Robert Butler - Hell

“As a character. Yes.”

“He’s in a toga. His nose is mostly missing, like a statue. If you see him, please ask how Hatcher McCord can get in touch with him.”

“You’re on the television, aren’t you,” Sylvia says.

“Yes.”

“You seem a nice man,” she says. “Why are you in Hell?”

“I don’t know exactly,” he says. “But if you’re here, Ms. Beach, then I was a sure thing.”

She pats his hand once more and he gently pulls away. They say good-bye and he goes out her door and up the street, his mind still on the question she raised. The big Why. His second wife, Deborah, fancied herself a writer. Wrote a bad memoir about the two of them, full of lies. Wrote a bad novel about the two of them without enough lies. Creative nonfiction and uncreative fiction. She could be living nearby. Virgil could be nearby. There are people to find, but he isn’t going to do it stumbling into shops and leaving messages.

Hatcher is approaching the alley now where Virgil first took him. Up ahead, the neon BURGERS sign is popping and sparking and radiating brightly in spite of the intense sunlight all around. He slows. He stops. He waits, hoping for Virgil to appear again. But he knows this isn’t going to work. Then it occurs to him. If the upper management in Hell does not have omniscience and isn’t omnipresent, then they might need some sort of physical record-keeping. Somebody knows where the denizens are. Hatcher presses on toward Broadcast Central.

Hatcher enters the vast marble-block building that is Broadcast Central, and about three stories up inside the towering atrial reception hall, Albert Speer is chained to the back wall with large feathery wings strapped to his arms and a Nazi eagle’s head fitted on top of his own with the beak curving down in front of his eyes. Broadcast Central is based on a Speer architectural plan, and on most days he is up there explaining his innocence to anyone whose attention he can get. Hatcher glances up at him and Speer shouts down, “You have to understand. I didn’t know how bad it was.” Hatcher never knows how to respond, so he simply lowers his face and passes under the man and through the high arched doorway and down a long, dim marble hallway to the elevators.

On the top floor he steps from the elevator, neatly but barely missing the abrupt snapping shut of the doors — visitors often lose limbs here and have to wait for the elevator to return to be reconstituted — indeed, the floor underfoot feels blood-sticky even now — but instead of heading for the studio, Hatcher turns toward the corridor of offices. He treads lightly. He feels a blip of pleasure at treading lightly. It will do good to tread lightly so that Beelzebub will not know of his approach. No one will know. It’s Hatcher’s own little secret, moving from here to there. His mind is careening now. He is tiptoeing like a cartoon cat sneaking up on a mouse. He is enjoying this a little too much for his own good. But he settles down as he approaches Beelzebub’s outer door. And there are voices from within. He slows and stops and then eases forward. He is next to the open doorway.

From deep inside the office, faint but clear, is a man’s familiar voice. “Your situation is very similar.”

“The superior number two man,” Beelzebub replies.

“May I ask a blunt question?” the voice says. Hatcher feels close to identifying the speaker.

“I’ve brought you here for that very thing,” Beelzebub says.

“I’ve spent an awful long time already down a drill hole full of boiling oil.” Dick Cheney. It’s Dick Cheney.

“By way of initiation,” Beelzebub says. “You’ll suffer differently ” now.”

“But to speak like this, when… you know.”

“You’re with Beelzebub now. I’m the Supreme Ruler in this office.”

“All right,” Cheney says. “Let me ask this. How stupid is he?”

“Ah. Yes. Well.” Beelzebub hemming and hawing is a new thing for Hatcher to hear. The “he” must be Bee-bub’s boss.

“With mine, you kept waiting for the slightest glimmer,” Cheney says. “But.” Even outside the door, Hatcher can hear the shrug.

“Oh I know. I know,” Beelzebub says. “Mine is stupid. Yes. But crafty, I’d say. Smart in that way.”

“Ah,” Cheney says. “I didn’t have to deal with that.”

“Nevertheless.”

“We’d float the rumor that in private he was different from what he was in public. One-on-one he was so Texas-backslappy shrewd he was some sort of smart. He liked the reputation.”

“Flattery then?”

“Of course,” Cheney says. “But the fundamental process for men like you and me is this. The stupider the president — or any leader — the more power you arrange for him. And the more secretive you make him. Don’t disclose a thing. The insular, unitary leader. Finally he’s got so much in front of him but at the same time he’s so cozily private that even the stupid man who’s too stupid to realize he’s stupid will realize two things. He needs somebody to do the real work for him, and nobody will know the difference.”

“Yes, I see that,” Beelzebub says. “This is good. Reassuring. I think I’m on the right track.”

“If there’s anything I can do.”

“You were a hunter.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll set up a hunting date in the mountains with the Old Man. We can get that Texas attorney you already diddly-plugged and put him out in the canebrake.”

“Pardon?”

“No need. You’ll be found innocent down here.”

Hatcher backs quietly off, down the hall a ways, and then reapproaches noisily. He turns in at Beelzebub’s door.

Hatcher has only rarely visited this office. The last time, the secretary in the outer office was Messalina, empress of Rome and notable nymphomaniac. Now, crossed on the desktop, are the bottoms of a pair of wide, bare feet, each, however, cloven down the center. They are attached to a large bleached-blond woman with a round, heavily-made-up face rendered oddly beautiful by enormous dark eyes. In between, she is naked, with breasts the size of Iowa pumpkins, and when her eyes move to Hatcher, she demurely draws bleached-blond bat wings from behind her and folds them over her chest.

Emerging from an inner office are the former vice president of the United States, dressed in the blue jumpsuit of a minion, and the eternal vice president of Hell, dressed in a charcoal-gray pinstripe suit and white shirt with a neatly-knotted maroon tie sporting a McDonald’s Golden Arches motif. Beelzebub’s massive and cratered face bulges above his tightly buttoned collar, with deep-set neon-red eyes and lacquered black faux hair. He sees Hatcher and smiles. “Hatcher, my boy. I think you two know each other.”

Cheney has a faint red glow, and one side of his mouth pinches up into a smirky smile like his last boss. “My favorite debate moderator,” he says.

“My favorite puppeteer,” I say.

“Oh you boys,” Beelzebub says, and he looks past Hatcher. “Lily,” he says to the secretary. “Go to lunch.”

There is a stirring behind him and Hatcher turns his head to see. The naked, bat-winged blond rises from the chair, sets up a small desktop pedestal sign that says gone for sex, rises from the floor, and thinks of something. In midair she rotates to look at Beelzebub.

“Need anything?” she says in a venereally husky, chain-smoking, truck-stop-waitressy voice.

“No.”

“Fries? A Coke?”

“I’m fine,” Beelzebub says.

She nods and then gracefully drifts out of the office.

“She looks familiar,” Cheney says.

“She’s the girl of your dreams,” Beelzebub says.