Sandman Slim

"They sound like a lot more fun than I remember."

"I bet they're in love with you, boy. You must have missed the memo about keeping a low profile."

"If you're not Sub Rosa, tell me why I shouldn't be killing you right now."

Wells finally turns and looks at me, giving me his best El Paso squint, trying to drill a hole in my head with his eyes.

"Because if I shoot you, you're not going to hop up and decapitate me. Just because I don't work with the Sub Rosa doesn't mean that I think all nonhumans are worthless. For example, the guns my men and I are carrying were designed by a coalition of human engineers and certain respectable occult partners. What I'm saying is that if you sneeze or blink or do anything even slightly annoying, I'll burn you down with the same holy fire that the Archangel Michael used to blast Satan's ass out of Heaven and into the Abyss."

"If you're not Sub Rosa, who do you people work for?"

"I told you. Homeland Security."

"The federal government monitors magic in California?"

"Not just California. The whole country. It's our job to keep our eyes on all freaks, terrorists, and potential terrorists, which describes all of you pixies, in my opinion."

His heartbeat and breathing are steady. His pupils aren't dilating. He's telling the truth. Or he thinks he is.

"Are you spooks local? 'Cause I just met this funny little Nazi named Josef. Know him? Blond. Good-looking. Not even remotely human."

"We know about Josef and his goose-steppers. They're irrelevant to our current concerns. And we're not spooks. The CIA are spooks. We heard you and Josef got into a little dustup."

"It wasn't so much a dustup as him beating me about three-quarters to death. He also showed me that I can die and how it'll probably happen. So, how was your day?" Wells checks his watch again. He's not as cool as he looked at first. Something is worrying him and it's not me. "That probably doesn't make much sense to you."

"I've read your file. I know all about you. You've haven't exactly been inconspicuous since you got back to town."

"You guys have been watching me?"

"From the moment you walked out of the cemetery. At first, we thought you were just another zombie, and were about to send out waste disposal. But when you mugged that crackhead and didn't eat him, we decided just to keep an eye on you."

"How?"

"Radar. We've got all you pixies on radar."

"More respectable magic?"

"Our friends understand the security issues at stake."

"Radar and death rays. Where do I sign up? It doesn't seem fair that you get all the fun toys."

"Cry me a river. Anyway, with all your fun and games, my superior asked me to bring you in for a talk."

"Seems like my week to meet bosses." The cuffs hold my wrists together, which makes my arms rest on my sore chest. I shift around in my seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. I glance out the window and see that we're crossing La Cienega. "I notice we're not going to the courthouse."

"What makes you think you deserve a day in court?"

"You're a cop…"

"U.S. marshal."

"Fine. A cop who can read. Isn't there something in the law or the Constitution about everyone getting a day in court?"

"That only applies to the living, son."

"I'm sitting right here."

"Technically, no. Not in any legal sense. Legally, you're a nonperson. You've been a long-gone daddy out of this realm of existence for eleven years and change. A missing person can be declared dead after seven, which means that you've been legally dead almost four years."

"You're not serious."

"Look at the bright side. If you were alive, you'd still be the prime suspect in your girlfriend's murder. If you were alive, the IRS would want to know why you haven't been filing taxes. Ask me whether I'm more afraid of Hell or the IRS, I'll go with the IRS every time."

"So, you know who I am and where I've been."

"I know every inch of your sorry waste of a life. My boss might want to talk to you, but to me, you're a parasite. A waste of space and air. It makes a person wish the earth really was flat. Then we could take all the people like you, load you in a garbage scow, and push you over the edge and out of everybody's hair."

"If you know where I've been, then you know why I'm back. Let me go and let me do what I came here for. I'll get rid of some very bad people for you."

"How? By blowing up Rodeo Drive?"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it? Thanks for clearing that up. The truth is, I don't give a damn about some Hollywood lawyers' wives and their shoe stores. What I care about is you. What you represent and the kind of trouble you bring with you. You're a walking calamity."

Now I feel it. His heart rate is picking up and there's the slightest whiff of perspiration coming off him. One of the G-men in the front of the van has turned to watch our conversation. He and Wells smile at each other, sharing some private joke.

When Wells speaks again, he does it with the kind of phony casualness that lets everyone in the room know that you're about to tell the bad joke they've all been waiting for. Wells says, "So, what the hell kind of a name is Sandman Slim anyway? You think you're some kind of superhero?"

I turn and look at him, "You lost me there, Tex. I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Don't be modest, we've all heard of you. 'Sandman Slim. The monster who kills monsters.' I have to admit, it's kind of catchy. Did you come up with that or did some Hellion ad firm shit that out for you?"

"Listen, cop. I've never heard that stupid name before. Stop calling me it. And tell me where we're going or I'm getting out."

Wells and the marshal in the front laugh. "I wouldn't try. I'm dead serious when I tell you that I could put a bullet in your head right now and go have a sandwich."

"What kind?"

"What kind of what?"

"What kind of sandwich? What's a murder sandwich taste like? Does it come with extra cheese or chili fries? What tastes better after murder, Coke or Pepsi?"

"You are working my very last nerve, cocksucker."

"I'm going home." I reach across Wells for the door, shoving him back into the seat with my shoulder. The marshal goes for his gun.

When you're facing down multiple attackers, you always want to make the first move. It lets them know that you're ready to fight and that you're crazy enough to get the party started. One rule of thumb in fighting is that crazy can often overcome skill and numbers, because, while a trained fighter might actually enjoy going up against another trained fighter, no one really wants to wrestle with crazy. Crazy doesn't know when it's winning. And crazy doesn't know when to stop. If you can't pull off crazy, if, for instance, you're handcuffed in a small van with six armed assailants, stupid is a decent substitute for crazy.

