I had a contract to kill God. And I'd never reneged on a contract before. How hard would it be to kill someone who didn't exist? And how long could I draw pay and expenses before Zack noticed that I hadn't eliminated his imaginary competitor?
I began to understand how seance artists felt about their profession. It's great work while it lasts.
Zacharias intrigued me. He didn't act insane, but then neither did politicians. He just talked crazy. A famous TV evangelist who had preached the word of God for years to the nation via satellite now wanted Him out of the way.
It sounded as if it would be bad for business.
All right. I'd get a cut of it without firing a shot. I had a contract to kill God, and I was going to kill Him.
No matter that it might take years. At five hundred a day.
Plus expenses.
I took a brisk walk the next morning. Down Figueroa to Fifth Street, crossing piles of rubble and shattered glass that spread across the pavement like webbed hands reaching for the opposite sidewalks. The air smelled cleaner, and a smear of blue sky hovered at the zenith. It was a great day to begin my quest.
A couple of blocks down Fifth stood the library. Nearly everyone used the computer plaque for news, information, and entertainment. The same satellites that brought the Right Reverend Emil Zacharias and his Hallelujah House into people's living rooms permitted anyone owning a plaque access to the Smithsonian library computer. Except for the people who liked to collect first editions, or those addicted to the smell of paper and glue, libraries and books were obsolete.
And then there were the old dogs who are slow to change. Count me in. I wouldn't feel as if I were learning anything if I weren't in a library building toting around a stack of ungainly books. It felt cozy.
I had optimistically prepared to spend an afternoon discovering exactly what God was. When I reached the religion section, I realized that I'd underestimated by about three lifetimes.
After an hour of randomly walking about peering at titles, I had a stack of books under either arm that covered each major religion. I felt like a student cramming for finals. I suppose I was.
Hell, I was being paid for it.
The next several hours consisted of reading one definition after another, either totally contradictory or as clear as the La Brea tar pits. Apparently, God is self-surpassing, an unmoved mover, a standard of reality, the supreme reality, the sole reality, temporal, eternal, infinite, finite, infinite-finite, an object of direct experience (that would be just my luck), one with man, apart from man, apart from everything, part of everything, everything. The beginning, the beginingless…
By closing time, my head pounded as if it had been borrowed for a performance of the Anvil Chorus. I left the library knowing less than ever. Before, at least, I'd had some idea of God. He was this hairy thunderer that some people thought was necessary to keep them from bumping into telephone poles. I'd gotten along quite well without Him for fifty-two years. Now I suddenly had to know who He was and the only image I could conjure up was that of some blob of something out somewhere doing somesuch somehow.
Not much to work with. This contract had more false leads than a hooker's smile.
A cold wind from the west blew down Fifth Street, kicking up rubbish and dust. I kept my head down and watched the garbage eddy around my feet with each step.
Kill God.
The idea seemed even more absurd now, away from the calm confidence of Zacharias. Maybe I had been right all along, and this was some sort of plot. Entrapment. Psych warfare. Revenge.
It was all too complicated, though. In my profession, death moved at the speed of a roadster, a bullet, a beam of laser light. No assassin ever received the kindness of an elaborate death scheme, no matter how artistically he conducted his own kills.
No. I knew at the time what I was agreeing to. I hadn't merely sold my soul. Souls he handled like petty cash. I had contracted for the Supreme Patricide.
I should have asked for a thousand a day.
Kill God? What a joke. Do I make it look like an accident? Natural causes? Or just a bullet in His third eye?
I needed a professional opinion.
The wind died down as I walked over the Fourth Street Bridge, to be replaced by a thin autumnal fog. The overhead lamps glowed with the light of another age. My feet scuffed concrete, heels tapping against cracks, soles grinding over rubble. In the distance, traffic roared along the Hollywood Freeway. Only a whisper of engines reached me through the fog. A thin crescent moon rose in the east. It would be morning soon.
