Wolfe, Gene - The Best of Gene Wolfe

“Today?” I inquired.

“Yesterday. Last night I slept in a wrecked truck in a ditch. You probably don’t believe that, but it’s the truth. All night I was afraid somebody’d come to tow it away. There were furniture pads in the back, and I lay on a couple and pulled three more on top of me, and they were pretty warm.”

“If you can sell your ring,” I said, “there’s a Holiday Inn in town. I should warn you that a great many demons stay there, just as you would expect.”

The kitchen door opened. Following the old man was one of the largest I have ever seen, swag bellied and broad hipped; he must have stood at least six-foot-six.

“This’s our kitchen,” the old man told him.

“I know,” the demon boomed. “I stopped off last year. Naturally you don’t remember, Mr. Hopsack. But I remembered you and this wonderful place of yours. I’ll scrounge around and make out all right.”

The old man gave Eira a significant look and jerked his head toward the door, at which she nodded almost imperceptibly. I said, “She’s going to stay with me, Len. There’s plenty of room in the bed. You don’t object, I trust?”

He did, of course, though he was much too diffident to say so; at last he managed, “Double’s six dollars more.”

I said, “Certainly,” and handed him the money, at which the demon snickered.

“Just don’t you let Ma find out.”

When the old man had gone, the demon fished business cards from his vest pocket; I did not trouble to read the one that he handed me, knowing that nothing on it would be true. Eira read hers aloud, however, with a good simulation of admiration. “ ‘J. Gunderson Foulweather, Broker, Commodities Sales.’ ”

The demon picked up her skillet and tossed her chicken a foot into the air, catching all four pieces with remarkable dexterity. “Soap, dope, rope, or hope. If it’s sold in bulk, I’ll buy it and give you the best price anywhere. If it’s bought in bulk, I sell it cheaper than anybody in the nation. Pleasure to meet you.”

I introduced myself, pretending not to see his hand, and added, “This is Eira Mumble.”

“On your way to St. Louis? Lovely city! I know it well.”

I shook my head.

She said, “But you’re going somewhere—home to some city—in the morning aren’t you? And you’ve got a car. There are cars parked outside. The black Plymouth?”

My vehicle is a gray Honda Civic, and I told her so.

“If I—you know.”

“Stay in my room tonight.”

“Will you give me a ride in the morning? Just a ride? Let me off downtown; that’s all I ask.”

I do not live in St. Louis and had not intended to go there, but I said I would.

She turned to the demon. “He says this’s close to Hell and the souls of people going there stop off here, sometimes. Is that where you’re going?”

His booming laugh shook the kitchen. “Not me! Davenport. Going to do a little business in feed corn if I can.”

Eira looked at me as if to say, There, you see?

The demon popped the largest piece of chicken into his mouth like an hors d’oeuvre; I have never met one who did not prefer his food smoking hot. “He’s giving you the straight scoop though, Eira. It is.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Talk around that chicken like that.”

He grinned, which made him look like a portly crocodile. “Swallowed it, that’s all. I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”

“Do you mind if I take the others? I was warming them up for myself, and there’s more in the refrigerator.”

He stood aside with a mock bow.

“You’re in this together—this thing about Hell. You and him.” Eira indicated me as she took the frying pan from the stove.

“We met before?” he boomed at me. I said that we had not, to the best of my memory.

“Devils—demons are what he calls them. He says there are probably demons sleeping here right now, up on the second floor.”

I put in, “I implied that, I suppose. I did not state it.”

“Very likely true,” the demon boomed, adding, “I’m going to make coffee, if anybody wants some.”

“And the . . . the damned. They’re going to Hell, but they stop off here.”

He gave me a searching glance. “I’ve been wondering about you, to tell the truth. You seem like the type.”

I declared that I was alive for the time being.

“That’s the best anybody can say.”

“But the cars—” Eira began.

“Some drive; some fly.” He had discovered slices of ham in the refrigerator, and he slapped them into the frying pan as though he were dealing blackjack. “I used to wonder what they did with all the cars down there.”

“But you don’t anymore.” Eira was going along now once more willing to play what she thought (or wished me to believe she thought) a rather silly game. “So you found out. What is it?”

“Nope.” He pulled out one of the wooden yellow-enameled kitchen chairs and sat down with such force I was surprised it did not break. “I quit wondering, that’s all. I’ll find out soon enough, or I won’t. But in places this close—I guess there’s others—you get four kinds of folks.” He displayed thick fingers, each with a ring that looked as if it had cost a great deal more than Eira’s. “There’s guys that’s still alive, like our friend here.” He clenched one finger. “Then there’s staff. You know what I mean?”

Eira looked puzzled. “Devils?”

“J. Gunderson Foulweather”—the demon jerked his thumb at his vest— “doesn’t call anybody racial names unless they hurt him or his, especially when there’s liable to be a few eating breakfast in the morning. Staff, okay? Free angels. Some of them are business contacts of mine. They told me about this place; that’s why I came the first time.”

He clenched a second finger and touched the third with the index finger of his free hand. “Then there’s future inmates. You used a word J. Gunderson Foul-weather himself wouldn’t say in the presence of a lady, but since you’re the only lady here, no harm done. Colonists, okay?”

“Wait a minute.” Eira looked from him to me. “You both claim they stop off here.”

We nodded.

“On their way to Hell. So why do they go? Why don’t they just go off,” she hesitated, searching for the right word, and finished weakly, “back home or something?”

The demon boomed, “You want to field this one?”

I shook my head. “Your information is superior to mine, I feel certain.”

“Okay, a friend of mine was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey. You ever been to Newark?”

“No,” Eira said.

“Some parts are pretty nice, but it’s not, like, the hub of Creation, see? He went to France when he was twenty-two and stayed twenty years, doing jobs for American magazines around Paris. Learned to speak the language better than the natives. He’s a photographer, a good one.”

The demon’s coffee had begun to perk. He glanced around at it, sniffed appreciatively, and turned back to us, still holding up his ring and little fingers. “Twenty years, then he goes back to Newark. J. Gunderson Foulweather doesn’t stick his nose into other people’s business, but I asked him the same thing you did me: how come? He said he felt like he belonged there.”

Eira nodded slowly.

I said, “The staff, as you call them, might hasten the process, I imagine.”

The demon appeared thoughtful. “Could be. Sometimes, anyhow.” He touched the fourth and final finger. “All the first three’s pretty common from what I hear. Only there’s another kind you don’t hardly ever see. The runaways.”

Eira chewed and swallowed. “You mean people escape?”

“That’s what I hear. Down at the bottom, Hell’s pretty rough, you know? Higher up it’s not so bad.”