In the Big Leagues

by Daniel Johnson

I tumbled out of the limo like a sack of potatoes. I expected to hit pavement, but I kept falling. Big Tub Louie must have put a little extra into his work and thrown me off the edge of a bridge as well. Then I hit.

I lay there breathing in strange scents, wonderfully unhurt. Was that the scent of grass? Where was the scent of Chicago sewers?

I sat up and looked around. It looked like Big Tub had dumped me in the country. But there was no bridge, and no road. In fact, there was nothing except grass, trees, and a brook talking to itself. I stood and dusted off my rain coat with my fedora. Not the best treatment for the trim felt hat, but what had it done for me lately?

Not being busy doing anything useful, I checked my socks for burrs from the tumble in the grass. There were none. In fact, there were no weeds in the grass. It was a perfect lawn, except that the grass seemed uncut.

I was certainly no Boy Scout, but I’d played one during a few memorable summers. So I started walking parallel to the brook. There had to be people somewhere, and downstream was always a good bet.

The walk was strangely pleasant. I didn’t feel particularly hot in my hat and coat, and the ground wasn’t soft or rocky. It felt like Central Park on a beautiful spring day, only without any girls to watch.

It wasn’t long before I had things figured out. That’s my job after all.

Phil Heart, Private Detective, Things Figured Out.

The last thing I had figured out was that I should tell the city prosecutor that Lucky Luce Valentine had ordered the hit on the accountant who had found that Lucky was squeezing the city construction crews. That had led to my little soirée with Big Tub Louie.

Big Tub’s job hadn’t been to discourage Phil Heart. It had been to eliminate him. And he had.

“So what’s the quick way to check in?” I yell to the sky.

And there they were.

The Pearly Gates.

Heaven.

And some guy named Pete with all the answers. “Hello Phil. Welcome.”

“Saint Peter. Sure this is the right place?”

“The records show you came highly recommended. You got a particularly high rating from a long-time female resident. Although you do seem early.”

Icicles of doubt started creeping around my spine. So maybe I wasn’t supposed to kick the wagon just yet, except that some dame had decided she needed my help. A dame with pull.

“What’s her name?”

“Eve.”

I found her as she leaned on a 400-year old oak.

“So you got me pulled into Heaven because you’ve got a problem.”

She looked at me. I knew the look. I was the hired help.

“My son Abel got himself murdered. My only other son Cain got blamed for it. I want him cleared and I want the bastard who killed Abel.”

“The water went under that bridge a long, long time ago.”

Eve sighed out a breath of cigarette smoke. She looked at the swirls in front of her face. “This is Eternity, Phil. Time doesn’t mean the same thing here. You won’t need to rush.”

I knew the rap sheet. Cain got jealous because the Lord accepted Abel’s animal sacrifices instead of Cain’s grain. Given a choice between grilled prime lamb, and burnt oats, I guess I’d prefer the lamb myself. But I’m a Chicago boy.

So Cain blamed Abel, the lamb-keeper, and killed him “in the open country.”

No witnesses, Cain confessed. He got slapped with a tattoo, and went off to found the human race.

“So what’s your story?” I sipped at my cocktail and stared at Eve. “Why wasn’t it Cain?”

“Cain knew he couldn’t sacrifice grain,” Eve said. “He had a deal with Abel to trade bread for lamb. That boy could bake, and Abel loved it. There was no need to kill him.” Eve started crying then. A few more questions and I left.

There were only a few suspects in the case. Cain, Abel himself, their mother Eve, their father Adam (“He’s off hunting with the boys,” Eve had said, “He’s always off hunting with the boys.”). Then there was the serpent.

The serpent was the only straight-talker in the bunch, so I decided to see him first. He was surprisingly close.

“You’re wondering why I’m still in heaven.” He looked young and dapper in a snakeskin suit, drinking something dark and smoky.

“The big guy didn’t kick you out of the Garden, too?”

“No. Sometimes even he needs to talk to the other side.”

I must have looked sceptical. He looked nervous.

“Hey, if Satan and the Lord disagree, there is no one else to appeal to.

They have to work it out themselves. I’m the go-between.”

I was going to ask if he had a lot of business, but decided to stick to the case. “Was Abel set up?”

He snorted. “Nothing he didn’t deserve. He was the only source for sacrifices, and he knew it. He was squeezing Cain. Cain was looking to get out of the whole business. Rumor was that one of the Assyrian gods was willing to settle for burnt straw.”

Disloyalty. In Chicago that was always the ultimate sin, the one that got personal attention.

“So someone framed Cain to keep him under control. Who cared?”

That was when the tough guys came in and swept me out. Seraphim. Big tall guys with flaming swords, three pairs of wings, and more faces than the front row at a prize fight. The Big Man’s guys.

I enjoy Hell. I understand them and they understand me. There are a lot of old friends here. Big Tub Louie dropped in last week, and he and I are going to have a chat about old times.