Holy Socks And Dirtier Demons by J.A. Kazimer Page B

clicks later, the Big Guy picked up the line. “My son, we need
    to talk.”
    62

    Eighteen

    I frowned into the receiver then glared at the angel. Had he sold me
    out to God? Would this be the last conversation I ever had?
    His Holiness was saying, “If I didn’t know everything I’d think
    you’re avoiding my calls. I had to borrow my secretary’s—” He paused,
    listening to his secretary. “—Sorry, administrative assistant’s cell phone to
    reach you.”
    “I’ve been busy.” My eyes roamed the apartment looking for any
    excuse other than the truth.
    “How is my son?” The Lord cleared his throat, but a thread of
    fatherly pride snuck through. “Did he get the deck of saint flashcards I sent?”
    “Um, yeah. He studies them every night just before his nightly
    prayers like a good prodigal son.” Broken commandant number eight. As
    soon as the cards had arrived by special messenger, Saint Jude in this case, I
    trashed the deck and bought the kid a coloring book. He deserved a little fun
    before making any grand sacrifice.
    “Let me speak with him,” God said.
    “He’s not here right now.” I scratched my head. “He had a play
    date.”
    “A play date?” Suspicion buzzed in his voice.
    “Yeah, a play date.” A sudden crackle in my brain sent me to my
    knees. The tide of voice, once calmed by the kid presence, broke free, and for
    a second I went mad. Like a switch, the voiced flicked off and silence filled
    my skull.
    “When my son gets home from his play date , call me. And it better
    be soon.”
    A few clicks later, His secretary came back on the line. “The Lord
    would like to remind you Easter is fast approaching, and you have yet to give
    up anything for Lent. He suggests lying, but leaves the final decision to you.”
    The line went dead.
    Damn. “Thanks for your help.” I hung up the phone and kicked the
    angel’s chair.
    He raised his wings in an innocent gesture. A feather drifted to the
    63

    floor. “What did I do?”
    “Never mind. How long do I have?” I chugged the rest of my
    whiskey, wiping my mouth with my sleeve.
    “Before He smites you?”
    I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, but more importantly, how long to find the
    kid?” My certainty that he was safe was beginning to unravel.
    A knock sounded at the front door at the same time my phone rang.
    Torn, I checked the caller ID, and smiled.
    “You just can’t get enough of me, huh?” I chuckled into the phone.
    “You son of a—” Lilith screeched.
    I interrupted, “Nice of you to ask, I’m feeling fine. The ribs healed
    nicely, thanks to the angel you locked in your trunk.”
    “It’s a hatchback.” Her voice tightened. “What did you do to my car?
    It’s all wet, and smells like… toilet water.”
    Uh oh. I ran to my window, and watched the Gremlin’s taillights
    disappear around the corner. “I had a little accident, but lucky for you and
    your insurance company, nobody was hurt.”
    “You bastard. When I get my hands on you… Hell is too good for
    you. I’m going to peel away you flesh with a rusty knife, and—”
    The phone in my hand grew hotter with each syllable. I pulled it from
    my ear, and smoke curled from the mouthpiece. “Ow!” I dropped the now
    red hot metal, but her tirade continued. Muffled, but filled with bloodlust.
    A fist banged on the door, reminding me Lilith wasn’t my only
    concern. “Coming.” I pulled my nine-millimeter, and a cross made out of
    Popsicle sticks. The kid had even drawn in a picture of a guy hanging off the
    cross. I hoped like hell that he didn’t notice the resemblance.
    “Yeah?” I threw open the door, and quickly stepped back a few feet.
    The biggest, greenest demon I’d ever seen hunched in the hallway, his lizard
    skin lined with pus and boils. Munkar, the Muslim gatekeeper. Shit.
    “Who is your Lord?” Munkar bowed his head.
    Question one of three. To answer any one of them wrong meant a
    brutal beating unlike any I’d ever experienced. Allah sure