At the Fourth Street onramp to the southbound Hollywood Freeway stood the Church of St. Herman of Alaska. Actually, it was a run-down slum hotel that a priest friend of mine had converted into a mission. He usually kept the front door unlocked, so I let myself in.
Father Joey Moreno leaned forward in one of the church's two pews. His thick right hand grasped a bottle of Chianti that he snorted down lovingly. A pink stain colored most of his white collar.
"Hey, Joey. Too much sacrament."
He belched, twisting around to see me. His rust-hued locks blended into his beard to frame his dark face in a soft triangle of frizzy hair.
"Dell! How goes? Come to convert? Or converse?"
I smiled and sat next to him. "I'm looking for God, Joey."
The bottle slid from his fingers into the next pew. He twisted around. "Won't find Him, Dell. Been looking for Him for years."
He peered down at the floor, then stamped his foot. "God's a cockroach, hombre. Split Himself into myriad parts to keep an eye on us."
I could tell this would be a conversation at cross-purposes. "How's the congregation?"
"Sinners still sin. And bingo Saturdays."
"You can't give me a lead on God's whereabouts, though?"
He stood to his full six-foot-two and bellowed, "Go thee forth to the highest, for the highest shall become the lowest and the lowest shall become the highest!"
He dropped to his knees, begging St. Herman to eliminate the liquor tax, compulsory education, and foods fried in Crisco.
I stashed the bottle behind the card table altar and left. So much for the voice of authority.
Sunlight splashed the northern Arco Tower remains with smeared reds and oranges as I returned. Rosy fingered Dawn had not yet touched the streets. I walked in a dreamy morning world where light filtered down indirectly from the sky, softening every shadow. An occasional spear of sunshine lanced into the street, reflected from a high window.
On the corner of Figueroa and Fourth stood a man in a dark suit. He held a bunch of magazines close to his chest like a shield. The covers faced outward. He spoke quietly to the bums that passed him and he didn't seem to mind being ignored. He was portly, short-haired, and a little nervous. I didn't blame him, considering the locale.
I wandered over to him to check out the `zine. Sure enough, it was one of those religious societies. Maybe it was worth a try.
"Say, pal. Know of a way I can find God?" I judged the direct approach to be best.
He wearily handed me a copy of the magazine. "Simply accept Jesus into your life. He is the path from sin to salvation."
Salvation wasn't exactly what I was looking for. "No. Thanks. I mean, I want to see God. In the flesh. Or whatever."
He sighed and answered without looking at me. "Give me a break, Mac. I've got a long day ahead of me, and I don't need sarcasm."
I nodded. He was right. A breeze almost tugged the magazine out of my fingers. That was when I noticed it was a Hallelujah House publication.
"Say-this is Emil Zacharias's group, isn't it?"
"Yeah." He didn't seem too pleased by the association.
"Do you think we're in occupied territory?"
He shrugged. His gaze never crossed mine for more than an instant.
"You might say that Satan has a foothold in this world. C. S. Lewis thought so too, and you wouldn't call him nuts."
"I wasn't calling anyone nuts," I said. "Do you think God will accept his challenge?"
"Christ the Lord will return to implement the Kingdom of God. It's in the Book." He flinched once or twice while speaking. His gaze darted about to search for someone else to rescue him from the grilling.
I was just getting interested.
"Do you think Zacharias was trying to send an SOS to God? Trying to hasten the Second Coming?"
He slowly shifted from one foot to the other. "Look, brother. I don't know why you're so intrigued, but no man can hasten His return. Not even Emil Zacharias. He flipped out. It happens sometimes. There was a guy twenty, twenty-five years back named Jim Jones. He flipped out lots worse. Everybody's entitled to crack a bit, especially in Southern California. That doesn't invalidate two thousand years of philosophy and prophecy."
He coughed. The eloquence may have been too much for him. "I gotta go now. Quotas and such."
He walked away from me with short, tired steps. It was going to be a long day for him.
