Chapter 834

Los Angeles had no shortage of notorious bars, but one stood above the rest—literally.

At the top of a skyscraper in one of the city’s busiest districts sat the Devil’s Den.

The place wasn’t particularly large, but its décor was remarkably eclectic. One side looked like a punk-metal nightclub, all loud music and aggressive aesthetics. Another resembled a quiet old-fashioned lounge where people could sit in peace and pretend they had respectable lives.

In other words, if you wanted trashy, they had trashy. If you wanted classy, they had classy.

The real trick was getting inside.

The Devil’s Den operated on an exclusive membership system, and Evenson wouldn’t have made it past the door without the membership card Mephisto had given him.

Seeing the bar operating normally was enough to make Evenson breathe easier.

If Mephisto had really sold Coulson’s secret to the Centipede organization, there was no way he’d still be sitting here waiting for someone to come knocking.

Then again, Mephisto had apparently been doing rather well for himself in Los Angeles.

Evenson had maintained contact with him in the past, but almost entirely through magical messages. They rarely met face-to-face, and Evenson had never paid much attention to what the demon lord was doing on Earth.

Before leaving for Los Angeles, however, he’d done some digging.

Apparently, Mephisto had become one of the city’s most influential fixers.

Not the head of a gang. He wasn’t officially part of any criminal organization at all.

Instead, he’d become something closer to a political broker for the underworld.

Of course, nobody became that kind of figure without having the power to back it up.

It had started when S.H.I.E.L.D. launched one of its periodic crusades against organized crime in New York.

Several gang bosses who could no longer operate there had gathered their people and headed west, intending to carve themselves a piece of Los Angeles.

The local gangs had responded exactly as expected.

With panic.

A gang war seemed inevitable.

The New York mobsters’ first target was the Devil’s Den.

And then...

Nothing happened.

According to witnesses, the New York bosses had apparently experienced a profound change of heart after a conversation with the bar’s owner.

They’d broken down in tears, renounced their criminal ways, and decided to become productive members of society.

The prettier ones had moved especially quickly.

Several had changed into waiter uniforms on the spot and started washing glasses and serving drinks.

One particularly beautiful female gang boss named Maze had somehow ended up as the bar’s head waitress.

The rest had lined up and turned themselves in at the police station.

That display of power alone had earned Mephisto the fear and respect of Los Angeles’s criminal underworld.

But raw strength wasn’t what had made him so influential.

Mephisto might have been flamboyant, but he wasn’t particularly interested in flaunting his power. He didn’t hoard every advantage for himself, either.

Instead, he had developed a reputation for being remarkably fair.

If someone in the criminal world had a problem, no matter how insignificant they were, they could come to him for help.

And Mephisto would usually help.

He had become the West Coast’s answer to a legendary underworld benefactor.

Los Angeles’s own patron saint of criminals.

A man with overwhelming power who was also generous, fair, and willing to mediate disputes.

Under normal circumstances, a crime boss becoming that famous would have attracted immediate attention from law enforcement.

Yet the Los Angeles government seemed strangely uninterested.

There was a reason.

After arriving in Los Angeles, Mephisto’s first order of business had been making friends in all the right places.

He’d bought off the chief judge.

He’d won over the district attorney.

He’d somehow charmed the deputy police captain.

And he maintained friendly relationships with several city council members.

But his most important contribution had been his new policy for organized crime.

Every gang was to be treated equally.

And everyone was expected to pay their taxes.

All of them.

Every dollar earned was taxable.

Anyone caught evading taxes would discover that Mephisto was considerably less forgiving.

Naturally, he led by example.

Mephisto became one of the largest taxpayers among Los Angeles’s criminal organizations.

Rumor had it the IRS was considering sending him a commendation.

But taxes were only the beginning.

Los Angeles’s crime rate had improved dramatically since Mephisto arrived.

His favorite pastime was mediating disputes between gangs.

Whenever two groups started fighting over territory, he’d set up a dinner, pour everyone a drink, and convince them to settle things peacefully.

