Death slowly raises his head.
"Right here in the bar."
His long finger points lazily toward the ceiling.
"That beam would hold."
I follow his gaze.
Dark, old wood.
Solid enough, yes.
"No," I say immediately.
The Devil raises an eyebrow with interest.
"No?"
"Absolutely not."
The Devil leans forward slightly.
"And why not?"
I take a slow sip of beer.
"Too many cops."
A brief pause.
"Too many questions."
Another sip.
"Not enough answers."
The Devil slowly begins to grin.
I gesture toward the bar with my beer glass.
"Not to mention the poor bartender. He already looks like a foggy morning with rain on the way."
The bartender freezes in mid-motion.
Apparently, he can hear every word.
Death silently studies the man behind the bar for a moment.
"That's true," he murmurs calmly.
The Devil slowly leans back and finally nods in agreement.
"Besides," he says, sounding almost magnanimous, "I find hanging rather undignified."
I stare at him.
"Undignified?"
"Of course."
He looks genuinely offended.
"Yes, somehow I feel you deserve something truly special. You should feel honored. I'm not always this considerate, and I certainly don't always go to this much trouble. Just ask our friend with the scythe. He'll confirm it."
"Well, thank you," I manage, my throat dry. "I'm deeply impressed."
Death seems completely absorbed in the cards he's holding.
Not a flicker of reaction crosses his face of stars and galaxies.
"No," the Devil murmurs thoughtfully.
"If we're going to do this, it has to be spectacular."
His grin slowly widens.
"Phenomenal."
By now, the Devil is smiling like someone who has personally decided that the end of the world could use a little more aesthetic flair.
He slowly turns his whiskey glass between his fingers. The ice inside has almost completely melted.
"Phenomenal," he repeats with satisfaction.
I lean back slightly and take the last sip of my beer.
Lukewarm by now.
Wonderful.
The bartender immediately notices my empty glass.
Of course he does.
By now, the poor man looks as though he's aged ten years in the last twenty minutes.
"Another one?" he asks cautiously.
The Devil shakes his head.
Of course. My last drink.
I glance at the clock above the bar.
2:52 a.m.
Eight minutes left.
Eight minutes can be surprisingly long.
Or terrifyingly short.