Hell to Pay Read online

  Hell to Pay

  by Dick Wybrow

  PRAISE FOR PREVIOUS NOVELS

  by DICK WYBROW

  Hell inc. (Hell inc Series Book 1)

  One of the best comedic adventure stories I've ever read! Hilarious with a great deal of heart!

  -- James Jones

  "I'm a fan of Jim Butcher, Dean Koontz, Charlaine Harris, B.C.Johnson. Dick Wybrow deserves to be in that group of my favorites in that genre." -- Lisa, Amazon Reviewer

  This author is downright funny. I rarely leave a review that doesn't have some form of critique in it, but this book made me laugh so often I never got a chance to find something negative.

  -- Michael, GoodReads

  The InBetween (Painter Mann Series Book 1)

  “Dick Wybrow has crafted a totally original and amazing supernatural thriller. Edgy and fast-paced, The InBetween is a hell of an idea. What a great read!”

  -- Brad Meltzer, The Escape Artist

  "Dick Wybrow gives readers imaginative and poignant perspectives on death combined with comedy, mystery, and horror, making The InBetween an enjoyable read. I look forward to Book Two."

  -- Readers' Favorite Book Review

  The Night Vanishing (Painter Mann Series Book 2)

  "The entire book is a fairly high octane trippy carnival ride from start to finish. I liked Painter's integrity and sarcasm (he's a smart*ss in the Harry Dresden mold)... Fun and interesting series, weird and cool."

  -- Annie, GoodReads

  Hey, get a “bite” of The Swordsmen FREE …

  If you’d like a free copy of Book One of Dick Wybrow’s humorous semi-apocalypse story The Swordsmen (Fifty Shades of Gray Matter) and get the latest updates from the author, click here.

  Copyright © Dick Wybrow 2020

  dickwybrow.com

  Edited by Red Adept

  Cover by Warren Design

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemble to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  To you, the Reader…

  I’ll often interview dozens of people for a novel. Run it by folks I trust to tell me if I’m off base, on base or sliding into first (note for non-baseball fans, we generally don’t slide into first)

  But in the end, this is a production of two: just you and me.

  I write the story. You are the producer, director and craft services of this manuscript. This story is one that plays out in your mind.

  All I can hope is that I’ve given you a good story to work with.

  Thank you.

  Chapter One

  The beer was late. Again.

  Whipping through the dark streets of North Dallas, the cargo van's driver earned an impressive collection of middle fingers, horn blasts, at least one "pendejo!" and something yelled by a foreign driver that sounded like the Swedish Chef burning his hand on a hot iron skillet.

  Delivering beer was, in theory, easy. One day soon, he was sure it would be carried out by drone trucks, but for now, it was at least a way for troubled high school dropouts to keep from stealing purses or peddling drugs. Or worse. But that was only if said beer deliverer could actually deliver said beer at a time that looked very similar to the hour and minute printed out on a clipboard somewhere else in the city.

  The driver took the corner way too fast, praying there weren't any cars in the alley behind The Bar. He didn't clear the corner properly, and the van's mirror scraped along the brick, showering sparks onto a wobbly dude peeing on a wall in the dark.

  "Goddamn it, watch out!"

  "Sorry!" the driver yelled out the window for at least the tenth time in the past twenty minutes. He'd gotten lucky. If the peeing guy had been taller, he'd have taken the man's head off.

  He risked a quick glance in the now spiderweb-cracked mirror to see if the dude was still upright. "Fuck," he said as he stared at the image. Strangely, the man in the alley looked squished somehow. "Now I've busted the mirror. Great."

  He skidded to a stop behind the delivery bay of The Bar and reached for his door. He'd only cracked it open a few inches when it was slammed shut.

  "Don't bother getting out," the bouncer said. He wore a black T-shirt with white lettering that simply read THE BAR. However, the way it stretched across the man's barrel chest made it look as if the phrase were yelling at anyone who might read it. "You're late."

  The driver's fingers stung. "So was your mother." When the bouncer's beet-red face filled his side window, his indignation vanished. He added, "And look how well that turned out," tacking on a smile at the end like an exclamation point, or just a silent plea not to be beaten to death.

  The bouncer didn't have to collect the kegs of beer, but he liked carrying them, one on each shoulder, because he thought it might impress the new waitress. So far, she was the only female employee who hadn't either outright rejected him or threatened police involvement.

  "Hey, baby," he said after kicking the rear delivery door closed with his boot and walking deeper into the bar.

  The pretty waitress reached up to the kegs and rested her hands on them, sighing. The extra bit of weight drew a soft grunt.

  He kept smiling. "I ever tell you that my johnson hooks upward? Family trait. Drives the ladies wild," he said. "Uh, doesn't drive the ladies in our family wild, I mean. I don't sleep with the ladies in my family."

  "Uh-huh." She pulled the rubber branded lids off each keg.

  His smile fell, and he looked to a big metal door with a latched handle. "Can you at least open the cooler door for me?"

  She called back, "Your dick curves upward. Use it to open the door."

