The Everything Box

  “Speak for yourself,” said Giselle. “That pizza was terrible. You should let me order next time.”

  “Okay. Next time,” said Coop, trying not to smile at the idea of a next time.

  “Oh, shit,” said Giselle. “Is the clock on the wall right?”

  Coop glanced at it. “It’s always on the dot.”

  “Then I’m late,” she said and rushed into the bedroom. She closed the door and Coop heard her rushing around getting dressed. He’d left his phone on the living room table last night. And now it rang.

  “Hello. Is this Charles Cooper?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “We haven’t met, but I’m Mr. Woolrich over at Peculiar Science. Technically, I was your boss until you decided to leave us.”

  “Right. You’re Salzman’s boss. He talked about you.” Coop kept sounding cheery as he talked, but backed quietly into his bedroom, where Giselle was half dressed. He looked at her as he talked. “So, Mr. Woolrich, what can I do for you?”

  Giselle’s forehead furrowed. “Woolrich?” she mouthed. Coop nodded.

  “There’s been a development here at the DOPS that I was hoping you could help us with.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Would you reconsider taking the job you were offered yesterday?”

  Coop opened his eyes wide at Giselle. She came over and put her ear next to the phone so she could hear.

  “Thanks, Mr. Woolrich. But as I explained to Salzman, once our deal was done, I wanted to go back to working for myself.”

  “Salzman,” said Woolrich slowly, drawing the name out. “You see, that’s the development. He’s disappeared. And so has the box.”

  Giselle put a hand over her mouth. Coop took the phone from his mouth whispering, “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” When he calmed down, he brought the phone back up again. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “I’m afraid not, Mr. Cooper.”

  Quietly, Coop said, “I’m really sorry to hear that, but I’m not sure what it has to do with me.”

  “A lot, I’m afraid. You see, since he’s missing with a key piece of DOPS property, he’s officially a criminal suspect. As such, any recent deals he might have made are null and void.”

  Now it was Giselle’s turn to whisper, “Fuckingfuck.”

  Coop took a breath. “Fuck.”

  “Indeed. We’re all a bit fucked right now.”

  “Are you saying that I’m still working for the DOPS whether I like it or not?”

  “Right again.”

  “Meaning I go back to jail if I don’t.”

  “I’m afraid so. That’s why I was asking if you wanted a real position here. That way we can get past all these silly threats.”

  “I hope you understand, this is a little early in the day for this kind of thing for me. Can I call you back later?”

  “Of course. Take your time. It’s only the future of the world at stake,” said Woolrich. “I notice that Agent Petersen isn’t at her desk yet. If you should happen to see her”—he cleared his throat—“let her know when you’re coming in and we’ll have a more formal chat then.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  “See you soon,” said Woolrich, and the line went dead.

  Giselle sat on the bed and pulled on her stockings. “So Salzman is gone. And my boss knows I spent the night with a career crook. And I don’t have time for coffee. Great morning so far.”

  “For what’s it worth, I don’t think he cared. About you being here, I mean. He sounded a lot more pissed off about Salzman.”

  Giselle buttoned her shirt and said, “What are you going to do?”

  “First off, I’m going to point out to you that that’s my shirt you’re wearing,” said Coop.

  Giselle rolled her eyes and unbuttoned it.

  He smiled. “I don’t mind you wearing it. Or taking it off. I like both, but wearing it might be a bit of a giveaway at work.”

  Giselle tossed Coop his shirt, found hers, buttoned it, and grabbed her shoes. She balanced with one hand on Coop’s shoulder, pulling on one, then the other. “How do I look?” she said.

  “Immensely fuckable,” said Coop.

  She pushed past him. “You’re useless, jailbird.”

  Giselle went into the living room and stood in front of Qaphsiel. “How do I look?” she said. “Like a professional? Like someone ready for work?”

  Qaphsiel nodded. “Yes. You look very nice. Like the office women downtown.”

  “Perfect. Thanks,” she said. Heading for the door, she pointed at Coop, saying, “Call me later. We have to figure out this Woolrich/Salzman thing.”

