The Everything Box

  Coop leaned back against the wall. “You go on ahead. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  After Morty left, Coop sat alone at the table. He looked around the Grande Old Tyme. To him, the crowd had the doomed look of people buying the bargain seats at an Arkansas Greyhound station. Coop knew he wasn’t a Scrooge. I’m a goddamn Christmas elf compared to this bunch.

  As he scanned the room, he noticed a woman at a table by herself. A blonde. Not usually his type, but at least she didn’t look like the funeral home had burned down and taken Daddy’s corpse with it. She looked back at him and smiled. Coop tried smiling back, but the more he tried, the more self-conscious he became, until he realized he didn’t quite remember how smiling worked. It was like his face had developed amnesia. Finally, he forced the ends of his lips upward in what he thought might be an approximation of a smile and looked back at the blonde.

  She picked up her bag and walked out the door.

  Coop got up and went to the bar.

  “I might have to leave town soon. Maybe the state,” he said.

  “Why?” said Morty, alarmed.

  “I have a feeling that blonde is going straight to the police and tell them I’m a serial killer.”

  Morty looked around. “What woman?”

  “She left. I scared her away. I’m officially woman repellent.”

  “Maybe you got lucky,” said Morty. “Maybe she was a serial killer.”

  Coop thought about it for a minute. “Unlikely. But thanks.”

  “Any time.”

  “I’m not sure I should smile at people anymore.”

  “Yours is a little strained these days,” said Morty.

  Sally came up with a drink in each hand. “Definitely don’t smile at people. You do look like you wonder what their liver tastes like.”

  “Thanks.”

  She nodded. “Any time. Get laid, Coop. Don’t smile at a dog until you do.”

  “Unless it’s a really cute dog,” Tintin suggested.

  “Not even then. It would be cruelty to animals,” said Sally on her way to their table. The others followed her. The fact that none of the others said anything told him everything he needed to know.

  When he got the bartender’s attention he said, “Whiskey. Neat.”

  “A shot? A double? How much?”

  “All you’ve got.”

  FOURTEEN

  THE ANGEL QAPHSIEL AND A MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF simply Frank were sitting at a card table in room 8 at a hotel on East Sixth Street in L.A.’s Skid Row district. The bottom floor of the hotel housed an extremely questionable fish-and-chips joint (the question being the composition of the fish. It was, in fact, fish and not some clever scientific construct, like flounder-flavored packing peanuts. The chips were generally considered all right, even if their age bordered on the Jurassic). The room smelled like old grease and a chemical forest, probably from all the pine-scented deodorizers that hung from every vertical surface. It was like Eden, Qaphsiel thought, if Eden had been dipped in batter and Kentucky fried by the banks of a chemical plant. Still, even in such dismal surroundings, Qaphsiel was excited.

  “So,” he said.

  “So,” said Frank.

  “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “I’m always happy to meet another seeker of the truth.”

  The room was hot. Qaphsiel unzipped his Windbreaker halfway, careful not to expose his wings. “So, you’re a religious man.”

  Frank cocked his head. “More spiritual than religious. That’s how I found the box.”

  “Really? How?”

  Frank spoke in a slightly rapturous tone. “I was in Tibet, meditating with a group of very old, very psychically powerful monks. All we’d had to eat or drink for days was yak butter tea.”

  “Was it cold?”

  “The tea?”

  “Tibet.”

  “It’s Tibet. What do you think?”

  “Cold then.”

  “As a witch’s tit on a ski lift.”

  Qaphsiel smiled. “Eloquent. So, you were meditating.”

  “Yes, with the monks, when my consciousness was pierced by a blinding pure white light.” Frank held up his hands like he was giving a benediction.

  “And that’s when you saw it?”

  “No. That’s when I met with my spirit guide, Flamel.”

  “Nicolas Flamel? The alchemist?” said Qaphsiel.

  “Yes. You’ve heard of him?”

  Qaphsiel nodded, the tiniest hint of suspicion creeping into his mind. But he stopped himself. He’d been on the hunt for so long that it was easy to get cynical. “Of course. My, your fifteenth-century French must be very good.”

