Ribbons

by Evans, J R

  Thug Guy leaned back. “Ha! Smart guy. Maybe is hope for you yet.”

  Matt’s eyes slid from the bird skull over to Uncle Quent’s cigar box. He rested one hand on top of the desk.

  “Just thought of funny thing,” said Thug Guy. “If uncle had not died and did not leave you this place, you would still be in same business, but I would be pimp. For you.”

  Matt didn’t have a reply to that. His breaths were coming easier now, and his mind was racing through all kinds of stories that had bad endings. His hand inched a little closer to the cigar box.

  Thug Guy opened his bag. Then, very carefully, he lifted out something black and fluffy, and set it on the desk between them. A crow stood on Uncle Quent’s desk. Its black feathers had a slight sheen to them, as if they had been dipped in oil, and its head was cocked to one side so that it could focus on Matt with one eye. It stood absolutely motionless. Matt realized it wasn’t alive when Thug Guy adjusted it so that he could look at the bird’s face. “A gift for you. To remind you I’ll be back soon.”

  He leaned forward, and Matt thought he was going to kiss the bird. Instead, he breathed on one of the eyes to steam it up. Then he polished it with his thumb. He turned the bird back to stare at Matt and stood up. “Time for going-out-of-business sale, I think.”

  Thug Guy turned his back to Matt and started heading to the door.

  Matt’s hand crept forward. “Well, I could—”

  Thug Guy cut him off. “Was not question. Call me when it is done. I left number . . . in cigar box.”

  Matt started to feel sick. He wasn’t sure if it was from the fist in the gut or the thought of reaching into the box. Thug Guy opened the door. Matt’s hand stopped moving forward. Thug Guy paused in the doorway but didn’t say anything before continuing on.

  Matt laid his head down on the desk as the door shut again. He took a deep breath and sat back up. He used the desk phone to call Information. He gave the operator the city and state. When the operator asked for the listing, Matt paused for a second and then said, “A real estate agent, please.”

  “Which one, sir?” the operator asked.

  Matt had no idea. “Whatever’s at the top of the list is fine.” There was a reason why people named companies things like AAA Cabs or A-Plus Locksmith. Matt was quickly connected with Apex Realty.

  * * *

  He met with Peggy Lynn later that afternoon. She and her assistant showed up in a white SUV with the Apex Realty logo painted on the side, which was, more or less, just a triangle with a dollar sign in the middle. Her appraisal seemed to have more to do with raw numbers and computer printouts than curb appeal. In fact, she barely looked at the place before coming up with a selling price. She asked Matt how many bedrooms and bathrooms there were and whether or not there were any standout features like a mezzanine or a butler’s pantry. He wasn’t quite sure how to describe the old embalming room in the basement so he didn’t mention it. As it turned out, the upstairs landing overlooking the foyer counted as a mezzanine, so she seemed pretty happy about that.

  When she finally did ask Matt for a walk-through, the fact that it was a working brothel didn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. Some of the girls were there getting ready for work, but Peggy’s smile never faltered. She focused on areas that might need damage control or creative touch-ups. She spitballed ideas and her assistant took notes. Peggy did raise an eyebrow when she saw the VIP room and suggested they might store some of the “furniture” during the open house.

  Soon, they’d settled on a description of the brothel: A unique heritage home with endless possibilities is waiting for YOU to unlock its hidden potential. Quiet neighborhood. Easy highway access.

  The asking price was a little lower than Matt had hoped, but she showed him several printouts that indicated she was right on the nose. Before he was even done reviewing the listing agreement, Peggy’s assistant was pulling out a signpost from the back of the SUV. He signed the document, and they chatted a bit while her assistant hammered the post into the front lawn.

  “We’ll need to dress it up a bit,” Peggy said, “but I think we can get you a decent price. Potted plants do wonders.” She pointed down at the clumps of weeds pretending to be the front lawn. “And we can spray this with some green fertilizer. Do you have any funds to repaint?”

