Free The Dirty Streets of Heaven: Volume One of Bobby Dollar by Tad Williams

me if these guys hadn’t managed.
    The real Grasswax had been mostly reduced to fibers strung between two trees at opposite ends of the yard, a sagging, shiny red hammock. What was left of the most important bits—and remember, this was the
real
Grasswax, the Outside Grasswax—still hung there, and I will never forget the expression on the remains of his face. I had never felt sorry for a minion of Hell before, but I did then. Remember, there’s no time Outside—it might have taken him days or even weeks to die.
    “Shit,” I said quietly. The minster was standing behind me, staring imperturbably at the ghastly mess as though he saw worse all the time. Maybe he did, and if so, I was definitely scratching “fixer” off my list of potential career moves.
    “Remember What We Told You,”
the angelic thing with the white mask told me.
“Answer Each Question Only After We Give Permission.”
    I barely registered what he was saying because at that moment something very tall and unpleasant tottered out of the Walker house. It was dull, shiny black all over, like a beetle’s shell, and trailed sticky black fibers from every limb. It had quite a few limbs. Its eyes looked like clots of blood illuminated from inside. I was assuming they were eyes, because they were side by side in the lump on the top of its body. Basically, it was altogether ghastly, the more so because every now and then it moved in an almost human way. Almost.
    “Thizzz izzz the advoc-c-c-cate Doloriel?”
it asked. If you recorded a shrieking chain saw, and then slowed it down until it sounded like it was playing through syrup, you’d have the voice, pretty much. The buzzing got into my bones and guts; just standing next to it made my stomach try to climb up my esophagus and flee the vicinity—I mean, it felt
bad.
This was no ordinary employee of Hell.
    “Yes, Chancellor.”
The minister said it politely, but I don’t think he liked being outranked by the Opposition.
“We Are Pleased To Cooperate In Your Investigation. You May Ask Your Questions.”
The minister’s voice floated into my thoughts.
“This is Chancellor Urgulap of the Second Hierarchy. He is investigating the murder of Prosecutor Grasswax. We are extending him a professional courtesy.”
    I don’t remember much of what the buzzing thing asked me, to be honest—just standing in front of it was one of the most unpleasantthings I’d ever experienced (and I’ve seen a lot of nasty). Most of the questions seemed fairly ordinary, though, not that different from what the minister had just asked me. I looked to the fixer each time before I answered, and each time he gave me a little mental nudge that meant, “Yes, you may.” It was only after one question that he seemed reluctant to give his permission.
    “And have you zzzzzpok-k-ken to any of your masterzzz or comradzzz about thizz matter?”
    The heavenly minister hesitated at this one—I could feel it. He relented a moment later, but now I was a little spooked. I didn’t want to drop anyone else into danger, certainly not Sam or even his rookie tagalong. “Not really. Just my supervisor, Temuel.” After all, it would have been weird if I
hadn’t
discussed it with the Mule, and it sure wasn’t my job to protect middle management.
    The chancellor stared at me with those squashed neon berries as if sensing my incomplete honesty. At last it turned and limped away. It must have opened a Zipper but I never saw it. One moment the Chancellor was there, a thing like a giant, melted bug standing upright on the patio beside the pool, then it was just gone. I can’t begin to describe the physical relief that came with its absence.
    “Thank You For Your Assistance, Angel Doloriel,”
the masked fixer said.
“As You See, We Are Cooperating With The Opposition In All Ways Possible In This Matter. If Anyone Else Contacts You About This, Or In Any Way Shows Inappropriate Interest, You Will Immediately Alert Us. God Loves You. You May