masterson,” Alan automatically dropped into his soothing lawyer voice, “there’s been some mistake.  I am an attorney, you’re right.  I was just on my way to a courtroom in the Hall of Injustice, but this place … wait a minute.”  He cocked his head, puzzled.  “Masterson?  Why do I know that name?”  He studied the man.  No, he didn’t seem familiar, but he never had been as good at placing faces with names as he should have been.  “Did I win a case against you back … before we died?”

The man laughed, an easy laugh, but it did nothing to put Alan at ease.  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Did the man never answer a direct question?  “Now look here –”

Masterson got to his feet, and Alan backed into the window unconsciously.  Something about the man’s manner – the easy physical grace, the smooth voice, the pale eyes – intimidated Alan.  He tried not to look at the gun-belt strapped around the man’s hips.  “What do you remember?” Masterson asked again, and Alan understood he had just enjoyed a sort of rare luxury.  Masterson did not look like a man who repeated himself.

Alan gnawed his lip and tried to recall.  “I was walking through the Hall of Injustice.  I was late for an appointment – there was so much tension – nobody knew where Erra and the Seven would appear next.  There was an enraged demon racing through the halls…  Then I remember … the Undertaker’s table.  It was horrible, God, it was horrible.”  He blanched.  “Does that mean…?”

“Yep, you died.  You were reassigned here.”

“But my apartment, my cases, my –”  He started to say
my life
, but realized the pointlessness of those words.  This was hell.  The concept of having a life was not the same as it once had been.

“Well,” Masterson said, “all that’s gone.  You can’t leave here, and I have a job for you, if you’ll come along with me.”  He started for the door, but Alan balked as the sound of rifle shots blasted away outside.

“Where is this New Bodie I’ve been brought to?”

“Out in the boonies of hell somewhere.  What does it matter?”

“What do you mean I can’t leave?”

“Well you can, but you’d have to die again, and I don’t think you’re looking to reacquaint with the Undertaker quite so soon.”  His lips quirked sympathetically at Alan’s hasty headshake.  “Now, hurry up, get dressed.”

The pants and shirt laid out for him were similar to Masterson’s outfit, but clean and pressed.  Alan tugged the clothes on, cursing under his breath, dreading how hot he was going to be, wearing long underwear.  The boots pinched uncomfortably.  He left the vest and jacket draped over the metal bed frame, and ignored the hat Masterson offered him.  “If this New Bodie is so isolated, how do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Oh, I’ve seen you in New Hell.”  Masterson winked and grinned at him again.  “Now come along, I have a client for you.  And a good thing too.  ’Cause that’s ten you owe me for the clothes.”

Reluctantly, Alan followed him out of the room, unwilling to be left in this new hellhole by himself.  He’d learned the hard way that traversing any city, town, even a building, was best done first with someone who could show you the ropes.

The lobby of the Unlucky Strike Hotel seemed luxuriously appointed, with chairs upholstered in deep green velvet, and a fancy rug spread in the lobby.  Then Alan saw the bullet holes spattering the walls, the half-shattered and canted chandelier, the broken pulley fan; a closer look at the velvet revealed just how threadbare it was.  But it was the bullet holes that worried him.  Not more than ten minutes at a time had passed without at least a couple shots fired.

When he hesitated inside the lobby doors, Masterson’s hand snaked back, caught the front of his shirt, and yanked him out onto the boardwalk.  “What’s the matter?” Masterson demanded.

“Am I going to be shot at?”

Masterson shrugged.  “Probably.  That’s life in New Bodie.  Stop fretting.  No one’s going harm you as long as you’re with me.”

“Why?” Alan asked.  “Who are you?”

“I told you who I was, now come along.  You bellyache more than a penniless drunk.”

William Masterson….  Alan rolled the name around in his head, realizing he needed to stop thinking about his own lifetime and start thinking more broadly.  Two hell-horses were tethered at the hitching post outside the Unlucky Strike Hotel.  They watched him with small, evil eyes and bared fangs.  Alan shuddered and edged by as close to the wall and as far from the beasts as he could.  A charnel-house stench rolled off their sweaty amalgamated bodies, and Alan covered his nose and looked away.

“What’s that?”  He squinted at the horizon, shielding his gaze with an up-thrown hand.  “Looks like a dust storm?”  He knew he sounded more worried than he meant to, but any kind of storm in hell was dreadful.  Or worse, it wasn’t a storm at all, but the approach of something bigger and more dangerous.  Like Erra and the Seven.  There was nowhere in hell so isolated they couldn’t visit whenever they chose.

Masterson didn’t even bother glancing the direction Alan pointed.  “That’s the boundary of New Bodie, you might say.”

“A dust storm?”

Masterson snorted.  “It’s not the dust storm you have to worry about, son, it’s what’s causing it.”

“All right,” Alan said.  “I’ll bite.  What’s causing it?”

“A stampede of the biggest, orneriest, fire-breathing, man-eating hell-cattle you ever did see.  They roam the desert out there waiting for some dumb-as-shoe-leather tenderfoot to try to leave here that way.”

“But, you said
you
leave here,” Alan objected.

