Very Last Gig

(August 10-13, 2017)

19: What Can a Poor Boy Do

Bratsman stewed.

Not that he was angry—he was always angry. The heat was getting him. The wig, the stupid dress. At least he wore flats, not high heels.

He cursed Wilmer Gunzell. The guy had walked away from the diner, leaving Bratsman stranded. He didn't even have the keys to the car. He'd had to walk all the way to the motel for his spare keys, then walk all the way back, and pushing the seat far enough backward to squeeze his round belly in behind the steering wheel was strenuous work.

But he started the engine and drove the hundred feet to the motel and opened his unit. Then he threw open the connecting door and shouted, "Where are you?"

"Right behind you," purred a man's voice from inside his own room, where no one had been ten seconds earlier.

It made Bratsman's heart thump. He turned around—he couldn't move fast enough to make it a spin—and snarled, "You? Where the hell is Wilmer?"

Mammonus, sitting on the end of Bratsman's bed, shrugged. "Keeping track of your flunkeys is not one of my duties."

"Wait until I find him! I can call the cops and have him in prison like that!" His rubbery, sausage-like fingers squeaked instead of snapping.

"Yes, well, no question of that," said Mammonus. "I'm in total agreement, you certainly could have Mr. Gunzell arrested and charged and, I'm sure, incarcerated. However, since the crimes you know about were done at your direction, and since you recently emerged from prison yourself—"

"I got a pardon!"

"It's not a lifetime pass, though. You could go right back inside. Probably for a much longer sentence and in a much less comfortable prison."

"Can you kill him for me?" Bratsman asked, his round face scarlet.

"Can't. Won't. Not my table, darling."

"Then what good are you?"

Mammonus said, "Do you still want to own the contract for Sev'ral Timez?"

That stopped Bratsman's rant. ". . . Yes," he said at last.

"That effort is underway. You will need a space to negotiate."

"Negotiate? You're going to deliver them to me!"

"Everything must be legal," Mammonus said. "They have a very decent contract with their current manager, Mr. Strange. He will have to sign over his interests to you. Negotiations are mandatory. I can't just magic these things."

"The motel."

Mammonus shook his head. "No, not acceptable. You will easily be tracked to here. We need a place that is completely private. If you don't have one—"

"I was only in this hick town once before!" exploded Bratsman.

"IF you don't have one," continued Mammonus smoothly, "I will arrange for a secure space. It will not be accessible by ordinary means at all. Now, that's when magic can come in useful. I will move each party to the venue and out again, once your goal has been realized. Is that agreeable?"

"What's the catch?"

"No catch. If you don't take my offer, then you make your own arrangements, but you also take the risk that someone will track you down there before our business is concluded."

"But you can stand guard—"

"Not my job."

"Wilmer—"

"If you can find him in time."

Bratsman growled like an animal. The growl broke into a cough.

"You should have a doctor check that out," Mammonus said.

"Shut up."

"Very well. I'll be leaving."

"Wait!"

Mammonus had stood. He didn't sit down but didn't leave. "I'm waiting."

"OK, your place, fine. I don't care."

Mammonus stretched out his hand and one single sheet of parchment appeared in it. "Then sign this addendum."

"Not without reading it!"

"Certainly. Take your time. It's short."

Frowning, Bratsman ran his eyes over the document:

1 Addendum to Contract N0T B 666.666-661.

2 In furtherance of the completion of the contract noted in paragraph 1, Ergman Cheetham Bratsman, hereinafter referred to as the Party of the First Part, and Mammonus, hereinafter referred to as the Party of the Second Part, he being the Vice-Regent of the Infernal Regions in charge of the Third Deadly Sin as defined by Evagrius Ponticus, said parties do undertake and agree to the following conditions regarding the details of concluding the agreement specified in the contract alluded to in Paragraph 1 above:

3 A private venue for the final transference of the property in question shall be provided by the Party of the Second Part.

