by Anton Strout
Even though it was now 4 a.m., the diner was packed with Alphabet City residents and NYU students trying to take the edge off their binge drinking with a late-night infusion of food. That meant it was loud, but I didn’t mind. Right now, I felt safer in a crowd.
I sat down across from Connor as a waiter clunked down a four-inch-thick binder that I assumed was the menu. I ignored it for the moment and looked Connor over. He was far more composed than I was. To be fair, I had dressed in a dark closet while attempting to flee for my life, so the lemon yellow pants and purple shirt should be forgiven. Hell, I didn’t even know I owned lemon yellow pants! I looked to the next table and the punk rockers gave my outfit a thumbs-up.
“Were you followed?” he said. I shook my head. “How ya holding up, kid?”
“Well, Tamara’s still dead,” I said frankly, “and now another room of my apartment is getting trashed just after I put the place back together.”
“At least you got out of there alive,” Connor said encouragingly, “if not with your dignity.”
“With all due respect, Connor, shut up.”
“Oh, and don’t forget Cyrus,” he added. “He might be missing and his warehouse burned down, but several more Ghostsniffing junkies were brought in after you took off. It’s going epidemic. It’s all the rage.”
Someone cleared his throat nearby and I turned to see the curly haired waiter looking down at me. He tugged at the edge of his black polyester vest and flipped open a pad. “You ready?”
Connor was already eating some sort of sampler platter that had one of everything in the diner on it, all of it battered and deep-fried. I looked at my yet unopened menu, felt deterred by its girth, and shrugged.
“You’re not gonna eat?” the waiter asked. He sounded like I had just disgraced his whole family or slept with his wife. All shock, with a little disgust mixed in for good measure.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“You’ve got to sit at the counter then.” The waiter sighed and stared off at the far wall as he spoke. “That’s the rules. If you’re not going to eat anything, you have to sit at the counter. Tables are for our customers who are eating.”
I shook my thumb at Connor. “He’s sitting at a table. I’m sitting with him.”
“He’s eating,” the waiter said as if he had been having this argument since the dawn of time. “You’re not. Those are the rules.”
I looked to Connor, incredulous, but he merely shrugged. He popped something deep-fried but unidentifiable into his mouth.
I flipped the menu open. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll have a grilled cheese and a bowl of matzoh ball soup. Oh, and a chocolate milkshake…and a coffee.”
The waiter snapped my menu shut before I had a chance to say anything else and scurried away.
“I can’t believe that.”
“You know what I can’t believe?” He popped another deep-fried unidentifiable into his mouth. “I can’t believe they charge eight bucks for a grilled cheese! That’s without tomato or bacon even!”
“Do you mind if we talk about something more pertinent?” I asked testily. “How about, say, Irene going all Amityville on me?”
Connor looked at me seriously for a second, and then laughed. “Simon, listen, I’m sure whatever happened was bad. But the Inspectre taught me that any situation where you make it out alive and have the opportunity to sit down and bitch about it is, comparatively, a good situation.”
I mulled that one over until my milk shake arrived. A long sip and a bit of brain freeze later, I was noticeably calmer.
“I don’t want to beat an old departmental horse,” Connor said, “but there’s a reason why Other Division doesn’t shelter any of our clients, kid. They’re simply too unstable for us to deal with. Besides, we really don’t have any good way to contain them even if we wanted to. This isn’t like Ghost-busters. ”
“What about the way you were able to bind Irene?” I asked. “Or something similar to those jars in the secret room at Mandalay’s shop but bigger?”
Connor shook his head. “Binding Irene with a potion was an extremely temporary measure. As far as those jars the Ghostsniffers use, I wouldn’t wish that fate on any spirit. Any containment like that means absolute destruction of the soul, kid. Never forget it.”
My food arrived with a side order of mild disdain (courtesy of our waiter), and I dug in, determined to get at least eight dollars’ worth of enjoyment out of this grilled cheese. As I ate, I told Connor how I awoke to Irene screaming at the top of her lungs, how she seemed upset over the idea that I was chasing another woman.
