Beware of God Read Free Page B

his hands nervously as he stood before God’s enormous oak desk. Lucifer stood behind God, calmly cleaning his gun.
    â€œWhat do you mean he walked away from it?” asked God.
    Death shrugged. “I don’t know, Boss. Not a scratch on him.”
    The angels sang, their sweet, melodic voices ascending as one. “Hallelu …”
    â€œNot now,” said God.
    He closed His eyes and massaged His temples, trying to stave off the migraine He knew was coming. He was getting tired of this. Tired of the whole damn business.
    Heaven fell silent, from the Pearly Gates out front to the steel service door out back. You could practically hear Hell.
    â€œSomething about side impact protection or something,” offered Death.
    â€œWhat was he driving?” asked Lucifer. “Volvo or some shit, right?”
    â€œS40 sedan,” said Death.
    Lucifer nudged God. “See? What’d I tell you about those things? Pain in the ass.”
    â€œHummers are even worse,” said Death.
    â€œYeah, but at least you can flip a Hummer,” said Lucifer.
    â€œI’ve flipped plenty of Hummers,” said Death, “don’t tell me about flipping Hummers. Flipping a Hummer isn’t good for killing anybody.”
    â€œAre you telling me that flipping a Hummer isn’t going to injure the driver?”
    â€œIt’s not a question of injuring,” said Death, “it’s a question of critically injuring.”
    â€œBut you could definitely flip a Hummer, that’s my point.”
    â€œEnough,” said God. “Enough.” They never seemed to tire of it.
    He pulled open the top drawer of his desk, took out his handgun, and shoved a few cartridges into his pocket.
    â€œLucifer,” He said. “Get the car.”
    The angels sang, their sweet, melodic voices ascending up as one. “Hallelu …”
    â€œNot now,” said God.
    Â·Â·Â·
    T HE question troubled Bloom deeply. Did somebody up there like him, as the rescue workers had suggested, or did somebody up there dislike him? Was somebody up there trying to save him, or was somebody up there trying to kill him?
    Was it a miracle, or was it a warning?
    And didn’t anybody up there like Luis Soto, the drunk driver they’d just dragged off the bloody hood of Bloom’s car?
    Surely, Bloom reasoned, if God wanted to kill him, God could kill him. Then again, if God wanted him dead, why the Volvo? If death is predetermined, wouldn’t automobile purchases be predetermined? Didn’t the Volvo—the prudence, the zero percent financing—didn’t they all collectively prove that someone up there liked Bloom?
    On the other hand, it was possible that God had been trying to kill Bloom—that nobody up there liked Bloom and that something had simply gone wrong. It was a big operation, there were bound to be some mistakes. Sometimes Bloom sent Amanda out for a cappuccino and she came back with a latte. It happens. A file misfiled. A printer misprinting. A celestial goof. A Jehovian cock-up.
    The cab came to a stop outside his apartment building. “Eighteen dollars even,” said the driver. Eighteen, thought Bloom. The numerical value of the Hebrew word for “life.” He was eschatologically spiraling. Bloom paid the driver, went inside and phoned his mother.
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    L UCIFER floored it until they reached Manhattan, but even for archangels, crosstown traffic on a Friday evening was treacherously slow-going.
    God stared sullenly out the passenger side window. He hated coming down here.
    â€œWhat a dump,” he thought.
    This micromanaging bullshit depressed him. Fucking Bloom. Scheduled for death over six months ago, the guy was still strolling around the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It was supposed to have been a simple mugging, nothing fancy: Bloom gets on a downtown train, some kid pulls a knife, Bloom gets it in the stomach. Death pulled off a thousand of those things