John Miller - Death Draws Five

“Belew?” Ray shook his head. The Mechanic had led the first operation that Ray had ever been on—the failed attempt, through no fault of their own, to extract the American hostages from Iran, way back in the Carter Administration. “We haven’t crossed paths in years.”

“He’s a stud I’d like to have on our side when the Allumbrados come to town. How about that Straight Arrow?”

“Nephi Callendar? He’s a desk jockey now.”

“George Battle? He was just an ordinary joe, but tough as the dickens.”

“Uh.” Ray didn’t really want to get into much detail about Battle’s fate. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”

“Pity.” Barnett looked up to the ceiling. “Oh Lord, see me through these trying times.” He looked back at Ray. “What can I do for you, son?”

Ray remembered something Barnett had just said. “The Allumbrados are coming to town?” he asked. “Contarini’s outfit?”

“Of course, son. Of course. We’ve got the baby Jesus. They’re going to come after him sure as Satan is frying souls in the Fiery Pit right this very minute.”

Ray nodded. That was good. He’d like to get his hands on Butcher Dagon again. This time he’d bite the bastard’s tail off at the root and strangle him with it. Still...“They’ve got a whole cadre of credenti and believers and shit working for them,” Ray said. “Some tough ass mercs. Some aces.”

“Don’t I know that? That’s why I’ve been on the horn all day trying to beef up my forces.”

“Who do you have?” Ray asked.

Barnett looked at him. “Well, there’s you.”

Ray nodded impatiently. “Yes.”

“And Angel, of course.”

Ray pursed his lips. “I don’t know about her.”

Barnett leaned forward, pointing his cigar at Ray. “Well, son, she got the baby Jesus. You got bubkiss. Besides,” he leaned back in his chair, took a deep pull on the cigar and blew smoke towards the Heavens, “she said the same thing about you.”

“What exactly did she say?” Ray asked with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, son. I know she can be difficult. But if you handle her right, she’ll eat right out of your hand.”

Ray frowned. “Well, who else do we have?”

Barnett put his cigar in his mouth, his hands behind his head, and his feet on his desk. “Well, there’s Sally Lou. But she’s not much use, unless we want to screw the Allumbrados to death.”

“She can do that?” Ray asked, startled. There was an ace... years ago. But she had disappeared.

“Don’t be so damn literal,” Barnett said. “Maybe she couldn’t really screw those boys to death. But she could tire them out some.”

“Oh,” Ray said. He waited for Barnett to go on, but when he didn’t he finally said, “That’s it, then?”

“Oh, there’s Alejandro. And we got boys with guns. Plenty of those. But so has the Cardinal. And this battle won’t be won with guns, I don’t think. I’ve got some guys on the line who might be useful.”

Ray nodded. He agreed with Barnett. It didn’t seem to be shaping up in Barnett’s favor, but long odds never made Ray run from a fight.

“Well, what about Angel and the boy?” he asked. “Are they okay? Are they almost here?”

Barnett sighed. “She’s out there somewhere with the boy in tow. I expect she’ll be reporting in sometime soon.”

“She’s out there somewhere?” Ray asked. “That’s the best you can do?”

Barnett poured himself a couple of fingers from the decanter that sat on the side of his desk, added some ice, and took a long drink from his tall glass, the ice cubes tinkling merrily against its side. “You’ve seen her. She’s a big, strong girl. She can take care of herself.”

I hope so, Ray thought. I really, really hope so.

Branson, Missouri: The Angels’ Bower

“A suite of our own,” Digger Downs said. “Pretty sweet, huh?”

Fortunato looked around the spacious living area with sofa, loveseat, wide-screen television and mini-bar. It was somewhat more luxurious than the quarters he’d shared with five score monks the past sixteen years or so. The angel decor, though, was not exactly to his taste.

“Does it have to be this... colorful?” he asked.

“Well...”

The room was done in pastel shades of green, blue, and pinkish-red that, despite their muted tones managed to be quite garish when taken together. The bathroom was black, pink, and white faux marble tiles which were laid in swirling patterns that hurt Fortunato’s eyes. He hadn’t been in Digger’s bedroom, but his had a round, bean-bag shaped bed that was enshrouded with gossamer thin fabric that looked like puce colored mosquito netting. Worse yet, there were photos and paintings, and even relics of all sorts all over the damn place

“It’s the best we could do on short notice.” Digger shrugged. “The place is crowded even by their usual standards. There’s some kind of big convention that’s taking a lot of the rooms.”

“Barnett seems to have brought himself a license to print money with this place,” Fortunato said.

Digger shrugged again. “Barnum was right, but we have our own fish to fry. What’s the plan?”

Fortunato roused himself. “Angel was bringing the boy here for some reason. Suppose we poke around a little and find out why?”

“All right,” Digger said, sensing another intriguing story line. “Anything specific we should look for?”

Fortunato shook his head. “I don’t know. You’re the investigative reporter.” Fortunato looked thoughtful. “A talk with the head man himself might be in order.”

“Barnett?” Digger asked. “Yeah. Go straight for the top, I always say.”

“Could you swing it?” Fortunato asked.

“Maybe.”

“One thing, though,” Fortunato said. “ I need to find some way to recharge my batteries.”

“If you’re looking to put hookers on the company charge card—” Digger started.

Fortunato grimaced. “It may come to that. Maybe. But I think I’ve moved beyond that. To something new.”

“Like what?” Digger asked, plainly intrigued.

“It’s all so new,” Fortunato said, “that I’m still not sure about it. But I’ll probably know it when I see it.”

“Probably?” Digger asked.

“Hey, man,” Fortunato said, “that’s the best I can do.”

Peaceable Kingdom: The Manger

“Is this a non-smoking room?” Mushroom Daddy asked.

Jerry, Mushroom Daddy, and Sascha were in the living room of their suite trying to figure out what to do next. It was furnished in a sort of 1950ish style that Jerry kind of liked, though the Naugahyde sofa was slippery and the orange carpet was a little bright.

Sascha looked at Daddy curiously. “No. You can light up if you want. Do you happen to have some decent cigars on you?”

Daddy shuddered. “Tobacco? Never touch the stuff, man. It’s, like, a killer.” He looked thoughtful. “Except of course for those groovy organic Cuban cigars that teenaged senoritas roll up on their soft, creamy thighs. Those are okay, every now and then.”

Jerry frowned. “What are you talking about, then?” A sudden thought struck him. “Not—”

Daddy nodded. He reached into an inside vest pocket and pulled out a baggie packed with rich green weed.

“Jesus Christ,” Jerry groaned. “You bought that with you on the plane?”

“Sure,” Daddy said. “I always take some weed along when I travel. It’s the best, man. Here, try some. Um, you don’t happen to have a water pipe on you? I couldn’t bring mine ‘cause I didn’t bring any luggage.”

Jerry collapsed on the Naugahyde sofa. I guess its true, he thought. God does take care of drunks, little children, and idiots. Sometimes, at least.