“True. But Hellions being fallen angels, the problem remains.”
And here we are again. Back to the same problem. I’m stuck in L.A. with no way to get to Hell, where I might find an angel that I could choke long enough to help me. I need to sit Kasabian down for a more serious talk.
Vidocq puts a drop of the milk on a glass slide and places it under a microscope with a PROPERTY OF UCLA sticker partly scraped off.
Among Vidocq’s other interests is burglary.
“Anything?” I say.
He shrugs.
“There’s movement within the fluid. Perhaps living organisms. Perhaps simply repellent elements. It’s too early to say with any certainty. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. I knew it wouldn’t be simple. Nothing with angels ever is. For all I know, this whole thing is just a prank. Now that he can’t get at us, let’s fuck with Sandman Slim. Maybe black milk is just an exploding cigar.”
“Please,” he says. “Until we know what this is, don’t say ‘exploding.’ It’s bad luck.”
“I didn’t know you believed in that kind of thing.”
“I believe in everything. It’s what frequently comes with age. We hope for wisdom, but we just end up with more uncertainty.”
“Well, you’re still the smartest guy I’ve ever met.”
“Merci.”
He stands aside and lets me look into his microscope. All I see is black sludge with tiny dots spinning into and around each other.
“I mean it,” I tell him. “I don’t know if I could make it two hundred years and stay sane.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself,” Vidocq says.
“Are you ever going to tell me how it happened?”
He goes back to the microscope and carefully removes the slide.
“It’s a long and not very pretty story.”
“My favorite kind.”
While he’s pouring the milk back into the flask, I reach for my coffee, but bump into his shoulder. The slide slips from his hand onto the worktable. Most soaks into the wood, but a black drop slops onto the side of the plate with bacon. When the strip of bacon comes in contact with another strip, it stiffens and flips into the air, convulsing when it lands, like a fish dying in the bottom of a boat. Each time the bacon touches another strip, that strip starts writhing and twisting too.
Vidocq slams a bell jar on top of the plate, trapping the meat circus underneath.
I look at him.
“Ever seen that before?”
“No. Never. It’s fascinating.”
“This is truly one of the most goddamned things I’ve ever seen. What do we do with the little bastards?”
“We wait and see what happens.”
“What if they don’t stop? What if we just invented immortal bacon?”
“One mystery at a time, my friend.”
“We can’t exactly Google ‘disposing of zombie thrash pork.’”
Vidocq puts his hands on a pile of old books next to the medical cabinet.
“This is my Google. I’ll find an answer for you. Don’t worry.”
“I know you will. But it’s going to lead to trouble. I can tell.”
He nods. “Profound mysteries have a way of leading to yet more mysteries.”
The bacon strips make little tinking sounds when they hit the glass dome.
“What do we do now?”
“Normally, it would be lovely to have you stay and chat, but you should go,” he says. “I have a lot of reading to do.”
“You sure you’re safe with that stuff around? Maybe I should take it and ditch it in the ocean or something.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It’s not often an old sorcerer gets to explore angelic puzzles. Leave this here with me. I’ll be fine.”
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from Abbot. He wants me to come over tonight. So much for “Take the weekend, Stark.”
“Okay. But call me if things get any weirder. In fact, call me no matter what. If these bastards are still hopping around tonight, I want to know about it.”
“Of course. Of course,” he says, leading me to the door. “But now you must go and I must look for answers.”
At the door I say, “I got some of the milk on your table. I might have wrecked it. I’ll pay for a new one.”
“Perhaps you did and perhaps you didn’t. In any case, I’m the thief, not you. If I need a new table, I will get one like that,” he says, snapping his fingers.
“I at least owe you a drink for killing your breakfast.”
“That I will accept.”
He opens the door and I go out into the hall. I start to leave when something bothers me.
“Seriously, what’s the trick to living two hundred years? How do you do it?”
“It’s easy,” he says. “I’m not two hundred. I no longer believe in the past. Each morning when I awake, I’m newly born. From now until the sun burns out, I will never be more than one day old.”
“I’ll call you about the drink,” I say, and go down to the car, not sure if what Vidocq said was the smartest or saddest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I’M SORRY TO call you in like this,” says Abbot. “But the whole thing fell together quickly.”
“What is it? Some kind of emergency meeting?”
Abbot hesitates.
“More of a cocktail party.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I used to be the Devil, you know. I didn’t have to put up with this kind of shit.”
“Maybe you should have kept that job, then.”
“Nah. I look lousy with horns.”
“Is that really what he looks like?”
“No. He looks more like, well, you.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Very.”
“Then I’ll take the compliment.”
Abbot ushers me into the living room area on the boat. I was here once before, when I first met him. The room is impeccably decorated—a Southern California manor house—swaying gently on the Pacific. I have a hard time picturing the boat ever moving much, even in a tsunami. Nature wouldn’t dare spill the augur’s coffee over something as silly as a volcano.
“No problem. Chihiro is learning to play ‘Pipeline,’ so I’m all on my lonesome.”
“Playing pipeline. Is that slang for something I should know about?”
I put my hands in my pockets, not wanting to touch anything, afraid I’m going to taint his Beach Boys Taj Mahal with my grubby paws.
“Candy is getting guitar lessons is all. And I’m here when I could be curled up with a good western.”
He points a finger at me.
“Right. But there’s good news.