Second Chances Part 3
Disclaimers in Part 1.
God, he wanted a cigarette. God oh god he wanted a cig. That was one reason he avoided Midnite’s for weeks at a time: second hand smoke. It was like going to a strippers' club and trying not to think about getting laid.
For consolation, he took a deep gulp of the diffused smoke that filled the room.
Constantine pushed his near-empty whiskey glass aside as he pulled out his pack of nicotine gum. He turned the package over and over in his hands. The taste of the gum didn’t go with liquor. But god, he needed a hit.
Near his elbow, a hand descended towards his empty glass. In his peripheral vision, he saw who that hand belonged to.
Constantine exploded to his feet, knocking the tray of glassware from the man’s grasp. As glasses shattered on the floor, the exorcist twisted the man’s arm up behind his back, seized his throat in a strangling grip.
Constantine frog-marched his prisoner to the door of Midnite’s inner sanctum.
The door stayed shut.
“I know he’s in there,” said Constantine. Midnite’s aura was clearly detectable in the ether. “Open up.”
The guard said, “Mr. Midnite has an appointment.”
“Yeah, he does, with me,” said Constantine, over his prisoner’s shoulder. “Open that goddam door.”
The guard shook his head.
Constantine swore.
The guard wasn’t impressed.
His captive gasped, “Since we’ve lost the moment here - could you ease up a little?”
Constantine could feel the man’s throat vibrating under his fingers, feel the heat of that other body pressed up against him. Standing this close, he also noticed the absence of the telltale sulfur smell of demon. This man smelled human - as far as Constantine could tell, in the thick air of the club.
Constantine simultaneously shoved away and stepped back. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I work here,” said the halfbreed who looked like Balthazar.
“Bullshit,” said Constantine. Midnite never hired anyone with ties to one side or the other. Midnite was neutral. Switzerland.
The halfbreed had a dark mark on his cheekbone. Plus a split lip, the dried blood appearing black in the dim light. John knew he hadn’t caused either of those injuries. If he were going to hurt the halfbreed, it was going to be a lot worse than bruises.
“Ask him,” said the Balthazar look-alike, gesturing at the guard.
“He works here,” the guard confirmed. “Ever since Benoit went back to Jamaica and left us shorthanded.”
“Bullshit,” John said again, but with less conviction.
The halfbreed was wearing a denim shirt and fitted jeans, shirt neatly tucked in, buttoned to the neck, sleeves rolled up precisely. An echo of Balthazar’s meticulous style.
“This place doesn’t clean itself,” said the Balthazar look-alike, raking back his disheveled hair. “You think Midnite and his goons do the washing up? No offense,” the halfbreed added in the guard’s direction.
Constantine glared, for lack of any other response.
The halfbreed waved his hands in surrender. “Look, I have to take care of that mess.”
Constantine said reflexively, “You’ve not going anywhere.”
“No, I’m not,” said the other. “You want to talk to Midnite? Then talk to Midnite. My shift doesn’t end til 6 am. You’ll have plenty of time to hassle me later.”
John watched disbelievingly as the man retrieved a hand broom, dust pan, and trash can from behind the bar and went to clean up the remains of the shattered glassware.
With one last look at Midnite’s closed door, Constantine returned to his table.
His packet of gum lay unmolested.
The Balthazar look-alike was on his knees on the floor, picking up the larger pieces of glass and gingerly dropping them into the trash can. The longish hair had fallen forward, hiding his face.
John watched and unwrapped a piece of gun.
A large, vaguely male-looking character - not demonic or angelic, but one of the many unclassifiable entities that visited Midnite’s club - was seated at the next table. He/it launched a vicious kick at the kneeling man. The victim jerked away, boot scraping a glancing blow across his face. The impact rocked him back and he fell sideways, throwing out a hand to catch his fall, then yelping in pain.
The Balthazar look-alike raised his hand, revealing a large piece of glass imbedded in his palm. Wincing, the halfbreed eased the glass chunk from his wounded hand and dropped the bloodstained fragment into the trash.
Constantine rolled the gum from one side of his mouth to the other.
Bruises. Blood. The lack of reaction to holy water that first night, over a month ago.
