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“A dying angel brought it to me. Didn’t say what it is. Said he didn’t know. All I do know is that some angels like what’s inside it. He said the war in Heaven won’t end unless someone destroys it.”
“Dying angels. Wars. This does not fill me with joy.”
He sets the box back on the table and pushes back the lock. When that goes all right, he gets a long steel rod and carefully pushes open the top. I don’t blame him. I’ve been known to bring him things that catch fire.
When nothing explodes, he takes the vial from its padded case and holds it up to the light.
“The fluid is almost opaque, but not quite. As if there is some shifting something inside. I can’t tell what. Some debris? Sediment?”
He looks at me.
“Is it safe to open?”
“I have no idea. But if it blows up I don’t think the angel who gave it to me knew it would.”
“That will be a great comfort to the other residents if I set the building on fire or fill it with poison.”
I hadn’t thought of that last bit.
“You have any gas masks?”
He reaches under his worktable and comes out with something rubbery that looks like it’s a couple of wars past its prime.
“Just the one, I’m afraid,” he says.
“Story of my life. Fuck it. Let’s go. I’ll hold my breath.”
Vidocq gets a small, stumpy candle down from the top of a set of wooden shelves behind the table. He lights the candle with a paper match and the flame flickers a light green.
“As long as the flame stays this color, we’re safe,” he says, and puts on the gas mask.
I lean in close and shout, “You’re still wearing the mask, even though I don’t have one?”
He nods vigorously.
“Thanks,” I say. “It’s good to know you’re always there for
me.”
I take the vial and unscrew the top. “The angel called this stuff black milk.”
And suddenly I know why. It smells like the curdled insides of a lizard-skin Hellion bovine with shit for blood and fish guts for bones. Even in the gas mask, Vidocq is choking. I get the top back on the bottle fast. Last night’s tamales are seriously considering making a break for it onto Vidocq’s nice rug.
Vidocq shakes his head. Takes the vial from my hand.
“No.”
He points to the candle. The flame is still pale green.
“See? The smell is unpleasant, but not deadly. We must persevere.”
With his other hand, he opens an old medical cabinet on his worktable. The cabinet doors swing apart like bird wings, revealing racks of potions and drawers for instruments.
He takes off the gas mask and pulls some potions from the cabinet. Pours a little of the black milk into a shallow Pyrex dish and screws the top back on. I put the vial back in the box, hoping it will kill some of the smell.
“Mind if I open a window?”
“Mmm,” he mumbles, already lost in the experiment, barely noticing I’m there. I crack a window, letting in the smoggy L.A. breeze.
