I could see Bartleby some forty feet in the distance, sitting on the shore with his knees bent. He was fully dressed and out of place, his dark jeans bunched up and his white tee-shirt reflecting sunlight at an obscene level. While walking, my eyes roved the ocean and the waves distracted me. They kept my attention, distracted me more than I’m used to…I found the rolling, lapsing waves yawning over the smooth auburn sand. Fingers reaching, a body outstretched and waiting to be—
The feeling was familiar.
Bartleby was already standing and turned to face me, brushing the sand off his ass. There was an odd connection between the two of us, one that I’m sure never to find in another person: If Bartleby were to drop dead, I would feel it as I would a grain of sand as the wind flicked it at me; however, as I had let him live once before to make even the fact that he had saved my life, there was no cause for further retribution. I did not especially care to end anyone’s life, not even the man who had sent an army of mercenaries to kill me.
“Why did you wait so long to come?” I asked first as it was the most important to me.
He ignores that question entirely.
“Did you know there’s a price on your head?” he asks, smiling.
“From you?” I’m unimpressed.
“Nope. You remember those locals you killed in that forest?—the ones that fuckin’ mercenary hired to find you? Way back when? Turns out they weren’t so local – apparently they never stay in the same place too long. And they will come to America one day. They will find you.”
“I doubt it. I seriously doubt some roving, foreign band of buffoons is going to come find me in American and – what? – knock on my door to settle up? Get on with it! What the fuck do you want?” I snapped, pushing toward him and finding myself a teensy bit wobbly. “I haven’t killed you yet out of some…weird debt I feel I owe you, or your father.” That was only partially true – I hadn’t wanted to kill anyone since I had returned.
“You killed my father,” he snarls.
“He was already dying. And you know!” I spat the word “know” to make it that much more important, “that he chose to stay in that building. I didn’t put a bullet in him. So fuck you.”
We stared at each other, neither moving.
“Tell me what’s going on in Philadelphia.”
He didn’t answer.
“What do you want? Make it quick.” I was already terribly sick of talking to him. “Why are you here? Is this—is the situation in Philly—”
“What’s the guy’s name?” he asked, interrupting.
“Mans el-Ray Pasquale. Is this Philly situation real?”
“Yeah, it is,” and Bartleby looked up into the sun, “Only reason I’m out here and you’re out here is because of it. When you get back to Philly, get a team you trust—”
And then I jabbed him in the neck, catching him off guard.
There had been a moment earlier – not even three seconds – when I realized what had happened. There was a FLASH in my head like a movie: Sipping the water in the buffet, so soothing, only to realize now that it had been poisoned. That familiar start, the feeling of being overtaken by the awful Amerwoncik poison…my drink had been sitting there unguarded and he had poisoned it before I sat down. As I realized what he had done, I snapped the top off my ring (the only piece of jewelry I ever wear) and plunged the short, tack-like point into the side of Bartleby’s neck.
When I backed away, he stood there looking shocked.
“You poisoned me!” I yelled at him.
He began to fall to the ground and I instinctively caught him.
“Had to try…one last…” he said, smiling.
And I laid him out on the calm sands of the beach.
“Mans el-Ray Pasquale,” he had whispered.
And then, as he faded out, he left with one unfinished thought…
“I don’t think…the tail…”
AUGUSTUS
“Those plates were registered to an old couple in Tennessee. Checked the DMV database, they don’t exist in the state of Tennessee. Um, tried to find them elsewhere and couldn’t. One of two things – I’m guessing they’re fake, which is most likely. But also the DMV fucks shit up seriously so there’s always that…”
This was Augustus’ greeting, one he called from across the room as soon as he saw it was I that had entered. He had brought the legs of his chair to the floor when the door opened but leans back, steadying himself with a knee against the edge of the table.
His black hair’s usually puffy but he cut it down, and it looks as if he’s been trying to shed some pounds in favor of muscle since the last time I’ve seen him – medium height, he’s still a good sixty pounds overweight (it’s mainly in a ring around his belly). He has a box of Twinkies next to him, practically the only thing he’ll eat while sitting at the computer.
“That’s unhealthy,” I tell him.
“The license plates? Oh…” he catches my eyes on the Twinkies. “Should’ve known that was coming. Want one?” He reaches in and removes his middle finger from the box, holding it up so I can see. “You can just eat it…”
Augustus reaches somewhere beside him and pulls a cell phone from God knows where, tossing it over to me. The phone’s screen is extra wide and, having worked with Augustus on several jobs previous, I’m well aware that he’ll use it to network the four of us together.
“Same functions,” he grunts with equal parts boredom from repeating himself and discomfort with his chair, shifting his ass to fit the seat better; then he points to the dresser top beside me, where I look and find nothing—he points again, more precise, and I find a tiny something, dime-shaped and flesh-colored.
“Smallest bluetooth on the planet. Won’t fall out, comfortable. Japanese.” He says, dully, “Number to your phone is on the inside of the case. Did you get one of these?” Augustus reaches in his breast pocket and withdraws a cylindrical tube identical in shape and size to a cigarette, except its plastic veneer catches a glint in the light.