“Well, that’s a little unexpected,” he said. “Spirits are known to be emotional over things, sure, but usually there’s some basis in truth with what’s upsetting them. I mean even though we know Irene’s got a thing for you, it’s not like she had anything to be jealous of…right?”
I pretended to find something at the bottom of my soup bowl and avoided eye contact.
“Simon…? There’s not something you want to tell me, is there, kid?”
“No,” I said. “There’s nothing I want to tell you.”
“Oh God.” He sighed. He pushed his plate away, gripped the edge of the table, and leaned across to me. “You’re not involved with that Jane, are you? You realize this is the type of thing I’m supposed to report to the Enchancellors, don’t you? Crushing on the forces of Darkness’s secretary isn’t just frowned upon; there’s a pamphlet expressly forbidding it!”
“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t in my orientation packet,” I offered.
“That’s hardly the point,” he spat out. “The point isn’t about you at all. You’ve put me in a shit situation, kid.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it. My private entanglements were just that, private. I didn’t want to drag Connor into this.
Connor’s face softened a bit, but he still sounded angry. “I suppose it’s my fault, really. I should have seen it coming. I’m the mentor, after all.”
“Nothing’s happened,” I said and thought about it. “Okay, well, that’s not entirely true. We kissed, but that was only after I pulled her out of the garbage in my alley.”
Connor simply stared at me. “Oh. Well, if that’s all it was!”
“The Sectarians are probably going to kill her for failing!” I said, my voice rising. The table of punk rockers stared over at us now. I lowered my voice. “Look, feelings aside, I think we have a real opportunity here. She’s scared now. I think we can turn her.”
I watched Connor think it over before he spoke. “I want you to listen very carefully, kid. I’m not going to the Inspectre or the Enchancellors with this…yet. See what you can get out of the situation. I think this whole thing’s a mess, but it’s your mess, and because I’m a generous guy, I’m going to give you a chance to clean it up.”
“Thank you,” I said, relaxing a bit.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, hardening. “I’m doing this for myself as well. You know how bad it will look if I report this while they’re rating my mentoring this quarter? I need to give you a chance to fix this if I’m ever going to save face in the Department. Understand?”
I nodded.
“As far as the rest goes, let me give you some mentorly advice? May I?”
I nodded once again.
“You are familiar with the works of Dante?”
“Divine Comedy Dante?” I asked.
Connor rolled his eyes. “No, Frank Dante over in Things That Go Bump in the Night. Of course Divine Comedy Dante!”
I had a passing familiarity with his books, but if his name came up on Final Jeopardy, I probably wouldn’t bet all my money.
“Dante wrote a lot about Divine Love,” Connor said. “Beautiful stuff. Anyway, he goes on and on about chivalry and, most importantly, forbidden love. That which is labeled wrong or unattainable.”
He stopped to flag down the waiter and made the internationally accepted check mark symbol in the air to get our bill.<
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“Anyway, when Dante descends into the Inferno, one of the first places he’s taken is to the level of least sin—the lustful. Giving in to the wrong kind of love is the least offensive of sins to him, see? While he’s there, he sees the spirits of famous ill-fated lovers—Paris and Helen, Cleopatra and Antony. Real tear-jerker material. Condemned to the Big BBQ Pit simply for choosing the wrong kind of love, the kind that led them astray from the path of love that leads to the divine, to God. A simple sin, really, easy to make.”
The waiter stopped by the table with the check, and lingered as Connor spoke. Even the punk rockers were listening now.
“It’s not loving that’s the sin,” Connor continued, “but more the act of choosing the incorrect kind. A slippery slope, if I ever read of one. So, you’ll want to think carefully before you make your next move.”
“But what should that be?” I asked. I was exhausted, fearing to return home. Ever since Irene had disappeared—or was pulled away by whatever mysterious force was out there—I had been wishing for her return. Now for my own safety, I hoped that she had disappeared again.
Connor threw down a few bills.
