Happy Hour In Hell: Volume Two of Bobby Dollar by Tad Williams

judgement is ‘delayed’? Until when?”
    “Until the time arrives,” said Karael in his most infuriating, you-don’t-need-to-know sort of way. Then his voice hardened. It sounded like a healthy echo of the Almighty Himself. “Until that time, Angel Doloriel, you are relieved of your duties as advocate. You may remain here or on Earth.”
    I was more than a little shocked, but I knew better than to argue with them. It could have been worse, much worse, and at least this would give me some time to consider my next move. But I had to make a bit of a show. “That’s it? Just suspended or whatever? Until some time in the fuzzy future?”
    “You’re too wrapped up in earthly things, Doloriel,” said Anaita. “Time is meaningless outside of mortality.”
    “Right.” I was ready to offer grudging acceptance now. “I suppose—”
    “There is no
suppose
,” said Karael. “The Ephorate has decided. We will summon you when it is time. Until then, know that God loves you. Farewell.”
    And just like that it was all gone—Karael, Anaita, the Hall of Judgement, the shimmering complexity of the Paslogion. And yours truly was back in his flawed earthly form, which happened to be lying in a hospital bed with a bad case of Smyler Kicked My Ass.
    I had been sentenced to freedom. At least for a while.

eight
    old friends

    I DIDN’T STAY in the hospital long. Sequoia Medical is short of beds as it is, and since angels heal fast, once they saw how quickly I was getting better they didn’t argue much when I checked myself out. I did get a lecture from one nice young doctor about refraining from active sports and strenuous activity for a while. It wasn’t me she needed to tell, of course, it was the guy with the piranha mouth and the very, very bad attitude.
    The police interviewed me about the attack too, but since they thought I was a private investigator working a major insurance fraud, they didn’t kick up too much fuss. Heaven is good with bureaucracy, and I’ve kept my concealed-carry permit active since my Harps days, so I even got my gun back, which I filled with silver as soon as I could get to the rounds I’d left in the Datsun.
    Instead of going back to my apartment (Smyler obviously knew about it, since he’d been waiting for me outside) I disposed of the now-petrified burger and fries I’d been bringing home the night of the last attack, and then drove down the Bayshore.
    I parked in Southport and limped out to the ruins of Shoreline Park, because I didn’t have any other way of getting hold of Sam and I was getting desperate to talk to him. I had taken a roundabout route to make sure I wasn’t followed, and I kept my eyes open as I walked carefully through the filth and wreckage, between walls of corroding tin and broken plywood covered in fading paint. When I reached the Funhouse, I left a message on the mirror that Sam had shown me. I wasn’t stupid enough to write anything obvious. It just said, “Where we ate lunch, 7pm.” Sam would remember the little Southeast Asian place, I knew, and it would be up to him to get there without being followed. The question was, when, if ever, would he find this note? It looked like I was going to be eating Burmese food for the next few nights, but there are worse things to do, believe me.
    I didn’t have to explore the menu all that much—Sam strolled through the door of the Star of Rangoon just as I finished ordering, looking very Robert-Mitchum-ish in his wrinkled coat and big, baggy face.
    “Did you get me the pancakes?” he asked.
    “You want the pancakes, order them yourself, you lazy bastard.” It was good to see him. He looked good, too, with a relaxed smile on his wide face.
    He shoved into the booth, called the waitress back and ordered for himself, then looked me up and down. “Few new bruises, I see. Did Karael and some of his militant angels work you over?”
    “I wish.” I told him who had given me all these new cuts, scrapes, and puncture