“When did you start sm—”
“Not a cigarette,” he interrupts a tad too quick, hinting that he had expected me to not know what he was doing. “I was wondering if he told you yet.”
“Told me what?”
“Just ask Steve.”
“Where are they?”
“Swimming.”
“Of course they are.” I scoff, checking my watch. It’s almost ten. “Didn’t they know my arrival time?”
It had been many years since I had been to my home city. I expected nostalgia as I flew into Philadelphia International Airport but none came. I rode from the airport to the hotel tired, though I did keep my eyes on the streets. I remembered them but I had moved on.
Augustus shrugs. His eyes return to the computer monitor in his lap and he begins to click away. Spread across the table with no semblance of order, there are a dozen cables, other computer towers, hard drives, discs, and various electronics – I’m familiar with the equipment only because it’s Augustus’s normal work station. His room always heats up; it’s intolerable to everyone but him, and he stays dressed in colorful wife-beaters and basketball shorts, an LA Lakers sweatband across his forehead.
“Can we get back to the plates?” he says, and doesn’t look back at me the rest of the conversation. “Whoever’s following you is either an old couple or they don’t want you to know who they are.”
Augustus looks pleased.
“I’m about 87% sure it’s a criminal from Chicago. He called me.” I hand over the phone number that had called two days earlier. “If the number doesn’t lead anywhere, check the name D’Andrea, associates, check Chicago, check whatever you have to. Find me a way to contact this guy. And,” I turn from the corner of the room, “I want a picture of whoever fuckin’ called me.”
“Why?” he asks, not really paying attention.
“He threatened me.”
This gets his attention.
“Did you show him your sweet side?” he
asks with a soft chuckle.
THE BEGINNING OF BUSINESS
Though I’m always serious and business-oriented, a project doesn’t begin until I see nothing but an objective and the priorities leading me there – it’s the way I approach anything, from investments to teaching and to daily life in general. It’s accompanied by a few physiological responses: The feeling of fresh blood coursing through my body; an eagerness in my senses (as if desire drives my ears to listen harder, my eyes to take in more, my memory to retain everything, and so on and so forth); and for especially large tasks, there’s an immediate feeling of calm euphoria followed by hours of strenuous teeth-grinding.
My jaw already hurts as I toss off my carry-on and list my demands to Augustus as he continues typing furious, repositioning his knees to prevent them from getting sore:
“Immediately, first and foremost: Get me a meeting with Charne – I don’t care if I have to travel to the other side of the world, her and I need to be in the same room before the end of the week.”
Augustus clicks away on the keyboard in his lap as I remove a folder from my small bag and hand it to him.
“What’s this?” Augustus asks, trying to type with one hand as he accepts the folder; his eyes stay with the screen an extra moment before he opens it.
There’s a short bio clipped to the picture of a police chief.
“Chief C.H. Armstrong. County and department’s listed. Find out every piece of information he has involving a man named Roger Dupont…”
Augustus starts typing but stops when he hears the name, not looking up but no longer noticing the steady stream of flashing gibberish and incoherent words that he uses to get me what I want.
“What?” I ask him, surprised that the name obviously rang a bell.
“It sounds familiar,” he says, typing faster than before.
My eyes leave the dark interior of my bag and I carefully scan Augustus’ face.
When I work on something important, my estimated odds’ percentage of success changes with innumerable factors, one of which being situations I nickname barnacles – in essence, they’re moments of coincidence or suspicion as represented by mathematical formula: barnacles are separated from the whole; often times, it’s information gathered or involving facets outside the parameters of the subject, including those working on the subject; and, once every barnacle has been tracked and factored correctly, it formulates the probability and severity of an unforeseen situation.
It’s the mathematic equivalent of expecting the unexpected.
This project has only just started:
Chief C.H. Armstrong has an unknown amount of information involving me and a possible felony charge; Philadelphia wants to question me about a past life; some (temporarily) faceless criminal scumbag in Chicago is blackmailing me to find a man whose only traits (that I knew of) are that of a quiet, violent liar…
And now, Augustus was visibly lying to me.
“Why are you lying to me?” I ask outright.
He sighs.
“Not lying, just…there’s somethin’ there we can talk about later but it’s not pressing or a threat or anything. It can wait. Continue – I wanna hear what you got first.”
With some effort, I pull my eyes and intense focus off Augustus.
“Seems to be fucking public knowledge that Philly P.D. wants to talk to me about something from years ago – get rid of it if you can. Let me know what I’m walking into if you can’t.”
“Already there, checked when I got here.”
Augustus types and clicks the mouse a few times while I roam his room.
“Found it,” he says, then skims the information aloud:
“Sought for questioning…robbery and attempted homicide involving brother, David Ridley…eyewitness accounts and video surveillance place you…in and around the vicinity of an apartment building arson, same day…multiple fatalities…gunshot homicides…last seen – fled country shortly thereafter.”
