Convent

by Sam Clemens

  Cosmo did most of the talking. He spun a moving yarn about his childhood dream to own his own pizza place, and the ten-year pseudo residency he’d done in pizza shops, working the trenches around town and soaking up all the knowledge he could, in pursuit of the perfect pizza. He believed Boulder was ready for something new—something different—and that he and his business partner could deliver. They would change the way Boulder did pizza forever.

  The man listened politely and sipped his coffee. When Cosmo was finished, he adjusted his glasses and asked, “You said you can pay cash?”

  “Yes,” Laird said. “First and last, plus deposit. We’re ready to move in tomorrow if we can.”

  “Great,” the man said, and checked his watch. “I’ll draw up a lease. Before you start the buildout, you’ll need a permit from the city, but that’s usually just a formality. They’ll ask you a few questions about your business. What’d you say your entity name was?”

  They looked at each other.

  “Um, Cosmo’s…LLC,” Laird said.

  The man nodded. “Expect a call soon. Pleasure, gentlemen.”

  Someone from the city called about the building permit the following morning, and it did not go well. Laird didn’t catch the woman’s name or title—something something of something for the city and county of Boulder—before she pressed him quite assertively with a number of questions he couldn’t answer.

  The first was the name of the entity’s bank, which—like an idiot—Laird hadn’t yet set up. He assumed he’d have at least twenty-four hours to get his story straight, rather than be woken up at 9 a.m. with a phone call like this. He sprung out of bed and pranced his room in his boxers, trying to come up with a lie through the fog of a recently woken brain.

  “Um, U.S. Bank,” he told her.

  “Great,” the woman said. He could hear typing on the other end. “What’s your account number?”

  Laird sat down on the bed and put his head in his free hand. “I, uh, don’t have it on me.”

  “That’s fine,” she said. “I can wait while you find it.”

  Laird produced noises of an unintelligible filibuster for ten to fifteen seconds, then politely suggested that they “just move on.” The woman gave a long, skeptical pause but granted that they could return to the question of a bank account number.

  “When was your entity established?” she asked.

  “June 1 of this year.” A lie, because it hadn’t yet been officially established, but he had to give her something.

  “And you’re registered with the secretary of state’s office?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Then why don’t I see it listed on their website?”

  Laird inhaled and lay back down on the bed then, suddenly tired from getting his ass kicked. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe, um, maybe they screwed up?”

  Another long pause, and Laird could hear his heart beating.

  “Sir,” the woman said, “this is usually a bit of a formality. We like to ask a few rudimentary questions, none of which you’ve been able to answer in a satisfactory manner.” She sighed. “Can you tell me why I should recommend approval of this permit?”

  Laird stared at the ceiling and massaged the bridge of his nose. He spoke sluggishly. “Because we’re going to change the way Boulder does pizza forever.”

  At ten, there was a knock at Cosmo’s door. He took his breakfast hot pocket out of the microwave and checked the peep hole. Laird. He opened it.

  “Hi,” Laird said, then sized him up. “Why are you wearing your robe?”

  Cosmo looked down. “It’s comfortable, man. Who cares? Why are you here?”

  Laird scrunched his face. “Are you just living in that thing now? Does it make you feel like the emancipator?”

  “Dude, shut up.”

  “Like a method actor. You’re becoming—”

  “Dude!” Cosmo said. “What do you want?”

  “Not very friendly,” Laird said. He handed Cosmo one of the two paper cups he held. “Coffee?”

  Cosmo accepted it and invited him inside. Once in the living room, he asked, “So what is it? I can tell it’s not good news.”

  “Mmm. It’s not,” Laird said. “I talked to a lady from the city of Boulder today. And now, I’m not totally sure, Cosmo, because she just said she’d let me know, but I don’t think we’re getting that building permit approved.”

  Cosmo blinked. “Why not?”

  Laird plopped down on the couch. “Man, it was a nightmare. She started asking all these questions that were impossible to answer. And she called right at nine—the lady woke me up! Who the heck calls at nine?”

  Cosmo sat, too. “It’s technically business hours,” he said.

  “Yeah, but what if I was on the east coast?” Laird lay back on the couch. “Anyway, man, this bitch did not seem sympathetic to our cause. They’re wary of cash businesses, you know. She said to give us a recommendation, she’d have to do a thorough audit of our entity. That’s what she said—thorough.” Laird rubbed his temples. “Haven’t even set the damn LLC up yet. Was gonna do that today. You have any more info on that dude Retha and Roy were talking about? On the city council?”

  “Alejandro? No. I only met him the once.”

  “Yeah, well we need to lean on those two to make sure he’s working on our behalf,” Laird said. “This woman from the city, she just gives a recommendation. The council vote is what matters. We need this thing to go through, and we can’t have them poking around our shit.”

  Cosmo took a careful sip of coffee. “This might be a dumb question, but why would it be bad for them to investigate us? Once we get the LLC in order. I mean, we have the money.”

  Laird looked at him. “Because we’re running a fucking cult, Coz.”

  The words hung there and Cosmo took another sip. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah okay, you’re right. We don’t want to tell them any more than we have to.”

