76.

Cairo learns Portuguese in three weeks. No one is surprised.

The inner ring suspects it's a smokescreen tongue – that he's also clandestinely learning something relevant, Farsi or whatever – but there's no telling, so no one asks.

Recklessness is often ascribed as invincibility complex. Au contraire, it's staggeringly possible that it's the reverse – that faith in dying young is what inspires such casual discaution.

Cairo can subsist on cinnamon Certs and nicotine for a good long while.

77.

He appraises the sunset, incredulous. "You don't notice? Still?"

"Um, no? Go fish." He claims a card from the centre-table mess, frowns, removes his shirt. She proceeds. "Got any… fours?"

"I'm telling you, they're getting shorter. And no."

"You have to say 'go fish.'"

"…I miss poker."

"You miss metaphor."

He half-smirks concession. "Vá pescar."

Athens fishes unsuccessfully, loses a belt. "You miss your guns?"

"Metaphors, love. Got any… aces?"

Athens smiles, reaches up her sleeve.

"Smartass."

78.

The thing that saves Hell is the music. It also triples business for Athens, bronze mandolinist legendaire. One night (like all nights), no one's checking I.D.s...

"How old are you?" she asks, sweat-wet from stage lights, angel's voice alcohol-damp.

"Old enough," he says.

"To vote?"

"To drive."

"Hm," she says.

(The problem with having a Christ complex isn't the whole search-and-rescue bit. This instinct is good. The problem is, nine times out of ten, the savior's not Christ.)

79.

Rome escapes, and she does it alone.

Sort of.

"Hiya."

"Get off the car I'm about to steal."

Cairo slides off and opens the driver's side door for her, chivalrous as hell. "You know," he says, "it's thirty hours to Alicia." The dogs are already barking, old-school-style. "You'll want a second." She looks uncertain. "Quick, love. Bloodhounds are fast."

"Jaguars are faster."

"Assuming you can handle it."

Her eyes flicker. "I could do this blindfolded."

Cairo grins. "Game on."

80.

Boston uncocks it again; loves the click. The potentiality. Cocks it.

Matte silhouette against the rail, she strains to see what'll wreck him. Horizontal green. Black. Anything. She craves it, innocently, the way one wants cars to crash at a race.

The Dark Horse lurches; Boston curses – unladylike, but this close to the edge of the world, she figures, who fucking cares.

She found the pistol under his pillow. This is the closest thing to in love she'll ever be.

81.

"Name?"

"Orpheus."

"Occupation?"

Cairo grins. "Rescuing people from Hell."

The desk attendant glares up, slow, practically sweating ennui. "Occupation?"

"…Singer."

"Perhaps you'd like Athens then?" she recommends, already knowing too much.

"Athens," Cairo levels acicularly, "fucked over my tyro."

Rome offers a receptionist smile. "Well – with due respect, that is her job."

"'Fucked over.'"

"Semantics."

"Tell your suitemate: 1)I'd like to see her, 2)it's for revenge, and 3)'revenge' is not a euphemism."

The lack of alcohol on his breath terrifies her.

82.

The unicorn greets the man who ruined her with a kiss. He, in turn, smiles like he doesn't remember he's the proverbial "stairs" she purportedly "fell down." It's a sweet thing they have.

Manhattan (the unicorn) says, "How's your day, sugarpie?"

Dallas (the unicorn-slayer) says, "Swell, honeymuffin."

The former, being a sucker for irony, sucks milk from a carton reading: Have YOU seen Phoenix Hazley? Dallas, unscrewing his sweetheart's own medicine, says:

"You'll never guess who I met today on the train."

83.

No one could remember when exactly, but at some point Vienna had adopted the Good Guy role, Manhattan the Bad. Both were legendarily civilized about it, in the same way one might imagine Jesus and Lucifer coolly rock-paper-scissorsing for the Kingdom.

No one was shocked when Paris pronounced Manhattan’s banishment, but all duly smiled at the whispers concerning her passionate efforts at bribery.

Vienna had been the last to learn – had always protected Phoenix – and opted for justice, meaning something other than revenge.

84.

Cairo works in Hell for a night, on a dare. His employment lasts just long enough for the eccentric merit badge. During confession, the 4.5 hour stint comes up, naturally. “I knew you wouldn’t last,” smirks Santiago.

“Lasting wasn’t part of the dare.” Cairo exhales, dragonlike. “And quitting Hell… that’s like working your own salvation.”

Santiago prescribes a batch of Hail Marys, bums a cigarette.

Cairo confesses, weakly: It wasn’t even the whole sex trade thing that turned him off; it was the lighting.

85.

Havana invented the backlash amendment.

I adored him casually.

I was eternally devoted for a while.

I loved him completely. More or less.

The sort of costless, spineless patch-up jobs comprising B-sides and careful journal entries to be read by people one wants to impress. Privately, Havana’s as heartwrecked as London (recently driven to monasticism), only medicating differently. Havana takes men like Tylenol, and stops by Hell for the proverbial prescription.

She happens to do so on the one night that Cairo is an employee.

86.

Dallas starts taking the train to control his blood pressure, otherwise exacerbated by those fuckin’-hickville-Jersey-pedestrians-who-can’t-
cross-a-godsdamned-street-to-save-their-life. One day, he meets a stranger, who tells him everything.

[Once upon a time, The Ghost’s life was ruined – debatably ended – by a legendary seductress, named Manhattan. The stranger vanished, leaving a slew of bewildered survivors to avenge him. He renounced love and committed, ambivalently, to either death or forgetfulness.]

The clattering monologue smoothes down. “Anyway... thanks.”

"Sure." Dallas grimaces, sympathetic. “What’s your name?”

The Ghost extends a thin hand.

“Phoenix.”

87.

The gumballs have been running low ever since Manchester ran out of ammo. Now the lawn looks like a quantum rainbow, sniper perched on the lawn chair, thirsty for blue jay blood.

Manchester gets bored, spreads his rock collection on the tarp out back. He stands appraisingly, the passive judge, thin arms folded. Cairo’s been in the basement, sharpening his words; emerges, inevitably, and cocks his head at the assortment of stones. “What’re they all for?”

“Casting.”

Manchester is cute, and can destroy all kinds of housing.

88.

Boston is not suicidal, just fatalistic. Fatalistic plus reckless and people automatically assume suicidal. This logic is compelling, but flawed.

Boston lies on the deck, lets the sky rain all over her. Memphis is holding out for the end of the world; but Boston has seen the end of the world, and it is not that great. No drop, no monsters; the map only starts over again, reincarnated blue. Boston isn’t here for the end of the world; she’s here for him, unjaded and spry – unspoiled by cartography.