HELL IS FOR GUMSHOES

by Helen A. Handbasket

Chapter Four

     It was actually one of the cooler parts of hell, and I don't mean chic. The atmosphere was steamy. Though the stone walls kept the heat, they dripped with hellsweat, and my stylish pantsuit was getting wet in uncomfortable places.
     “You understand he's been under my care ever since his arrival," said Wolfgang, the officious prick who was leading me to Hitler's cell.
     “Gotcha,” I said.
     “And in all that time he hasn’t had a single satisfactory bowel movement,” said Wolfgang.
     “I believe I read that in the report,” I said. “Thanks for reminding me.”
     “We keep him on a strict diet of binding agents,” he went on.
     “Thank you very much,” I said, “but I think I can take it the rest of the way.”
     He clicked his heels, saluted, and skulked back to his office.
     I slowly walked down the hallway thinking I don't get paid enough for this. My cha-cha heels clicked methodically along the stone floor. I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead as I passed the other cells in the fourth level of hell.
     He was wearing a leather suit with a happy-face mask that hid the lower part of his face. His legs were tied to a chair and his arms were in a straight jacket. He was facing a table. In the center was a bowl of chicken soup with a very large matzo ball in the middle. There were two TVs on, one set to MTV, one to some financial channel like Bloomberg.
     "Hello Helen," he said. "Still hear the chirping of that parakeet?"
     How did he know? Hitler, of all people. I'd never told anyone. 
     I was four and The Budgster was my first pet. I loved that bird. Then one day he got out and flew straight to the lemon tree in our front yard, forgetting all about the living room window between him and the tree. Invisible it was because my mamma kept it sparkly clean. The Budgster broke his dear little neck and fell down dead on the shag carpet in front of me and I started screaming “No! No!” because it was my fault, all my fault The Budgster was dead. Mamma told me to close the curtains and I didn’t do it, and if those curtains had been closed, hiding the outside, maybe The Budgster would have flown in some different direction, perhaps the kitchen and he’d still be alive, I tell you, alive, alive and still in my living room in a cage where I’ll keep him forever and ever and ever and ever.
     How the hell did Hitler know about that?
     “I’m not here to talk about me,” I said. “I’m with Satan and we need your help.”
     I pulled an envelope out of my briefcase, opened the envelope and withdrew some pictures that I showed to Hitler.
     “These are pictures of the first level of hell,” I told him. “There are no dentists, no evangelists, no comedians or modern torture devices like the osterizer or the music video. If you cooperate with my investigation, and your information leads to the proper outcome, I am authorized by Satan himself to guarantee you transferal for a two-week stay at the first level of hell on the second Saturday of every month that ends with ruary. That, and you get to attend the Grammys.”
      “I don’t know, Helen,” said Hitler. “It all depends.”
     Level nine game-playing, I thought. “On what?” I said.
     “On how much you’re willing to give.”
     “You’ve heard the offer, Adolf, take it or leave it.”
     “What was it like?” he said. “Why are you so afraid of Windex, Helen? Helen? I want to know what you’re afraid of.”
     “I’m afraid this has been a waste of time,” I quipped, putting the picture away and getting my pretty little buns out of there. I had better things to do than try to get a straight answer out of Hitler.
     “Tell me about him,” he said.
     “Who?” I said.
     “The man you seek. Is he dead?”
     “If he was dead I wouldn’t need your help, now would I Mr. Hitler? I could find him if he were here in hell.”
     "Oh please," he said, "call me Adolf."
     "I'm out of here," I said.
     "You’ve got total access?" he shouted behind me.
     “What do I look like, a schlemiel?” I said.
     “No, of course not. So he’s alive, this person you seek?”
     “Alive as he’ll ever be.”
     “Have you got pictures of his crime?”
     “Better than pictures.” I pulled out my laptop and showed Hitler my mpegs of ground zero. He was impressed.
     “Have you got the other angle?” he asked.
     I hated him for asking and hated myself for actually having it. I called it up. The bastard watched it over and over.
     “This man, whoever did this, he wants to die,” said Hitler.
     “Unlike you,” I said.
     “Precisely. I did not want to die. I wanted to live, to conquer, to be in charge. I had no desire to be a martyr, but whoever did this, that is their goal, to be a martyr. You must not let them achieve their goal.”
     “You mean don’t kill him?”
     “Look what martyrdom did for Jesus Christ. Generation after generation venerating his name. Thousands misconstruing his words and killing in his name.”
     “Look who’s talking.”
     “Those who killed in my name were not misconstruing my words. They were doing precisely what I asked them to do.”
     “Satan admired your work, which is why you’re here in a cell instead of roasting on a spit on level three.”
     “This place is not so hot,” said Hitler. “Of course in hell, that’s a good thing.”
     “What does Christ have to do with this? I don’t have access to him.”
     “What if it were your goal to stop Christianity? You couldn’t do it two thousand years after the Crucifixion. There would be too many believers to wipe out. Believe me, I learned that. But you? You’ve got access to all of eternity. If you wanted to stop the religion of Christianity from spreading, the best thing you could do would be to go back to the beginning and keep Christ alive. Let him die a natural death. Then no one would ever end up wearing cute silver necklaces of his execution. No more crossing yourself. Bye bye Catholic Church.”
     “So what you’re saying is that if we don’t keep this guy alive, he will become a martyr and his words will spread even faster?”
     “Maybe not so fast, but they will never die. Generation after generation will speak of the man who died for them, and his words, unlike those of Jesus, are more like mine.”
     “In death, his words will be more powerful.”
     “In death, he will be down here with me.”
     “Which sounds like something you want.”
     “I look forward to meeting the gentleman, but it does leave me conflicted.”
     “He only gets here if we kill him.”
     “Precisely, and if you kill him, he succeeds in his goal of martyrdom. I don’t know if I want to help you or not, Helen. Convince me. Convince me it’s the right thing.”
     “It’s not, Mr. Hitler, it’s not. It’s the wrong thing.”
     “I’m convinced.”