  “There’s nothing to figure out. I’m working for the DOPS again. Whatever Salzman’s done, I’m going to have to steal the box. Again.”

  “Why don’t you come by at one for lunch? We can work out a strategy then.”

  “Yeah. Let’s do that.” Coop shook his head. “Morty isn’t going to be happy. Spiders excepted, the job the other night went pretty well. Having to do it again is bad luck.”

  “Hang on to that thought. I’ll see you later.” She slammed the door and Coop could hear her running down the front steps. He looked at Qaphsiel.

  “What would you do in my position? Go to work for people you don’t like or go back to jail? You’d be away from the crazy kind of heavy danger that bad people want to drop on your head, but you’d be locked up for a long time . . . and surrounded by bad people who might want to drop heavy things on your head.”

  Qaphsiel only had to think about it for a few seconds. “I’ve been on this planet for four thousand years. To you, Earth looks like the world. You go where you please and do what you want. For me, Earth is a prison. No matter how far I go or what I accomplish, I’m still locked away far from home. And it hurts.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it like that.” Coop looked at him. “Are all angels as cheery as you in the morning?”

  “I hear Lucifer can be a bit grumpy.”

  “Well, you try sleeping on a pointy tail,” said Coop. “You’re saying I should take the job.”

  “I’m saying that you already know what you’re going to do. You just have to admit it to yourself.”

  “Thank you, Buddha. I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to get some coffee and see if there’s any pizza left. You want some?”

  Qaphsiel stood up. “No. Thank you,” he said. “I know this is upsetting for you, but, in a way, it’s good news for me. If this Salzman has stolen the box, then it’s out of the impregnable vault you talked about, and that means I can start looking for it again.”

  “How are you going to do that?”

  Qaphsiel held up his map.

  “That’s a rag,” said Coop.

  “To mortal eyes. To me, it’s a map of the Earth and the cosmos. I found you with the map and I’ll find Salzman.”

  “You know he’s a mook, right?”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s dead, but he still dresses and talks like he’s got Donald Trump jammed up his ass.”

  Qaphsiel steepled his fingers together. “Interesting. I’ve never tried to track a revenant before. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”

  Coop poured black coffee into a cup and looked for the sugar. “I like the nothing ventured part. The other sounds like a lot of work.”

  Qaphsiel came into the kitchen and put his hand out. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Coop. Good luck on whatever you choose. I hope we meet again someday.”

  “Yeah. Me, too,” said Coop, shaking Qaphsiel’s hand. “But you’re still going to blow up the world if you find the box, aren’t you?”

  Qaphsiel nodded. “I’m afraid so. I can’t take a chance on losing it again. All the more reason you and Ms. Giselle should be nice to each other. You never know when . . .” He made an explosion sound with his mouth.

  “You angels really are cheery fuckers. See you around. This life or the next.”

  Qaphsiel quietly let himself o
ut of the apartment. He didn’t want to show how excited he was inside because it might hurt Coop’s feelings. Coming this close to the box and losing it had hurt. But having it on the loose again, it made him feel like it was out in the world just for him. All he had to do now was figure out how to track a dead man. He’d stake out a place in Griffith Park and get straight to work.

  A ringing woke the Dark High Magister. He looked around, annoyed, wondering what the hell those Red Lobster bastards down the block were doing ringing bells this early in the morning.

  Something rang again, and it wasn’t outside. It was in his pocket. He took out his phone and pushed the button to answer.

  “Hello?” someone said.

  “Hello?” said the Magister.

  “It’s me. Coral Snake.”

  “Carol? I don’t know any Carols. Are you sure you have the right number?”

  “It’s me. Coral Snake. It’s my code name,” whispered the voice.

  “That’s silly. What kind of code name is Carol?”

  Louder, the voice said, “It’s me. Tommy from the Caleximus congregation.”

  Idiot, thought the Magister. “Why didn’t you just say so? Why did you waste my time with that Carol nonsense?”

  “Coral. C-O-R-A-L Snake. It’s the code name we talked about so no one would know I was talking to you.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  There was a pause on the line. “Maybe this was a mistake.”

