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“You’re Eva Sandoval.”
“Very good. I see death didn’t scramble your brains completely.”
I look around the room. There’s the nice furniture. Old, pricy-looking paintings on the walls. White lilies in a crystal vase on a side table. I’m lying on a pool table covered in plastic sheets.
I look at Eva.
“You’re fucking Wormwood.”
“That’s a complicated notion these days, but you’re not entirely wrong.”
I swing out an arm to grab her, but my body doesn’t want to cooperate. She steps back and I almost fall off the table. Again.
“Where am I? What’s happening?”
“I already told you. You’re in Los Angeles.”
“I’m alive?”
“More or less.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll explain later. See if you can walk.”
A couple of the men help me up and I take a few feeble steps to a chair. It’s as far as I can go, so I give up and flop down.
I look around for Eva again.
“Nice chair.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Never felt better. A second ago I was in Heaven with my friends and now I’m here with you creeps. What, did you bring me back so you can kill me again? Hurry up. I have places to go.”
“In Hell?”
“Don’t sell me short, Eva. I made it all the way Upstairs. Right to the pearly gates. Only they’re not pearly. They’re gold and really ugly.”
“Heaven,” she says. She speaks to the others. “That makes sense. We completely lost track of him in Hell. He must have found his way to Heaven somehow.”
“I just said that.”
“Ask him how,” says the man, ignoring me.
“My sparkling personality, you Wormwood prick. All of you can fuck off. If this is the world, prove it.”
“Of course,” says Eva. She goes away and comes back with the little box in her hand.
“What’s your greatest fear?” she says.
“Flan.”
She presses a TV remote into my hand. There’s a flat panel the size of Raziel’s motor home on the wall. I hit the power button. A crisp hi-def picture of some women appears. They’re all wearing too much makeup and lots of ugly jewelry and most have had mediocre plastic surgery. They’re arguing, all shrill and fake and over-the-top. I have to watch for a couple of minutes for it to make sense. Then it does and I feel as cold as when Michael’s Gladius was burning me up.
“This is one of those angry-housewife shows.”
“Good boy. And what’s this?”