I climbed the stairs to my office and spent the next hour pacing around, searching for a lead, some method of bringing me closer to the Supreme Recluse. None of my previous contacts would be of any help. And Zack was unwilling to offer any assistance.
While stretched out on my couch to catch a doze, an idea hit me during that moment between dreamy slumber and drowsy waking. After allowing a minute or two for my sense to catch up with my thoughts, I seized the phone and punched up information.
"City?" a raspy voder asked.
"L.A. I need the number of God Almighty."
The computer searched for a moment, then replied in mechanical deadpan. "Not listed, sir. Would you like an operator?"
"No, thanks. Connect me with the Bautista Corporation on Cordova."
The line rang for a couple times, and a soft voice on the other end answered.
"Bautista Development."
"Ann Perrine, please."
"May I ask who's calling?"
"Dell Ammo."
She put me on hold for a few minutes, then I heard a click.
"Dell?" Even over the phone, her voice reminded me of satin and soft lights.
"Yeah. Look, I know this is out of line, but you told me to call you if I ever needed help."
"Of course."
"Yeah. Well, this'll sound like a crazy old man talking. I need some… help in researching, uh, religious matters."
Her voice betrayed a sudden interest.
"I minored in philosophy at UCLA. What do you need?"
I tried to ease it to her. "It's sort of nuts, but there's this guy who's offered me lots of money to find God. He's convinced that God exists somewhere and can actually be-hunted down."
Silence shot back and forth over the line for a dozen heartbeats.
"You're looking for god," she said. "For real."
"In the flesh. Or whatever He uses."
"Why?"
"The money."
"And you want me to help you defraud this man?"
She asked the tough ones. She'll either think I'm a crook or a psycho. I preferred the latter. I'd rather be thought of as insane than dishonest. I cleared my throat.
"I don't think it will be fraud. This guy seems convinced that I can find Him." I switched on a gizmo attached to my phone that checks for listeners. The lights flashed green-the line was secure.
"He gave me a contract to track down God and kill Him."
"Kill god?"
I gave her credit for not laughing out loud. When I didn't answer, she said nothing for a long time. Convinced that she had hung up, I softly muttered a "damn" and lowered the receiver.
"Dell," said a small voice in my hand.
I raised the horn to my ear. "Yeah?"
"I told you that if you ever needed help, I'd do all I could."
"You will?" It was my turn for incredulity.
"I can't stay on the phone much longer-"
"Meet me at Auberge tonight." My heart pounded faster than the old thing had a right to. "Cocktail lounge of the Hope and Anchor. At eight."
"Right." She hung up without a good-bye.
"I'll be damned." The realization that I might very well be seemed less painful now. Blasphemy loves company.
On the lower levels of Auberge, guards handled trouble from the riffraff. On the upper levels, the guards served the same approximate purpose. The riffraff, however, seldom hung around-the prices were too high. I was reminded of this as I gave the waitress several scraps of orange paper to ransom my drink.
My watch read 8:13. I was beginning to feel like a jerk. Maybe she was the sort who would say anything to get a crank off the line. Maybe I was still dying from the cancer and hallucinating everything.
And I was only on my second drink.
A short time later, Ann showed up carrying a fat grey attachй case. She saw me stand and came to the table.
"Sorry I'm late. I had to get this from Archives." She set the luggage against the side of her chair and sat down.
"What is it?"
"The corporation's library. In case you need to do research."
"I've got a plaque," I said.
"Do you want your information requests going through the library satellites? The airwaves aren't necessarily secure, you know."
The waitress drifted by again. Ann ordered tequila, Kahlua and milk-a Tall White Bull.
"You're taking this pretty seriously," I said.
"I'm an accountant-paranoia is an occupational requirement." She looked directly at me. "You want to find god. You might as well start by telling me what kind of god. Define him."
I hadn't considered that there might be more than one kind of God. "The usual run-of-the-mill God. Miracle maker. Controller of lives. Watcher over us all."
"Is this god-the one you've been hired to kill-is he different from man?" She frowned at her own question. "Excuse me for sounding like a prosecutor. I'm just trying to help."
