What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [42]
Clyde Parker, in the years he’d spent in the capital, had occasion to visit many of these miserable apartments. They were all, in his opinion, uniformly bad. Horrible fluorescent lighting. Cheap, industrial-grade carpeting or even linoleum. And the apartments themselves were miniscule. Microscopic even. It wasn’t how they did things back in Texas, and it was, in Parker’s opinion, just plain immoral. This building, however, was different.
Parker’s heart raced as he made his way down the warmly-lit hallway, treading on thick, plush carpet that seemed to swallow sounds whole. There’d been a security guard downstairs, and he had just managed to keep his cool as he followed two women who were completely immersed in their own conversation. When the guard started to speak, he’d leaned over with a big, cowboy grin and said, “It’s all right, son. They’re both with me.”
He reached his destination – apartment 18 – and noticed the doorbell. Another fancy touch. Parker looked up and down the hall and saw that all of the doors had them. Money, he thought. He took a deep breath and put on his tough guy face as he touched his finger to the button.
The man who opened the door was the same one he’d seen at the FBI building, except that he was holding a glass of scotch and wearing a black, full-length cape.
“Hello,” he said to the Devil. “My name is Clyde Parker.” He fingered the pearly handle of his large silver revolver.
Satan smiled politely. “Hello, Mr. Parker. How may I be of assistance?” He didn’t bother to glance down at the gun.
“I’m here on behalf of Dick Whitford.”
Their eyes met, and for an instant, the smile disappeared from Satan’s face. But then the moment passed.
“Won’t you come in?” said the Devil, smiling once again. He turned, leaving Parker standing at the door.
Parker glanced around suspiciously, and then took a tentative step, leaning into the apartment. Nothing happened, so he went the rest of the way in. Satan had gone into a kitchen that was just off the entryway. Parker looked around, eyeing the immaculate and well-decorated room with a sneer. It seemed all wrong. There weren’t nearly enough dead things mounted on the wall. In fact, there were none. And not a scrap of cowhide anywhere. Parker tried to use bits of cow in all of his decorating.
He noticed a painting in an expensive-looking frame leaned up against a large, metal box with little wheels on it. The box had a plastic spigot and a metal handle on the front, and looked as if it belonged in a restaurant kitchen. The picture was small and mostly blue, and looked a little out of place inside its ornate, hand-carved frame. It showed a bride standing next to a goat. The goat appeared to be playing a cello.
“Nice painting,” said Parker, a snarky (but still very gritty and tough) look on his face.
“Oh, that? It’s nothing,” called Satan from the small kitchen. Parker heard the tinkle of ice cubes being dropped in a glass.
“It’s, uh… interesting.”
Satan stepped out of the kitchen, shrugging. “It is what it is,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “Here’s your drink.”
Parker took the glass, trying but failing entirely to not eye it suspiciously. “They told me not to approach you on my own,” he said.
“They?”
“The Governor.”
“Well, he was probably right,” said Satan.
“I figured we could work something out, though,” said Parker, regarding the Devil with a half-cocked smirk.
“Hmmm—” Satan brought his hand to his chin and searched the ceiling for an answer. “Nope. Sorry. You figured incorrectly.” He said it pleasantly, as a simple matter of fact.
They stared at each other for a moment. Parker steely eyed and serious; Satan smiling.
Parker watched as the smile receded, replaced by a mix of anger – rage even – and what looked like pain. He