  Matt looked back at the house. He had never really noticed the flaws until now. Some of the paint was starting to flake off. And yes the lawn did look like crap. There was no extra money to fix it up, though. And no time.

  “No,” Matt said. “I just need to sell it fast.”

  “So you can come down on the price if needed?” asked Peggy.

  He nodded. “Whatever it takes.”

  Peggy’s assistant stopped his hammering. He spoke but not to either of them. “Hey, kid. You sure you should be heading up there?”

  Matt turned around and locked eyes with Adam. He must have just gotten home from school. His backpack hung loose off his shoulders, and his thumbs were hooked under the straps. He looked confused. He turned away to look back at the signpost.

  Peggy and her assistant suddenly realized they had tasks to do somewhere away from the awkward silence.

  When Adam turned back to face Matt, the confusion was gone. It was replaced with anger. Matt couldn’t think of anything to say as the boy pushed past him. He kept his eyes on the ground as Adam slammed the door.

  20

  Foster pulled a dishtowel off a hook by the stove. It featured a black cat with big, bright-yellow eyes. Behind its head was either a halo or maybe the setting sun, and the animal seemed to be sitting on a fence. Next to it were the words, Chat Noir. Foster didn’t speak French, but he figured he now knew how to say black cat if he ever needed to. He didn’t know if Candice had been to France or just dreamed of going there one day, but the rest of the apartment was decorated with similar knickknacks. He sat down at the dining room table and started to clean his box cutter.

  Candice was in the living room. If he turned around in his chair, he would only be able to see one arm stretched above her head and her eyes staring up at the ceiling in wonder. That was good because he wouldn’t want to see the rest of her. Foster had tried to stare straight ahead at the wall when he went back into the room to get his box cutter. He had focused on a framed poster of the Eiffel Tower. The photo featured an attractive couple locked in a passionate kiss with the tower in the background on a bright, cheery day. The red spray covering it now, made it look like the couple had been caught in the middle of an apocalyptic hell storm.

  Foster clicked the blade open. The tip was broken. He was going to have to fix that. He dug around in his pocket and found a dime. He used it to loosen the screw holding the handle together. When he pried the handle open, he found more blood to clean. Some new, some old.

  As he scrubbed, Foster turned slightly toward the living room. “It was good seeing you again, Candice.”

  She didn’t reply, of course, and he knew she wouldn’t. He wasn’t crazy. He knew she was in the garden now. He just hadn’t gotten a chance to say everything he’d wanted to before Candice had started acting all panicky. She’d stopped listening and kept saying she was going to call the police. That’s when he had to end their conversation.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I don’t blame you for losing my job,” he said to the empty kitchen. “I mean, I did blame you. You did get me fired. But I can see now that working there wasn’t very healthy for me, and you probably did me a favor.”

  He tipped the handle, and the razor blade fell out into his hand. There was more blood underneath. The chat noir was starting to look like it had gotten into a fight.

  “I still consider you a friend. I know we all have our good days and our bad days. Lord knows I’ve just wanted to explode some days after hearing how some of those guys treated you. Oh man, the things I’ve imagined doing to them! I’m sure you were just having one of those days. You can’t take it out on them. They pay the bills. So I und
erstand why you took it out on me.”

  The box cutter was as clean as it was going to get. Foster flipped the razor blade around so that the unused end pointed outward. He slotted it into place and then reassembled the handle.

  “That said, I know you’re better than that. You’re the only one who saw the potential in me. That’s why I wanted to come see you again. I’m glad we were able to talk and work some of this stuff out.”

  He gave the blade a few test clicks, in and out.

  “I’m sorry about the stun gun . . . and the chair.” Foster had had to improvise when she wouldn’t stop moving.

  There was a little basket on the kitchen counter. It held some keys and a few stray coins. It also held Candice’s cell phone. It was a nice one, and she had decorated it with a pink case that had a white cartoon poodle on it. The screen said Slide to unlock and when Foster slid his finger across, it didn’t ask for a password or anything.