"Sure. No problem." I took a drink. "Sure He's different. More powerful. More knowledgeable."
"The difference, though-is it one of kind or degree?"
"Huh?" She'd just gone beyond the limits of my self-education.
"Is this god a more powerful and intelligent man, or is his power of a different nature? Is his knowledge a nonhuman variety?"
She had me there. "Just the typical sort of unfathomable God that most people believe in."
"Well, if you can't understand god, you'll never be able to find him. And to use the term to mean anything less than a difference in kind is a misuse of the term. A more powerful man or alien may be godlike, but he wouldn't be a god."
I slugged down the rest of my drink. "Why are you bringing all this up?"
"I just want you to know what you're getting involved in. I think you've already started on the wrong foot. Have you looked through any books?"
"A lot of theology texts."
"You can't go to the people who believe already. They've made up their minds and want to convince you of their own personal heresy. Most theologians have no idea of what constitutes rational proof. Go to the antitheists."
"Who?"
"The disbelievers. At least they'll give you an idea of what god is not."
The waitress reappeared to deliver Ann's drink. She accepted it and covered the tab-and tip-without even thinking about it. I was growing fond of her already.
"You notice that I haven't asked you who wants god killed. I won't. I think the world would be better off without a god. And I don't think you're a mental case for believing that gods can literally die. Zeus is dead, after all."
"I thought he was simply doing time for rape."
She smiled at that and took a sip of her drink. "His worshippers are gone. Where does a god go then?"
"I think that was dealt with on a Star Trek episode."
Her eyes twinkled with laughter like northern lights. "Star Trek and The Twilight Zone both had a sophisticated grasp of theology."
"Are you old enough to remember them?"
She smiled like a debutante. "I have them on disc."
"And what TV show had the worst theology?"
"Father Knows Best, of course."
We both laughed. Then I heard someone behind me. Maybe heard isn't the right word. I had the same sort of crowded feeling I'd had the other night in the upstairs corridor. I turned around.
Fifty pounds of brat wrapped in hot pink velvet approached. She noticed me and changed her course to pass by, smiling wickedly. She strode up to Ann and whispered loud enough for the next three tables to hear.
"Don't worry about him trying to get into your skirt, lady. It ain't the meat, it's the tumidity."
"Cute," I said.
Ann eyed me, smiling dryly. "Friend of yours?"
"In no ways, shape, or form-all of which she lacks."
"Cute," said the tyke.
I tapped a cigarette out of my pack. "Couldn't you go find a Shriner's convention and leave us alone? We're discussing negative theology."
She smiled a girlish little grin and winked at me in an adorable, innocent manner that made me want to kick her. She turned quickly and, ladylike, sashayed to another table.
The balding man there smiled through fat lips and leaned forward to welcome her, speaking quietly.
"A pretty child," Ann said, suddenly stiff as a schoolteacher.
"Pretty screwed up. In more than one sense." I tossed down my drink and sat back to scan the bar.
The gazes of several men, young and old, drifted toward Ann, only to drift away as though they saw her and just as quickly forgot her. Ann ignored them without any effort. Her long fingers stroked the sides of her glass, picking up droplets of moisture. She parted her rowan-hued lips to say something. A voice behind me interrupted her.
"Call for Mr. Dell Ammo." The waiter had been walking up and down the lounge, his voice carrying just enough to reach the tables he passed.
I stood to catch his attention.
"Mr. Ammo?"
I nodded.
"A telephone call for you."
I followed him to the telephones and stepped into the booth that he indicated. I thanked him and crumpled a fiver into his hand. He looked at it, mentally converted it from last week's value to this week's, and smiled broadly.
I lifted the receiver to my ear.
"Ammo," I said.
The voice on the other end was as smooth as a mortician's slab.
"Ammo-get off this God caper of yours. Zacharias is one washedup preacher. Get wise-you're up against people who mean business."