Most halfbreeds didn’t bleed. Their flesh tore, or melted at the touch of holy water, but it didn’t bleed.
But the very lowest form of halfbreed - the least supernatural, the most human - the weakest - those halfbreeds bled like humans. They felt pain like humans. For most purposes, they were human, mortal, born and raised on earth, with human memories, human families. Tainted in the womb or in early life by one of the influence peddlers, they were often ignorant of their halfbreed status, living out their lives unaware of the possibilities - for good or evil - of their mixed blood.
The kneeling man was wielding the small broom and dust pan, favoring his injured hand. He rose, taking the cleaning implements, and disappeared through the doors into the kitchen.
The guard approached. “You wanted to talk to Mr. Midnite.”
John stalked past the formidable but now-open door and into Midnite’s office.
“Constantine,” said the vodoun priest, from behind his large desk cluttered with religious artifacts.
Constantine demanded, “What the fuck is that bastard doing here?”
“He works here,” said Midnite calmly. “It’s not a simple thing to find workers for this establishment.”
“Of course, it’s all about your personnel problems,” Constantine said. “I didn’t think you’d stoop to hiring a demon. How is this keeping the Balance?”
“This is perfectly in keeping with the Balance. My newest employee is of neither side.”
“Bullshit. It’s him,” said Constantine. “I know it’s him! It’s fucking obvious!”
“From one perspective, yes,” said Midnite. “And from another perspective, no.”
Aha. So it was Balthazar. Midnite wasn’t wrong about things like that. He didn’t become one of the leading occult power brokers in the world by making mistakes about the entities he was dealing with.
“He is not as he once was,” said Midnite. “He is less like Balthazar than Gabriel’s current incarnation resembles his prior self.”
“Shit,” John said disgustedly, “don’t tell me you went and hired that other prick too. What is this, the fucking welfare office?”
Midnite shook his head. “No. I did not hire Gabriel. But then, Gabriel did not ask.”
This whole thing was ridiculous. Balthazar, demonic badass and the ex-multimillionaire CEO of BZR Securities, mopping floors for minimum wage. If Midnite paid that much.
Constantine said, “Fuck it. I can’t believe that you’d do this. I can’t believe that you’d help him.”
“I am not helping him. He works for me. I pay him. It is a business arrangement. I have told you time and time again, John. I am first and foremost a businessman.”
Constantine waved a hand in annoyance.
Papa Midnite continued, “He is no longer as he was. He has no memory of his past. His powers are gone. He knows he is different, that the others mock him, but he does not know why. What would you would have me do, punish him in his innocence?”
“Innocence?” Constantine snapped. “He drove Isabel to suicide. He murdered Hennessey and Beeman. He almost brought about the end of this world. You have strange fucking ideas about innocence!”
Midnite said, “I remind you that you deported him for whatever crimes he committed. I also remind you that he was not the only agent of the Son of Satan. Balthazar was a late recruit to Mammon’s cause. He was needed only for his knowledge of this city where the mediums Isabel and Angela resided.”
“He made his choice,” said John.
Midnite shrugged. “Few are the denizens of Hell who have the power to resist Satan’s son.”
“He’s supposed to be dead,” said John. “I wanted that fucker DEAD!”
Midnite steepled his fingers. “You know demons cannot die, John. They incarnate as their master permits. It appears that his master chose to reincarnate Balthazar much reduced in power. In his involvement with Mammon and Gabriel, Balthazar rebelled. Thus has he been thrown down and disowned, as Gabriel was.”
It didn’t make any sense. “But Gabriel remembers who he is, who he was,” said Constantine. “He won’t shut up about it. Gabriel lectures about the fucking Kingdom of God to everybody he meets.”
Midnite shrugged. “The Dark One might say that he was more merciful to his servant than the Most High was to Gabriel. If you had fallen as those two have - gone from being a prince in your master’s realm, to being an outcast, weak and despised, would you want to remember?”
Constantine leaned over the broad desk. “You don’t get it. That asshole is pure evil. He poisons everything. Doesn’t matter if he’s Satan’s prince or your janitor. He’s a twisted fuck that - should - not - exist - on - this - plane.”
“You are not required to like this arrangement,” said Midnite. “This is my place. It operates by my rules. He stays here as long as he does his work and makes no trouble.”
