“The file with my mission assignment—someone screwed with it.”
“Who, pray tell? Who would do such a dastardly deed, Clyve? I thought all the dastardly deeds were only done by you, being so skilled at dastardly as you are.”
Right. Like he’d have ever purposely handed himself over to some rich broad who liked to dress him up in berets and have his hair clipped by some fag named Gustav. That had been its own special hell. Pomeranians had a shitassload of hair. It was hot. “No, sir. It wasn’t me. I don’t know who did it or how it happened.”
“Then I say we launch an all-out investigation—bring in the troops—batten down the hatches until someone fesses!” he shouted with mock, almost giddy, exuberance.
Whew. The sweat that had begun to trickle down his spine slowed to a crawl. “I’d be happy to do that, sir.”
“Oh, Clyve,” Satan whispered so low he almost couldn’t detect what he’d said—until he roared, that is. “You, goddamned moron!” Bottles of oil rumbled then tipped over in a crash of gooey, thick puddles. The walls shook like bolts of thunder had shot through them.
Clearly. Moron worked in this case. “Boss?” he offered in the form of a weak question.
Satan snaked a long-fingered, clawed hand out without looking up, snaring Clyve by the front of his T-shirt. A pink T-shirt that read Cat . . . the Other White Meat and was cut off at his hairy, protruding belly. He dragged Clyve to his knees beside the massage table, raising his head to assess his minion. “You idiot!” he screeched, opening his mouth wide to reveal Hell’s very own breath, hot, rancid, flesh-eating.
Clyve knew to struggle would be his end, so he squinted his eyes instead.
“Do you have any idea the kind of stress I suffer when you half-wits can’t get it right? If I weren’t already dead, I’d have had a triple bypass by now—maybe two. What have you done, Clyve, and why are you wearing a shirt that looks as though you’ve been frolicking with pink poodles?”
Because he had. Lots and lots of poodles, to name just one yippy, snippy, snarling, diamond-studded-collar-wearing toy breed. Poodles, Pomeranians, those uglier than coyote ugly Pugs, Chihuahuas—you name it, he’d been in a cage with the fuckers, fighting for his right to a stupid rubber hot dog coated in beef broth while he waited for Gustav to milk his renal glands.
Yet, to deny he’d had anything to do with the fuckup in the Markham assignment would only enrage Satan to the point that he’d be in the pit for a year, his ass sizzling, his worst fear, snakes, slithering over him while he was chained to something, pissing in his pants. To offer a solution was the only way out. Thank God—okay, maybe not Him directly, but thank the universe—he had one.
And Clyve had one, all right.
The fight now was to keep his voice free of any hint of tremble; deliver the information; redeem. In that order. “I have a solution, sir.”
Satan dropped Clyve with a jolt that might have broken bones, had his bones retained the ability to break anymore, sending him skittering sideways to crash against the far wall. Satan gave him an affable smile from his place on the table. “Oh, please share, Clyve. I so love resolution. It’s very Oprah-ish.”
Clyve bit back a whimper of agony. Even if he was dead, and his bones couldn’t be broken, it still wasn’t a warm fuzzy to end up with your face smashed against a wall. He couldn’t wait to fucking hit level seven—you couldn’t feel pain there. “I have information about Delaney, sir. Information I think will make you happy. Very happy.”
“Suh-weet! Now get on with it, Clyve, before I pop out your eyeballs and play a rousing game of marbles with them right here on the floor.”
When Clyve spoke next, he kept his words confident, and quiver free.
As Satan listened, his smile of malicious pleasure grew.
So, for the moment at least, he’d pleased the freaky fuck.
Meant he could keep his balls.
He had the world on a string now.
sixteen
“Holy explosion, Batman.”
“I did say I screwed up, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you did. I just don’t know that I understood fully how big you screwed up.”
Clyde picked through the charred rubble of what had once been his basement, looking for even the smallest of clues regarding his accident. “Could we maybe not be quite so direct?” He pointed to his chest. “Sensitive here, okay? This is the scene of my death. Have some respect.”
“You wanna hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’?”