Dead Nolte (23 page)

He could barely feel the coin; he had to close the distance
quickly. He would deal with his frustrations soon enough, the ignorant shop
keep had no idea of the suffering he had escaped.

The man with the jack-o-lantern smile stood at the pumps and
watched the truck jump and lurch across the drive like a cat with its ass on
fire. He counted the four bills in his hand and grinned, a small sign above his
head read, Full Service. “What a jerk-off.” Fancy talkers really pissed him
off.

W
aking
from sleep was always confusing for an angel. Unless it was absolutely
necessary, sleep was avoided. By design, angels do not have a sleep cycle and
require no rest. Yet, when incarnate, as men, they were required by the laws of
biology to sleep, eat, and shit just as men do. Often they would push the human
form until it was unresponsive and ready to collapse before they would close
their eyes and allow darkness to overcome them.

The dream state does not exist for an angel, so sleep only
produces a black void in their memory. The uncomfortable feelings resulting
from these voids are probably the closest an angel will come to experiencing
fear.

The sound of water dripping was in Michael’s ears, as his
mind reorganized the events that preceded the darkness. Soon, he realized, it
wasn’t water dripping, it was the car he was riding in that was making the
sound. He remembered the turn signal and the wipers.

Slight movements in the seat next to him alerted Jeremiel to
Michael’s awakening. “There’s been an accident, Michael.” He told him softly
and quickly, in an attempt to prevent a retaliatory strike. He too knew the
befuddled feeling that accompanied waking and he thought he might ease the
reason for Michael’s sleep, into the conversation. An accident wasn’t an
entirely accurate description of what happened, but it was true, that he hadn’t
meant to hit the angel as hard as he did. “Wake up, Michael, there has been an
accident.”

Grabbing his beard like a rope, Michael smoothed it out onto
his chest and looked at Jeremiel without moving his head, which was wedged
between the door panel and the side of the seat. His chin pressed into his
chest by the awkward position, throbbed.
 
His human form was experiencing pain. His mouth, along with his back
ached. He remained crumpled against the door as he evaluated himself for
damage. He worried that movement might cause further injury to the frail
embodiment.

The human form was quite fragile compared to that of an
archangel in their true form. As far as durability, humans were way down the
list of Creation. The Trinity topped all with complete indestructibility,
followed by Satan, who could only be destroyed by the Trinity, followed by
Seraphim, who no one in Heaven really knew anything about, except the Trinity.
In fact, they had been created of all things; first, for all the archangels
knew, they might outrank Satan. Since the creation of the tenth dimension, the
Seraphim had encircled God’s head, singing, “Holy, Holy, Holy.” without
stopping. (Michael assumed it was God’s favorite song.) Humans were down,
somewhere below monkeys, as far as their ability to sustain damage.

“What happened? Did you wreck the car?” Michael rubbed his
jaw.

“Gabriel was here.” Jeremiel decided that flooding the
angel’s temporary confusion with information might be a better approach. “He
wants us to capture the idiot that escaped the holding area. He says we are to
make sure
----
”

“Did you hit me?” Michael carefully wagged his chin from
side to side, testing its range of motion.

“Yes, I was about to mention that. I accidently hit you.” He
said sheepishly. “I was afraid you were going to disable the car, I had to act
fast. You, yourself know your mechanical understanding leaves much to be
desired.”

“And using your words was not an option?” The chin wagging
didn’t seem to help. “If I remember right, the last time you had to act fast,
you shoved me into a gas chamber at Auschwitz.”

“I honestly thought they would stop the gas, Michael, I had
no idea; they would poison one of their own soldiers.”

For a few minutes, neither angel spoke; the only sound was
the clicking of the turn signal and the tapping of the tires crossing cracks in
the road. Both could feel a commotion in the dimension, not too far ahead of
them, something was rapidly jumping dimensions, but neither one mentioned it.
Jeremiel stepped on the accelerator, increasing their speed slightly.

“Gabriel says, hello.” Jeremiel broke the tense silence.
“We’re supposed to capture the naked fool.” He received only an indifferent
grunt from the seat beside him. “We’re going to meet Azazel, or at least make
sure she takes possession of the shekel.” He knew the mention of her name would
get Michael’s attention. He probably should have mentioned her name when the
angel was first waking up from the dark.

Using his fingers to comb his beard, Michael parted it to
either side of his chin. He pulled a pair of Ray Bans from his jacket and poked
the earpieces through his hair. With a sharp jerk on the front of his Sons of
Anarchy cut, He vanished.