"Yeah?" I retorted suavely. I couldn't place his accent. This was getting so overblown that I didn't even care about playing dumb. "What's it to you? If He exists, I'm no match for Him. If He doesn't, I'm only wasting my own time."
The voice spoke with slow amusement.
"Let's just say that the stakes in this particular game are high enough that it wouldn't even be worth your while to play."
The line clicked, followed by the buzzing silence of a disconnection. I hung up the receiver.
I hadn't figured anyone would take this whole affair seriously, let alone catch on to me so quickly. Now I had to plan more than a "killing" that would bring me a steady income. I had to protect myself from a second nut or gang of nuts. Great.
I mulled the problem over while walking back to the table.
Ann was gone.
The attachй case lay open on her table setting, its output screen alight. Bright orange letters glowed against a black background.
THE WAY OF TRANSGRESSORS IS HARD.PROVERBS 13:15
I looked around and saw no clue.
I did see the kid, though. She was guiding her bloated sugar daddy toward the exit. I raced over to grab her arm.
"Where'd she go?"
The fat man bridled. "Let go of her, fellah," he said around the edge of his cigar.
I ignored him. The brat stared up at me defiantly. "You'd have been watching," I said with a genuinely angry growl. "Where'd she go?"
"You're hurting me!" She tried to twist away. "It was two men in black."
The fat man became bolder. "Let go of her, you drunken bastard!"
I tried a bluff. The wrong bluff.
"Vice squad, mister." I reached up toward my breast pocket.
The man looked worried for an instant. Then he smiled broadly.
"Guards!"
I realized where I was and how the law was welcome. A neural interruptor field switched on, knocking me to my knees. Through a tingle of dulled sensation, I watched four arms seize me. They dragged me to an access tunnel separate from the corridors used by customers.
I tried another bluff. Another winner.
"I'm her father." Drool passed over my numbed lips. "I was just trying to talk to her."
"You should've given her a better home life, rummy." The voice spoke from far away. "She's got her freedom here."
A hatch whined open.
"Wait," I babbled. "I was with a woman. I think she's been kidnapped. The girl saw-"
"Right, pal. Kidnapped by a couple of priests. Tell us another."
The four arms propelled me from the hatch of the underhill city. Except that I was at the top of the hill.
The hatch slammed behind me, and I rolled. The field of insensitivity they'd hit me with still deadened my nerves. I was thankful for that.
Dry grass and dirt patches whisked past me. Something hard hit my waist. It stung. I bounced past it and slid face forward to a stop at the bottom of Bunker Hill.
It didn't take long for pain to overcome the effects of the neural interruptor beam. My body curled up in a convulsion of agony, then snapped back. Shoes scraped against grimy concrete. Hands slid over crumbling pavement. After long moments of struggle, I stood.
The world tilted like some crazy Disney ride. I clambered for a parking sign to lean against, grasping it like a long-lost brother.
Down the block, someone screamed. Someone familiar.
I looked up and down the dark street. My eyes had a little trouble focusing.
I saw her. Two men in dark clothing dragged her toward a car, an arm each around her shoulders. Behind them, the door of a lower level loading dock dropped shut slowly. She struggled, blond hair whipping about.
They were at the far end of the block. I started to run as fast as I could. Pain shot through my left leg up to the hip. I reached for my Colt to find an empty holster. It must have fallen out during the roll.
The car engine whined into life as they stuffed her inside. Tires squealed, and the car roared in my direction. I performed the usual stupid action of jumping in its path. Rubber shrieked again; the car swerved around me.
I jumped for the trunk, missed, and came up with bloody elbows and a scraped nose. Wiping the dust from my eyes, I watched the taillights recede into the night.
"Look out mister!"
I turned around. On top of the hill-in the hatchway I'd been launched from-stood the kid. Light poured out of the tunnel. Her giant shadow splashed down the hillside.
"Behind you, asshole!"
I whirled about just in time to enjoy the view of a blackjack zeroing in on my right temple. I didn't see stars. Just a lot of black that got blacker.