  “No, Carol. Don’t go,” said the Magister quickly. “Do you have any information for us?”

  “Well, we don’t know where the box is yet.”

  Double idiot, he thought. Why did he ever make a deal with this kid? “What about this Craig you were looking for?”

  “Coop.”

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Trust me. It’s Coop. And we don’t know where he is, either.”

  There was a crusty something on the arm of the Magister’s Barcalounger. A tiny bit of fried fish from last night’s dinner. He picked at it with his thumb. “Well, this is exciting news, Carol. You’ve called to tell me that you Caleximus buffoons know nothing and are working hard at knowing even more nothing than before. Is that the gist of this exciting conversation?”

  “No. Listen. We don’t know where Coop or the box are, but we know where someone he knows is. Steve, our high priest, figures that if we snatch her, we can get Coop to give us the box.”

  “Wait,” said the Magister. “You call your high priest Steve?”

  “Yeah. That’s his name.”

  “Even our San Diego dickheads wouldn’t call their leader by his first name. This is exactly what I’d expect from Caleximus heretics.”

  “Hey,” said the phone. It sounded annoyed. “There are some nice people in the congregation.”

  “I’m sure there are, Carol, but that’s not the point. We’re talking about total world destruction and domination. You want to be on the winning team, don’t you? Do you really think a dark god such as Abaddon is going to let a Steve help rule the Earth?”

  “I guess not.”

  “Damn right. So, when does High Priest Steve intend on snatching Craig’s friend?”

  “Coop. Tonight. Maybe tomorrow. We’re staking out her apartment.”

  Finally, some sense from this kid. “Good for you. When you get hold of her, let me know immediately. And find out where they’re taking her. We’ll scoop her up and deal with Craig ourselves.”

  “You won’t hurt anyone, will you?”

  The Magister spoke in the high, soft voice he reserved for toddlers and skittish cats. “Of course not, Carol. Abaddon is a kind and generous god, full of compassion for all living things.”

  “I kind of think you’re being sarcastic now.”

  “Gracious, no.”

  Silence.

  “Carol, we’re going to stomp the living gravy out of anyone who gets in our way. Now, listen. It’s important that no one know you’re helping us. When we sweep in to take the girl, you have to stay and fight, but you don’t have to get hurt too badly. Just fall down the first time someone hits you.”

  “I can do that. I don’t like fighting.”

  “Okay, but for God’s sake, don’t be a pansy about it,” said the Magister. “Let someone get in a good shot. You’re going to want a black eye to stay on everybody’s good side. Understand me?”

  “Yes, sir. I can do that.”

  “Oh, and from now on you can address me as ‘Dark High Magister.’ Or ‘Lord,’ once we get to know each other better.”

  “Yes, High Dark Magister.”

  “No. Dark High.”

  “Dark High. Got it. Okay, I’ve got to go before someone hears me.”

  “And how do you say good-bye?”

  “Oh. Good night, High Dark Magister.”

  “Dark High.”

  “Dark High Magister. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Carol.” Ass, he thought. Funny voice for a girl.

  At about twelve thirty, Coop left Morty’s apartment and headed up to Sunset Boulevard to catch a cab to the DOPS. L.A., like most big cities, loves a parade. There are big ones, such as the Parade of Roses, Chinese New Year, Cinco de Mayo, Gay Pride, the Fourth of July, the Christmas Parade, and a dozen other smaller ones spread out around the county. But the one true, twenty-four-hour-a-day, 365-days-a-year L.A. parade is the endless promenade of cars. Tricked-out lowriders lined up at street corners nose to nose with pristine ’66 Shelby Mustangs, eccentrics driving hand-rebuilt Stanley Steamers, families in rusted-out Reagan-era shit boxes held together with Bondo and fervent prayer, and Rolls-Royce Silver Clouds. Coop had grown up with it all. Seen every possible combination. That, combined with the fact that he was thinking about Giselle naked saying “Do me, spaceman” and the sweet scent of pepperoni in the air, is why he didn’t notice the Cadillac XTS limousine paralleling him up Gower.

