Requiem for the Devil Read online

  “Sounds intriguing,” I said.

  “It’s more my speed, or rather more in line with my talent, or lack thereof. Bring your brother and a couple of friends. We’ll hang out after the show.”

  “You may regret that invitation.”

  “Nah,” she said. “We could use some new groupies.” She looked at the clock on the dashboard. “I’d better go now.”

  “Until Friday then.” I kissed her hand.

  “Until Friday.”

  We didn’t wait until Friday. I arrived at her office that day at five o’clock with another red-and-white rose. She feigned surprise, then spent the next two nights with me.

  6

  Ad Te Omnis Caro Veniet

  Friday night Mephistopheles met me outside the Shack around nine-thirty. Beelzebub was amusing himself by making screeching imps out of wet leaves and dropping them into the sewer system. When he saw me, he brushed off his hands and came over.

  “This place rocks,” he said to me.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “We’ve been everywhere before,” Mephistopheles said.

  Our eyes followed a pair of leather-skirted postpubescents as they sauntered past the bouncer, who winked at them, unaware he was being ignored. Beelzebub started to follow them inside. I held him back.

  “Think you can remain unattached until after the show, Bub?”

  “If I have to, I guess.” He looked at his watch. “Where’s Belial, anyway?”

  “If I were any closer, I’d be up your ass.”

  Beelzebub turned to face Belial, who had crept up to stand behind him. “If you were up my ass, I doubt I’d notice.”

  Belial put his arm around Beelzebub’s shoulder. “I know this great little dark alley where we could find out.”

  “Gentlemen,” I said, “let’s go inside.”

  Belial joined me on the way in. “And how is life treating you? Splendidly, unless the grapevine lies.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My carrier pigeon tells me that you’ve spent the whole week with this particular inamorata.” He stopped to buy a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine.

  “It’s been a good week.”

  “Why?”

  “I enjoy her,” I said. Belial’s slick green eyes studied me. “I think you’ll see why.”

  “I can’t wait. Anyway, Lou, I’ve been working on the ad campaign for our new HMO.” As Hell’s smoothest and most colorful liar, Belial was the ideal marketing/public relations director. “The motif will be sleeping children. After all, kids are cutest and least intrusive when they’re asleep—it conjures up images of good health, peace of mind, quiet time alone with one’s spouse, maybe even the prospect of a connubial bonk or two before the rugrat wakes up wanting to know why Daddy’s wearing a harness and Mommy’s wielding a riding crop.”

  “I like it. It says we care.”

  Beelzebub and Mephistopheles had gone ahead of us and gotten a table in the center of the crowded room, right behind and above the mosh pit.

  “Nice view,” I said.

  Mephistopheles pulled over a few extra chairs. “For some reason the people who were sitting here when we arrived decided to leave.”

  “Yeah, funny how that worked out. They paid for our first round of drinks, too.” Beelzebub moved to my side of the table. “I get to sit next to you and make lewd remarks about your woman during the show.”

  “Be careful,” I said. “By the way, I told her you were my brother.”

  “Why?”

  “You are my brother.”

  “I know, but I never got to be in real life before.” He offered me a cigarette, which I declined. “Did you tell her about dear old Dad?”

  “I told her we’re not as close to him as we used to be.”

  “Hey, how come I don’t get to be your brother?” Mephistopheles asked.

  “Have you looked in the mirror lately, homey?” Belial said. “You are a brother.”

  A waitress with black sequins pasted across her forehead brought our drinks as the music from the overhead speakers faded. Dim blue lights illuminated the stage. The crowd in the mosh pit hooted and cheered as four women walked on stage and picked up their instruments for a last-minute sound check. I could barely make out Gianna in the shadows holding one of the guitars. She seemed taller than I remembered, even though I was looking down at her.

