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I’m given the assignment by an angel—I mean that, an angel—one wearing a high-end Armani suit with an Ermenegildo Zegna tie. A loud red one. Why red? To project confidence? Hell, I don’t know. I’m having lunch at Parlami’s, a mediocre bistro on Melrose where I met my first ex, when in he walks with what looks like a musical instrument case—French horn or tiny tuba, I’m thinking—and sits down. We do the usual disbelief dialogue from the movies: He announces he’s an angel. I say, “You’re kidding.” He says, “No. Really.” I ask for proof. He says, “Look at my eyes,” and I do. His pupils are missing. “So?” I say. “That’s easy with contacts.” So he makes the butter melt on the plate just by looking at it, and I say, “Any demon could do that.” He says, “Sure, but let’s cut the bullshit, Anthony. God’s got something He wants you to do, and if you’ll take the job, He’ll forgive everything.” I shrug and tell him, “Okay, okay. I believe. Now what?” Everyone wants to be forgiven, and it’s already sounding like any other contract.
He reaches for the case, opens it right there (no one’s watching—not even the two undercover narcs—the angel makes sure of that) and hands it to me. It’s got a brand-new crossbow in it. Then he tells me what I need to do to be forgiven.
“God wants you to kill the oldest vampire.”
“Why?” I ask and can see him fight to keep those pupilless eyes from rolling. Even angels feel boredom, contempt, things like that, I’m thinking, and that makes it all that more convincing.
“Because He can’t do it.”
“And why is that?” I’m getting braver. Maybe they do need me. I’m good—one of the three best repairmen west of Vegas, just like my sainted dad was—and maybe guys who say yes to things like this aren’t all that common.
“Because the fellow—the oldest bloodsucker—is the son of…well, you know…”
“No, I don’t.”
“Does ‘The Prince of Lies’ ring a bell?”
“Oh.” I’m quiet for a second. Then I get it. It’s like the mob and the police back in my uncle’s day in Jersey. You don’t take out the don because then maybe they take out your chief.
I ask him if this is the reasoning.
The contempt drops a notch, but holds. “No, but close enough.”
“And where do I do it?”
“The Vatican.”
“The Holy City?”
“Yes.”
“Big place, but doesn’t have to be tricky.” I’d killed men with a wide range of appliance—the angel knew that—and suddenly this wasn’t sounding any trickier. Crossbow. Composite frame, wooden arrows—darts—whatever they’re called. One to the heart. I’d seen enough movies and TV.
“Well,” he says, “maybe. But most of the Jesuits there are vampires too.”
“Oh.”
“That’s the bad news. The good news is they’re pissed at him—the oldest vampire, I mean. They think he wants to turn mortal. He’s taken up with some twenty-eight-year-old bambina who knows almost as many languages as he does—a Vatican interpreter—and they’ve got this place in Siena—Tuscany, no less—and he hasn’t bitten her, and it’s been making the Brothers, his great-great-great-grandchildren, nervous for about a month now. Handle it right and she just might help you even if they don’t.”
“You serious?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she wants to be one, too—she’s very Euro-goth—you know the type—and he just won’t bite her.”
No, I don’t know the type, but I say, “She’s that vindictive?”
“What woman isn’t?”
This sounds awfully sexist for an angel, but I don’t argue. Maybe angels get dumped too.
“Does he really?” I ask.
“Does he really what?”
“Want to be mortal again.”
