Popov.

Popov Ch7 Cut Dead

Chapter 7 Cut Dead

            ‘Popov have you finished God’s dirty laundry?’ asked Death striding towards him.

‘Oh well – er I haven’t finished it, foreman.’

‘Have you even started it Popov?’

            ‘I can’t tell a lie intrusive one, I have not. But,’ he continued as he saw Death was about to speak again; ‘I have sent it out to be done by a professional.’

            ‘You took the ambrosia left over from the millennium celebrations and sold it back to the Greek gods as a fresh supply. Doing the laundry was meant to be your punishment. YOU should have done the work.’ Death snapped.

‘Oh, but I did give them back their gold drachma,’ Popov protested. ‘If you paid me I wouldn’t have a need to make a little on the side.’

‘Paid? No one in the afterlife is paid. Popov you are dead, you do not need money.’

‘No I don’t need money, but gold would come in handy to – to re gild the heavenly gates.’ Popov concluded in a righteous tone, ‘Peter is always having to have them re touched as they are used so much and he was only telling me the other day how much it cost him and I thought..’

‘You, Popov? St Peter was telling you?’

‘Oh yes and it was God that said if I had spare time I should see if I could do something about it. So I contracted out the laundry and I’m working on getting some heavenly gold.’

‘This has this been approved by God?’ Death was incredulous.

            ‘Oh yes, he also said it was great not to have the smell of boiling white’s pervading all the rooms in his house. And Peter, sorry St Peter,’ Popov corrected himself seeing Death’s brows go down. ‘St Peter said that the laundry room can be reused for something else more useful now.’ Popov beamed.

‘Well I will speak to St Peter about this Popov, and if you have told me an untruth..’

‘How could I, omnipresent one?’ Popov said a little crest fallen

‘Indeed, how could you?’ Death mocked. ‘So seeing you here dawdling in the corridor I presume I am correct to conclude that you have nothing to do at present?’ Death held out a piece of paper. Popov’s face fell.

‘No sir,’ He took the paper.

‘Then you can go and collect this gentleman, Popov.’

‘Yes Chief whip.’ He said and disappeared before Death could respond.

‘It a cannota be right’ the short plump man protested. ‘Isa not ma time to go. You know? I ama the great Calvino, ci? I worka with all da stars. Is good. They all call for me. I must ‘ave Calvino. All the greats. So is not possible that I go now.’

            Sorry,’ said Popov, looking down at his dusty robe. He felt overshadowed by the sharp black suit with its silk lapels, the stiff collared gleaming white shirt with elegant bow tie that Calvino wore. ‘Were you – in the mafia?’ he whispered the last bit. The man waved his arm in a wide circle and burst out shouting.

            ‘Whadda you mean Mafioso? I nevva been so insulted. I have to die and I getta this from you,’ Calvino though shorter than Popov looked him up and down as if he were dirt. ‘You who have de dress sense of a Scugnizzi. I am ashamed to be seen with you.’ Calvino turned his broad back on Popov and folded his arms. Popov looked down at the figure before them that was reclining, open mouthed in a red leather upholstered booth at the New York St Regis. No one was making a fuss yet, they thought the portly, well groomed, black haired Italian was asleep.