I felt for my wallet. “Can you cover me?” I asked. “I left my wallet back at the apartment when I was running for my life.”
Connor threw down a few more bills. Then he reached in his pocket and pulled out a vial of the viscous, patchouli-like fluid he had used on that spirit back in the alley. He slid it across to me. “Use this if she gives you any more trouble, kid. And then call me.” I picked it up and slid it in my pocket, feeling relieved.
“You wanna get your head together and figure out what you should do?” Connor asked. “Let me jump ahead several hundred years to answer that one, if you don’t mind. I’ve come to use it as my personal mantra. ‘Dead is dead and life is for the living.’ Helps me get through the day in our line of work.”
Connor stood. I rose. “Who came up with that?”
“The Master himself,” Connor said as he threw up the collar on his trench coat and stuck a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “Humphrey Bogart.” He lit the cigarette, and then with the worst Bogey impression I had ever heard, he said, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”
I stood there, shaking my head as he left. Connor walked toward the door, the waiters swarming him angrily for lighting the cigarette in the diner. He parted them like the Red Sea and was gone, leaving me with much to wonder about. One thing I knew for sure. I certainly wouldn’t be renting Casablanca in the near future.
29
I didn’t go home that night, but sat at the diner, milking free refills of coffee until the owner threw me out. The sun had been up for an hour, and I walked the streets of the Lower East Side, watching the city slowly coming to life. I couldn’t face going home if Irene’s spirit was still trashing the place, and I wasn’t in any shape to head back to the Department, so I let fate be my guide as I wandered, nervously looking over my shoulder for any signs of being followed the whole time. I spent hours thinking about the case and how I could help Irene, but that in turn only led to wondering about Jane. I had walked out on her, and God only knew if she was okay. I was failing everyone right now, and I decided I had to do something to change all that, starting by dealing with Jane. I returned to the last hotel I had moved Jane into, hoping she was still staying there. I also prayed that my abandoning her on the street hadn’t caused her to revert to evil just yet.
When Jane opened the door to her room and saw me standing there, she left it open and walked back into the room without waiting.
“Look at me,” she said sarcastically. “Not dead yet…survived a whole night by myself!”
Evil I could handle with the retractable bat hanging from my belt. Sarcasm took a gentler hand than that.
“Jane, please…” I said.
“Please what?” she said. “I think I’m in pretty good spirits, all things considered. Do you walk out on all your cases like that, or just me?”
My gentle approach flew out the window, and I couldn’t help but feel a little incredulous.
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Jane,” I said. “You seem like a good person here, but you’re not giving me a whole lot of faith in that. You want my help, right? You seem to want me to blindly trust you, but then I find out you’re holding information out on me…”
“What’s it going to take to get you on my side?” she said. “The Sectarians, my own people, want me dead, and that’s not good enough?”
“It’s not just me,” I said. “Eventually my Department’s going to figure out that I’m helping you, hiding you. It’s just a matter of time and what I’d love out of you is some…I don’t know…grandiose gesture that’s going to put you in good not only with me but with them as well.”
I knew I was being manipulative—partly because I needed answers about Tamara and Irene, but also on a personal level. I liked Jane more that I felt was right, and I would love to feel like it was justified.
Jane fell quiet so I pressed on. I needed something that could help me gain the upper hand in our fight against Bane and the corporate headhunter he had sent after her.
“Give me something, Jane,” I said. “Help out an underpaid psychometrist with bills to pay. Prove you’re on my side. I need a break if I’m going to help you or make any headway on the case I’m working on. Didn’t you tell me that the Sectarians were obsessive about their record keeping? Get me inside the Sectarian Defense League.”
Jane looked at me like I was crazy. “You want me to go back there?” she said. She looked like she was going to argue, but she stopped herself. “Fine. If that’s what it’s going to take. I can probably find something on that fish you asked about in my old records.”
“I don’t think they’re going to let us just walk right in, Jane,” I said.
“You don’t have some brilliant plan?” she said, smiling for once.
“No,” I said, “but clearly you do. Why don’t you tell me what your plan is?”
