Bobby Dollar [04] God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlepig Read online

  god rest ye merry, gentlepig

  (a bobby dollar christmas story)

  by tad williams

  © Beale-Williams Enterprise 2014

  Tad Williams has asserted his rights in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  Published by Beale-Williams Enterprise

  First published in eBook format in 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-78301-566-5

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the Publisher.

  All names, characters, places, organisations, businesses and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  eBook Conversion by www.ebookpartnership.com

  Contents

  God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlepig

  Like emergency-room doctors and Chinese restaurant waiters, angels don’t get holidays off.

  That’s why, on the December 24th in question, instead of knocking back heavily spiked eggnog with the other regulars at the Compasses, I was standing next to the magazine rack in a Kaiser Hospital waiting room, gritting my teeth through the umpteenth rendition of “Hark, The Herald Angels Sing” on the pumped-in music while pretending to read an old copy of Sports Illustrated. Outside on the streets, pretty much everyone else was still thrashing through the last-minute shopping crowds. I was waiting for an old man to die.

  That’s my job, see. Well, that’s where my job begins, anyway. I’m an angel, a heavenly advocate, name of Doloriel, although down here on earth most people call me Bobby Dollar. I earn my living right after your heart stops and your monitors go flatline -- yes, even on Christmas Eve.

  And that was what had just happened to Petar Vesić, aged ninety-eight years, nine months, forty-three days, two hours, and sixteen minutes.

  The moment I felt him slip the bonds of his mortal body, I hurried to the late Mr. Vesić’s room. We don’t like to leave the newly dead waiting too long -- they get disoriented. When I got there, I opened one of the doorways out of time that we call a “Zipper” and stepped through. The other side of the Zipper was just the same as the real world in most ways, except for a couple of things: one, time wasn’t moving there and it wasn’t going to as long as I was present, and two, there were two human shapes, both named Vesić and both dead, but one of them was moving. One of them was the body, lying motionless in a web of tubes, the other was looking down on idispassionately, as if it were nothing more than a broken-down old car he was abandoning -- not real sentimental, is what I’m staying. His soul-form showed he had been fairly wiry for such an old guy, not much fat on him, still a little muscle. Lots of scars, too.

  “Petar Vesić,” I said. “God loves you.”

  He was bald, wrinkled, and leathery as a turtle without a shell. There was something faintly reptilian about his eyes, too, a detachment I’d seen a few times before, usually on men getting ready to die, but not so often after they had already accomplished it.

  “Yes,” he said. “I thought they’d send someone.” A European undertone to his words, one I couldn’t immediately recognize. “Not like you, though.”

  This wasn’t the first time I’d been caught off-guard by a client, but it was certainly one that sticks with me. “What do you mean, not like me?”

  “Someone more frightening -- at least better dressed.” The soul-image shook his head. “Or is something else going on? I never trusted the fucking priests, anyway.”

  I recovered the thread. “My name is Doloriel. I am an angel, your advocate at judgment. I will speak for you.” I explained what was going to happen. His expression, which had never been cheerful, went completely lemon juice.

  “Fuck!” he said. “I don’t want to hear it all again. I really don’t give a shit -- I’m guilty of everything. Just let me talk to the judge. I want to make a bargain.”

  “The…judge…isn’t really that kind of judge. I mean, after the trial he doesn’t go home, take off his tie, and dandle his grandchildren on his knee.”

  Vesić squinted at me as if I was one of those grandchildren and I’d just pissed in someone’s lap. “Fuck me, I don’t care, angel. I did it all. I’m blood up to here. Just let me talk to the judge. That’s fair.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, mostly because I didn’t know anything about him, yet. I was waiting to hear from his guardian angel -- that’s where we get the information on the souls of the recently dead -- but the next thing that happened was the sudden and routinely magnificent appearance of Its Honor, Ambriel of the Third Sphere. Heavenly judges are from the highest rank of angels that preside over Earth; when they show up, it’s a bit like having a star go nova in your extreme celestial vicinity. Bright. Beautiful but indistinct. Like music straight into your eyes.