He also encouraged criminal organizations to transition into legitimate businesses and had personally helped several gangs go clean.

Under his guidance, gang members had started valet companies, car washes, auto-repair chains, dockworkers’ unions, local security and logistics companies, and even food-delivery services.

For those with loftier ambitions, Mephisto could apparently even find work as an extra in Hollywood.

His pitch to the local bosses was remarkably simple.

Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure to know you all. I have a few humble suggestions.

You risk your lives fighting over territory because you want money.

So why not stop fighting and make money together?

If a dispute arises, negotiate. Violence should be the absolute last resort.

And if violence really is unavoidable, tell me first. I’ll mediate personally and make sure everyone receives a fair deal.

You are all men of standing. Don’t harass ordinary civilians or commit pointless crimes. If you attract police attention, business becomes difficult. If business becomes difficult, profits decline.

And never forget what happened to our colleagues in New York.

Money and territory are meaningless if you’re dead. So let’s all remember the principle of peaceful coexistence.

In other words:

You miserable bastards are all going to Hell eventually, so at least stay alive long enough to enjoy yourselves.

The various gang bosses had been understandably suspicious.

Is this guy secretly working for the government?

It was a reasonable theory.

Those New York mobsters were hardened criminals. Men who had survived prison, turf wars, and enough violence to qualify as walking disasters.

How could a mere bar owner have scared them into submission?

Maybe the police had been waiting inside the bar that night.

No.

Not the police.

Military special forces.

Perhaps they’d ambushed the New York bosses and drugged them with some experimental military hypnotic compound.

Nobody knew.

And eventually, nobody cared.

Because life under Mephisto was pretty damn comfortable.

For the first time, criminals could stop worrying about getting shot in the street or spending decades behind bars.

Their underlings handled the dirty work.

The bosses got to sit back and enjoy the profits.

And the few troublemakers who refused to cooperate?

They’d been invited out fishing.

Somehow, none of them had returned.

More importantly, Mephisto treated his people well.

He had even established the Los Angeles Criminal Association Medical Foundation.

Anyone who joined the organization could receive medical assistance through the fund.

It was apparently more reliable than government health insurance.

No member would ever again have to worry about being unable to afford treatment.

And Mephisto wasn’t merely pretending.

As long as someone still had a pulse, the foundation would do everything possible to keep them alive.

As a result, members of Los Angeles’s criminal underworld had developed the highest average life expectancy of any criminal organization in America.

Rumor had it they were preparing to apply for a Guinness World Record.

There was, however, one small catch.

Anyone caught committing serious crimes or attracting police attention was immediately expelled from the foundation.

All benefits were revoked.

And their sponsor was personally responsible for delivering them to the police station.

So really, why bother fighting?

Why risk your life when you could sit back, make money, receive medical care, and enjoy the wonderful world of Los Angeles?

People called Los Angeles the City of Angels.

Apparently, they weren’t wrong.

A gangster angel had simply arrived first.

Some members of the underworld were even considering attending church on Sunday.

Evenson had been utterly speechless when he’d learned what Mephisto had accomplished.

This was less a criminal empire and more an entirely new genre of literature.

He could practically see the cover.

Mephisto’s Path to Justice: The Devil Rules the Underworld.

He shook his head.

The Devil’s Den was open, but during the middle of the day there were hardly any customers.

Evenson looked around.

No sign of Mephisto.

He wandered toward the bar and noticed a female bartender leaning against the counter.

For some reason, her entire body was trembling slightly.

"I’ve got to ask..."

Evenson tapped lightly on the counter.

"Farina?"

The bartender turned toward him with an irritated expression.

Evenson immediately recognized her.

She was Farina, the demon princess who had once served under Guildreth.

"What are you doing here?"

"Ugh..."

Farina shuddered again and slapped a hand against the counter.

A moment later, a handsome, muscular blond man suddenly rose from beneath the bar.