  The drummer counted off, then the stage erupted in light and noise. Gianna commanded the front spotlight, looking as though she were born there. Stretched over her lean, muscular torso was a black tank top, over which draped a long dark gray vest. She wore tight black leggings that accentuated her lithe build, with ankle-high suede boots to match. The obligatory heavy dark makeup encircled her eyes, giving her that back-from-the-grave sparkle. I admired the panache with which she carried the cliché.

  I was in the shower this morning

  When it suddenly occurred to me.

  There was a nugget of wisdom and yearning

  To be able to stand when I pee.

  And I stood in the shower contemplating

  That masculine fixation with masturbating,

  A subject about which they’re so obsessive,

  Why are they all so fucking possessive?

  I want a dick for a day.

  I want a dick for a day.

  I’ll use it, abuse it,

  And then I’ll throw it away,

  And then I’ll throw it away.

  Her arm muscles rippled as she sawed away at the guitar. I became entranced with the rhythm of her stroke and didn’t hear Beelzebub calling my name until he shook my shoulder.

  “I can see why you wanted a second date,” he said. “So when are you going to share?”

  “Share?”

  “Though she’s not really my type. I prefer them blond and dumb like me, but—”

  “I’m not going to share,” I said. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Lou, what happened to your generosity?”

  “I never had any.” I finished Beelzebub’s drink and tried to focus my attention back on the stage.

  Envying that daily decision,

  Do I go with boxers or briefs?

  That right-leg-vs.-left-leg division,

  Either way, it all ends in grief.

  I just do not understand it

  That self-involvement, bird-in-hand bit.

  Anyway, it’s overrated,

  Better off to be castrated.

  I want a dick for a day.

  I want a dick for a day.

  I’ll use it, abuse it,

  And then I’ll throw it away,

  And then I’ll throw it away.

  “Does she have a sister?” Beelzebub said.

  “No.”

  “How about a mother?”

  “Do you mind?” I said. “I’m trying to watch the show.”

  “Aunt, cousin, anything?”

  “Shut up.”

  I could behave just like a man then

  Bragging about how well it’s hung

  Lying to myself all the time, when

  The truth is that girls prefer tongue.

  Silly princes, silly palace,

  What’s so charming ‘bout a phallus?

  Try it once, and that’ll do it.

  Penis envy? I say ‘Screw it!’

  I want a dick for a day.

  I want a dick for a day.

  I’ll use it, abuse it,

  And then I’ll throw it away,

  And then I’ll throw it away.

  Give me a dick for a day.

  So I can throw it away!

  The song ended with a screech of guitar strings. Gianna pushed back her hair and gave the crowd a surly smile.

  “Hey, how’s it goin’? We’re Public Humiliation, the politically correct punk rockers. It’s good to be back opening up for Riot Kittens again. For those of you who’ve been following us . . .” Several dozen people screamed. “. . . both of you, I have
some pretty big news. I learned a new chord. I like to call it . . . F, and it goes a little something like this.” She bashed out the chord and let the clamor die away before she continued.

  “You’d be amazed how many songs don’t use F. Especially songs we write. We have a new one, though, tonight, featuring this wonderful chord.”

  The band slammed into the next song, which had a slower grind to it than the first.

  Gianna stepped aside and let the lead guitarist take the front spotlight. This woman had long flame-colored hair and flashing hazel eyes. Her tonsil-ripping screech contrasted with Gianna’s guttural growl, and though she was short, she looked powerful enough to lodge one of her combat boots in someone’s skull with a single kick.

  Mephistopheles leaned across the table towards me. “It’s a good thing we’re not threatened by strong women, huh?”

  While the redhead “sang” a song about pesticide-induced two-headed children, Gianna scanned the crowd until she found me. I tipped my glass to her, and she winked at me over the mosh pit’s colliding bodies.

  “Remember, gentlemen,” I said after the show was over, “this should be a night to remember, not a night to forget. Don’t do anything evil to these women unless they specifically request it.”

  “Why not?” Belial asked.

