by Laird Barron
“Big fella, lemme grab some cash outta the safe for your retainer . . .”
I took the hint and went downstairs to loiter.
A throng of gym rats encircled the heavily muscled guy doing bench presses. By heavily muscled, I mean he could’ve stood in for a heavyweight pro wrestler. Mr. Beefcake screamed every time he heaved the bar off his chest. To be fair, he was probably pushing sufficient weight to win a regional competition.
An hour or so of tossing around barbells had brought his blood to a high simmer. Blond, tan, middle-aged alpha male ready to dominate any potential new rival. His singlet was blazoned with AMERICAN AS APPLE PIE.
Meanwhile, I’m built along the lines of a middle linebacker during the NFL off-season. A shade over six-foot and deceptively soft if you don’t recognize the warning signs. Neither too small nor too big—the exact size and shape to tempt a three-hundred-pound bully spoiling for a challenge.
One possibly insolent smirk from me and it was on.
He lumbered over, his coterie in tow. The younger guys postured like runway models and felt up their own chiseled biceps. Unlike their fearless leader, none had stained his workout duds with a drop of sweat.
“Where you lift?” Mr. Beefcake looked me over. “Or, you one of those fellas who don’t need to pump iron? Your people are naturally strong.”
“My people?” I said.
“Islanders are beasts even before they ever step into a gym. Can’t argue with genetics.” Behind him, a youngish fellow wearing a sweatband let his tongue loll and briefly pantomimed a haka.
“And a bunch of us are killers before we ever set foot in a dojo; alcoholics before we ever belly up to a bar, am I right?” I let Mr. Beefcake stew for a moment, then winked. “Relax, Goldilocks. I cut Neanderthals slack. You are correct—I did inherit brawn from my ancestors in New Zealand. I’m a baby compared to my mother’s kin. Those details notwithstanding, my brutishness and violent impulses derive from the English side of the family tree.”
His blank stare indicated that much of the nuance was lost in translation to caveman-ese. One of his groupies chuckled. That did it.
“Punk, you wanna be careful how you talk.” Mr. Beefcake sidled closer. To impress me with his bigness, presumably. His forehead was dented. So were his tightly clenched fists.
“I’m. Speaking. As. Slowly. As. Possible,” I said. He paled and I raised my hands to forestall an ill-advised haymaker. “Easy, easy. You’re the butchest hombre in this gym, I take it?”
“Baddest motherfucker on the floor right now,” he said. His jaw bunched and relaxed like he was chewing a bag of ten-penny nails.
“On any other day, that might be a winning answer. Let’s test the theory.”
“You come in here off the street and talk trash? You ain’t got shoes, you ain’t got gloves, or tape. This a joke?”
“Burt, my cash, please.”
Burt P had come down the stairs and watched as the scene unfolded. He placed a small paper sack in my hand. I removed a thousand dollars, counted it where the increasingly fascinated crowd could see, and gave it to Burt to hold. The remainder went into my jacket pocket. I removed the jacket and shoulder holster rig, unbuttoned my collar, and rolled up my sleeves. Eyebrows rose at the sight of the revolver.
“Choose your routine,” I said to Mr. Beefcake. “Name the weight. Grand prize goes to whoever moves the most iron. Two-to-one says it’ll be lil’ ol’ me.”
He couldn’t decide whether or not to be nervous. He studied my arms and chest. Wrong way to judge a man’s power, but whatever.
“How much you bench?” he said. A yokel’s even less reliable gauge of a man’s strength.
“God only knows. I don’t lie on my back to lift weights.”
“Deadlift?” a stocky guy in a NY RANGERS T-shirt said. “You’ll smoke him, bro.” The others nodded approvingly.
“Dumbbell deadlift,” Mr. Beefcake announced to a chorus of reverential murmurs. “The 275s.” He clapped and chalk flew. “Yeah, baby. The 275s.”
Ninety-nine percent of gyms on the planet don’t stock anything remotely that enormous. Burt P represented the old school; practically Jurassic.