A moment later he returned to the rear of the limo with
Nolte. The naked man was screaming and fighting to get free of the angel. His
legs pumped and kicked the air as if he were riding an upside-down, imaginary
bicycle.

“Please don’t take me to hell! I don’t belong there!”
Nolte’s screams mimicked a rape whistle. “Please don’t take me to hell; I’ll
give you my nest egg!”

“I’m not taking you to hell. Stop fighting me.” Michael
could feel Nolte trying to jump in time. “You should feel this, Jerry. I’ve
never felt anything attempt to jump this rapidly. He feels like he’s
vibrating.”

“I can feel it. Where did you find him?”

“The idiot was riding on top of the car; the other two
idiots are riding in.” He gave Nolte a squeeze. “He looked like a skinny little
Buddha in a Christmas parade. Didn’t you little buddy?” Nolte’s sunglasses were
pushed to one side of his face, by Michael’s headlock. “Now listen closely, you
pig of a human. You can stop trying to jump, that doesn’t work around us. We
stand before the throne of God,
you
tiny speck of worm
shit.” Michael smiled at Jerry, who was smiling back into the rearview mirror.
“Man, it feels good to say that.” He choked hard on Nolte’s neck, causing the
sunglasses to rise away from the skinny man’s face.

“Neither of us has ever sent anyone to hell,” Jeremiel said,
over his shoulder. “We are messengers assigned to assess your dealings in dark
matters and follow your coin.”

Nolte relaxed immediately at the reference to his nest egg.
“Why are you following my coin? Why in the fuck does every faggot and
cocksucker on God’s green earth, want my fucking coin?” Nolte’s eyes fell on
the minibar attached to the seatback. “Is there anything in that?” He asked,
pointing from his waist, where his hand was pinned by the angel.

“I don’t know, but if you promise to sit your stinking ass
in that seat over there and fly right, I’ll let you check.” Michael released
the pressure of his grip but waited for a reply before he completely let go of
the foul idiot. The ghost reeked of piss and shit. Nolte nodded with a grunt.
Michael retightened his grip. “Use your words.”

“I promise.” Nolte scrambled for the minibar the instant the
angel released him. “Vodka and bourbon! Well roll me in mud and paste me to a
pig, Johnnie Walker Blue label! You faggots have decent taste.” He looked over
his shoulder, sunglasses still cocked to one side of his face. If these fags
were headed in the same direction he was, what would it hurt to take a tad of
the edge off and ride in style, before he snatched his nest egg from his idiot
sons? These two might even come in handy.

The moment the vile creature had left his lap, Michael noticed
a cool feeling on his thigh. The idiot had peed through his diaper. “You little
demon, you pissed on me!”

“No, no, no, that’s on you, twink, that shit happens when I
dark travel. I was minding my own fucking business when you snatched me off the
top of that car. You spooked me. Sometimes I shit, too.” Nolte pulled the
waistband of his diaper out and frowned, “Voila, motherfucker," Nolte
said, gesturing at the crotch of his diaper, "I shit on my cigarettes.”

Michael took a towel from the minibar and dabbed at the
piss. When it came time to put this one in hell, he might make an exception and
take him there, himself. He tossed the damp towel at the piss soaked gremlin.

“You want a shot Peter-Puffer? I can whip you up an
Appletini if a man’s drink will scald your pussy.” Nolte downed several of the
tiny bottles, discarding the empties onto the floorboard. “What about you, up
there in the front, you want a snort? There’s some girly sounding shit in here
you might like. I don’t see anything semen flavored, though.”

“I do not, you foul dog.”

Nolte repositioned the sunglasses so they rested more
comfortably on his nose. “Good idea, never drive after you’ve been samplin’
granny’s rheumatiz medicine, you’ll get to fiddle-fartin’ around and have a
crash. You just go on and keep an eye peeled for revenuers.” Nolte offered
Michael a mini bottle of Jack Daniels. The angel waved him off, wanting to keep
personal contact with the disgusting creature to a minimum. “So what are you
two, really?” Nolte gestured at the biker’s cut Michael was wearing. “Homo
Davidson and the Virginia Slim Man?” He twisted the cap off the Jack and
swallowed it in a gulp.

“You talk just to feel your teeth rattle, don’t you?”
Michael wondered how cocky this demon will be, once his lungs fill with sulfur.