God, he wanted a cigarette. God oh god he wanted a cig. That was one reason he avoided Midnite’s for weeks at a time: second hand smoke. It was like going to a strippers' club and trying not to think about getting laid.
For consolation, he took a deep gulp of the diffused smoke that filled the room.
Constantine pushed his near-empty whiskey glass aside as he pulled out his pack of nicotine gum. He turned the package over and over in his hands. The taste of the gum didn’t go with liquor. But god, he needed a hit.
Near his elbow, a hand descended towards his empty glass. In his peripheral vision, he saw who that hand belonged to.
Constantine exploded to his feet, knocking the tray of glassware from the man’s grasp. As glasses shattered on the floor, the exorcist twisted the man’s arm up behind his back, seized his throat in a strangling grip.
Constantine frog-marched his prisoner to the door of Midnite’s inner sanctum.
The door stayed shut.
“I know he’s in there,” said Constantine. Midnite’s aura was clearly detectable in the ether. “Open up.”
The guard said, “Mr. Midnite has an appointment.”
“Yeah, he does, with me,” said Constantine, over his prisoner’s shoulder. “Open that goddam door.”
The guard shook his head.
Constantine swore.
The guard wasn’t impressed.
His captive gasped, “Since we’ve lost the moment here - could you ease up a little?”
Constantine could feel the man’s throat vibrating under his fingers, feel the heat of that other body pressed up against him. Standing this close, he also noticed the absence of the telltale sulfur smell of demon. This man smelled human - as far as Constantine could tell, in the thick air of the club.
Constantine simultaneously shoved away and stepped back. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I work here,” said the halfbreed who looked like Balthazar.
“Bullshit,” said Constantine. Midnite never hired anyone with ties to one side or the other. Midnite was neutral. Switzerland.
The halfbreed had a dark mark on his cheekbone. Plus a split lip, the dried blood appearing black in the dim light. John knew he hadn’t caused either of those injuries. If he were going to hurt the halfbreed, it was going to be a lot worse than bruises.
“Ask him,” said the Balthazar look-alike, gesturing at the guard.
“He works here,” the guard confirmed. “Ever since Benoit went back to Jamaica and left us shorthanded.”
“Bullshit,” John said again, but with less conviction.
The halfbreed was wearing a denim shirt and fitted jeans, shirt neatly tucked in, buttoned to the neck, sleeves rolled up precisely. An echo of Balthazar’s meticulous style.
“This place doesn’t clean itself,” said the Balthazar look-alike, raking back his disheveled hair. “You think Midnite and his goons do the washing up? No offense,” the halfbreed added in the guard’s direction.
Constantine glared, for lack of any other response.
The halfbreed waved his hands in surrender. “Look, I have to take care of that mess.”
Constantine said reflexively, “You’ve not going anywhere.”
“No, I’m not,” said the other. “You want to talk to Midnite? Then talk to Midnite. My shift doesn’t end til 6 am. You’ll have plenty of time to hassle me later.”
John watched disbelievingly as the man retrieved a hand broom, dust pan, and trash can from behind the bar and went to clean up the remains of the shattered glassware.
With one last look at Midnite’s closed door, Constantine returned to his table.
His packet of gum lay unmolested.
The Balthazar look-alike was on his knees on the floor, picking up the larger pieces of glass and gingerly dropping them into the trash can. The longish hair had fallen forward, hiding his face.
John watched and unwrapped a piece of gun.
A large, vaguely male-looking character - not demonic or angelic, but one of the many unclassifiable entities that visited Midnite’s club - was seated at the next table. He/it launched a vicious kick at the kneeling man. The victim jerked away, boot scraping a glancing blow across his face. The impact rocked him back and he fell sideways, throwing out a hand to catch his fall, then yelping in pain.
The Balthazar look-alike raised his hand, revealing a large piece of glass imbedded in his palm. Wincing, the halfbreed eased the glass chunk from his wounded hand and dropped the bloodstained fragment into the trash.
Constantine rolled the gum from one side of his mouth to the other.
Bruises. Blood. The lack of reaction to holy water that first night, over a month ago.
Most halfbreeds didn’t bleed. Their flesh tore, or melted at the touch of holy water, but it didn’t bleed.