  “They’re not going to approve a permit for a cult—”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  “—and once they know where the money comes from, they’ll know it’s bogus. And once they know that, we have no chance of getting approved for jack shit in this town.”

  “Right. My bad.”

  “Yikes,” Laird said. “You hit your head or something?”

  “Hey,” Cosmo said sternly. “Don’t make me excommunicate you.”

  They entered Copper Mine Subs together, Laird in front. The smaller man swung the door open dramatically and pointed to Roy behind the counter.

  “Emergency tribal council,” Laird bleated, the words bouncing off the tile floor.

  Cosmo surveyed the restaurant and saw that it was empty. Roy was alone on the sandwich line, and his eyes darted nervously between the two men. The emancipator motioned to the back door.

  By the dumpster, Roy greeted them with handshakes. His apron was caked with bread flour.

  “We have an issue,” Cosmo said.

  Laird picked it up. “Permit hit a snag with the city. We need the council guy to pull some strings.”

  “Have you talked to him?” Cosmo asked, hardly allowing a beat between statements. “Alejandro?”

  Roy nodded in a concerned manner. His face showed he understood the magnitude of the situation. “Yes,” he said. “Well, Retha did. He said he’d make sure he was an ally in any proceedings.”

  “We need him to do more than that,” Laird said. “We need him to get the votes for this thing to pass.” He put his hands on his hips and explained the situation. “The way I understand it, the council’s vote has the final say on what gets approved but the auditor—this lady, I guess—makes a recommendation to the council, and they basically always follow the recommendation.”

  “She’s going to request an audit,” Cosmo said, “and we can’t have that. We need the council to go against her recommendation. We need at least five votes.”

  “When is the vote?” Roy asked.

  Laird tighten
ed his shoulders. “Wednesday,” he said.

  Beads of sweat broke visibly on Roy’s forehead. “This Wednesday?”

  “Yeah, forty-eight hours. He’s gonna have to work magic,” Cosmo said, patting Roy on the arm.

  Roy breathed heavily, trying to process the information. “I, I mean, I know he’ll try—”

  “No trying,” Laird said. “Do. Like Yoda said. The green guy.”

  Retha appeared then, stepping out from behind the dumpster with noiseless grace. She wiped her apron and nodded to the group.

  “The fuck were you hiding?” Laird said.

  “I had to throw away the old buns,” she said. She looked at Cosmo. “I apologize, sir, but I overheard.”

  “Apology not accepted,” Laird said.

  “But what if,” Retha continued, “there was another way?”

  Eighteen

  What Retha said made sense; why were they focused on changing five minds when they only needed to change one? Even calling in serious favors, it was questionable whether Alejandro would be able to garner four votes for an unconventional decision in such a short time. Rather than go that route, why not focus on changing the mind of the woman that made the recommendation?

  “Eh, it’s a good thought,” Laird said, “but I think that ship has sailed.”

  Retha looked at him. “How were you able to change the mind of our boss so quickly?”

  Laird explained that it wasn’t his preferred method of action—blackmail was to be used only when completely necessary. The thing with Abbot Phillips was supposed to be a one-time deal. He felt dirty having to use people’s personal lives against them. It wasn’t right. This was what Laird told them.

  In truth, he just hadn’t thought of it. Laird kicked himself for being so spacey; just strong arm the bitch! Of course. They had plenty of cash to pay for the job. The only potential hang-up was time; the council vote took place the following night. Still, surely it could be done. Money opened doors, and made time less meaningful.

  He texted Jordan to call him ASAP. He had another job for him. It was urgent.

  The big man called ten minutes later.

  “What?” Jordan said when Laird answered.

  “Jordan, my man. Thank you for calling back so quickly”

  “What?” he said again.

  “I’m glad you called quickly because time is of the essence,” Laird said. “I have another job for you.”

  Jordan waited for him to continue.

  “The timeline’s a little different,” Laird said. “I need it done tonight.”

  “Forget it,” Jordan said.

  Quickly, Laird interjected. “I’m willing to triple the fee.”

  More silence on the other end. Then, “Same deal? Just recon?” Wariness remained in his voice.

  “Slightly more complicated this time,” Laird said. “We don’t have the time to mess around with pictures. I just need someone…convinced, of something. Do you have any guys that are convincing, Jordan?”

  Jordan’s voice was low. “You mean a strong-arming.”

  “Correct.”

  “Then it’ll cost you quadruple.”

  “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “Goodbye, Laird.”

  “No no no!” Laird yelled into the phone. “Wait. Okay, fine, we can swing that. Twenty-eight hundred.”

  “Plus seven-fifty on top for me.”

  Laird forcefully blew air out of his mouth. “Christ, Jordan.”

  “Take it or leave it. It’s a high-risk job, and you want it done tonight. Take it or leave it.”

  “Take it,” Laird said begrudgingly. “I’ll take it. I don’t want anyone hurt though, okay? No violence.”

  “Just a good, old-fashioned scaring.”

  “That’s right.”

  Jordan gave his word. His voice was more upbeat, more positive, as if he was satisfied with his new income stream. “Meet me at the tracks in thirty.”

  “I gotta take the bus,” Laird said. “Give me an hour.”