The tribe scraped together the ante and passed it along to the bemused Burt P. Wads of cold, hard cash imbued the proceedings with a sacred air. Smiles vanished. A pair of strapping minions lugged the dumbbells to a mat. These dumbbells were fossils of the days of strongmen in tights and bearskin capes; behemoth hunks of primordial iron, hacked from a mountain’s spine, black finish chipped over the decades to natural gray, the shade of death. Their metal bore the fingerprints of gods and titans.
“Well?” My nemesis seemed disappointed that I hadn’t fainted away.
“Be my guest.” I leaned against a rack and began to regulate my breathing. “You’re already in a lather.”
“Show him how it’s done,” the guy in the Rangers shirt said.
Mr. Beefcake enacted an elaborate preening display—belt cinch, neck roll, arm shake, chest flex, and bullish hyperventilation. He abruptly squatted, snagged the weights, rocked to and fro, and stood with a shout that must have terrified bats in the rafters. Nice clean form. Second and third lifts went as smoothly. Fourth pass, he struggled; face red and veiny, barbarian roar more of a groan. Five hundred and fifty pounds is no joke. Fifth pass was a close thing. He cheated the sixth. He failed the seventh try and collapsed onto a bench, huffing and puffing. His buddies surrounded him, hooting in appreciation. They slapped his back and doused him with bottled water.
Gradually the crew settled. Every gaze beamed in my direction.
“Dude won’t clear the mat,” Rangers Shirt stage-whispered to his comrades. A few dollars more changed hands.
I stepped into position and relaxed. My mind drained . . .
. . . It refilled with bloody light as I bent, seized the handles, and straightened. My freshly healed left hand merely twinged. The weights levitated, hollow as papier-mâché. On the seventh pass, I bucked the dumbbells over my thighs and hips and onto my chest, tilted slightly backward for maximum leverage, exhaled, and gorilla-pressed them overhead without dipping my knees. I held the pose, reveling in the onlookers’ expressions of horror and awe, and then slowly lowered the dumbbells. The only difficult part was disguising the brief tremor in my legs. As I said, 550 pounds is no joke.
The reddish light dissipated and I returned to myself, mortal again.
“Mother Mary, Jesus on crutches,” Burt P said. “That’s circus-strongman shit right there.”
“You can’t do that,” Mr. Beefcake said, dazed.
“I got it on film.” A punk in the back waved his cell phone. Doubtless, the video would be posted on the internet within the hour.
“It ain’t possible. Dude cheated. No other way.” Mr. Beefcake wagged his head, stupefied. He cast about for support. None was forthcoming. His homies shuffled their feet and scrutinized interesting details in the water-stained walls. His appeal to the gods of physics was a cry in the dark. “Not possible. Not friggin’ possible.”
“You’re not wrong,” I said. I didn’t explain to him about my gift of the hideous red light. Didn’t explain I could summon its terrible strength the way berserkers of old fell into a blood rage and lighted their hair on fire. “A wise man taught me that the universe is inexplicable. Its rules are merely suggestions.” I retrieved my gun and coat and smiled into their slack faces. “Should any of you have the misfortune to meet me again under less friendly circumstances, don’t say you weren’t warned.”
Nobody uttered a word as I gathered my winnings from Burt P and departed. Easiest dough I’d made in a while. Damned satisfying as well. Feats of strength for fun and profit tickle me pink. Delivering narcissistic creeps their comeuppance? Gravy.
I committed their faces to memory, hopeful there’d be a later.
* * *
—
ONE THING LED TO ANOTHER and I didn’t slouch home until well past the witching hour. I skipped the bourbon nightcap and settled for checking my cell phone messages before sleep.
Agent Bellow had left a doozy.
“Head for the hills,” he said, deadly serious. “The calls are coming from inside the house.” He paused and then chuckled. “Seriously, your day just got worse than you know. Hit me back tomorrow. You might have stepped in it, my friend. Been digging and came across a name . . . A blast from the past. The Croatoan. You heard of him all the way up in Alaska, I’m sure. Sleep on that and we’ll talk soon.”
I sat clutching the phone. The feeling in my guts was the sensation you get when you take a step and instead of solid earth there’s a void waiting.
Minerva lazed near my feet. She raised her head and growled softly at the window. Nothing out there but dreaming farm animals and fungal darkness. For the moment, the universe balanced perfectly on the edge of a hunting knife. All possibilities existed. Minerva growled again. We both knew something was on its way.