  Frank looked puzzled, then nodded and gave him a good-natured smile. “Well, you know how it is in these disembodied spiritual situations. I could understand him and he could understand me.”

  “Of course. I should have guessed. Please go on.”

  “Anyway, Flamel took me deep into a cave in an unnamed mountain high in the Himalayas.”

  Qaphsiel looked around the room. There were stacks of old books on Bible ciphers, the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Tibetan Buddhism, various grimoires. Also, some vintage Playboys that someone had tried to cover up with a prayer shawl. “It was darned lucky of you running into a French alchemist all the way in Tibet.”

  “Wasn’t it?” said Frank. “Old Nicolas, he gets around.”

  “Probably cashing in those frequent flyer miles.”

  Frank laughed. “You got it. Anyway, he takes me deep into a cave full of spiritual objects. The True Cross. Lost books and manuscripts. Dorjes. Reliquaries.”

  “And that’s where you found the box.”

  “No. That’s where I found a book with a map to Aghartha.”

  “Aghartha?”

  “Yes. It’s where the ascended masters live in the center of the Earth.”

  Qaphsiel turned his head slightly. “The center?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of the Earth?” Crossing his fingers, Qaphsiel said, “And that’s where you found the box?”

  “No. That’s where I met a priest who took me to the lost city of Shamballah.”

  Qaphsiel took a deep breath. “You know, perhaps I don’t need the whole blow-by-blow.”

  Frank shrugged. “I’m just making the point that it was a long and arduous journey.”

  “And I feel like I’ve been with you every step of the way.”

  Frank ticked off a list with his fingers. “I mean, there was an ocean of fire. And highwaymen and pirates.”

  “Were the pirates on the sea of fire?”

  Frank shook his head. “No. A different sea.”

  “Then I definitely don’t need the whole story.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself, but you’re missing a good one.”

  “My loss,” said Qaphsiel. He cleared his throat. “May I see the box?”

  Frank hesitated. “Well, after such a taxing journey, I mean, buying a parka and supplies, flying to Tibet . . .”

  “You want to see the money.”

  Frank put his hands together as if in prayer. “Please. I’m planning a new journey. There’s a beaver in India who can tell you your past lives through . . .”

  “A beaver? In India?”

  “Yes. How it got there is an interesting story, if you have the time.”

  “I don’t!” said Qaphsiel quickly. Then he added, “I don’t usually carry cash. Will this do?” He opened a hand and gold coins cascaded onto the table.

  Frank stared. “Holy shit.”

  Qaphsiel smiled tightly. “Spoken with the poetry of the truly enlightened. Now may I see the box?”

  “Sure,” said Frank. He went to an altar to Ganesha and brought back a cloth bundle.

  Qaphsiel took out his map. Shapes and lines drifted across its surface, showing patterns of divine power. “Hmm. This is puzzling,” he said. “If this really is the box you say it is, there should be some sign on my map.”

  Frank held his
hand over the bundle as if blessing it. “It’s wrapped in a magic, protective cloth.”

  Qaphsiel smiled. “Ah. That must be it.” It looked like a knockoff Gucci scarf with the tag clipped off.

  Frank stacked the coins on one side of the table while Qaphsiel carefully unwrapped the box on the other. He frowned when he saw it, bent his head down, and opened the lid just a crack so he could look inside. He closed it quickly.

  “Nope. That’s not the box,” said Qaphsiel.

  Frank looked up from his piles of coins. “You sure? You should check again.”

  “Trust me. I know what’s in the box, and this isn’t it.”

  Frank shrugged. “Sorry, man. This is the only box like it in the world. I brought it all the way back—”

  “Yes, from where a monk and a Frenchman and a pirate and probably a sphinx and a talking beaver named Mr. Waffles told you it was hidden.” Qaphsiel turned the box over.

  Frank looked up from his horde. “Hey, I went to a lot of trouble to find that.”

  Qaphsiel turned the box over in his hands. “Really? Was the first Pier One closed?”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me a crook?”

  Qaphsiel pointed to a spot on the box. His shoulders sagged. “It clearly says ‘Made in Japan’ on the bottom.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Someone did a good job of rubbing it out, but it’s there. I have better eyes than most mortals.”

