Horror Show by Greg Kihn Page B

going to deliver the goods.
    He looked down at his list of calls. The numbers blurred. He ran his finger down the list and stopped at only the most important names. Damn , he thought, I need a secretary for all this shit. It’s too much work .
    He had already forgotten about calling Becky Sears. Tad Kingston and his pimply adolescent problems didn’t rate very high on his list. The kid would just have to learn to take care of his own butt.
    Buzzy Haller entered the room and gave him the thumbs-up sign.
    â€œReady to go, boss,” he said.
    â€œBeautiful,” Woodley said through his teeth.
    â€œHow about a drink before we change?”
    They drifted into the living room, where a full wet bar waited for customers. Landis automatically prepared two vodka martinis, very dry, no olives. He handed one to Buzzy.
    â€œI gotta tell ya, Woody,” Buzzy said honestly, “there’s nothing like an icy see-through.”
    Landis held his glass up and said, “Here’s to old H.P Lovecraft.”
    â€œWho?”
    Landis smiled. “Just a guy.”
    Buzzy took a sip and made a smacking sound with his lips. “Ahh, perfect. You always get just the right ratio of vodka to vermouth.”
    They drank as Buzzy scanned the guest list. He tapped the paper and said, “We’re gonna scare the livin’ shit out of these people tonight.”
    Landis nodded. “You think we’ll get into trouble? I mean, this is some pretty heavy stuff.”
    Buzzy raised his glass and winked. “Aw, who cares? It’s worth it to shake these assholes up a little.”

4
    Albert Beaumond was haunted. He didn’t know how, but he did know why. As the world’s leading Satanist and leader of the First Satanic Church of America, he’d been doing research on the nature of the devil in different cultures when something unexpected happened. He overturned one rock too many.
    He stood on the sidewalk in front of the fledgling Los Angeles International Airport and squinted into the hazy sunshine.
    Albert was a tall, distinguished man in his late forties, always well dressed, with a European flair. He wore a neatly trimmed goatee and kept his silver-streaked brown hair combed straight back. He cut a handsome, striking figure.
    His daughter was late. She was always late. For a college student at UCLA she didn’t seem to have much of a mind for punctuality. Didn’t they require her to go to her classes on time?
    He smiled when he thought about the way her mother had been when they first met in San Francisco twenty-two years ago. Albert studied anthropology with a minor in botany at the University of California in Berkeley. Thora’s mother was a botany student as well. Now that woman had been a stickler about being on time. She chided him endlessly about being late on their first date. He learned his lesson and was seldom late after that. When she died ten years later, he was late for the funeral.
    Thora took after Albert.
    Over the years he’d adjusted to the point where he expected it, even planned for it.
    Except today it was a nuisance. His plane had arrived a few minutes early, he’d cleared customs in record time, and now he was anxious to get home.
    In his suitcase were artifacts that could change the way western civilization thought about God forever. He shifted it from one hand to another, not wanting to put it down even for a second for fear that something might happen to it.
    He need not have worried. The battered brown leather bag looked sufficiently scruffy not to attract the least attention from the usual airport thieves. Even if it were stolen, the artifacts he prized above all else were nothing anyone would know the value of—anyone but a trained anthropologist, that is.
    To Albert, it was a miracle. The two twenty-inch silver alloy pieces, hand-polished and odd in appearance, had amazing powers. They were tucked away in his bag, wrapped in towels and tied with a