“Oh, shit is right.” I retraced my steps to the pantry and took down a bottle.
CHAPTER EIGHT
None of us spring into existence from Jupiter’s forehead, wholly formed and ready for battle. Not even guys like me. I survived nearly two decades as a contract hitter for the Outfit thanks to instinct and adaptability, and also with a little help from my friends.
As one man sharpens another, a dyed-in-the-wool professional badass is bound to owe his or her success to a mentor.
Gene “Ace of Spades” Kavanaugh was mine.
Piss on the dogma of scientists and philosophers, he said. The universe is inexplicable. Its rules are merely suggestions. Could be a hologram; could be an insect’s dream.
Like me, Gene wasn’t Italian, so could never be made. Among the top five dangerous humans I’ve ever met, and mildly eccentric. That’s a mouthful. He’d guzzle a fifth of single-malt and lie in a snowbank for hours to gaze at the Northern Lights undulating across the stars.
Gene read Jack London and Itzhak Bentov. He quoted Robert Service’s and esteemed Alex Jeffers’s antisocial tendencies. Odds were, he’d hidden a Unabomber-worthy manifesto under the floorboards. He lamented he’d never x’d out a national politician of either major party.
Twenty-two years gone by, Gene K took this green-as-grass lad under his wing. I could not have asked for better tutelage in the fine art of murder. The secret—he didn’t teach me new and esoteric methods of killing; he taught me perspective.
Remember, nothing is solid, nothing is real. Everything you think you see is upside down and four feet off-center. Death awaits, down in the hole at the heart of it all. Try to drag a few sonsabitches with you on the way down. Now, where did my whiskey go?
Don’t get the impression Gene spouted wisdom like some sort of Westernized stunt double of a Shaolin monk or Buddhist Zen master. No, Lee Van Cleef’s hardest, baddest mercenary gunslinger on a bender and muttering imprecations against the encroaching cosmic gloaming is closer to the image I carry. Like Angel Eyes himself, Gene always followed a job through.
* * *
—
HOW DID WE MEET? The death gods smiled upon us.
Gene K, grizzled and avuncularly evil, had fulfilled myriad contracts, survived a dozen Syndicate purges and twice that many gang wars. He hung up his guns and retired to the wilderness of Copper Valley, Alaska. In a moment of mock candor, he explained he’d walked away from the job because of arthritis in his trigger finger. Shot so many fuckers I can barely pick my nose. And grinned.
Unquestionably, Gene’s former Outfit paymasters were aware of his location. These were the types of guys who hated loose ends. Be that as it may, the bosses quietly weighed the pros and cons and decided against messing with him. Cutting bait seemed wisest, considering their man’s lengthy history of ultraviolence, his longevity despite terrible odds, and a marked relish for petty vengeance. Take a run at the Ace of Spades and miss, there’d be a river of blood raging in the mean streets of Anchorage and Chicago. None of the bigwigs were eager to get blown to smithereens in a car bomb. None of the old bastards wanted an anthrax Christmas card either.
Upon divining this legend’s existence, my life ambition instantly revolved around meeting the infamous Mr. Gene K.
As a baby ronin in the feudal era might seek to apprentice himself to a surly, gray-bearded swordmaster, I hiked the mountain path to his shack and begged for wisdom. Ah, a young man’s blissful optimism. I gave him my sob story: the previous autumn, my debut gig cost me a good dog and nearly my own life. Clearly, I required finishing school.
Gene eventually succumbed to my winning ways. Instead of shooting me in the face per his customary habit of greeting trespassers, he poured a tall glass of Kentucky bourbon and broke it down like this:
Bounty hunters, cops, and loan sharks have it far tougher than assassins do. Hitting is cake. Folks watch too many crime flicks. See, here’s how it is for contracts. No hand-to-hand in an alleyway. No shoot-outs. Not to say these things never occur, but such scenarios are rare and indicate either a failure of planning or extraordinary circumstances. Sometimes a hitter will make it too personal and get in close when it’s unnecessary. Psychos do it like that. A man who’d prefer to live into his dotage best make a practice of avoiding such occurrences.