  Walking the short beer-and-mold-stained hallway toward the kitchen, she glanced up and saw a half dozen customers on barstools. The usual fare—students, sales reps, assorted losers. The odd one out was the strange woman in the cowboy hat.

  "Hey, intern," she said, leaning against the door of the cooks' station.

  A teenage boy had his arm in the oven up to his shoulder, and her voice made him jump. He dropped the extra-large Italian-style pizza, which sent his wrist banging against the top of the oven. He reflexively pulled his arm down, burning it on the bottom, then lifted it, burning the top again, then the bottom as he pulled his arm out. He dropped the metal clamp on the floor and cradled his hand.

  "Poor baby," she said and blew him a kiss.

  He frowned, but he thought she was so hot he would keep the memory of those puckered lips for later.

  "Can you take these up to the bar?"

  "I'm Cook's Assistant Two, not an intern. That's not my job," he said, grabbing the rubber lids. "I'll be back in one minute."

  The Brazilian cook, the boy's boss, smiled wide, his dark features suddenly glowing. His words slathered with a thick accent, he said, "Make it two. Two minutes."

  The waitress slipped past the assistant as he rounded the corner. He peeked back. She was already up on the counter. The cook spread her knees, pulling her tight rump toward his pelvis.

  The Cook's Assistant II mumbled, "It's like he brags about the two minutes. Who brags about that?"

  He passed the wait station with its double sink and disheveled piles of lazily folded napkins and noticed the dishwasher hadn't come for either of the tubs of plates, glasses, and cutlery. Both were overflowing.

  "Not my job either."

>   A few more feet down the hallway, he stepped up onto the rubber mat and waited at the entryway. He knew better than to go in. Cooks didn't go into the bar area, and bar staff didn't go into the kitchen. Each had their own domain. They were like vampires and werewolves, except hundreds of degrees lamer.

  "Cook Ass Two." A husky voice came out of the darkness. "What are you doing in my bar?"

  "Not in your bar," he said, pointing at the invisible line. "Outside the bar proper." He held up the two rubber lids.

  The bartender tucked his long hair behind his ears, a move the Cook's Assistant II was convinced the guy thought made him look cool. It didn't.

  "Why didn't what's-her-name, the new waitress, bring them up?"

  "She's talking with Cook."

  "Talking?"

  "Well," the younger man said with a slight Texas drawl, "I expect her tongue is movin'."

  A shrug from the bartender. "At least you get a two-minute break out of it."

  "I suppose."

  "But don't sit in my bar. You stand there. And take that two minutes off your fifteen," the bartender said. "When you get back there, give the counter a Clorox rub before you do anything else."

  "Gross."

  The bartender nabbed the circular lids from the kid and walked to the beer taps, sliding each into a hard plastic sheath at the front of them. He then grabbed two half pitchers and pulled the taps. First came the sound of air, then hissing and a gurgling noise, then finally foam spurted from one then the other, plopping down in clumps into the rubber mat.

  Staring at it made the boy's stomach turn a little.

  The bartender turned back to the cook's assistant. "Maybe use two Clorox wipes."

  A moment later, beer began to pour from the tap on the left, so he popped a pitcher under it, waited a few seconds, then stopped the flow. After a quick look around the bar, he shrugged and drank the very frothy beer. He stood waiting, with his fingers above the other tap, and wiped the foam from his mouth with his sleeve.

  "That one's upside down." The woman's voice sounded like she'd been gargling broken glass.

  He looked up. "Huh?"

  "You put this one in upside down. Cain't read the name of the brew you got on offer. You gotta turn the little circle bit so it's facing the right way."

  The froth turned to beer on tap two, and the bartender pulled it to a stop. Just before downing the brew in the second jug, he smiled, thinking he looked charming. He didn't. "Can you spin it the right way around for me?"

  "What do I get out of the deal?"

  He eyeballed her.

  Ten years earlier, she must have been fine looking. Still a handsome woman, she wore a cowboy hat and western outfit. He didn't know if she was wearing spurs—he couldn't see her feet—but something told him she had a pair. Somewhere. The only makeup she wore were the pistols on either hip.

  Welcome to Dallas.

  "Do that for me," he said as he drained the small pitcher. "And you'll have my undying gratitude."

  Her face was like tanned leather, but when she smiled, she had perfect brilliant-white teeth. "Irony, I suppose some might call that. Your choice to use that word."

  "Gratitude?"

  "No," she said and sipped at her shot of whiskey. "The other one."

  His smile fell. "Are you meeting someone here tonight?"

  "Maybe." She nodded and pulled a long knife from the inside of her coat.

  He flinched slightly. She then put the tip into the rubber lid and slowly turned it.

  "I heard tell he comes in here sometimes."

  The barman scanned his rail—broke students, a couple of out-of-town businessmen, but from what he could pick up of their conversation, they were from Japan. No tip there either.

  He didn't expect much from the woman in the cowboy hat, but one could never really tell who the big tippers were. Sometimes the weirdos had dough.

  He raised his eyebrows, trying to look interested. "Friend or work colleague?"

