Kill the Dead

“No problem, Brenda. You have an extra cigarette?”

“My name’s Phil.”

“You have an extra cigarette, Chet?”

He walks away and gets a good twenty feet before he mumbles “Fuck you,” sure I can’t hear him.

I knock on Vidocq’s door to let him know I’m there and go inside.

“Hi,” says Allegra from behind the big cutting table where she and Vidocq prepare their potions. Vidocq is in the kitchen making coffee. He holds up the pot when he sees me.

“Good afternoon. You look like you’re still asleep.”

“I’m fine, just don’t wake my brain. I think it’s been drinking.”

Allegra walks over with a shit-eating grin on her face.

“No thank you, little girl. I don’t want to buy any of your cookies.”

Her smile doesn’t waver.

“Is it true? Is Lucifer really here in L.A.?”

I look at Vidocq.

“Word travels fast around these parts.”

He shrugs.

“We have no secrets.”

I turn back to Allegra.

“I spent the evening with a guy in a magic hotel room the size of Texas and decorated like the Vatican, if the Vatican was a whorehouse. I think there’s a pretty good chance it was Lucifer.”

“You knew him down in Hell, right? What’s he like?”

Vidocq brings me a cup of black coffee, holds up his cup in a little toast.

“Girls are obsessed with bad boys, man. How can we compete with the Prince of Darkness?” I ask.

He sits on the worn sofa and shrugs.

“We’ve already lost the battle. We accept defeat and move along, sadder but wiser.”

“Well?” says Allegra.

“What do I know that isn’t in the Bible or Paradise Lost?”

“Are those right? Are they accurate?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. I never read ’em, but they’re popular.”

She takes away my coffee cup and sets it on the table behind her.

“I want to hear it from you. Tell me what he’s like.”

“He’s exactly what you think he is. He’s good-looking, smart, and the scariest son of a bitch you can possibly imagine. He purrs like a cat one minute, and the next, he’s Lex Luthor with a migraine. He’s David Bowie, Charlie Manson, and Einstein all rolled into one.”

“That sounds pretty hot.”

“Of course he’s hot. That’s his job. He’s the guy you meet at a party that you take home and fuck even though every sensible part of your brain is screaming at you not to.”

“What’s so scary about him?”

“He’s the devil.”

“I mean have you ever seen him do any devil stuff. Anything really evil?”

“I live with a dead man’s talking head. I’d say that’s pretty fucked up.”

She hands me back my coffee, but is clearly not satisfied.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“I’ve never seen him turn a city into salt or make it rain blood. He doesn’t do that kind of thing. Why should he? We do most of the shitty stuff in this world. He can just sit back and watch us like HBO.”