“You’re right, I trained them,” Bully chuckled. “Let me tell you something about them Bostinos. First, there was Billy Bostino. He got his leg shot off by accident during a poker game, and he had to have a wooden stump attached. I had to kill him because Tommy Bostino didn’t like the thumping sound he made at night when he went to the bathroom.”

“I can understand that.”

“Then there was Freddy Bostino. Freddy had this superstition about his fingernails. He would only clip them once every two months, on a full moon. I had to kill him because Tommy Bostino didn’t like how he got cut every time he shook Freddy’s hand.”

“That would annoy me too.”

“And not forgetting Franky Bostino. Franky had one green eye and one blue eye.”

“And let me guess. You had to kill him because Tommy didn’t like those colours.”

“Nah, Tommy was colour blind. I killed Franky because he had bad breath.”

“That’s a pretty big crime in my book too. So I guess that would make Tommy the craziest one of them all.”

“Not for much longer though,” said Bully, sounding as close to thoughtful as he was ever likely to get.

“What do you mean by that?”

“He’s on his last legs, the old man. They say he doesn’t have much time left. And I’m glad I won’t be around when he goes. With nobody left to lead the family, it ain’t gonna be pretty.” Bully paused for a moment, then he grinned broadly. “But I don’t have to worry about them no more. I’m finally free, and that deserves a drink. Stay here, I’m buying.”

Bully stood up and strode across the room. Although the crowd at the bar was packed six deep, somehow he had no trouble getting straight to the front. And as for the service he received, I’d never seen a barman move with such haste—like a wind-up doll with a fast-forward button.

As Bully made his way back through the crowd, I considered how I might take advantage of his unexpected camaraderie. It seemed unlikely that he knew anything about Sally and her connection to the Devil, but I couldn’t leave this club without making an enquiry along those lines.

“I’m glad we’ve sorted out our differences,” I said after Bully handed me a drink, “because as it happens, I’m after information. Perhaps you can help me.”

Bully scowled. “Listen, Jimmy, don’t push your luck with me. You’re still the guy who killed me. Now shut up and drink.”

I shut up and took a sip from the glass. It tasted a little like bourbon and a lot like raw sewage. I gagged and spat it back into the glass.

“I would’ve figured a man like you could hold his liquor,” Bully laughed.

“Liquor I can hold,” I said. “This is urine.”

“Get used to it, buddy. You’re in Hell now. It doesn’t get any better than this.”

“That’s what you think.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my little bottle. “Help yourself to a real drink.”

Bully grabbed the bottle and took a swig. “Now this is more like it,” he exclaimed. “Jimmy Clarenden, you might be a dirty, two-bit weasel of a private detective—”

“Easy on the compliments.”

“ . . . but I have to say you’re a man of good taste, and I like that. Now I suggest we take this bottle of yours and head over to the pool table. We can shoot some pool, and I can try to tell you everything you need to know.”

“Rack them up and do your worst.”

Judging by the number of balls on the pool table, it looked like a new game had only just begun.

“You fellows nearly finished?” said Bully as we strolled over.

“A-a-as it happens, we just f-f-finished this moment, M-M-Mr Malone,” one of the players stammered, shoving his cue into Bully’s hands.

“That’s good timing,” said Bully. “Now if you’d be so kind as to rack the balls, me and my friend Jimmy are gonna have a game.”

Both players immediately complied with more than reasonable haste and then vanished into the smoky blackness.

“Okay, Jimmy, why don’t you break.”

I chalked my cue, took a swig of bourbon, and settled over the table. I aimed for the spot just to the right of the leading ball, but I miss-hit and the white ball went spinning off to the left. The balls scattered around the table, leaving Bully with a simple shot on the number two ball. He leant over, carefully measured the shot, hit the cue ball with precision, and missed the shot to the right.

“Looks like there’s a slight roll to this table,” I said. “So how about you tell me a little more about life in Hell. Is this what eternal punishment is all about? Miserable weather, drinks that taste like excrement . . . ” I paused to take my next shot. “ . . . And pool tables with strange ideas about the laws of physics?” I added as I allowed for the roll and missed far off to the left.

“Nah, that’s just for leisure. Most of our time is supposed to be spent working.” Bully helped himself to more drink and then missed his next shot to the right again.

“What sort of work?” I asked as I sent the white ball spinning into the side pocket.

“Can’t speak for everybody here, but I’ve been put on garbage collection.” Bully retrieved the ball and then promptly sent it into the pocket on the other side.

I took the white ball out of the pocket, gave my mouth and throat a quick alcoholic lubrication, and made a shot that hit every ball except the one I was aiming at. “You haven’t been doing much of a job. The streets here are filthy.”

“Of course the streets here are filthy,” said Bully, striking the ball so hard that it bounced off the table and into a woman’s drink. “This is Hell. We’re not supposed to pick up the garbage here. We do it in Heaven.”

My ears suddenly leapt off my head. I waited for them to come down and reattach themselves before I continued. “You collect the garbage in Heaven?”

“That’s right,” said Bully, trying to brush off the profuse apologies of the woman with the ball in her drink. “Every night, we go up into Heaven and make sure it’s completely free of litter. Well, you wouldn’t expect the people in Heaven to have to do it, would you?”

“So that’s how things work,” I muttered, feeling like a tiny bit of a much bigger picture had just been unveiled. “You spend your life making a mess of things, then you spend your afterlife cleaning messes up. I suppose there’s some sort of justice there.”

“I suppose so. I used to say my job was taking out the trash, but now my job really is taking out the trash.” Bully paused, possibly overwhelmed by the complexity of his statement. Luckily, he found a simple remedy. “How about you give me more of that drink.”

I passed the bottle and then put the cue on the table. My interest in our game of pool had waned. “So shouldn’t you be in Heaven cleaning up right now?”

“Yeah, I should. Except right now we’re on strike.”

“On strike?”

“For shorter hours and better conditions. I dunno much about it because I’m only starting out, but from what I hear, there’s some new people that just took over the garbage collection operation. They’ve increased the hours we work and the quotas for the amount of rubbish we have to collect each night. So we’re striking in protest, and let me tell you, Jimmy, I’m all for it. Just because I lived a life of violence and bloodshed doesn’t mean I should have to put up with that.”

“Do you know who these people are that took over the operation?” I asked.

“No idea,” he replied. “You know me. I just do what I’m told, no questions asked. Now are we going to finish this game or not?”

I looked at the table. The only ball that had gone near any of the pockets was the white one. “I really don’t see any point.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Bully. “Anyway, this dump is dead. I think it’s time you and me split. I know a rocking little place around the corner. If we’re quick enough, we may still be able to catch some action.”

“I think I’ve had enough action for one day, Bully. I need a rest.”

“Okay, suit yourself.”