“So how many slugs did you take?” said Peter suddenly. Beyond the urgency, there was a strange note of excitement in his voice.

I didn’t answer right away, partly because I wasn’t sure about the answer beyond ‘a lot,’ but mostly because of the tone of Peter’s voice. This wasn’t the sort of question I’d expected from this outwardly solemn old man.

He must have registered my surprise because he continued. “This is all a bit exciting for me. I’m a big fan of detective stories.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely adore them. My very favourite thing to do in my spare time is to curl up with a really great detective novel. Well, it would be, if I actually had any spare time,” he added, somewhat wistfully.

I still wasn’t quite sure what to say. Spare time was something I’d had more than enough of lately. Luckily, Peter was happy to continue.

“So how did you score those slugs? Shootout with gangsters? Gunfight with Mr Big?”

“Not exactly. If you really want to know, I was doing surveillance on a bunch of Girl Scouts.”

“Girl Scouts?” Peter stopped mid-stride, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice.

I nodded. “Rumour was they were running a fake cookie racket.”

“Oh,” said Peter.

“I know it doesn’t sound so flashy, but believe me, these were no ordinary Girl Scouts. Their troop leader was the daughter of Tommy Bostino.”

“Who is Tommy Bostino?” I could hear Peter’s interest perk up again.

“You haven’t heard of Tommy Bostino?”

“Should I have?”

“If you came from where I’m from, you would have. Tommy Bostino is the biggest hood in town. He’s the number one boss of the Bostino family, and as far as vicious mobsters go, the Bostinos make the Corleones look like the von Trapps. Pick a racket and you can be sure they’ll have a hand in it. Protection, gambling, drugs—”

“Fake Girl Scout cookies,” Peter helpfully threw in.

“Isn’t it nice when a kid takes an interest in the family business?”

“So was he the one who took you down, this Tommy Bostino?”

“Nah, Tommy’s above that sort of stuff. He called in my old chum Bully Malone to do the dirty work.”

“Bully Malone.” Peter rolled the syllables around his mouth like a tasty morsel. “Let me guess. Hired muscle for the Bostino family, right?”

“Dead on the money. Tommy Bostino’s number one triggerman. Bully’s whacked more people than a strap-happy schoolteacher.”

“Did you get him back? Did you wing him?”

“I’m not really sure. I vaguely recall getting a couple of shots off, but in all the confusion I’ve got no idea if any hit. Also, I might have been a little under the influence of . . . ” I held up the flask and waved it around.

“Oh,” said Peter again, looking at the flask disapprovingly.

“If your life’s work was reduced to tracking a bunch of eight-year-old girls, you’d be drinking too,” I growled. “But if I did get him, I suppose he’d be somewhere up here. Maybe you’ve seen him. Tall guy with sandy brown hair. Solid build. Has a neck like a rhino.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Peter. “Besides, we’d probably never find him in this crowd.”

“I guess not,” I said, and then I had to stop. We had arrived.

The Pearly Gates arched before us, their sculpted curves reaching a graceful point far above our heads. In the clear blue light they shone with milky translucence—a lot of oysters must have worked their butts off for a lot of years to produce this much pearl. The outer faces of the Gates were covered with carvings representing religious moments of great import: Moses and the Ten Commandments, Jesus on the cross, Shiva doing that thing with his arms.

Inside the Gates, there was a series of booths. Within each booth, an inspector sat, dressed in the same uniform as my friend the bellhop. More inspectors raced around in front of the Gates, frantically trying to herd the people from the head of the line towards the next available booth. The whole scene managed to combine all the organisation of a stampede with all the joy of an immigration queue.

Peter led me towards a side door that bypassed the madness. We walked through a short passage and came out the other side. I stood for a moment, blinking in disbelief. I was in Heaven.

It was hard to believe I had actually made it here. Then again, given that I wasn’t likely to be here for long, I figured I’d better make the most of it, before I ended up . . . wherever I ended up.

So far, my brief glimpse of Heaven met all expectations. In front of me, a magnificent palace gleamed and glittered and glistened and glowed, and if I could think of any other “g” words, it probably would have done those as well. Its stones were so pure and white they made the Pearly Gates look like they needed a good scrub. Its pointed towers soared so high, they seemed to reach to the very heavens of Heaven.

Peter indicated a pair of broad doors in the palace wall.

“You must enter the palace, Jimmy Clarenden. Your fate awaits.”

On hearing Peter’s words, I felt a deep sense of foreboding.

“I don’t have to actually go in yet,” I said. “Why don’t you and me find a bar someplace? We can share detective stories over a couple of drinks.”

“No, Jimmy. You have been summoned. You must go now.”

“Can’t you at least come with me?”

“You must face your fate alone,” Peter intoned. “And besides, as you just saw, I’ve got a huge amount of work to get through. But maybe we can catch up sometime. Why don’t you take my card?”

He thrust a card into my hand and then he was gone, disappearing back through the Pearly Gates. I was sorry to see him go. He seemed like the sort of friend any dead guy would be glad to have.

As I approached the palace doors, I told myself I had nothing to worry about. This was Heaven. Only good things happened here. There was no reason to be nervous about anything.

I didn’t find myself to be terribly convincing.

The knocker on the right door was shaped like a lion’s head. I rapped once, not particularly vigorously, hoping that maybe no one would notice. No dice. The door opened straight away.

A tall, somewhat stooped man in a black suit stood in the doorway. He had heavily lidded eyes, perfect for appearing completely disinterested, and a long, arched nose, perfect for looking down over.

“Can I help you?” His voice was even less interested than his eyes.

“Jimmy Clarenden’s the name, but it’s not urgent. I can come back later if it’s not a good time.”

“On the contrary, Mr Clarenden, it’s a perfect time. Please follow me.”

He led me down a short hall and into a long, narrow room. There was a television and a coffee table covered with the sorts of magazines you’d usually find in a dentist’s waiting room. This observation didn’t make me feel any less uncomfortable.

The room was packed with people. Some sat, tapping their feet impatiently, while others paced nervously from side to side.

“It looks like there are a lot of people waiting,” I said.

“God will see you now.” The man in the black suit strode across the room to a small door on the far side.

“I’d hate to think I was jumping the queue.”

“God will see you now.” He opened the door and indicated for me to go through.

I went through.

I was in a small chamber. The whole room glowed with an unearthly light, making it hard to discern anything. Before me, I sensed rather than saw a figure. It was impossible to make out any details, but I got the feeling this was an extremely old figure.

I had a pretty good idea who this must be. The moment had arrived. I was facing my maker. This was the time when, for better or for worse, Jimmy Clarenden was going to receive his judgment.

The figure stirred. He cleared his throat. He spoke.

He said, “You’re probably wondering why I summoned you here today.”