“We’ll need to get past building security first, so we’ll wear all brown,” she suggested, perking up. “Jumpsuits maybe. With matching baseball caps.”
The twinkle in her eye made Jane look like she was Wile E. Coyote, Supergenius, hard at work at the drawing board. “Or blue. Doesn’t matter.”
I looked at her skeptically. “And this will help how…?”
“Delivery people,” she said. “Does anyone really pay attention to delivery people? No. It’s always someone dressed in a jumpsuit or some kind of generic-looking outfit. You never remember the person. All you see is a blur of ho-hum colors and a hat.”
Jane was right. I couldn’t remember what any delivery guy I had ever encountered looked like.
“Won’t they route us to a mailroom or something?” I asked.
Jane shook her head.
“No,” she said. “One of the great things about being cultists is that trust is always an issue with them. They route everything straight through to their office. They’re so not going to risk the chance of the Mask of Yojeeti or the Basket of Sepiroth going missing at the hands of a mailroom clerk. As if!”
* * * *
Several hours (and one trip to K-Mart) later, we breezed past check-in at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the Empire State Building. Security barely gave us a glance as we signed the building register. My bat was hidden discreetly in a flower delivery box, underneath an all-too-pricy cover of roses. I fully intended to give them to Jane if we made it out alive. I also intended to expense them.
We made our way up to the thirty-third floor. It was after normal business hours, but to be safe, Jane kept the brim of her hat pulled down low in case we ran into anyone she knew. Luck, however, was on our side, and we arrived at the door without a single run-in.
“Most girls get dinner and a movie,” Jane said as we stood outside the now familiar glass doors of the Sectarian Defense League. “I get breaking and entering.”
I adjusted my gloves as I lo
oked at the dripping red letters on the door and then at Jane.
“Complain much?” I said.
Jane smiled sweetly and shook her head. Her blond ponytail bounced from side to side, and for a second I did feel like we were out on a date instead of hell-bent on infiltrating her old workplace. I eyed the keypad at the side of the double doors.
“What are the chances that your old pass code still works?” I said.
I had come prepared to try my hand at lock picking, but an electronic lock was beyond my abilities. I supposed there was always the bat, though that might not be the subtlest entrance.
“Worth a shot.” Jane shrugged and punched her old number in. The red lights turned to green and the unit chirped a happy signal of approval. I gave her delivery hat a playful push down onto her head and she giggled. Connor would never have let me do that to him.
However, Connor would kill me if he knew what Jane and I were up to, but hopefully it wouldn’t matter if the two of us actually succeeded.
I pushed at the door and it gave way. “That was easy enough. Makes me a bit nervous, though.”
“Getting past the door really wasn’t my concern, Simon. It’s what might be on the other side of it that worries me.”
We moved quietly through the door and into the darkened lobby of the Sectarian Defense League. I hoped my eyes would adjust quickly to the half-light. As I edged forward, I was relieved to see that the room was silent and there was no hint of motion. I felt Jane’s arm press against mine, and though for a second I thought she was trying to take my hand, I realized quickly that she was trying to stop me.
“Wait,” she said with a squeeze. “Look.”
I came to a halt in the middle of the lobby, and as my eyes finally grew accustomed to the darkness, I realized we weren’t alone. The desks around the outer rim of the reception area were filled with dark figures. I slowly crept forward to examine one, and was relieved to see that they did not react to my presence.
Zombies. After work hours, they were almost motionless as they clacked softly away at the keyboards before them, no longer working at the pace I had seen them filing and typing on my first visit here. It made perfect sense that they were still here. At the end of the workday, where did these corporate zombies have to go, really? They didn’t have homes, and without a single working brain among them, they would sit there silently until their masters returned in the morning. Their faces reminded me of so many I saw among the commuters here in New York—lifeless and slack-jawed. Even though I’d been known to take my bat to rotting zombie flesh from time to time, I felt sorry for the restless souls that remained trapped in these rotting corpses. I reminded myself to talk to Davidson about zombie rights if Jane and I made it out of here alive.