  “Because Lou’s got a girlfriend,” Mephistopheles said with a mocking lilt, “and he thinks we’ll embarrass him so she won’t bring him home to meet her momma.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend, and I have no interest in meeting her mother, other than mere curiosity, but I might like to see her again. So if you would try to recall the art of the graceful one-night stand, I’d be very much obliged.”

  “What’s that one line you came up with?” Beelzebub asked Belial. “‘This night has been so perfect . . .’”

  “‘This night has been so perfect, I can’t bear to ruin the precious memory of it by making you see me again, because I fear I’ll only disappoint you.’ Was that it?”

  “Yeah, but you know, that line never works for me. They always say, ‘Oh no, you could never disappoint me,’ and then I end up panicking and saying something like ‘I’d rather saw off my dick with a plastic knife than stick it inside your clammy little body again.’”

  “Ouch, that’ll work.” Mephistopheles crossed his legs. “But it’s not as subtle.”

  “The trick with the ‘perfect night’ line,” Belial said, “is that you have to say it with commitment, with charm.”

  Beelzebub shook his head. “I use up all my charm to get them into bed. There’s none left over afterwards.” The three of us shared a smirk.

  “You do have an admirable assortment of pickup lines, Bub.” I picked up my fourth whiskey.

  Mephistopheles hooted. “My favorite one is ‘I wish I were you, so I’d get to fuck me.’”

  We roared and banged our glasses together in a raucous salute. “If that line works,” I said, “you know you have an enthusiastic night on your hands.”

  “Dude, I think you have an enthusiastic night on your hands.” Beelzebub nodded past me. “Here she comes.”

  Gianna waded through a pack of sycophants to reach our table.

  “Hi,” I said. “You were—”

  She cut me off with a ferocious kiss. Six demon eyes probed us with their gazes.

  When she pulled away, I said, “You just broke the hearts of two dozen leather-clad lesbians.”

  “That was the secondary motive.” Gianna took a shot of whiskey from the sequin-faced waitress, who looked at her longingly out of the corner of her eye while she picked up our empty glasses. Gianna placed hers on the waitress’s tray. “Thanks, Dariah. Bring me two more, would you please?”

  “Your wish, Gianna,” Dariah said. “Another round for everyone else?”

  “Yeah, can we get some beers, too?” Beelzebub held up his glass. “This whiskey’s making me thirsty.”

  I stood up. “Gianna, let me introduce—”

  “No, don’t tell me.” She examined each of my companions, then extended her hand towards Belial. “You must be Bob.”

  Beelzebub cackled. “Sorry, that would be me.”

  Gianna glanced between the two of us. “You two are brothers? You don’t look a thing alike.”

  “We’re half-brothers,” I said.

  “Right,” Beelzebub said. “Half brothers, half something else.” He rose to his feet and took her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet someone with such power.”

  “Oh . . . why, thank you.” She smiled at him. He held onto her hand a half-second longer than I would have liked.

  “And these are our friends Malcolm and Bill,” I said.

  They each shook her hand and gazed at her with a lustful curiosity that would have knocked most women off their feet. Gianna blinked a few times, then sat down.

  “So what’d you think, honestly?” she said to me.

  “I thought you were incredible.”

  “If you didn’t know me, what would you think?”

  “If I didn’t know you, I’d want to.”

  “Fair enough.” She leaned close to me. “My friends will be pleased with your friends, I believe. They’ll be along in a minute.” She turned to Beelzebub. “Excuse me.” She reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “May I?”

  “Absolutely.” As he lit her cigarette, his eyes moved rapidly over hers as if he were reading between the lines of her irises. I gave him a swift telepathic kick in the groin. He winced and looked away from her.

  “Looks like the groupie agency came through for us big this time, eh, Gianna?”

  The other three members of the band stood at the end of the table. Gianna stood to make the introductions. I grasped Beelzebub’s arm.

  “Keep your eyes off her mind,” I said.

  “You wouldn’t respect me if I didn’t at least try.”