  She finished her drink and tapped her shot glass with a thick fingernail that could hammer in real nails. Impressively, it would be at least the sixth time he'd refilled the tiny glass.

  As he poured the shot, he saw she was chuckling.

  "What?"

  "You talk real pretty, you know that?" she asked. "'Work colleague.' That get you a fair bit of tail, all that fancy speaking?"

  "I don't know. I mean, I'm sorry—"

  "Ah, don't worry about it now." She took a small sip. "I ain't here for you."

  The tone of that sentence convinced him that he knew nothing about the woman and would prefer to know less.

  She added, "But yes, he and I, uh, in a manner of speaking… are work colleagues. We both serve the same master." The woman looked at her drink. "Similar, that is."

  "I know what that's like." The bartender nodded then looked around the bar, avoiding her eyes. "What's he look like? Maybe I can help you, um, find your fella."

  Sip. "Pretty boy. He was on some lame TV show for a while."

  "Oh?"

  "And if I were a man, which I am not, he could just about blow me without kneeling down," she said and smiled a pearly-white smile.

  The bartender was befuddled for a moment then looked toward the door. A man walked in, zipping his fly, stumbling slightly, and the bartender did indeed recognize him but not from TV. The kneeling bit made sense, as the guy stood at the threshold, the door slowly closing behind him.

  The dwarf looked toward the bartender and offered a crooked smile.

  The bartender called over, nodding toward the woman in the cowboy hat, "I think this lady here's waiting for you, man."

  On the doorstep, the man's face went from a very wide, sloppy grin to a straight line. He then spun and fled, the glass in the door exploding behind him.

  The Actor ran into the night.

  Chapter Two

  In the past year, I'd really tried to be good. Or, at least, do good.

  Those were two very different things. An important distinction. People could be, as my friend Anza once said, "less gooder" and still do good things. Like Hitler.

  I mean… ha, I can't even. I just, oh jeez, ha! I should put that on Twitter or something. I could just picture the red-faced, moist-lipped Twitterati, thumbs flapping out their disdain for me on their over-sized, King Kong, carbon foot-printing devices.

  Just a bit of fun to remind me I was alive. And I was, despite some compelling evidence to the contrary. I didn't go out much. I was moderately employed. And of course, I didn't date.

  My wife, she wasn't alive. She was the opposite of that. However, before she went, she did banish the Devil back to hell, so she was probably now playing beach volleyball with St. Peter.

  Of course, it was me who found the device that let her do that. Just sayin'. For anyone keeping score. And it was hard, man. I had to travel all over the world. I had help. Uncle Jerry, our pilot, Anza, my best friend's wife—she's still illegal, as far as I know—and of course, the Actor.

  Before we went our separate ways, we had one more little adventure together. Didn't go quite as planned, and we all went back to our own lives. That seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I looked over at a picture of my wife and me sitting on my bed stand. Um, we weren't sitting on a bed stand in the picture, you know, the photo. That's where I had the photo.

  "I'm moving to a place of light and love. You'll have to be really, really good. Be incredible, sweetheart. Then we get to see each other again."

  That, it turned out, was harder than it seemed.

  Sure, I could look around for lost cats—I did, didn't find any. Strangely, I lost one in the process—or give my time at the library. I was asked to leave after rearranging their fiction section so all the blue-covered books were with the other blue-covered ones, red with red, etc. It looked amazing. Librarians, as hot they were with their tight little bun hairdos and pencil skirts, they no likey.

  For a while, I'd even volunteered at a Puerto Rican hospital after I'd stum
bled across an online ad from some Christian group. That was a weird experience.

  That said, despite what I'd seen, I wasn't religious. I knew there was a heaven and hell—and of course Hell inc., a takeover faction down below that was trying to dethrone the Devil—but I preferred to stay unaffiliated.

  My goal in life, now of course, was to do as much good as possible so, one day, I could join my wife and we could spend eternity just hanging out. That was all I wanted, but my twenties had been some rough years. I would have to do a lot to get my ledger back in the black. To hang with Cassie, I needed my remaining years to be opal, for Chrissakes.

  But that meant, of course, I had to stay on this side of the topsoil.

  Going back to Atlanta, at least for a while, was out of the question.

  I mentioned that my friends and I had bounced all over the globe searching for pieces of the lamp, as instructed by the Devil. I'd made a stupid pact with the fucker at the crossroads, which despite all my efforts, turned out all right.

  Atlanta could no longer be my home, which I learned about ten seconds too late some months ago. When I'd landed, instead of heading back to the old house, I'd been aggressively diverted—read: kidnapped—to face a former benefactor.

  The drug dealer we'd blackmailed to lend us his private jet wasn't happy about how it had been returned. He'd also been not so happy that some of his product that had been hidden on board had gone missing.

  "I think that was Uncle Jerry. It helped him stay awake," I’d said, "for a few days."

  In the leafy atrium of Enrique's Peachtree Battle home, he dropped theatrically into a chaise lounge. On either side of him, two large men stood looking for an excuse to hurt someone.

  When I went to sit, he said, "Aa, aa, aa! Only I will sit during an admonishing."