Wells still has his hand inside his jacket when I slam my elbow into his throat. He freezes, trying to remember how to breathe. Before the boys in the front of the van get any ideas, I swing an elbow up over his head and bring the arm down on the other side, getting the cuffs around his throat. Then I fall back across the seat, pulling Wells on top of me. The G-men in the front of the van have all drawn their guns out by now, but I'm not sweating. If they want to shoot me, they're going to have to blow a lot of holes in the big man first.

"Stand down," shouts Wells. Then, quieter, to me, "That got you far, didn't it, shit-for-brains?"

"It got me your neck. That's a start." I tighten the cuffs across his throat. Just enough so that he can feel it, but not enough to make him pass out. "You're not the first bunch that ever kidnapped me, but you're definitely the least fun."

"Boy, you just attacked a federal officer. I'll have you swinging from your balls at Gitmo."

"Who you going to arrest? I'm already dead." Wells goes for his gun again. I spring forward and slam his head into the door frame, spinning him at the same time so that his body stays between his boys and me. I've got four guns on me and one guy is still driving.

We're somewhere south of L.A., near Culver City. The van turns into the parking lot of what looks like an aircraft assembly plant that hasn't seen action in twenty years. There are diamond-shaped hazardous materials warnings and rusted DOD signs on all the fences and buildings.

The van slams to a stop and the side door opens. I tighten the cuffs on Wells's neck and pull him back to use as a shield against whatever is coming into the van.

A woman in a crisply tailored power suit leans her head inside.

"I can come back later if you two gentlemen need a moment alone," she says.

I let up on Wells's neck, but still keep hold of him.

"He's the one getting grabby," says Wells.

The woman nods. "That's what he does. All those years in the Abyss have left him with some impulse control issues. It's all in his file." She looks at me. "Let Marshal Wells up right now. No one is going to shoot you. And, Larson, uncuff this man. You look like a couple of third graders."

"Sorry. Who are you again?" I ask.

The woman shakes her head, and then walks away. The G-men have holstered their guns. I lift my arms so that Wells can wiggle out from under the cuffs. He gets out of the van without looking back at me and starts adjusting his suit and tie. I follow him outside and hold out the cuffs. He takes his time, playing with his jacket and tie like a bad Vegas lounge comedian. Finally, he digs a key out of his pocket and unlocks me. There are red marks on my wrists, but there are corresponding marks on Wells's throat, so I guess we're even.

I take out my cigarettes and Mason's Zippo. When I thumb the lighter, all I get is sparks.

"Anybody got a light?" I ask.

"You can't smoke here," says Wells.

"We're in the open in the middle of nowhere. Why not?"

"Are you stupid?" asks Wells. "That's Aelita. She's an angel. They're very sensitive to things like cigarette smoke."

"Cool. I've never seen an angel in disguise before." I follow her to the old assembly plant.

Aelita isn't what I imagined an angel would look like. She's about as ethereal as a zip gun. She walks like she's about to call in an air strike or buy Europe. Donald Trump in drag with her enemies' balls in a candy dish on her desk, right next to the stapler.

The complex's main building is huge. Probably a Cold War-era industrial assembly line. Aelita opens a side door and I can see inside. Absolutely nothing. Concrete floor and metal walls. Shadows of smashed and abandoned machinery. Not even lights.

A few steps into the building, I hit a kind of barrier. It's like walking through warm Jell-O. Then I'm suddenly in Times Square on New Year's. Humans in suits, and different kinds of nonhumans, are moving huge diesel engines on automated chain lifters. Others are driving forklifts with pallets loaded with cedar and mugwort. Silver ingots and iron bars. Industrial drums of holy water. They're assembling armored vehicles and what look like weapons. Shiny superscience versions of old pepper-pot guns.

I look back at the entrance. There are angelic runes chiseled into the concrete floor. Overhead some kind of massive machine hangs bolted to the ceiling. It hums like a beehive and gives off a shimmering fluorescent-green light.

"It's called a Phylactery Accelerator," says Aelita. "The holy relics and sigils in the floor form a protective talisman."

"But not one powerful enough to hide all of whatever the hell this is."

"Please don't use profanity in here. The Accelerator captures the energy released by charmed-strange mesons as they decay into protons and antineutrinos, and uses that energy to amplify the talisman's blessed essence."

"You lost me after 'profanity.' But I think I get the idea. You're the respectable magic committee. You've got a real Norman Rockwell vibe here. Except for all the guns."

She looks right through me. Suddenly I'm thinking that maybe I would have been better off if the guys in the van had been a hit squad.

"Come with me."

She takes me into a soundproofed side room. After the noise of the factory floor, the room is spooky quiet. There are stained-glass windows suspended by wires from the rafters. More angelic script cut into the floor, this time in the shape of a cross. There's an altar at one end of the room. The other end looks like Frankenstein's lab. There are celestial maps of the universe looking down from Heaven (I'd seen the reverse maps Downtown). The machine that surrounds the operating theater could be anything. Part of a personal nuclear power plant or one of the alien rooms from Forbidden Planet.

I wait for the angel to say something. I want to know why she had me dragged here, but I'm not about to be the first one to blink. I turn and find her over by the altar, brushing Communion-wafer crumbs into her hand. She gently drops them into a trash can beside the altar, then bows her head and crosses herself. Now I know why Lucifer and his wild bunch ended up down below. If I had to take my boss's kid so seriously that I was required to salute his dandruff, I'd go stab-happy, too.

"Have you been enjoying yourself since your return?" she asks with her back to me.

"Not particularly."

Now she turns. She smiles. A beaming, monstrously insincere angel smile. Probably another part of her job training. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">