But the very lowest form of halfbreed - the least supernatural, the most human - the weakest - those halfbreeds bled like humans. They felt pain like humans. For most purposes, they were human, mortal, born and raised on earth, with human memories, human families. Tainted in the womb or in early life by one of the influence peddlers, they were often ignorant of their halfbreed status, living out their lives unaware of the possibilities - for good or evil - of their mixed blood.
The kneeling man was wielding the small broom and dust pan, favoring his injured hand. He rose, taking the cleaning implements, and disappeared through the doors into the kitchen.
The guard approached. “You wanted to talk to Mr. Midnite.”
John stalked past the formidable but now-open door and into Midnite’s office.
“Constantine,” said the vodoun priest, from behind his large desk cluttered with religious artifacts.
Constantine demanded, “What the fuck is that bastard doing here?”
“He works here,” said Midnite calmly. “It’s not a simple thing to find workers for this establishment.”
“Of course, it’s all about your personnel problems,” Constantine said. “I didn’t think you’d stoop to hiring a demon. How is this keeping the Balance?”
“This is perfectly in keeping with the Balance. My newest employee is of neither side.”
“Bullshit. It’s him,” said Constantine. “I know it’s him! It’s fucking obvious!”
“From one perspective, yes,” said Midnite. “And from another perspective, no.”
Aha. So it was Balthazar. Midnite wasn’t wrong about things like that. He didn’t become one of the leading occult power brokers in the world by making mistakes about the entities he was dealing with.
“He is not as he once was,” said Midnite. “He is less like Balthazar than Gabriel’s current incarnation resembles his prior self.”
“Shit,” John said disgustedly, “don’t tell me you went and hired that other prick too. What is this, the fucking welfare office?”
Midnite shook his head. “No. I did not hire Gabriel. But then, Gabriel did not ask.”
This whole thing was ridiculous. Balthazar, demonic badass and the ex-multimillionaire CEO of BZR Securities, mopping floors for minimum wage. If Midnite paid that much.
Constantine said, “Fuck it. I can’t believe that you’d do this. I can’t believe that you’d help him.”
“I am not helping him. He works for me. I pay him. It is a business arrangement. I have told you time and time again, John. I am first and foremost a businessman.”
Constantine waved a hand in annoyance.
Papa Midnite continued, “He is no longer as he was. He has no memory of his past. His powers are gone. He knows he is different, that the others mock him, but he does not know why. What would you would have me do, punish him in his innocence?”
“Innocence?” Constantine snapped. “He drove Isabel to suicide. He murdered Hennessey and Beeman. He almost brought about the end of this world. You have strange fucking ideas about innocence!”
Midnite said, “I remind you that you deported him for whatever crimes he committed. I also remind you that he was not the only agent of the Son of Satan. Balthazar was a late recruit to Mammon’s cause. He was needed only for his knowledge of this city where the mediums Isabel and Angela resided.”
“He made his choice,” said John.
Midnite shrugged. “Few are the denizens of Hell who have the power to resist Satan’s son.”
“He’s supposed to be dead,” said John. “I wanted that fucker DEAD!”
Midnite steepled his fingers. “You know demons cannot die, John. They incarnate as their master permits. It appears that his master chose to reincarnate Balthazar much reduced in power. In his involvement with Mammon and Gabriel, Balthazar rebelled. Thus has he been thrown down and disowned, as Gabriel was.”
It didn’t make any sense. “But Gabriel remembers who he is, who he was,” said Constantine. “He won’t shut up about it. Gabriel lectures about the fucking Kingdom of God to everybody he meets.”
Midnite shrugged. “The Dark One might say that he was more merciful to his servant than the Most High was to Gabriel. If you had fallen as those two have - gone from being a prince in your master’s realm, to being an outcast, weak and despised, would you want to remember?”
Constantine leaned over the broad desk. “You don’t get it. That asshole is pure evil. He poisons everything. Doesn’t matter if he’s Satan’s prince or your janitor. He’s a twisted fuck that - should - not - exist - on - this - plane.”
“You are not required to like this arrangement,” said Midnite. “This is my place. It operates by my rules. He stays here as long as he does his work and makes no trouble.”