The Perdition Score

He punches a few buttons, changing angles on some of the cameras.

“No. That’s more your speed, from what I’ve heard.”

“Really? Palace gossip about a small-town boy like me? The folks back in Arkansas will be so proud.”

He keeps at the console, not looking at me.

“No gossip. Just facts. I have friends on the force.”

“LAPD? They practically invented gossip. They’re worse than Hedda Hopper. They’re like the mean girls in a high school lunchroom. If they don’t know the truth, they’ll make something up just to see if they can make you cry.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

I lean my elbows on the edge of the console. Look up at the screens.

“I don’t know what I know sometimes. It’s a funny world. I saw bacon dance this afternoon. You ever see that? A whole plate. They could practically do a Busby Berkeley number.”

Willem draws in a breath and lets it out.

“What do you say we don’t talk for a while? Guests are starting to arrive.”

“Is there a red carpet? Will we know who they’re wearing?”

Willem ignores me.

THE GATHERING IS exactly what I was afraid of. A CIA torture session of wine, cheese, and tony chitchat. Maybe eating Brie just makes people stupid. I never trusted the stuff myself. Soft cheese is a reminder that all cheese is just milk that crawled into a ditch to die, then some lunatic came along, spread the corpse on a saltine, and invented hors d’oeuvres. Now people pay heroin prices for stuff they could make themselves if they only had the guts to strap a pint of whole milk to their engine block for a few days. Sure it might come out a little greasy, but that’ll just shoot the stuff through your system faster. No need to absorb any actual calories. This is L.A., where the food is prettier than the movie stars and twice as untouchable.

I look at Willem.

“How do you sit here like this without committing ritual suicide?”

He adjusts a camera angle.

“It’s my job.”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course. It’s an honor to work for the augur.”

I can’t see his eyes, so I can’t tell if he’s lying.

“Sitting in a stuffy room pushing buttons. I get it. I used to talk that way the last time I worked for a bigwig.”

He does a sarcastic little snort laugh.

“When did you ever work for someone respectable?”

“Respectable? Never. I used to work for Azazel, one of Lucifer’s generals. I guess I didn’t really ‘work’ for him. I was more of a slave. Anyway, I talked the way you do all the time. ‘What a great boss. What a great gig. I’m the luckiest boy in Candy Land.’”

He looks at me and says, “Bullshit,” but he takes his time about it. Savoring the moment.

I lean into the glow of the monitors to light up my face.

“You think I got these scars playing Jenga?”

“I’ve seen a hundred cons with faces like yours. You’re nothing special.”

That’s the second time in a couple of days someone said I look like a con. One more time and I’m getting a haircut.

I take the pause in the heartbreaking verbal abuse to look over the guests. A lot of old faces from the council meetings. I can’t remember most of their names, but I could find them in a crowd if I had to. A lot of new faces too.

Beautiful people. Perfect clothes. Teeth like CG snowscapes. Breasts lifted. Jowls tightened. You can tell the Sub Rosa men from the civilians because the civilians have hair plugs, while the balding Sub Rosa have hoodoo and self-loathing. I know I’m supposed to be listening for Wormwood giveaways, but I’d rather machine-gun the entire room than listen to any more chatter about private jets, vacation homes, or Arabian horses. I’d do it too. Wipe out the whole party, but Wormwood probably has bets on it and a mass slaughter would line someone’s pockets, so, for now, everyone is safe. As for why Abbot called me here, I haven’t heard one out-of-place word all evening.

“I’d say this whole thing is pretty much a bust. How ’bout you, Willem? Picking up any supervillain vibes from this bunch?”

“That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What are you here for?”

“To operate the equipment and to keep an eye on you.”

“I have been falling asleep at meetings recently. Do you ever have sleeping problems, Willem? I do. Nightmares and migraines. I found a cure, but I’m not sure it’s healthy. Not a keeper. What do you do to relax, Willem?”

He takes his hands from the console and wraps them together like he’s praying or wants to keep from punching me.

“Stop saying my name all the time.”

“Have I been? How rude. Say, Abbot said we could have stuff sent down here. What do you say to a couple of aperitifs?”

He shakes his head.

“Coffee is all you’re allowed.”

“Ouch. Of everything you’ve said tonight, that’s the most hurtful.”

Willem turns to face me. It’s the first time since we shook hands a couple of hours ago. A giveaway that this won’t be a lasting romance.

He says, “The augur sees something in you, so I’ve been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt. But you come in here with these games and attitude, and worst of all, this Hell bullshit. Is that supposed to scare me? Am I supposed to be impressed with your lies or, more likely, your delusions?”

“I know some card tricks too.”

“See? That’s what I’m talking about. You have nothing to say. Nothing to contribute except noise. If it was up to me, you wouldn’t just be barred from this boat. I’d keep you out of the whole marina.”

“Luckily, it’s not up to you, so we get to spend this quality time together.”

He turns back to the console.

“Just be quiet and try to do at least a little piece of your job.”