  It wasn’t until the rear passenger door opened and a blond man in a dark suit leaned out with a phone in his hand that Coop noticed anything strange.

  “Call you for you,” he said. Coop looked around, trying to figure out if it was a gag or another DOPS ambush.

  “Uh . . . I’m not in.”

  The blond man wiggled the phone in his hand and said, “Morty really wants to talk to you.”

  Coop came over, took the phone from the blond man, and said, “Hello?”

  “Coop. Is that you? It’s me. Morty.”

  “What’s going on? Where are you?”

  “Things are fucked up. Get in the car, Coop. They’ll explain everything.”

  The line went dead. Coop handed the phone back to the blond man, who motioned for him to get in the car. Coop smiled . . . and started running. He made it around the corner onto Sunset Boulevard and all the way down the next block before the Caddy cut him off at the corner. The blond man looked a lot bigger when he got out of the car. So did the black guy with the marine crew cut who was now with him. They each took one of Coop’s arms and threw him into the back of the Caddy with no more trouble than someone’s grandma tossing a bag of bananas in the trunk.

  The car started up again and eased back into traffic. There were several other men in the back of the car. None of them smiled, and only one was any smaller than a mobile home. Coop took the one vacant seat, across from the one normal-size guy. Motörhead’s “Killed by Death” blasted over the car’s stereo system. The normal guy pressed a button on his armrest and the volume lowered to a dull roar.

  “Why did you run like that?” he said.

  “’Cause the setup looked like a kidnapping,” said Coop.

  “It was a phone call. If I wanted to kidnap you, I wouldn’t do it in broad daylight on Sunset in front of everyone.”

  “Except that’s what you did just now. Like ten seconds ago.”

  “That was a misunderstanding. Trust me, if it had been a kidnapping and you ran, we wouldn’t be chatting so amicably on account of you screaming about your broken arm
s and legs. Understand?”

  “Sure. You’re just my ride to work. Where’s Morty?”

  “Your name’s Coop, right?”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  The normal guy listened to the music for a few seconds and said, “You can call me Lemmy. Mr. Lemmy.” The big guys all laughed at that.

  “Where’s Morty, Mr. Lemmy?”

  He thought about the question for a minute and said, “You ever been on a plane, Coop?”

  “What? Sure.”

  “So, you know what a sick bag is. It’s one of those little plastic-lined bags they give you. The plane shakes around and you don’t feel so good. You get your sick bag, puke into it, and throw it away.”

  Coop looked at Mr. Lemmy, the way he smiled at him. Lemmy was small and wiry, with thin hair and a pencil-thin mustache. Like John Waters with a Glock under his jacket.

  “Can I make a guess about something, Mr. Lemmy?”

  “Feel free.”

  “I’m the sick bag, right?”

  Mr. Lemmy pointed to him. “You and your friend Morty, yes.”

  “Understood. But from here on out, could you threaten me like a normal person and not talk about puke anymore? I’ve had a rough morning.”

  “Sure, Coop. No more metaphors or similes, whichever it was I just said.”

  “A metaphor, boss,” said the marine-looking black guy.

  “Was it? Thank you. And shut up,” said Mr. Lemmy. He turned back to Coop. “You like to cut to the chase? Good. Me, too. I want the fucking luck box.”

  “I think I heard of that. It’s a new Swedish porn flick, right?”

  “Someone hit him, please.”

  Blondie punched him in the stomach—which is surprisingly painful when you’re sitting down. Coop felt like his bones were all balloons and someone had let the air out. “I don’t have the box,” he said.

  Mr. Lemmy thrust a finger at him. “That’s not what Babylon told us, before we fed him to those fucking spiders he likes so much. See, we had a deal to buy the box. Then I find out he was talking to some broads about selling it to them behind my back. Only, he tells us, they weren’t really buying. They were just wasting everybody’s time so you could get into his place and steal the box.”

  Coop held up a hand. “You’re right. I broke in and I took it. But I don’t have it anymore.”