  I knew better than to look straight into the judge’s A-bomb flash, but I was still a bit dazzled, and Vesić fell down on his soul-hands and soul-knees, wagging his head like he’d been poleaxed. I was glad to see he was grasping the seriousness of the situation a little more firmly now, but I still had no idea what he’d been talking about with his “blood up to here” remark. Didn’t sound good, though.

  “You really don’t want to know about this one,” said something next to my ear. It was a high-pitched voice with a buzzing to the edge of it, almost a whine, like a bee’s wings. Even though I’d been waiting for the dead man’s guardian angel, it still startled me.

  “Where have you been?”

  A bobbing sizzle of light appeared in front of me. “Getting ready,” it said. “You’d better be ready, too.” Guardian angels look like a cross between Tinker Belle and that laser pointer you can get cats to chase. They accompany a soul all through earthly life and they know all the embarrassing details, kind of like a tiny gossip columnist who only writes about one celebrity.

  “Glad you’re here,” I told the little light. “I take it this is a bad one?”

  “Weird one. Bad, too -- and sad and ugly. I’m not sorry to be finished.”

  Before we could exchange any more pleasantries, I was interrupted by the arrival of the last player in our little comic opera -- my opposite number, Chickenleg. The prosecuting demon was a greasy, ugly dude with a huge, dangling nose like one of those postcard monkeys, but he was also a pretty fair litigator in a wear-you-down sort of way. Not that this judgment looked like it was going to be a marathon, from what I’d heard so far. It’s tough when your own client wants to lose.

  Chickenleg had already plucked his own, demonic version of a guardian out of the air, something about the size of a baby hummingbird. This particular “infernal account executive” -- yeah, now you know where all those HR departments get their job titles -- was uglier than usual, like a melted wasp humping a sack of pus. Chickenleg popped the ugly thing in his mouth and chewed. In Hell, that’s what you call “conferring with associates”.

  “Well, look here -- it’s Doloriel,” the prosecutor said as he swallowed, his neck distended and shiny. “How’s it hanging?”

  “About the same. Generally vertical but with occasional shifts in the axis.” I can’t say I liked the guy, but there are far worse demons to deal
with. Trust me on that. “I’d love to talk all day,” I told him, “-- hey, maybe we could take in a show and go dancing later -- but I still haven’t debriefed my guardian.”

  Chickenleg’s watery eyes bulged as what he’d swallowed hit his brain, or whatever node of foulness a demon’s got in his head. As the knowledge flowed into him, his misshapen mouth opened in a huge, jagged grin. “Oh, ho, ho!” he said, sounding like your drunk uncle trying to get you to laugh at a dirty joke. “Oh, ho! You’ll love this one, Dollar!”

  Putting it off wasn’t going to make it any better. I lifted Heaven’s guardian to my ear, then let it climb in and dose me with information about the deceased Mr. Vesić.

  I don’t know about you, but I always find it disorienting when the entirety of a dead person’s life just rushes into my head. Imagine someone’s life and personality just… drops into your mind and memories. One second not there, the next, you feel like you’ve known them your whole life. Fortunately, something about the guardian angels means we advocates don’t swallow every single memory all at the same time, but we can reach for them and summon them. The smaller memories, that is. The big ones, the important experiences, come smashing in all at once and they’re just there -- boom! Right in the middle of your mind, and it’s powerful. That’s how it is for us advocate angels even with the life of a young child or a very sheltered adult. Now imagine what it’s like when that life-dump belongs to an angry, half-crazy old man of nearly a hundred, who also happens to be a war criminal and a werewolf.

  Yeah. Exactly.

  But as any earthly lawyer will tell you, you can’t give up just because your case is unwinnable. Everyone is entitled to representation.