  “I’m just gonna clean up your phone if you don’t mind,” said Foster. “Delete our little conversation from earlier.”

  Foster tapped an icon. No password needed for that one, either. Candice’s status page came up. He started scrolling through her messages.

  Foster turned toward the living room again. “Hey, MilkMan wants to know if you’re gonna be working at the Landing Strip tomorrow,” Foster tapped the “reply” button. “Don’t want to leave him hanging.” Foster mouthed the words as he typed.

  CandyCaneCandice:

  Sorry, MilkMan. Hanging out with an old friend, then off to visit Mother. #TheGarden

  Foster continued to scroll and found the message he had sent earlier. It was short and simple. He’d just asked if they could get together to talk about the incident at work. He had apologized for whatever he had done to make her angry and just wanted to know how she was doing. She had replied almost right away. She used a lot of capital letters and exclamation points to explain that she was the one who should be apologizing, that she didn’t know what had come over her that night. She said she felt awful about what she had said, and in fact, she didn’t remember half of what had happened. They agreed to meet up after work at a coffee shop.

  But Foster had never showed up at the coffee shop. Or at least, he hadn’t gone inside. Instead, he watched her from across the street. She waited for a long time, too. When she had finally given up and left, he followed her home. She was really surprised when he knocked on her door. She seemed baffled at first and then concerned. He had been hoping for a nice quiet conversation with just the two of them. He wanted to show her the storybook and tell her all about the garden. But she had stopped listening.

  Foster deleted their messages.

  “I wish I could have come with you,” said Foster. “I know you’re probably scared. It’s always hard going to a new place and trying to make new friends.”

  Foster went back to Candice’s status page. There was a button to list all her friends. He tapped it.

  “Maybe I can help you out with that. Send you a familiar face to help make you feel at home.”

  At the top of Candice’s friends list was:

  AbjectErica

  The little devil on your shoulder whispering wicked things in your ear.

  21

  Sam was starting to sweat. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to try to keep cool. It didn’t work, and he started to suspect that he was sweating for an entirely different reason. It had been a long time since he’d ventured down the forest path, but everything seemed familiar, and he could tell that he was almost at the clearing. That meant he would see her soon, and he would have to finally figure out what to say to her. He had spent most of the journey running through different scenarios in his mind. He’d started each one differently—sometimes he was witty, sometimes he was sincere—but they all ended with her casting him out of the garden. Like last time.

  He had put it off long enough, though. Bethel had invoked the pact, and the first sacrifice had been made. The Woman in the Garden would know that Sam was involved. He had to make sure that wasn’t going to be a problem. She was dangerous, and summoning her went against the dictum that gave the Grigori its existence—watch and be wakeful—which was pretty vague, but probably didn’t include letting a myth bleed into the world of sound and fury, even if it was just Las Vegas. Still, the last time the Grigori had just watched, an inquisition had spread through Europe and made it all the way to the New World before it had finally died out. While that was an interesting time, it was hard to test one’s soul when people were being tortured for something as meaningless as not singing the right hymns. Desperate times called for desperate lovers. In this case, that was literally true.

  Sam didn’t sleep—the Grigori didn’t need to—so he didn’t have the luxury of dreaming. His mind didn’t get the chance to entertain itself at night while all the day’s thoughts were unpacked, hosed off, and folded up nice and tidy for the next day. He did daydream, though. He had plenty of time for that as he dealt blackjack, ran his club, or handed out stripper cards on the street corner. He met the same people over and over again, and each of them seemed to have the same story to tell.

  Your luck is going to turn around any minute? Double down.

  You just want to dance for a couple weeks to make some quick cash? There’s the dressing room.

  Your girl only gives you blowjobs on your birthday? Call the number on this card.

  His answers were automatic, and he didn’t really have to focus on the job. Maybe he was just getting sloppy.