He wiped his mouth, straightened his clothes, and walked away.

"Sorry," Farina said with a shrug. "I spilled a drink. I needed him to help clean it up."

"Obviously."

Evenson nodded solemnly.

"That’s exactly what I assumed."

Farina rolled her eyes.

"You asked why I’m here?"

She sighed.

"My father told me to come home for dinner."

She paused.

"Turns out I don’t have a home anymore."

Another sigh.

"So here I am, working at this place."

Farina looked genuinely miserable.

"What does Hell even have going for it? Why do so many people keep throwing themselves into that place?"

"Beats me."

Evenson shook his head.

"But still. A princess of Hell working behind a bar..."

"That’s not even the worst part."

Farina pouted.

"I lost my title. I’m not even a princess anymore. Apparently I’m a noblewoman now."

"Because my public identity is supposed to be the distant cousin of the bar owner."

She grimaced.

"Dad says having a daughter my age around makes it harder for him to flirt."

Evenson stared at her for a moment.

"That’s... unfortunate."

"Whatever."

Farina waved it off.

"You came here to see Dad, right?"

Evenson’s expression turned serious.

"Yes. I have some important questions for him."

He glanced around.

"Where is he?"

"You picked a great time."

Farina gave him an apologetic smile.

"He just left."

Just left?

Evenson’s eyes narrowed.

Did he know I was coming?

Could Mephisto really have sold Coulson’s information?

"Don’t worry. He’s probably at the crime scene in Hollywood."

Farina continued.

"He’s a special consultant for the Los Angeles Police Department."

Evenson blinked.

"He’s a what?"

He immediately pulled out the thick stack of documents he’d collected on Mephisto and began flipping through them.

Sure enough.

There it was.

Mephisto was officially listed as a consultant for the LAPD’s Major Crimes Division.

And apparently his case-closure rate was exceptional.

The man had somehow become one of Los Angeles’s most feared detectives.

Farina thought for a moment.

"What did Dad say?"

She rubbed her chin.

"Oh, right."

"He said allowing criminals to remain at large was deeply irresponsible because sooner or later they’d either hurt someone else or get themselves killed."

"So he wanted to find them quickly, lock them away for a few hundred years, and keep them somewhere safe."

Evenson rubbed his forehead.

"Live another year, I suppose."

He raised a thumb.

"Your father is a true humanitarian. A pillar of society."

"Whether he’s a humanitarian is debatable."

Farina wiped down the counter.

"But I think there’s another reason he took the job."

She lowered her voice.

"When you meet his female partner, you’ll probably understand."

Evenson raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

He smiled.

"Now I’m curious."

"Murphy! This is a crime scene. Could you try taking it seriously?"

Inside a luxurious Hollywood apartment, a blonde detective with her hair tied in a ponytail stood with her hands on her hips.

She wore a yellow coat and looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"Could you stop playing with those things?"

The man she was addressing looked completely unconcerned.

It was Mephisto.

He smiled charmingly.

"It’s nothing."

He glanced at the objects in his hands.

"They’re useless anyway."

The detective frowned and opened her mouth to continue scolding him.

A voice interrupted them.

"Could you two move aside?"

Both of them turned.

Evenson stood on the other side of the crime-scene tape.

"S.H.I.E.L.D."

He flashed his credentials.

"I need to speak with your consultant."

The detective looked at Mephisto.

"Murphy, what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

She sounded genuinely concerned.

Mephisto had deliberately kept his true identity hidden from her.

As far as she knew, he was simply a bar owner with connections throughout Los Angeles’s criminal underworld.

So seeing someone from S.H.I.E.L.D. arrive specifically looking for her partner was concerning.

Had S.H.I.E.L.D.’s crackdown on organized crime finally spread to Los Angeles?

Had they decided to use Murphy as an entry point?

"It’s been a long time."

Evenson smiled at Mephisto.

Then he looked at the detective.

And finally understood what Farina had meant.

The woman’s face was strangely familiar.

Very familiar.