4 The Party of the Second Part undertakes to transport to the venue identified in Paragraph 3 above, all interested Parties and to transport said Parties back to the mundane world following the completion of business;

5 With the exception, that a Sacrifice being necessary to seal the execution of the Contract identified in Paragraph 1 above, the body alone shall be returned from the venue dentified in Paragraph 3 above, while the soul shall go unimpeded to its final destination, with no interference from the Party of the Second Part;

6 Upon the completion of activities and the execution of the Contract identified in Paragraph 1 above, all requirements of that Contract shall be considered as having been met.

Signed this Twelfth day of August 2017, by

(Signature of Ergman Bratzman)

(Signature of Mammon)

Witnessed by (Signature of Witness)

"Who's gonna witness?" Bratsman growled.

Mammonus rather ostentatiously snapped his fingers, producing a sharp pop.

A small imp floofed into existence. "Yes, Boss?"

"Got a job for you. Mr. Bratsman, this is Annoyance. Annoyance is a Notorious Public."

"A what?"

"Notorious Public," said the imp. He was about two feet tall and looked like a very dark shadow with two round staring eyes and short horns. Along with an arrow-pointed tail. He took a spectacles case from somewhere, donned a pair of glasses, and said, "I have my seal. Anytime."

"Is it satisfactory, Mr. Bratsman?"

"Yeah, just boilerplate. I don't have another gold coin," Bratsman said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mammonus handed him an old-fashioned fountain pen. "Ink will do for this," he said.

Officiously, the little imp asked, "May I see some identification?"

"Is he for real?" Bratsman asked.

The imp glared. "I work for His Lowness, the Emperor of the Underworld himself," he said. "He's Master of Wrath, I'm an enumerator of annoyances leading to anger. I have my identification. What about yours?"

Grumbling, Bratsman took out his wallet and showed the imp his driver's license. The imp had taken a tablet out from somewhere—it had no clothes and no pockets, presumably—and made a record of the license number. "Proceed."

"You're not going to demand his ID?" asked Bratsman.

"I know Lord Mammonus," Annoyance said. "Sign if you're going to sign. I don't have all eternity."

Bratsman put the paper down on his bedside stand and scrawled his name. Mammonus didn't use the pen, but gestured, and his name appeared in elegant cursive. Annoyance nodded, signed his name, and then stamped the document. "There you are, signed and sealed."

He poofed out of existence, leaving an aroma like rotten eggs.

"All legal," said Mammonus, folding the paper and tucking it into his inside pocket. "I'll get you a certified copy tomorrow. Now, for your disguise, since Mr. Gunzell does not seem to be available to help—"

Suddenly he held a large flat box. Bratsman opened it and asked, "What the hell?"

"They'll be looking for a man," Mammonus told him.

"You want me to go in drag?"

"The wig and dress have supernatural properties. They'll make your face look very different and will make you look less heavy. Or you can just go as yourself."

Bratsman had grumbled his way into the get-up. "This is damn embarrassing!"

"But effective. There, you don't look anything like yourself now. Cheer up, Ergman. Just for today, try to enjoy being a girl."

Dipper and Wendy were wearing concert camo themselves. Wendy was in a lace-up crop top, black, with impressive décolletage (and no bra beneath it), with a very short black skirt, fishnets, and sandals. Dipper was in a v-neck red tee shirt, French tucked (Mabel's touch), an unbuttoned black faux leather vest, tight jeans, and sneakers. Both wore the crosses, but only Wendy's showed.

They enjoyed Love God's turn, but as the afternoon went on, they both became more and more antsy.

That was a contagious condition. They, and Teek, had caught it from Mabel, who felt so sleepy that she came close to nodding off once or twice, always jerking herself awake with a gasp. Teek asked if she wanted to leave, but she said no. "Is that guy still around?" she asked more than once.

And more than once they told her no, they hadn't seen him. During a slow folk-song set, Dipper went back to the portable potties—there was a line for each one, he saw—and he stopped at the mobile Shack. "Hi," he said to Grunkle Stan, who was hanging a fresh set of tee shirts.

"Hi, Dip," Stan said. "How's it out there?"

"The music or—"

"No, the other situation." Stan glanced at the half-dozen people who were browsing the merch. Sheila was at the register. "Come on," he said.