  When he did daydream, he often found himself on this very path, with her waiting at the end. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they fought, and sometimes they fucked. It was a daydream, though, so it was always cranked up to eleven. When they talked, they unlocked the secrets of the universe. When they fought, oceans boiled and stars fell from the sky. And when they fucked, they created new religions. The reason he wanted her was the same reason they could never be together. They would unmake each other, and quite possibly, everything they touched.

  The tree line ended abruptly, and Sam used his hat to shade his eyes from the sudden brightness of a clear blue sky. The garden opened up in front of him. Sam guessed that, from above, it might have looked like a perfect circle in vast sea of ancient wood. There were trees in the garden, too, but they were much younger and grew in groups that looked too perfect to be natural. Except the oak tree in the center of the garden. If anything, it looked older than all the trees in the surrounding forest. It was scarred and gnarled, and looked like it had fought to survive for hundreds of years rather than being cared for and nurtured. As Sam stepped into the garden, an owl screeched from the branches of that tree.

  Sam hadn’t been to the garden in a very long time, but it looked different every time he visited. It was constantly changing to reflect what people expected an ideal garden to look like. It needed a lot of work, and she never stopped tending to it. But she seemed to have some help now.

  A young woman stood up from her work near a patch of strawberries. She faced Sam, but her eyes were blank and colored a milky-blue. She was wearing a white sundress and a linen bonnet. There was a faint swirled line on one of her cheeks, like a scar that had faded into her skin a long time ago. She didn’t speak, and she didn’t blink.

  Sam started walking toward her. He followed a path of loose pebbles. To either side he saw bushes growing new leaves as they stretched toward the sky. He watched an apple hanging from a small tree turn from a light shade of green to a dark shade of red. A butterfly was disturbed as a rose bud spiraled open. It flew along side Sam for a while before a gust of wind caught it and took it up to the great oak. It fluttered and danced until he lost sight of it in the branches.

  Then she was standing in front of him, the Woman in the Garden.

  “Samael,” she said. “Your name was not invoked.”

  He looked at her, drank her in, and let his mind flood with memories of a simpler time. She was wearing a white sundress, as well, b
ut hers had embroidered flowers reaching up from the hem toward her waist. Her gardening hat had been decorated with a velveteen ribbon, and it had a lace veil that hung from the brim to protect her eyes from the sun. Or maybe to hide them from Sam. In one hand, she held a pair of gardening shears like a weapon.

  “No,” said Sam. “I guess it wasn’t. Folks don’t really do that anymore. Only a few still know how.”

  She patted the closed blades of the shears against her open palm. She was waiting for more.

  “It’s been a long time,” said Sam. “With our recent arrangement, I thought a visit was in order.”

  The butterfly found its way out of the branches and drifted down to rest on a sunflower growing next to the strawberry patch. The girl in the bonnet turned her head to look at it.

  “Really,” said Sam, “I just wanted to see you. How are you doing?” The question seemed inadequate. None of his daydreams started with small talk.

  His expression must have seemed genuine, though, because the Woman in the Garden lowered her shears and her lips parted in a tight smile. “It’s good to be with my daughters again.”

  The girl with the bonnet held out a finger to the sunflower. The butterfly took flight but then settled on the flower again.

  “Daughters? I only see the one,” said Sam.

  “Another is on the path,” she said, “and still more will follow. Our supplicant is playing his part well.”

  “It will have to end soon, you know,” said Sam.

  “I don’t know why you care so much.”

  “It’s my job.”

  “You’ve ignored your job before.”

  Samael used to carry a sword formed of molten glass. Its edge had constantly sharpened itself, even while it was cutting through iron and bone. Blood had never clung to it, because it was continuously being remade. He had used the sword in service of the Elohim, carrying out their decrees swiftly and efficiently. He didn’t feel alive unless he was commanded to action. He was his job. Or he had been, until he’d entered the clearing and had seen the old oak for the first time.