Augustus clicks, types, clicks…
“Seems the arson case was closed years ago. But there’s another open case tagged with this one…” clicks; reads silently, then reiterates, “Apparently some Irish lookin’ cop also went missing – same day, same location. Body never found. There’s more information but it’s corrupted or something – I can’t get access to it…” clicks and types furiously, “Looks like someone else was here fucking around, coverin’ your tracks. Didn’t do as good a job as I would’ve but, seems they got it done…”
“Also, look into this Senator Atwater that Pasquale—”
Augustus tosses several printed documents onto the bed.
“Guy’s relatively clean for a Republican. Has a lot of money invested in a company called Nethuns, some sort of deep sea mining company. Nothing else I could really find, which is crazy since he’s been around for years and years.”
In a corner of the room, I find what I’m looking for.
“That’s all for now. I’m borrowing these,” I tell him, lifting up a pair of his massive basketball shorts.
“Why?” he asks.
“I forgot my swim trunks.”
SWIMFANS
Before I even round the corner to the pool door, I hear Travis and Steve dicking around in the Olympic-sized indoor pool. They see me as I enter and hoot enthusiastically; Augustus had barely given me half a nod.
Travis disappears under the surface of the water.
“We’re seeing…” Steve has to catch his breath, “…who…can stay at twelve feet…the longest. It’s fucking—it’s fucking really hard.”
Travis remains underwater while I gradually slip into the pool. The heated water relaxes my body about half as well as a massage from Sadie, which is saying a lot. Steve swims from the deep end to join me in the 3’4 section. He looks healthier than our conversations over the internet and I suspect it was mainly the quality of the cameras or lighting or something. Nearly thirty, he’s aging like my brother and there’s a familiar pang of jealousy.
I’m aging too fast.
Travis explodes from the water like a black tomahawk missile, gasping and choking and struggling to reach the side; there’s a moment where I’m startled by the fact that he’s completely naked, further exaggerated when I realize Steve’s in the buff as well.
“Over a minute,” Steve calls out in a congratulatory voice.
“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” I ask Steve.
“Nope,” he answers, happily. I don’t think he realizes I’m talking about the fact that two men were alone, naked, in a pool late at night.
Across the way, Travis lifts a victorious limp wrist into the air, his back to us and his body hugged over the edge of the pool.
Their tomfoolery stops and the area feels tranquil without the loud noises – the dark of the room, a wiggling blue/white glistening off the walls and rafters of the ceiling, nothing but the sound of sloshing water and an occasional voice.
“Alright, what have you been up to…”
Travis, Steve, and I stand at the window of a dank, musty room (little bigger than a prison cell) in the north Philly cockroach haven known as the Windham Hotel.
“That is what he’s been watching,” Travis points.
Steve fills in with the facts while Travis stares at a building across the street – the pose he takes while staring at the building looks like one he’s been in before and grown accustomed to. I get the feeling he’s spent a fair amount of time staring out this particular window.
“This is the room he always requested. The woman at the front desk told us he specifically requested it every time, this one room.”
“Hey—” Travis gets our attention. “I had sex with her.”
He looks proud a moment before Steve tells him:
“No you didn’t.”
“…she wanted to, though. I could tell. Anyway, we know it’s that building.”
The building they’re referring to is a tall one in a row of apartments and small businesses. The black
door to the front is sandwiched between several doors, one side a narrow entrance to an upstairs apartment beside a corner pizza place, and on the other is a tiny old bookstore. It’s inconspicuous but, even across the street, I can see the door is reinforced with steel and there’s a magnetic lock on the side – the former a commonality in the dangerous neighborhoods of north Philly but the latter was rare and obvious.
“Go on.”
As I lean back against the shallow edge of the pool – my back against the wall, my feet on the ground, my legs slanted to keep my head above water – they explain their individual discoveries as proud achievements:
“The building isn’t exactly owned—” Travis starts.
“Augustus found this out,” Steve interrupts.
“Yeah, he did,” Travis concedes with an annoyed glance at Steve, “but we did a lot of the leg work. Anyway, we were looking into local buildings – renters, owners, blueprints – there wasn’t much in particular, except one—except that one specific first-floor area with the magnetic lock. There was just no blueprint for the first floor specifically; it was just gone – and recently, I think. And the ownership of that one space – mind you not the building, just the first floor – it’s listed as a proprietorship. The places around are owned by one guy – he owns that building and three adjacent – but that first floor, no single owner is listed, no business name, registration, EIN, nothing. Could not find anything on it besides that it’s listed as a shipping business. However, we don’t see any shipping leave the building.”
They wait for a response.
“Okay, so what do you see leaving the building?”
“Ha HA!” Travis exclaims, index finger raised in the air. “This is where I come in. We set up cameras to film the doors twenty-four seven…”
And through the north Philly door we’re watching, at the precise time they said, a man in a well-fashioned black suit walks out. He holds open the door as a second man exits, dressed in an identical suit. Both have sunglasses on before they even step out of the building. In stiff strides and perfect posture, both men walk to the corner as a black Sedan pulls against the curb. They enter the car, doors close, and the car’s off.
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