  Frank pushed his chair back from the table. “Who are you?”

  Qaphsiel set down the box. “It’s my own fault for looking on Craigslist. But that’s where Gabriel found the Holy Grail, so it seemed worth a try.”

  “Hey, pal, I asked you a question. Who are you?” said Frank. He put his hand in his jacket pocket. Qaphsiel hadn’t noticed the suspicious bulge of a pistol there before.

  He sighed deeply. “You’re the thirteenth mortal who’s tried to sell me a false box.”

  Frank stood and backed away. “Okay, buddy. You wanted a box. I brought you a box. Now I’m taking my gold and leaving.”

  “You’re half right,” Qaphsiel said. “You know, I used to have great powers, but most were taken away by the archangels after my . . . indiscretion.”

  “Archangels, right,” Frank said, moving slowly away.

  Qaphsiel pushed the box off the table onto the floor, where its cheap hinges snapped off. “In the old days, I would have just turned you into a worm and let you live out your final days contemplating your sin.”

  Frank angled his way around the room, heading for the door. “A worm? Sure thing, nut log. I’m going now.”

  “I don’t have that kind of power anymore, but I can still do this.” Qaphsiel pointed a finger at him like a gun and said, “Bang.”

  Frank exploded like a piñata full of beef stew.

  Qaphsiel went to the Ganesha altar and found a roach clip next to an old bong serving double duty as a flower vase. Stepping carefully around fresh Frank chunks, he sifted through the man’s possessions trying to find out who he really was.

  The first thing he found was a medallion on a chain. Qaphsiel picked it up with the clip, expecting to find a yin-yang symbol or maybe an ankh. When he held the medallion up to the light he gasped and dropped it on the floor. It was the sigil of Abaddon, the Destroyer.

  A folded piece of paper lay nearby. He picked it up with the clip and shook it open. It was a flyer for a bake sale. Someone had drawn rather obscene sketches on all the pastries. A glazed donut seemed to be sodomizing a carrot cake. Qaphsiel was about to toss the flyer aside when something in the bottom corner caught his eye. It was small. Almost hidden.

  The symbol for Caleximus, the Ravager.

  This is it, Qaphsiel thought. Abaddon and Caleximus worshippers? Those Doomsday nitwits. He understood now that it was a race for the end of the world. He had to find the box. And soon.

  He picked up his map from the table. Lines of force drifted north and west toward a spot in Hollywood. Fountain Avenue.

  Fountain Avenue?

  Qaphsiel dropped the roach clip and the flyer and tiptoed carefully out of the room, whispering what had now become his eternal Earthly mantra:

  “Oh, crap. Oh, crap. Oh, crap . . .”

  FIFTEEN

  AT NINE THIRTY-FIVE IN THE EVENING COOP SAID, “Remember that getting the box isn’t enough. We have to get it to the buyer before midnight.”

  He and the crew were on Fifth Street, parked in a van provided for the occasion by Mr. Babylon. The Blackmoore Building was half a block north, between Figueroa and Flower Streets, with a picturesque view of the Bonaventure Hotel.

  “You’ve reminded us of that like twenty times in the last hour,” said Sally.

  All four of them were seated in the back of the van with their equipment—a bag of gear for Coop, plus a jar about the size of a coffee can. Small scrabbling sounds came from inside it, like an insect mosh pit. Tintin sat in the very rear of the van, as far from the jar as possible.

  “Well, it’s good to remember,” said Coop.

  “Right,” said Morty. “But what happens if Fast Eddie doesn’t make it in? I mean, what if he falls off the roof or something?”

  Everyone looked at Coop. He picked up the jar and shook it. The scrabbling got louder. Morty nodded. Sally moved to the back of the van with Tintin.

  “Any other questions?”

  No one said anything. Tintin looked at his watch. “It’s almost time.”

  Coop opened the side of the van. He reached for the bag with his tools, but Sally grabbed it first. “I’ll get this. You just make sure not to drop that,” she said, pointing to the jar.

  Coop nodded. He and the others got out and walked the rest of the way to the Blackmoore Building, looking as inconspicuous as four people dressed in ninja black, carrying a bag full of semimystical tools and a mason jar full of little six-legged nightmares could.