  Gianna’s friends joined us at the table. Ellen, the red-haired guitarist, had a voice as sweet offstage as it was acidic onstage. Lisa Anne was tall and wiry, her hair blond and spiky with dark roots. I recognized her as the bass guitarist. Veronica the drummer had wary gray eyes and long, coarse black hair. Like Gianna, they were all high on themselves and ready to party.

  “You girls have some catching up to do,” Mephistopheles said after everyone was seated. “We’re all pretty heavily distilled already.”

  “Just keep the beer and the Jack Daniel’s flowing, and we’ll fix that soon enough.” Ellen pounded the table. “And don’t call us girls, by the way. We hate that.”

  “Yeah, you see any frilly pink lace at this table?” Lisa Anne said.

  “I for one am wearing a very demure pair of white panties with little bunnies on them,” Veronica said with a straight face. “Does that count?”

  “So what should we call you, then?” Beelzebub tilted his head towards Ellen at a devastating angle. “Man-hating castrating bitches?”

  “Works for us.” Ellen raised her glass to Gianna and met Beelzebub’s admiring gaze as she downed the shot of whiskey. He turned to me a few moments later and mouthed the word “Wow.”

  “I’m curious, then,” I said. “Do you consider yourselves feminists?”

  “All the way, feministas!” Ellen said. The women clanked their half-empty beer mugs together. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “But by acting like men, aren’t you dishonoring the female?” Everyone squinted at me as if I had just dropped an open bag of ants onto a picnic table. “It seems like a case of identifying with your oppressor to the point where you imitate him. The actions you hate the most in men are the very ones you perpetuate.”

  The women looked at each other, then Ellen said to Gianna, “I don’t recall giving the men permission to speak, do you?”

  We all laughed. Gianna patted my hand. “Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to vote.”

  “Okay, brief sociopolitical tirade, then we party.” Lisa Anne pointed her cocktail straw
at me. “Louis, you can laugh off our insults because you know that you’re still the one with the power. You can afford to indulge us, as long as we don’t come close to taking that power away.”

  “That’s why we gotta be nasty,” Veronica said. “To show any weakness would be to lose ground. Gotta keep that pendulum swinging our way as long as possible.”

  Gianna set her glass down. “I think that eventually, maybe not in our lifetimes, but someday, men and women will treat each other as true equals and stop this power struggle. But it won’t happen overnight, and as long as there’s a battle to be fought, we’ll fight it.”

  “With the most potent weapon at our disposal,” Ellen said.

  “Which is?”

  “Overstatement!” the women chimed in ragged unison. Their glasses slammed together again and contributed to the expanding puddle of booze on the center of the table.

  “Now with all due respect, Mr. Cerebral,” Lisa Anne said to me, “shut up and get wasted.”

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “You’ll have to be patient.” Mephistopheles curled his arm around the back of Lisa Anne’s chair. “It takes about a dozen drinks before Lou starts to loosen up.”

  “Yeah, too bad he passes out after the eleventh one,” Belial said.

  “I know what you need.” Gianna took my hand. “We’ll be right back.” She dragged me towards the back of the bar and through an unmarked door. She locked the door behind us and led me down a short flight of stairs into a small, dimly lit room.

  “Who would’ve thought a place like this would have a wine cellar?” I said.

  “The lady who owns this place, a friend of mine, also owns the posh restaurant above the bar. That place is closed this time of night, so no one should interrupt us.”

  “Was there something you wanted to show me?” I asked her as she knelt before me and unbuttoned my pants.

  “Don’t be coy, Louis. You’re not very good at it.”

  “A rare Beaujolais? Your favorite Pinot Grigio? Perhaps a Cabernet Sau—ohhhhh . . .” I steadied myself against the wine rack, my fingers scrambling over the rough wood for a secure handhold. They finally came to rest in her hair, which was sticky with sweat and hair spray. My groans blended with the pulse of the bass guitar above our heads. She wasted no time making me come, and I was grateful, since my legs were liquefying and I feared my shudders would cause the wine rack to topple on us at any moment.