  So I hitched up my belt and started my opening remarks, which were pretty much like “everyone makes mistakes, and some of us accidentally eat a few people,” but Vesić pushed past me, headed straight for the judge. He was definitely a little chastened by Ambriel’s impressive entrance, but he still had that fierce impatience so unusual in the recent dead. Even the judge was a little startled by his bluster -- you could see it in the momentary flicker of her aura. I say “her” not because it was obvious (she resembled the business end of a Fourth of July sparkler) but because I knew from experience that Ambriel was one of those angels who are more or less female.

  “Your honor, whatever I’m supposed to call you,” Vesić growled, “all of this shit is not necessary. I am as guilty as they come. I killed Nazis, I killed Bolsheviks, and I killed people who were not guilty of anything except being out after dark. Hell is for sure where I belong.”

  I was pumped full of the information Vesić’s guardian angel had just deposited in me so I knew the soul’s version of his own life seemed far too simplistic, although the mess in my head was too weird and complicated for me to by entirely sure about anything. “Beg pardon, Your Honor,” I said, “but I think he’s exaggerating his guilt a bit.”

  “Curse you, angel, I am not!” The old man looked like he wanted to kick me hard.

  “Dude, I’m on your side, remember? Me halo, him…” I pointed at Chickenleg, “…him pointy stuff.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Vesić waved his hand at me in disgust and turned away.

  Ambriel stirred. Calm yourself, Petar Vesić, she said. Your advocate is here to help you.

  “There is no help for me. Or for the rest of us. The doctor will go on and on.” Vesić was shaking all over now, although it was hard to tell what was causing it. It certainly wasn’t cold -- that doesn’t tend to be a problem after death. “Somebody must stop him! Angel of God, I have done everything bad you can imagine and I know do not belong with the Lord. I will go laughing to Hell. But do not let him curse my family, too. Do not let Uberhardt murder my grandson the way he killed the boy’s father and mother.”

  Chickenleg was enjoying this quite a bit. “Right, then. Let’s just mark this one down for me and be on our way, shall we?”

  The old man’s soul-form was now pacing back and forth, muttering. For a dead guy, he had a lot of energy. Everything was getting dimmer around us, the hospital room in the real world and his real body getting harder to see, as though the area was filling with mist. That meant that beyond our bubble of Outside, time and reality were moving on.

  “Not so fast,” I said.

  “Face it, Doloriel,” Chickenleg said, “your client is going to join us anyway, so why don’t you forget about the noble speeches just once? I still have time to get in nine holes at the Redwood Club. I’ll have it all to myself on Christmas Eve.”

  “Says you, handsome. Confession is good for the soul, but it’s a bad reason to send someone to Hell.” I turned to my client. “Mr. Vesić, slow down. Talk to me for a moment and we’ll…”

  “No.” The old man -- the old, dead man -- actually looked he might get violent if I tried to keep him out of Hell. “I tell you, I did it all. Killed many men, women. I am a werewolf!”

  I couldn’t help liking Vesić a little, despite what I knew about his admittedly horrifying past. (Don’t worry, I’ll explain more about his background later, so don’t be so impatient. Seriously, just chill. You’re probably the kind of person who’s figured out what all your Christmas presents are while they’re still under the tree.)

  “Send me to Hell!” The old man was practically shouting. “But someone help Anthony! Someone save my grandson!”

  “Your Honor,” I said to Ambriel, “may I have a word with you? In private?”

  An instant later, Petar Vesić stopped demanding to be condemned to eternal punishment. In fact, he stopped moving and speaking altogether, like Frosty the Snowman when his magic hat blows off. The ghostly, fogbound hospital room now contained two unmoving ex-werewolves, one in the bed, one in mid-gesticulation.

  Speak, Doloriel, the judge said.

  “Hey, I want in on this too!” said Chickenleg.