  Fast Eddie stood on the roof of the Ketchum Insurance Tower, just a few yards away from the roof of the Blackmoore Building. Eddie wore black jeans and a black T-shirt with an arrow pointing down and the words BEER GOES HERE above it. He was tall, with a beard and an impressive, some might say heroically sized, gut. The look suited him, though probably not in the way he intended. To most people, Eddie looked less like a thief and more like a grizzly bear trying to pass for human by wearing people clothes. It didn’t get him a lot of dates, but it was great for maintaining discipline among his crew.

  Harrison was the first across the zip line that led from the Ketchum’s roof to the Blackmoore. Racer X went next. Eddie popped the clip on his 1911 Colt .45, checked that it was loaded, and slammed it back into place. Then he went down the zip. The steel line sagged under his weight, and the metal pitons that held it in place shook. But after a few seconds of semi–free fall, he touched down safe and sound. He checked his watch. It was nine fifty-nine. He nodded to the others. Racer X gently placed his hand on a locked door on the Blackmoore Building’s roof and after a few seconds of waiting, it popped open. Inside, they pried open an elevator door and Harrison rigged more lines. With belay devices secured to their waist harnesses, they hooked onto the wires.

  Fast Eddie reached into the pack Harrison wore on his back and took out two smaller packs. He wriggled his shoulders into one and handed the other to Racer X. “You understand how this works, right?” Eddie growled.

  Racer X nodded. “Totally. I’m the new guy.”

  “And what does the new guy do?”

  “I carry the blasting caps and you carry the Semtex.”

  “And what is your number-one job?”

  “Not to blow my sorry ass up,” said Racer X.

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m a dime a dozen, but blasting caps are expensive.”

  “Good boy,” said Eddie.

  Harrison frowned, but didn’t let Eddie see. He looked around the big man at his little brother. “Plus, you’d piss me off,” he said.

  Racer X grinned. “Me,
too,” he said.

  “Good,” said Eddie and shoved the kid. He disappeared into the open elevator shaft. “You go first.”

  All twelve of Caleximus’s worshippers were crammed together like a cargo of sullen plush toys in the construction company’s cargo van. Steve was at the wheel. He turned off Figueroa just before Fifth Street and parked at the Ketchum Insurance Tower’s loading dock. Jorge checked his watch. “Ten oh five,” he said.

  Steve craned his head around. No one was there. “Okay,” he said. “We’re a little early, so it’ll give everybody a chance to settle down. Lloyd should be out in fifteen minutes. Everybody know their job?”

  The others nodded or murmured, “Yes.”

  Steve turned around in the driver’s seat. “Come tomorrow, those Abaddonian jackasses are going to shit themselves blind.”

  People laughed. Tensely.

  Tommy raised his hand.

  “We’re not in grade school, Tommy. Just say what you’ve got to say,” said Steve.

  “Why do we all have to be here?” he said, wiggling his shoulders like he hoped a little more space might magically appear around him if he whined enough.

  Steve said, “I told you why. I asked for volunteers and you all disappointed Caleximus. Therefore, I volunteered us all. Is that it?”

  “No. I, uh, I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”

  People groaned. Jerry elbowed him in the ribs. “You should have done it back at the site like the rest of us,” he said.

  “I couldn’t do it,” whined Tommy. “Those chemical toilets haven’t been cleaned in like a century. It’s like hovering my ass over a chocolate volcano. Who knows when it might go off?”

  Steve looked at Jorge, who shook his head.

  “Young man, you had your chance and you missed it,” said Steve. “So, now your chocolate volcano will remain dormant until after we’re done. You understand? We’re on a holy mission tonight. You don’t think the Crusaders marching off to war stopped to shit, do you?”

  “Actually, I read in a book that most of the first Crusaders had dysentery by the time they reached the Holy Land,” said Janet, Tommy’s girlfriend. “They shit on their horses. They shit in their armor. They shit everywhere.”

  “Thank you for sharing that tasteful bit of information,” said Steve. “With luck, we won’t have to resort to anything quite so . . .”