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Gisco is propped against the wall on crutches. He grunts a few syllables at me. I recognize them from the other night. The Magistrate looks at him.
“I don’t understand, Gisco. What are you trying to say?”
I put the knife back in my pocket.
“He’s saying that my other name is Sandman Slim.”
A couple of mouths drop open. A few eyebrows go up. The Magistrate sits up a little straighter. Johnny looks around at everybody, then at me.
“Sandman what? What the fuck kind of name is that
? Some kind of TV cowboy?”
The Magistrate half turns in his chair.
“Sandman Slim was a rather renowned killer in Hell. But he disappeared. I take it that is who you claim to be?”
“No. The angels that just kicked your ass and the one that I killed with his own fucking knife. That’s who says I’m Sandman Slim.”
The Magistrate turns to Vehuel. She’s smiling to herself, amused by the tension among the mortals.
“My dear lady celestial, can you shed any light on this? Is this man, our Mr. Pitts, the half angel called Sandman Slim?”
“Oh yes,” she says. “He’s Sandman Slim and James Stark and the Abomination. All these names are his.”
“And why do you smile at him like that?”
“Because he’s every bit as ridiculous as I was told he would be.”
“And who told you this?”
“God,” says Alice.
The mouths go open. The eyebrows that had settled down go back up. You get the idea.
Johnny is still the holdout.
“God doesn’t know this waste of space. It’s a trick. He’s a con man.” He points at Vehuel. “How do we even know you’re who you say you are? You could be in on it with him. You’re just a bitch on wings to me, sweetheart.”
I almost feel bad for Johnny.
Faster than anyone can see, Vehuel’s arm is up and her Gladius is aimed right between Johnny’s eyes. When she speaks, her voice rattles the walls.
“You are a fool and an offense to the Lord and his emissaries. You will not speak again or you will be silenced.”
Johnny holds up his hands, scared but trying to save as much of his face as he has left.
“All right now. No offense meant. I’m mostly mad at that wombat standing next to you.”
Alice prods me with her elbow.
“I think he means you, wombat.”
The Magistrate laces his fingers together. Takes them apart.
“Mr. Pitts, Mr. Sandman, Mr. Stark—and any other names we do not know . . .”
“Those about cover it.”
