His eyes go wide.

“How do you know about that?”

This time I laugh at him.

“Because I had it. Back in L.A.”

He grabs my coat sleeve with his good hand.

“Where is it? Name any price.”

“Too late. I traded it for some magic beans.”

He drinks more wine.

“This isn’t anything to joke about.”

“I took the Druj Ammun off a dead vampire. A young girl. The only one of her kind I ever felt bad about killing. When I found out one of the Druj’s powers was to mind-control Hellions, the plan was to come down and get you assholes to rip Mason to pieces for me.”

“Where is it now?”

“I also found out that it controlled zombies, and as it happened, we had a substantial zombie surplus in L.A. right then. Instead of letting everyone get eaten, I destroyed the Druj. That killed every single zombie in the world in one night. By now your secret weapon is in a million little pieces clogging up the L.A. sewer system.”

Mammon stares at the floor. I can’t tell if he’s listening or getting drunk. He lifts his head.

“It would have been good to have. We could have built a great weapon from it. Made it control the other angels,” he says, and looks up at me. “Baphomet said if anyone was going to ruin this for us, it would be you. But you’d been gone so long many of us thought that you wanted to forget all about this place and wouldn’t get involved. We should have erred on the side of caution.”

“If it’s any comfort, L.A. is completely zombie-free these days, so you can bring the wife and kids to Disneyland.”

“It’s too bad you killed your patron, Azazel. I would have enjoyed torturing him to death for creating you.”

“So, even without the Druj, Mason has a backup plan he thinks will still get him into Heaven. How?”

“I don’t know. It’s the#x2019; one thing he’s kept secret from everyone, including his generals.”

It’s hard to read Hellions, but the angel and I agree that Mammon is telling the truth. Damn Lucifer for not being here. He might be able to figure out Mason’s secret.

The Kissi stole the Druj thousands of years ago and dropped it on earth just to see what would happen. They like to create amusing chaos. It’s their main nourishment. But Kissi are hit-and-run types, not known for their long-term planning. We always thought of them like a bunch of ADHD kids with superpowers. Always playing games and breaking things for the dumb joy of breaking them. But when they stole the Druj and dumped it on earth, did they have a secret of their own that no one ever considered? Maybe we’ve underestimated them this whole time.

Mammon finishes the wine and I set the bottle back on the desk.

“You’re being awfully cooperative,” I say.

“You’ve already crippled me. Torture is the next logical step. Why shouldn’t I skip all the messiness and tell you what you want to know since none of it will help you?”

While we’ve been talking, Mammon’s enslaved soul has been creeping over to the desk.

“We’ll see. The truth is, the war isn’t the main reason I’m here. I want you to take me to Eleusis.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly.

“Don’t be stupid. I don’t drive, and even if I could . . .” He holds up his one working arm. “I’m not in racing shape.”

Drive? In the Hell I remember, Lucifer’s generals have their own private barges for getting around Hell’s five big rivers. I guess a nice luxury car is about the same as a barge in L.A.

I turn my head and find the soul staring at me. He’s a medium-size man with dark hair and brown eyes. He has rough workman’s hands and his cheap shirt and thin black pants say he wasn’t all that high in whatever trade he was in.

I point to him.

“Can the gimp drive?”

Mammon brightens at that, getting back some of his old high-and-mighty look.

“And dust and sing songs, too. All the menial things humans are so good at. Isn’t that right, Mr. Kelly?”

Kelly nods.

“Give me the keys,” I tell Mammon.

He opens a drawer, takes them out, and tosses them thtosses on the desk. I hand them to Kelly.

“You’re the wheelman, Kelly. I’m riding shotgun and Dr. Strangelove here can sit in the back and navigate. Got it?”

Kelly just stares.

I look at Mammon.

“Does he speak English?”

Mammon nods.

“Quite well. He needs my permission before speaking to you.”

“Give it so we can get moving.”

“You may talk to him, Mr. Kelly, but be careful not to get too friendly. He’s a monster. Isn’t that right, Sandman Slim?”

I look at Kelly.

“You really can drive, right?”

Kelly nods. His gaze flickers from the floor and back to me.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I never operated an automobile when I was alive, but I’ve been well instructed since then.”

He sounds English. Cockney maybe. Michael Caine playing Harry Palmer. A working-class guy.

“Good enough. And don’t call me ‘sir.’ ”

“What should I call you, sir?” He cringes when he says it like he thinks I’m going to hit him. “My apologies.”

“Stark’s fine.”

“Why not Wild Bill?” says Mammon brightly. “I hear he likes that even less than Sandman Slim.”

Mammon turns to me.

“He’s here, by the way. Your great-great-great-granddaddy, Mr. Hickok. I could arrange a tête-à-tête.”

There’s no wheelchair in the room and there’s no way I’m carrying this charred creep to the car, so I push Mammon into his office chair.

“Introduce me, and when this is all over, I might let you keep the other arm.”

Mammon brightens.

“You see what I mean, Mr. Kelly? He wants us to see him as human, but what’s the first thing he does when he gets in here? He takes my legs. And I didn’t even attack him. Then he takes my arm and threatens me with further mutillefurther ation. That sounds much more Hellion than human, doesn’t it? I don’t think you’ll be wanting to turn your back on this one. Not for one minute.”

“Where’s the garage?” I ask Kelly.

“Directly below, Mr. Stark.”

“Mister.” It’s better than “sir.”

I don’t want either of them to see the Room, so I blindfold them both and take them downstairs through a shadow.

MAMMON’S BARGE TURNS out to be a pristine early-sixties Lincoln Continental limo with a drop top and suicide doors. I think more than a little of this world is put together straight from my unconscious. I’ll know for sure if I end up in a motorcycle race against Steve McQueen.

The Lincoln isn’t like a modern limo. The car is wide open on the inside. No partitions or sliding windows separating the passenger compartment from the driver. It’s like a club or a prison cafeteria. Candy would love this heap. I can see her in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dash hitting the button on her robot sunglasses in time with the radio.

It still feels strange to have left her behind while I go chasing after another woman even if it’s not for a romantic kind of love, but the kind that says if you’ve ever been deeply connected to someone, you don’t let them get snatched to the underworld without doing something about it.

When this is over and if the universe is still standing, maybe I’ll bring her down here. I wouldn’t take her to the Hell I knew, but I could see her getting off on a weekend in the Convergence. It would be like the adventure vacations yuppies go on where they get to experience the great outdoors from air-conditioned buses and ten-thousand-dollar tents. We’ll take over a floor of the Roosevelt Hotel and shoot paintballs at the wildlife.

I take Mammon from his chair and belt him in behind the driver’s seat. Kelly and I get in the front. He starts the ignition and drives us smoothly through the garage to the gatehouse, where a guard is waiting.

I show Mammon the knife in my hand.

“Be cool or you lose the other arm.”

“Of course,” Mammon says.

We pull up and Mammon rolls down his tinted window just low enough to show his face. He nods at the guard and the guard pushes a button that rolls away the gate. Kelly steers us out of the palace and on to Hollywood Boulevard. It looks like even in Hell I’m destined to travel in stolen cars.