The Syndicate decides to x your eyes, it will transpire while you sit in traffic or at a diner booth. Double tap to the back of the dome. Car bomb. Sniper from an overpass. Cyanide in your coffee. Your plane experiences a mechanical failure. The car brakes give up the ghost at an inopportune moment. You slip in the shower or allegedly slit your wrists or O.D. while getting your fix. No fuss, no escape.
I accepted this as gospel. Two decades and numerous brushes with the Reaper taught me that even geniuses nod. His exceptions and rare birds proved less rare than he preached. Some killers won’t cut your throat unless they can gaze into your eyes as the claret flows.
* * *
—
I WINTERED WITH GENE, learning the do’s and don’ts of our venerable tradecraft. He took me into town for unscheduled R & R. Being an impatient jackass, I asked why, and he said, Wax on, wax off. Get in the truck, numbnuts.
His uniform consisted of a red-and-black plaid coat, canvas pants, leather gloves, and Sorel boots. Drove a flatbed truck with country music blaring. Chewed tobacco and wore bifocals to scan the Sports Section during his monthly buzz at the barbershop. Central Casting may as well have dialed up a generic rural, middle-aged uncle.
Gene was laconic and taciturn in private, unless he’d gotten into the liquor. His accent was unadulterated Yankee drawl. Watching him slip on a mask and perform in public spooked and impressed me. In plain light on the street, he didn’t resemble anybody special. Prematurely silver, barrel-chested, and affable. His features were mutable, forgettable. In near darkness, as we sipped bourbon by the fireplace, I sometimes glimpsed the real him taking shape in the shadows. Can’t say it was a comfortable sensation.
None of the locals ever guessed that in his salad days he’d worn a conservative business suit and stabbed people in the spine with the casual aplomb of a man spearing cherry tomatoes. They never realized he was armed to the teeth or that he stashed an AR-15 behind the bench seat of his truck. His home arsenal included fragmentation grenades, claymore mines, a .50 caliber sniper rifle, and an array of poisons. He called the mini stockpile his Break Glass in Case of Emergency Kit.
Locals were fond of Gene. His social camouflage paid dividends in that regard. Clerks at the general store and gas station smiled as they rang him up. The tavern rowdies greeted his entrance with a cheer. He tossed darts and wagered on football. Won some, lost some—good-natured stuff. He rambled at length, and loudly. Politics, the weather, or whatever seemed topical. Kibitzing was another arrow in his quiver. His example taught me that a s
mooth operator adheres to the “When in Rome” code of behavior.
Then he taught me something else regarding predatory coloration.
New Year’s Day, we braved a snowstorm and trekked into town to watch the Orange Bowl on the tavern’s widescreen. Several punks on vacation from the city had the same idea—drunk, aggressive frat bros who whooped and cursed and spilled their beers while the bartender and server observed with unmistakable anxiety. Tavern regulars glared with dull resentment at the invaders.
Gene waited until the king of the bros left to take a piss and casually plopped himself in the guy’s seat. I didn’t register what had transpired until the bro returned and stood next to Gene and fixed his attention on the game. Gene drank the dude’s beer too, smirking blandly. The bros knew he was there among them, but they ignored him. For some reason, the whole scene roiled my stomach.
Slogging home through a headwind and drifted snow, I asked how he pulled off that bit of psychological jujitsu.
An elk should get wind of your scent and continue grazing. A man should stare through you and step around without registering your presence. The trick isn’t to become invisible like a fucking ninja; the trick is to become part of the scenery.
Late that night, I awakened to Gene stumbling around the cabin, sloppy drunk, hair wild, long johns flapping, rifle in hand. He was on his way back down the hill to find those fraternity brothers and show them his other side. I distracted him with an untapped bottle of liquor.
Gene held on to a grudge like grim death to a pauper.
* * *
—
HE SAID, Isaiah, if you should ever drop your luck and pick up a horse turd, you’ll know because you’ll come across someone like me on a night trail. Run. No shame in living to bushwhack another day.
Job opportunities with the Outfit brought Gene K to Alaska. The inimical spirit of the land attracted him. He chose to die there, alone in the wilderness. The death gods graced me with his friendship, if a pair of wolves can be rightly called friends.