“Regularly.  But I told you, I’m special.  And I don’t go that route.”

A large stagecoach clattered by, pulled by six hell-horses, and Alan jumped back from the proximity of it.  Masterson walked on, and Alan had to hurry to catch up.  A bunch of miners pushed out of a noisy saloon as he passed, the batwing doors slapping to and fro behind them.  Alan stumbled through their midst, trying to ignore the glares and the insults flung at him.  Boot heels stomped on the boardwalk around him.

“I’m sorry,” Alan apologized as he smacked into one large, bearded man.

Meaty fingers shot out, knotted in Alan’s shirt front, and hauled him close.  Alan gagged on the man’s rancid breath.  “Sorry?” the man wheezed.  “Who asked you for an apology?”  His other hand drew back in a fist, and Alan flung his arms up in front of his face.

“I thought you liked free things,” Masterson’s voice said calmly from over Alan’s shoulder.  “Don’t make that apology he gave you pick up a price tag.”

Porcine eyes squinted malevolently at Masterson, clearly weighing options.  The big miner growled behind twisted lips and hurled Alan sideways.  Alan slammed hard into the saloon wall and barely caught himself.  He gasped at the pain in his shoulder.

The miner ignored Alan entirely, gave Masterson one last glare, spat at his feet, then strode into the street with his unsavory companions.  Alan tried to smooth out his shirt front.

“Dead Hat Joe.  Mean one.  Not much on brains though.”  Masterson glanced curiously at Alan.  “Just how’d you survive in New Hell?”

“I didn’t,” Alan reminded him curtly, then he shrugged.  “Not very well.  I stayed in the Hall of Injustice as much as I could.”

“You’re not going to enjoy that luxury here, I’m afraid.  You want to strap on a gun?”

The idea shot a tremor of fear through Alan’s gut.  He pointed one finger at Dead Hat Joe’s retreating back.  “That was the closest I’ve ever been to a fight in my life, and you want me to carry a gun?”

Hands on hips, Masterson frowned.  “What kind of privileged life did you lead anyway?”

“Not privileged.  Just … civilized.”

Masterson snorted.  “Bet you a pretty pine coffin you’re begging for shooting lessons by the end of the week.  Come on, Mister Civilized.”

Ahead, a red awning overhung the alcoved entrance to a theater called simply the Ungrand Opera House.  Posters proclaimed an ongoing performance of
The Girl of the Golden West
, directed by the composer himself, Giacomo Puccini.  The open front doors beckoned, and Alan paused to peek inside.  The small theater offered an intimate setting.  Only a few rows of wooden benches stood in front of the orchestra pit and stage, backed by an open floor area for the rest of the patrons to stand.  He could just make out a balcony of more opulent box seats that ringed the stage, but the red velvet seats and curtains appeared a hundred years old:  ragged and faded, instead of lush and elegant.  His glance jumped to the splintered gold-painted wood of the balcony and the rents in the walls, and his eyes widened as he realized they were evidence of more bullet holes.  A lot of them.

The onstage set featured the interior of a saloon.  A baritone was singing to a woman, the lone woman in a crowd of men.  At least, that’s what Alan thought he was
supposed
to be doing, but it was the worst, most out-of-tune singing he’d ever heard, and he cringed, shrinking back until the horrible noise ended abruptly as a man ran out on stage.

“No no no no no no!” the man cried.  Dark-haired, mustachioed, his curly hair frazzled, he proceeded to rant at the singer in rapid-fire Italian.  The baritone quailed under the tirade, but the woman stomped her booted foot and crossed her arms.  Young, blonde, petite and curvaceous, in some sort of a cowgirl costume designed to make her fit in with the boys, he supposed, but it just made her look cute.  Like a college co-ed dressing up for Halloween.  She looked down the opera house main aisle, straight out at Alan.  Their gaze met.  She smiled, apple cheeks dimpling, and Alan smiled back.  He had the urge to wave at her, but he stopped himself.

A tap on the shoulder made Alan jump.  Masterson nodded toward the angry man on stage.  “That’s the composer himself.  Poor guy.  He’s gone off his nut, and I can’t say I blame him.  He’s stuck directing the same opera over and over, cursed with the worst soprano, an awful tenor, an over-the-hill baritone, and an orchestra cursed with instruments that can’t stay in tune.
 They’ve never finished a performance.  The cowboys keep coming back, hoping for something better.  By the middle of the first act, they know that’s as good as it gets, and they shoot up the place.  Puccini and the gang fix the place up and start in again the next day.  You notice the empty buildings?”  He gestured around the street.  The buildings within a block radius seemed to be boarded up or abandoned.  “Even residents in New Bodie have standards,” Masterson said.  “No one wants to live or work within earshot of the rehearsals.”

“Who’s that blonde woman in there?”

“Minnie?”

Alan found himself smiling.  “Minnie.”

“No, that’s the character she’s playing.  The soprano is Sally Lockett.”

“Oh,” Alan muttered.  Then he smiled again and tried out her name.  “Sally.”

Masterson rolled his eyes and caught Alan by the sleeve, hauled him along.  “Come along, son.  You haven’t heard her sing and, trust me, you don’t want to.”