  Jordan laughed and hung up.

  Jordan greeted him at the rail yard like an old friend. With a solemn look, Laird handed over the envelope of cash, which included a handwritten sheet of the woman’s info. The big man counted the money. “Looks good,” he said.

  Laird turned to walk back toward the bus stop.

  “Hey Laird,” Jordan said, motioning him back. “Man, what are you guys into?”

  “Huh?” Laird said.

  “I just mean, first you need dirt on this sub shop owner. Now you need me to spook some chick with the city. Mind tellin’ me what’s going on?”

  Laird looked tired. “It’s a long story, man. Nothing too crazy.”

  “Have anything to do with why you guys quit REI? Your new jobs and whatnot?”

  “You could say that,” Laird said, and again turned to leave. “Text me when it’s done.”

  “Let me give you a ride, man,” Jordan said. “You don’t need to be ridin’ that bus.”

  “I’m good. I’m a man of the people.”

  Nineteen

  Tuesday evening, a bearded man called Mastiff hid in the bushes outside the residence of Boulder County Auditor Marianne Kupp and waited for the sun to set. He was a large man, Mastiff; strong, but not in a gym rat way. He resembled one of those fellows that could sometimes be seen rolling logs and flipping tractor tires late at night on ESPN 2. His chest was similar in shape to a beer keg.

  As the twilight faded into night, Mastiff positioned himself for the job. He could see Marianne on the couch in the living room, face lit up by the intermittent flashing of the television. Her windows were open to let in the cool night air. Poor woman, he thought. She really couldn’t make it any easier for him.

  Mastiff maintained a crouched position and made his way along the perimeter of the yard, toward the nearest open window. When he got close, he could hear the sound from the TV. She was watching The Notebook. Single, he knew. And at that age? A shame.

  He waited until the TV got loud—characters yelling, relationships being tested—and plunged his hand through the nearest window screen. Mastiff’s hand created a clean puncture in the middle of the screen, and he grabbed the torn meshing and pulled outward, easily popping the screen out of place. Marianne Kupp jumped off the couch then, scared and confused in the dark.

  Swiftly, Mastiff stepped through the wide opening of the hinged casement window, with surprising nimbleness for a man his size. Marianne hopped backward and put her hands over her mouth, locked in a silent scream. Mastiff had seen this plenty. He was in her home now, and he walked over to her. The scream came in earnest just as he put his hands on her, and he was able to muffle the brunt of it by sliding a meaty paw over her mouth.

  “First of all,” Mastiff said, holding her body tight against his, “I’m not going to hurt you. That’s not what this is about.”

  She squirmed and spittled and his powerful arms kept her right in place.

  “It’s going to go better if you calm down,” he said. “I know that’s hard.”

  He waited a minute, and her futile yells turned into a scared whimper. This would do.

  “I’m sorry about the screen,” he said. “You really shouldn’t leave your ground-level windows open.” Mastiff shuffled his feet and sat them both down on the couch. It took minimal effort for a man of his means. “Okay,” he said, “this is about your business recommendation tomorrow. To the council? For that pizza place permit, you need to give it a ‘yes.’ You need to.”

  She still squirmed, but less powerfully. Tears were coming from her wide eyes.

  “Are you listening?” he asked. “Nod if you’re listening.”

  She nodded briskly.

  Mastiff continued. “If you recommend the pizza place go forward, you’ll never see me or anyone like me again. You have my word. If you don’t, then things are going to get really, really complicated for you, lady. I don’t know what that means, exactly, but it won’t be good, okay?” He loosened
his grip a little. “I’m going to take my hand from your mouth now if you promise not to scream. Can you promise me that?”

  Marianne nodded again. He removed his hand, and she inhaled deeply. Her throat sputtered, the end of a hysterical cry.

  “Tell them yes and this is over. Tell them no and it’s just getting started. You can get a security system, you can call the cops, but we’ll find you and bad things will happen. We know where you work, where you shop. We know what we’re doing.” He paused. “Tell me, Marianne. Tell me what you’re going to do.”

  He heard gunk dislodging from her throat. She inhaled. “I’m going to recommend the pizza place permit goes through,” she said, voice cracking.

  “Good,” he said brightly. Mastiff stood up and removed a black pistol from his waistband. “See,” he said, “I didn’t even have to show you this. Now that’s cooperation.” He walked to the window from whence he came. “You really should get a security system,” he said, and went through the opening into the night.

  Wednesday night, the emancipator and his lieutenant watched the city council meeting on public access television in Cosmo’s apartment. They drank beer and ate homemade pizza that Cosmo had cooked. The recipe needed work.

  It took two damned hours, but finally they got to the business that mattered. From a stationary, single camera that seemed to be a holdover from 1995, Cosmo and Laird watched an unusually timid Marianne Kupp step to the lectern to give her recommendations for the issues on the docket. There was only one: a proposed buildout permit for a new restaurant at the commercial shops at 30th and Baseline. Marianne saw no potential issues and said that the project should move forward.

  The council voted 9-0 in favor of the proposal, and in the grainy, distorted footage, Cosmo thought he saw Councilman Alejandro smile.

  Twenty