  I ignored him. “Your Honor, I have the information from his guardian angel now. There’s a lot of mitigating evidence, but I don’t know if my client will let me present it.”

  Chickenleg gave me a grumpy look. “’Mitigating’ means some kind of soft-shoe bullshit, doesn’t it? You’re trying an end-around here, Dollar.”

  Well, Hell’s prosecutor knew his football analogies, even if he didn’t know high school vocabulary words. “Shut your yap,” I complimented him.

  What do you want, Advocate Doloriel? Would you like to continue the judgment like this, with the defendant unable to interfere?

  “Not really. But I would like a chance to deal with this thing he keeps shouting about -- his grandson being in danger. I’ve seen his memories and he’s telling the truth. It’s life or death. And I think he won’t be able to get a fair deal unless it’s resolved.”

  There was a long, silent pause. I suddenly realized I’d just suggested that one of Heaven’s powers wouldn’t be able to render a fair judgment without the cooperation of the soul being judged. If I could have felt my body just then it would have had that cold-all-over feeling you get when you realize you’ve done something stupid and dangerous.

  This is highly irregular, said Ambriel at last. I am not certain that the soul’s behavior is enough to influence his judgment.

  I like Ambriel, because she’s not the kind of angel that incinerates you if you say something controversial. Or at least she never has yet. “Maybe not, but it’s enough to make it hard for me to do a good job, because he won’t cooperate. What do you say, Your Honor? Just let me try to resolve this, then we can hustle this guy off to Hell or whatever. After all, it’s Christmas Eve!”

  The last was meant more as a joke than anything else, but Ambriel paused again. Human calendars have no meaning in Heaven, she said at last. But this man’s soul is eternal -- a short wait will not effect eternity. I will give you until the sun comes up on your Christmas Day.

  “Hey! That’s totally racist!” said Chickenleg as everything started to swirl. “What about our holidays…?”

  I’m sure he had his
gripes -- I hear that everyone in Hell has to pull a double-shift on Walpurgisnacht, and they don’t even get overtime -- but I had stuff of my own to worry about. Because back in the real world, it was already nearly midnight on Christmas Eve. I had less than a day to try to sort out one of the strangest stories I’d ever run into. The only saving grace was that it was all local.

  “Gotta run. I’ll be seeing you again, Petar,” I told the deceased, whose soul-form had just started moving again. “I promise I’ll do what I can for your grandson.”

  “I have something for Uberhardt buried under the bench in the hospital garden!” Vesić shouted after me as he and the judge-angel and everything else Outside began to disappear. “Give it to that stinking bastard from me! Tell him…!”

  Then he was gone, or at least the moving, talking version of him was. The hospital room around me lurched back into movement as time caught up with Outside. A couple of orderlies were sliding the other Peter Vesić onto a gurney while a nurse stood by, ready to strip the bed. No family, no mourners. But, from what the guardian had deposited into my mind, that wasn’t too surprising.

  And Happy Holidays to you, too.

  “Hark, The Herald Angels Sing” was just finishing as I got back from Outside, so I wandered through the hospital hallways to the piped-in strains of “The Little Drummer Boy”, which wasn’t a huge improvement. The hospital’s small garden, an arrangement of cement paths, mostly leafless hedges, and a few flowerbeds, was surrounded on all four sides by the windows of sickrooms. The only bench had a plaque on it dedicated to somebody’s dead Aunt Helen. I scrabbled discreetly underneath Aunt Helen’s memorial and found a loose bit of ground underneath the crackling brown leaves. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching, then crouched behind the bench and started digging.

  The hole wasn’t very deep, but I was amazed Vesić had found the opportunity and strength to bury anything out here at all while he was busy dying. Whatever else he might be, werewolf, murderer, he was also a stubborn, determined old bastard. I kind of liked that, and I wondered if I’d have liked him as much before I met him dead. Probably not. Single-minded people, especially those intent on killing someone, aren’t normally a lot of fun.