They went to the small concrete-block building that housed his Woodstick office. Inside, he closed the door. "OK, nobody can hear us in here. Anything happening?"

Dipper shook his head. "The guy who followed us hasn't showed up, and Bratsman doesn't seem to be in the audience. We're not leaving Mabel alone for a second."

"Yeah, Ford's out there, too, ya know. Roaming around. I got him some press credentials, and that gives him an excuse to talk to people. So far, though, nothing. He says he wishes he could pin down which spirit or spookum or whatever is behind all this—"

"Yeah, I know," Dipper said. "He's narrowed it down to three possibilities, but unless we can interrogate Bratsman, or maybe the creepy guy we saw yesterday, I don't know how we could find out which one it is. If it's any of them." He squirmed. "Uh, I really need to go to the—"

Stan, sitting behind his desk, swiveled and pointed. "Use my private washroom, right there."

It was tiny, just enough room for a toilet and a single-faucet sink, but it was clean and smelled a lot better than a port-a-John. He came out drying his hands. "Thanks, Grunkle Stan. That was a life-saver."

"Yeah, yeah, you forgot to tuck in your tee shirt."

"It's supposed to be this way. Mabel says."

"Oh. OK, she'd know."

"Um, OK if we come here when one of us needs the bathroom?"

"Fine by me. If I ain't here, I'll be close by—in the trailer or straightening out some mess. Only don't send her here by herself. Let Wendy escort her, just to be safe."

"Good idea," Dipper said, turning to go.

Stan's cell phone rang, stopping Dipper.

"Huh, Ford," Stan said. "Hiya, Sixer, what's—say it again, I didn't—what? Did you see anybody around? You lost him? Have you checked with—nah, hang on, don't blow a gasket. Dip's OK, he's right here. Nah, he had to use the can, that's all. Yeah, here he is."

Dipper took the phone. "Hi, Grunkle Ford."

"Stanley's always teasing me. I noticed you were gone, and I worried that something—never mind. I just wanted to touch bases. You haven't seen anything of the man who frightened Mabel?"

"No, one of us would have called you. No sign of Bratsman?"

"I haven't seen any portly men who fit the description or match Mabel's sketch. I wish we could lay hands on one of those two. It would help so much if we could learn precisely which demon we might be facing. I'm not even sure it could be limited to Ambduscias, Flauros, or Mammon. It could—what?"

Something, a glass, a bottle, a plate, something—had shattered behind the washroom door, and Stan had yelled, "What the hey!"

"Just a second, just a second," Dipper said, taking two steps and yanking the washroom door open. "Something—uh—didn't break."'

"Mason, I don't understand—"

Stan grabbed the phone and spoke into it. "Call ya back. Stand by!"

"It sounded like glass breaking!" Dipper said. "But there's nothing on the floor or in the sink—"

"Did you write that?" Stan asked, pointing.

It had been done in soap letters on the mirror above the sink. Dipper felt cold. "No. And it wasn't there when I washed my hands."

"Well, nobody's come in through the window, 'cause there ain't one. And no trap doors in the floor or ceiling, so who the heck wrote it then? And what the heck does it even mean?"

Dipper thought he knew, but he called Ford again. "Yes? Are you all right?"

"Nothing was damaged," Dipper said. "But something left us a message."

"Something?"

"I'll tell you the rest when I see you. Let me describe it first."

"Go ahead. Also take a photo—"

"I will," Dipper said. But listen: This is drawn on a mirror with a bar of hand soap. It's a circle—too round for anybody to draw freehand, I'd say—and inside it there's the word 'man' in the lower center. Upper left part, the word 'master.' Upper right, same word, 'master.' Two arrows slanting up from 'man,' one going to each 'master.' Across the whole thing, a diagonal slash line, like the international sign for 'no parking.' Hang on, I'm taking a photo—there. Let me hang up and I'll send it to you."

"Don't bother tellin' me what's going on," Stan muttered.

Dipper texted the photo. "I think," he said, "somebody has just offered us what we need."

"Money?"

"Even better," Dipper said. "Help."