Chapter Text
"Boss, we have a cop here." Hastur nods towards the corner farthest from the entrance.
Hastur is a perfect watchdog. He doesn't look like the person who should work in a bar, but he never misses anything. Beelzebub is almost sure that Hastur has a slight magical sense - too weak to make him considered as a mage, but it makes him more observant than most of the people. Hastur is a fucking Doberman with a thousand eyes, and this is why Beelzebub keeps him in here, even if he smells like shit, and most customers of the Bustling Beehive try to avoid Hastur.
"What cop?"
"First-rate one. And if my memory isn't lying to me, he is not a big fan of some of our friends."
But like everyone who can notice any small thing and point at any unwanted guest, Hastur prefers to talk with as many omissions as possible. It is easier to grow a beautiful garden in the middle of the desert than to get a clear answer from Hastur. Especially on the Monday evening.
So Beelzebub had only one thing to do: move closer to the table that Hastur pointed to and look at the guest by theirself. After all, as the owner of this bar, Beelzebub has the right to go around his property. And asking questions when it's necessary.
They knows all the local police officers, but this man is clearly not one of them. And he is clearly a bit old for a patrolman who decided to drink at the first bar he came across after his shift.
He looks at the half-empty glass of porter as if he didn't order it.
There are many such people here. But there really is something special about this one.
Beelzebub slowly comes closer to him - and the stranger looks at them with intense curiosity. But there is no hostility or anger in his gaze, only a slight shade of curiosity; if Hastur is a Doberman, this man looks more like a Bloodhound - calm and friendly until it decides to tear out your throat.
His face looks vaguely familiar, but it takes a while for Beelzebub to figure out who it is.
The slow jazz coming from the radio makes the tension of the moment even edger and slower. But when the saxophone chokes after a long solo, Beelzebub finally fumbles the answer they's been looking for in their head.
Hastur is not wrong: this man really is a first-rate cop. Or at least someone who looks a lot like him.
Beelzebub has a good memory for faces - even if not as good as Hastur - which is useful in their profession, and they finally finds out the truth. This customer is a detective, James Gabriel Angelo. Or his twin brother. It's a fun idea, and for almost a minute Beelzebub allows himself to play with it, building up possible scenarios: dramatic, comedic, soap opera-worthy.
But this is not a morning radio play with a cheap plot twist about twins, so Beelzebub dismisses this possibility. Their guest is James Gabriel Angelo.
A quite shabby James Gabriel Angelo.
That's why it was so difficult to identify him.
Beelzebub saw him in photographs in newspapers, and most likely on television too, but here and now, Detective James Gabriel Angelo looks different. And it's clearly not about how he was younger than - three years is not so long a time. But even a short time can make a big difference. James in the newspaper's photographs looked brilliant and charming, like the hero of an adventure novel or film, ready to fight enemies without creasing his perfect suit, and after defeating evil, fall onto the bed with an equally perfect-looking lover. If Beelzebub didn't know that Angelo's war against the Hellhound gang was real, as well as a victory, they would have thought that he was a fictional character invented to advertise the city police.
But despite the obvious similarities, the man sitting at the table in the corner looks different.
He lost all his gloss of the hero from the front pages and now looks rumpled and tired. Like most customers of the Bustling Beehive - yet, the Bustling Beehive is not the place where James Gabriel Angelo belongs. Because of many reasons.
There is some kind of riddle here, and it is impossible to solve the riddle without any clues, so Beelzebub, pushed by their own curiosity, finally comes close to the table.
"What brings the hero cop here?"
"I want to have a drink and relax." He has a deep voice, fitting his former hero's looks perfectly. "By the way, this beer tastes disgusting."
He takes a long sip and smiles. This smile makes him look more like the guy from newspaper photographs.
He's clearly enjoying every piece of the attention, and Beelzebub isn't going to give him more of the pleasure.
"I recommend ordering cider next time." They gives him back a formal, almost emotionless smile.
"I'll remember your advice."
"Great. Have a nice evening, Detective."
He grins and takes another long sip.
"I'm not a detective anymore. At least not a police detective. So you don't have to worry about anything, I won't bother you or your friends."
"We welcome any visitors here. Police officers and former police officers as well as any other people. The Bustling Beehive is a place for everyone."
This is true. The Bustling Beehive is a cozy place with soft music, dim lighting, and old, scruffy, but comfortable furniture. So many people just come here to relax and be alone with their thoughts. Many people, but not hero-cops. Not even ex-hero-cops.
"I have no doubt about it."
Beelzebub nods politely at him, and returns to the bar, still feeling his curious gaze.
Hastur will look after him. And Beelzebub will tell everyone to be more careful - there is possibly something brewing, and they all here must know what kind of things will come.
This means that Beelzebub needs to make some inquiries: police detective or not, James Gabriel Angelo is not the kind of person who would just come and drink beer at an establishment associated with Lucifer, even if Lucifer himself doesn't own this place anymore.
And, above all, it is a riddle, and Beelzebub loves riddles.