He slid into the seat and maneuvered the bus back onto the street. “Rules. How does everyone remember all these stupid rules,” he muttered.
I turned back to Bubba, trusting Zeke at least until it came to the moment that we would run over something the size of a Volkswagen. I had to. I trusted him far more with driving than with chatting up Bubba. Bubbas are considerably more fragile than Volkswagens. I’d pushed him on the aisle between the left and right rows of seats. Now I rested the heel of my boot, three inches easy, on his stomach. I’d grabbed them along with my shotgun. Every weapon helps. “Now, this is the part where you pay attention to me, every bit as much as you do the demons you follow around.” I leaned and the heel sank into his stomach until I almost imagined I felt his spine beneath it. “Because, Bubba, some boots are made for walking and some for impromptu colonoscopies.” I leaned harder. “You can turn over anytime. I charge so much less than your average proctologist.”
His pale face, pitted with old acne scars, was starting to turn lavender in the neon light spilling into the bus. “Bubba, you need to start breathing,” I reminded him. “I can’t kill you if you kill yourself first. Suck it up, sweetie. If you can’t be a man, you damn sure can’t be a demon. Breathe.”
He did, exhaling one sour-smelling huge gasp of air and sucking another one in. Demons were monsters, filth, undeserving of existence, but I had to admit, when it came to Bubba, I was on their side. I wouldn’t have eaten him either. He was wilted lettuce on chicken salad that had gone bad two weeks ago. Hopefully that would be the lizards’ downfall. “You follow them, Bubba,” I said, “from bar to bar, casino to casino. You watch as they buy souls. You probably even watch them kill innocents behind parked cars or in empty alleys. You’re a worthless piece of shit and there’s no getting around it, but if you tell me what I want to know, I won’t kill you.” Then I told the lie . . . setting the hook. “And if I kill you now, you know where you’ll end up—in Hell . . . with the damned . . . the tortured souls worth no more than maggots crushed under Lucifer’s heel. But if you tell me the truth”—I eased up the pressure slightly on his stomach—“I’ll let you live, give you time to prove to them you’re worthy of being a prince in Hell. You know they don’t believe that yet.” I flipped the knife, caught it, and then jammed it into the rubber matting a hairbreadth away from his head. “Well, Bubba? Do you want that time or not?”
He did. The deluded ones, the idiots, they always did. The ones who imagined death was the worst thing that could happen to them. They were oh so wrong.
But he talked and that was all I cared about.“What... what the fuck do you want to know?” His voice quavered and I smelled the alcohol on his breath. Yep, no way he was getting through the Lord’s Prayer backward.
“Griffin Reese, one of the last of Eden House. You know him, just like you know me. In the past few days while you were lurking, stalking, drooling over the local demons, did you hear anything about Griffin? My Griffin—which means you know I’ll make it hurt if you lie.” I jerked my head back toward Zeke. “His Griffin—and you know he’ll kill you if you lie. Slowly. Painfully. Enough so that demons will give him a standing ovation. So, Bubba,” I said, leaning down until we were face-to-face, a bare inch apart, “tell me about Griffin before we’re tossing pieces of you out the windows like confetti at a parade.”
Talk he did, which was a good thing for him. I might have lied about him becoming a prince in Hell, but I wasn’t lying about what Zeke and I would do to him.
Beelzebub closed his eyes tightly. “Reese . . . one of Eden House Vegas’s last sycophants. One of their last canary lovers here. Wiping his ass with their feathers. Worthless fucking Boy Scout.”