“We are messengers, archangels, who are allowed to stand in
the presence of God,” Jeremiel smiled into the mirror at Michael. It did feel
good to say that.

“You don’t say? I’m sure your moms are very proud.” Nolte
had heard of archangels, but in all honesty, had no idea what they were. “Well
tell me, Messenger, why does every swinging dick, this side of Nantucket, want
to get their hands on my coin?”

Michael ignored the question.

Nolte pulled the waistband of his diaper away from his gut
and carefully placed three bottles of Johnnie Walker blue label down the front.
“I’ll save these for later.” He reached further into his diaper and pulled out
a wrinkled sandwich bag containing his half-crushed pack of Pall Mall Reds. He
fumbled with the bag and grumbled, trying not to get shit on his hands, until
he was able to extract a stained and crooked smoke. “Yeah, it’s a pain in the
ass, but it keeps them fresh and dry.” He said, glancing at the messenger from
under his brow.

The angel removed his sunglasses and stuffed them into his
cut. He stared at the shriveled excuse for a human until he noticed the small
tuft of cloth sticking out of Nolte’s chest. “What happened there?”

“Gunshot.” Nolte poked at the end of his cigarette, trying
to repack the frayed end. “Jealous husband caught me balls deep in his old
lady. I was changing that bitch’s religion.” He put the smoke between his teeth
and grinned. “Some people don’t have a sense of humor about that shit, do they?
Got a light, Nancy?” Nolte tapped his thumb to the top of his finger, mimicking
a lighter.

The archangel’s stare was piercing and his eyes were the
bluest, Nolte had ever seen. He felt a stirring in his crotch and it sickened
him, he, after all, was a lady’s man. “It figures. I’ve yet to meet a pillow
biter that smoked. So tell me, you and the dumb fucker driving, are you two
like boyfriend and girlfriend? Pitcher and catcher?” Nolte dug his own lighter
from the front of his diaper and spun the striker. “Fuck me, this thing keeps
getting wet.”

“Why don’t you keep it in the bag?” This human appeared to
be a few clowns short of a circus. A few clowns short of a circus, he liked
that, he would have to tell that one to Jerry.

“Well goddamn, ain’t you a fucking rocket surgeon?”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain!” Michael bolted
forward in his seat. “I will turn you into the shit-eating dog you are.”
Carelessly referring to the Almighty, really chapped Michael’s ass, but he
always gave out fair warning, before he administered punishment.

Nolte recoiled, biting down hard on his cigarette; the biker
messenger appeared to be a religious fanatic. “Simmer down. Princess, I didn’t
mean anything by it, it’s just an expression.”

“It’s an expression, you will not use again in my presence.”

The eyes of the angel took on an even deeper shade of blue.
Nolte’s crotch tingled again. “You have the bluest goddamned eyes I have ever
seen.”

Michael thrust his hand against Nolte’s chest. The back of
the limo flashed brilliantly and Nolte was gone. On the seat, where Nolte had
been sitting, was a soiled diaper, three miniatures of Johnnie Walker, a
Ziploc, a wet Bic lighter and a miniature Chihuahua. The Nolte-dog began
sniffing the diaper with great interest. It glanced once at the angel and
started licking the diaper in earnest.

“You like Dogs, don’t you Jerry?” Michael called to the
front of the car.

“Not especially.”

“Where are we headed?”

“New Orleans.”

“I wonder if they have a leash law.” Nolte-dog whimpered and
lapped hungrily. “Good boy.”

“Gabriel said this thing we’re doing, is straight from the
top.” Jeremiel wanted to tell Michael about the Show but didn’t want to hurt
his feelings while his chin was still damaged. Michael had been looking forward
to the Trumpets and Bowls since Christ had revealed the endgame to John. No one
had ever told Michael he would be in charge of the Trumpets, he, for some
reason unknown to the rest of them, had just assumed it would be him.

“Gabriel always says that.” Carefully, Michael unfolded the
diaper, so the tiny dog could better clean it. “That’s a good boy, eat it all.”

***

R
on
cut the wheel sharply to the right and back to the left. Charlie’s sleeping
head raised slightly from the car door he’d been resting it on and crashed back
hard. The empty pistol in his hand fell to the floorboard. “Real funny,"
he said groggily, "I remember the first time I drove a car.”

“Welcome to the Big Easy.” The sun was just breaking the
horizon; the glare on the bug painted windshield was incredible. “Look for a
place to get gas. I need some coffee.”