“Welcome to the dark side, Father.”

Waiters wheel in cart after cart of food and line them up neatly against the wall like a satanic buffet.

I pick up a pork rib in Texas red sauce and take a big bite. It isn’t Carlos’s tamales but it’ll do.

“Eat up. The Christians said this much food is gluttony and the Greeks said it’s a sign of a small mind. Might as well dive in because we’re already fucked.”

He smiles but approaches the food cautiously, like there might be a tiramisu-shaped pipe bomb somewhere. Traven picks up some red grapes and puts one in his mouth. Smiles and nods.

“Weak, Father. Very weak.”

He walks over and sits on the arm of a plush light blue sofa. He’s a little like Merihim. Out of his own space, all he can do is wander and perch.

“Have you ever heard of Blue Heaven?” I ask.

“It’s an old song.”

“Aside from that.”

“I’m afraid not. Are you sure, whatever, it is that’s its real name?”

“You’re right. Blue Heaven does sound a little carefree for an extra-dimensional power spot.”

“I’ll look into it if you’d like.”

“Thanks.”

He picks a couple of grapes off the stem, sets them on his plate, but doesn’t eat them.

He says, “I wanted to ask you a favor.”

“I’ve got plenty of everything. What do you need?”

“I reacted badly when you showed me your hand last night. I was wondering if you’d show it to me again.”

“Sure.”

I take off the glove and roll up my sleeve. I sit beside him on the sofa so he can get a good look.

“It’s just an arm, you know. Kind of an ugly one but it’s still just an arm.”

“How did you lose your real one?”

“In a fight. I used to be a gladiator but I’m a little out of practice. The Hellion I was fighting took it off in one clean shot.”

“My God.”

“I killed him, so the story has a happy ending.”

“I’m glad for you.”

He drops his grapes into an ashtray and sits on the sofa looking shaken.

“Listen, man, I keep telling you that I’m not sure the excommunication thing matters anymore. When I say I have an in with God, I’m not kidding. I know the guy and at least one part of Him likes me.”

“What do you mean one part?”

“Didn’t I tell you? God had a nervous breakdown and split into five little Gods. But like I said, I’m pretty well acquainted with one of them.”

“You are?”

He shakes his head. Holds up his hands and drops them into his lap.

“If any of this is supposed to comfort me, I’m afraid it’s not working.”

I go to the buffet and get the Aqua Regia bottle and two glasses.

“Ask me whatever’s on your mind.”

He takes a breath.

“Let’s say that I really am going to Hell with no hope of salvation. You said you could help me. That means you know someone in power? I guess what I mean is . . . have you ever seen Lucifer and does he hate the clergy as much as I’ve heard he does?”

I set the bottle and glasses on the table between us.

“Father, I am Lucifer.”

He looks at me, waiting for the punch line. When I don’t give him one, he leans back on the sofa and laughs his weary old-soldier laugh.

“And here I thought you were my friend. The prince of lies is right.”

“I am your friend and I didn’t lie to you. I wasn’t always Lucifer. Trust me. I didn’t ask for the job. The previous Lucifer forced it on me. That’s how I know if you end up in Hell you’ll be taken care of. I run the goddamn place.”

He gets up and goes to the buffet. Shovels fruit and cheese onto a plate and brings it back.

“God is in pieces and you’re the Devil. You’re right. I might as well eat.”

“That’s the spirit.”

I go back over and spoon black caviar and sour cream onto a plate.

“You know, if anyone should be freaked out here, it’s me. You’re like the third person I’ve told about the Lucifer thing and everyone is taking it really well. I mean, I’d like just a little polite shock and horror when I tell people I’m the king of evil.”

Traven spreads Brie on a cracker with the care and attention of a sculptor.

“If people don’t seem shocked, maybe it’s because it’s a bit much to process all at once. And you do have a colorful history.”

“So that’s what people say behind my back. That I’m colorful.”

“Would you rather be boring?”

“Sign me up.”

There’s nothing sadder in this word than a true-blue Satanist. I don’t mean the ones who dress in black, listen to Ronnie Dio, and use the Devil as an excuse to throw graveyard key parties. I mean the ones who’ve bought the gaff that if they pray to the baddest of the bad, he’ll drop doubloons, luck, and hotties in their laps all the livelong day and then, when they die, they’ll get their own castles and pitchforks and get to join the endless torture party. They’re the ones I feel sorry for. Haven’t they figured out that Lucifer cares even less about his flock than God cares about His? Some of these nitwits have actually met Lucifer and he treated them like expired meat.

Career devil worshippers are Dungeons & Dragons freaks that never grew up and still believe that if they had just one superpower they’d be the belles of the ball or prom king. On the one hand, I want to FedEx them hot cocoa and a pile of self-help books. And on the other hand, I want to use them ruthlessly for whatever I can squeeze out of their service bottom carcasses. Maybe when I have more time, I can play Dr. Phil and get them to do an honest inventory of their collective psychoses. Right now, though, I’m on a timetable and I don’t have time for tea and sympathy. Maybe the best thing I can do is show them what Hell is really like. Make them copy the entire Oxford English Dictionary onto three-by-five cards. Stamp them. Date them. Put each word in a separate folder and file it. Then take all the words out, burn them, and start over. Do it until I say stop and of course I never will. They’ll use up all the ink in the world and all the paper in the western hemisphere. Some will slit their wrists with a thousand paper cuts. Others will get cancer from the ink fumes or go snow-blind from the scanner. Welcome to Hell. It’s just like high school but with more boredom and entrails.

I don’t know if Samael put them there, or the hotel, but the bedroom closet is full of suits and expensive shirts and shoes. I toss my ripped shirt on the bed and pick out a purple one so dark it’s almost black. Samael wore shirts like this because the color hid the blood seeping from an old wound. The Greeks and Romans considered it the color of royalty and that wouldn’t appeal to Samael’s vanity. No. Not one bit.

Someone is knocking on the grandfather clock. Traven sets his plate down on the table. He looks like he’s waiting for the seven plagues to stroll out of the clock.

Three people come in. A trinity. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our boredom.

There’s Amanda Fischer, a high-society babe with a young woman’s face and a crone’s hands. Plastic surgery or hoodoo? Your guess is as good as mine.

With her is a man about her age carrying a briefcase. He’s balding and seems to be compensating for it by growing bushy muttonchops. He looks like her husband. Maybe muscle or an over-the-hill skinhead. The third one is a dark-haired young guy with a bland pretty-boy face and dressed so perfectly in Hugo Boss he can probably recite back issues of GQ by heart. All three of them are caked black with sin signs, like they crawled here through one of Cherry Moon’s tunnels.

The disappointment on their faces is spectacular. Samael is Rudolph Valentino handsome. When they see my scarred mug, they wonder if they’re in the right room. Maybe they stepped through the wrong magic clock.

“Hello,” says Amanda. “We’re here to see our master, Lucifer.”

“You’re looking at him, Brenda Starr.”

“I’ve seen you before. You’re his bodyguard.”