Her features, particularly around the eyes and brows, reminded him of Gabriel.

"Lauren, Detective Decker."

She extended her hand.

"May I ask why S.H.I.E.L.D. is looking for my partner?"

"Probably because they need my help."

Mephisto stepped between them before Evenson could take her hand.

"You don’t need to worry. It’s nothing serious."

He smiled.

"Evenson and I have worked together several times."

"The results weren’t exactly pleasant."

Evenson’s smile disappeared.

"Especially after certain things came to light."

He glanced at Mephisto.

"Perhaps we should find somewhere private to discuss this."

"Certainly."

Mephisto nodded.

Then he smiled.

"After I finish this case."

He didn’t even give Evenson a chance to object.

"You have no idea how fascinating it is."

He gestured toward the crime scene.

"A writer who had been suffering from severe delays and was clearly headed for a disastrous ending was beaten to death with a typewriter."

He paused.

"His skull was crushed."

Evenson stared at him.

"That is... horrifying."

For some reason, the entire atmosphere suddenly felt considerably darker.

"But don’t worry. We already have a suspect."

Lauren smiled.

"The victim was an editor for a film production company, so we’re looking at the director and producer."

"Apparently, her name is..."

She frowned slightly.

"Nyarlathotep."

"She’s one of Hollywood’s rising young directors. We’re going to question her."

"No."

Evenson and Mephisto spoke at the exact same time.

"Absolutely not."

Lauren blinked.

Both men immediately shook their heads.

"We can guarantee it wasn’t her."

"Are you sure?"

Lauren looked between them.

"Well..."

She considered it.

"That certainly narrows down our suspect list."

"Narrow away."

Evenson nodded.

Mephisto nodded beside him.

"Because it definitely wasn’t her."

Neither man said the rest aloud.

That case is probably going to remain unsolved.

After what happened to that editor, whoever killed him has probably already met a fate considerably worse than prison.

The situation was sufficiently bizarre that Mephisto lost interest in the investigation almost immediately.

Once the crime-scene work was finished, he brought Evenson back to the Devil’s Den.

He sat down beside the piano, poured himself a drink, and rested one hand on the keys.

"Now."

He began playing.

"What did you come here for?"

Evenson stared at him.

"You already know."

He folded his arms.

"You left Nahash inside Coulson’s body. Why?"

"That has nothing to do with me."

Mephisto continued playing, somehow managing to look annoyingly relaxed while doing so.

He was a surprisingly talented pianist for a demon.

"Nahash holds a very high position in Hell. As long as he doesn’t rebel, I generally leave him alone."

"This time was his decision."

"He said he was looking for something he’d lost many years ago."

Mephisto played another sequence of notes.

"Apparently, it can somehow help with Hell’s overcrowding problem."

"Is that really the truth?"

Evenson didn’t hide his skepticism.

Mephisto glanced sideways at him.

"If I told you it was, would you believe me?"

Evenson said nothing.

"You already have your own theory."

Mephisto smiled.

"No matter what I say, you’ll simply interpret it according to what you’ve already decided."

"Maybe."

Evenson nodded.

"But I’m warning you."

His expression hardened.

"Don’t push things too far. Don’t assume nobody can touch you."

Mephisto’s fingers continued dancing across the piano keys.

"I won’t provoke the two demon women behind you."

His head swayed slightly with the music.

"But other than them..."

He smiled.

"I don’t have much left to fear."

His fingers struck another chord.

"So I suppose that means I can do whatever I—"

A sudden gust of violent air tore through the room.

"—Ah!"

Mephisto didn’t even have time to react.

A figure appeared beside him and drove a kick straight into his body.

The demon lord went flying and crashed onto the floor.

The newcomer was Gabriel.

She wore a white outfit with a distinctly post-apocalyptic edge, and her bare feet struck the floor as she stepped forward.

Then she planted one directly on Mephisto’s face.

"You’ve got some nerve."

Her voice was cold.

"You really have gotten far too bold."