The rain has slacked off a bit. Just a slow drizzle. Maybe global warming will wash L.A. away before the Angra get a chance to.

Candy says, “I’m sleeping with a G-man.”

“A rich G-man.”

“Let’s go home, J. Edgar. We have money to break furniture again.”

I DUMP THE Escalade across from Donut Universe and Candy and I walk home in the rain like a stock photo on a greeting card.

When I open the front door to Max Overdrive, Kasabian gimps over to us like his tail is on fire, glancing upstairs and talking quietly. The rain has cooled down the city, but he’s pale and sweating.

“What’s going on?”

He looks over his shoulder.

“They’re upstairs. I told them that’s your room.”

“Who is it?” says Candy.

Kasabian goes back behind the video racks that form the walls of his bedroom shanty.

“You deal. I don’t want any part of this shit.”

Candy and I look at each other. She gets out her knife and I pull the Colt. We walk into the bedroom.

Samael is sitting on the bed drinking one of Kasabian’s beers. Mr. Muninn is in the swivel chair by the desk drinking coffee from a ceramic Max Overdrive mug. I hope to hell Kasabian washed the thing before giving it to him.

“Hi, Samael,” I say. He raises his beer to me in greeting. “Good evening, Mr. Muninn.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. I turn to Candy.

“Why don’t you go downstairs and keep Kasabian company for a while?”

“You’ll be all right?”

“No, he won’t,” says Mr. Muninn. “Nothing is all right, young lady.”

Candy stands in the doorway.

“Go on. I’ll see you in a few minutes,” I tell her.

Mr. Muninn says, “Don’t worry. There won’t be any floods or lightning bolts tonight at least. We’re just going to talk like reasonable beings.”

“That leaves out at least one of us,” says Samael, glancing at me.

Mr. Muninn sets down his coffee cup.

“You’re not helping the situation.”

“Just trying to clarify which side each of us is on,” says Samael.

“I presume you’re here because you’re on my side.”

“Of course, Father. But I think I know some of Stark’s argument, and for once it’s not entirely dismissible.”

“Fine. Then let’s hear what he has to say for himself.”

I say, “I’m not giving you back Father Traven.”

Muninn looks at Samael.

“That’s not an argument. That’s a statement. Where’s the argument in that?”

“Stark, would you mind elaborating a bit for Father?” says Samael.

“I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry I had to do what I did the way I did it, but I’m not letting Traven go back to Hell.”

“And you think that’s your decision?” says Mr. Muninn.

“As long as he’s in the Room it is.”

Mr. Muninn crosses his legs. Laces his fingers together.

“What I meant,” say Samael, “is that perhaps you’d state your reasons why you took Father Traven in the first place.”

I try to put the whole thing together in my head before saying anything.

“It’s not fair,” I say. “The father published a book. Big deal. Your book’s gotten a lot of people in trouble over the years. Do you deserve to be damned for that?”

“You forget, Stark. I am in Hell. You sent me there.”

“And you agreed to it.”

“More fool me. I thought I could trust you. You’re a great disappointment.”

“What do you want? I’m an Abomination.”

Mr. Muninn dismisses the comment with a wave.

“Please. That’s no excuse.”

“You don’t care that I’m an Abomination, do you? You’ve never cared.”

Samael smiles. Mr. Muninn nods.

“I see where you’re going with this. You’ve trapped me into saying that I reject the technicality that you, a nephilim, are Abomination. And if I can do that, why can’t I reject the technicality that your friend the father wrote an offensive book?”

“Well? Why can’t you?”

“Because it’s not that simple, is it? You made it complicated by stealing him right from under my, Lucifer’s, nose. Do you know how that makes me look?”

“Of course. The three of us know all about how shitty it is to be Lucifer.”

“And yet you did it anyway.”

“I got a little rash maybe. Okay. Sorry. Smite me with a lightning bolt.”

Samael says, “It’s God that does lightning bolts. There’s just us little Devils here.”

“Then stick me with a pitchfork. Look, if I’d come to you and asked for Traven’s soul, would you have given it to me?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because there are rules that shape the universe. We might not like all of them, but without them there would be anarchy and nothing would work.”

“Nothing works now.”

“Now you’re being melodramatic.”

“Are you happy? Am I happy? Is he happy?” I say, pointing to Samael. He takes a swig of beer.

“Name me one happy creature in this universe. You can’t, can you?”

“ ‘Call no man happy until he is dead,’ ” says Samael.

“That’s Marcus Aurelius, right?”

He makes a tsk noise.

“Aeschylus. A Greek playwright. Didn’t you read any of the books I left for you?”

“I remember the one where Curious George got to be a fireman.”

“Getting back to the topic at hand,” says Mr. Muninn. “We’ve had this discussion before, Stark. You want me to take sides in the religious dispute between Hell’s old Church and the new. You want me to make mankind happy and cheerful and free from strife. You want me to be all things to all creatures.”

“Shouldn’t you?”

“Where would free will come into this scenario? The ability to make choices, good or bad.”

“You never gave the angels free will. That’s why this one rebelled,” I say, pointing at Samael. “Maybe that’s another rule you should have broken.”

Samael looks away. He doesn’t want to get dragged into this particular argument.

“As I said to you once before, you don’t know what it is to be a ruler and you certainly have no idea what a deity is.”

“Do you? Are you really a deity, or were the Gnostics right and you’re just the Demiurge, a caretaker who’s gotten in over his head and can’t keep the plumbing working?”

“That’s an offensive question.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

“Who are you talking to? Stark or the Abomination?”

“Both, I suspect.”

“You know that both Deumos and Merihim are against you, right? They’re as bad as Aelita. Just more subtle.”

He looks at me hard.

“What makes you think that?”

“Things I’ve seen and things I’ve been thinking about. Hey, here’s one good bit of news. Aelita is dead.”

Mr. Muninn sits back in the chair. Rests his elbows on the arms.

“I’m sorry to hear that. She was a troubled child, but at one time she was one of the ones closest to me.”

“You could say we rebel angels had troubled childhoods, but I blame video games,” says Samael.

Mr. Muninn says, “Quiet, you. Why don’t you go home and check on things at the palace.” He looks at me. “It’s getting crowded down there.”

Samael looks disappointed.

“You said I could come along. This is Stark we’re talking to. Not Mary Magdalen.”

“Well, you’re not helping, so please keep your contributions on topic.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, Aelita is still one of your kids,” I say.

“Of course. Even at his worst, so was Samael. So are you. So is all humankind.”

“Let’s just keep this focused. Aelita is your kid. Samael is your kid. Merihim and Deumos are your kids.”

“Yes. All the rebel angels are my children.”

“Then you are one child-abusing motherfucker.”

“Excuse me?” says Muninn. Thunder rumbles outside.

“I’m an Abomination. A little outside everyone, right? I’m both sides and neither side of the argument. And I have your solution.”

“To what?”

“Your misery. And your kids’ misery.”

“Please, enlighten us all with the revelation of Saint Stark.”

“Close down Hell.”