The Memory Agent

by Matthew B. J. Delaney

  “I’ll take the brass knuckles. Boxing is all muscle memory anyway. I still remember how to throw a punch.”

  Parker handed him the brass knuckles. Clayton concealed the weapon in his pocket, then left the car and headed toward the Garden. There was a large crowd outside the sports complex and they headed into it. Over the main entrance was a curving marquee that illuminated the iconic words MADISON SQ GARDEN in bright, white neon. The entrance was flanked by a men’s hat store on one side and a Nedick’s fast food on the other. The crowd was filled with fight fans, bookies, hawkers, hookers, and cops, all packed together on the sidewalk and spilling onto the avenue.

  The main heavyweight event was advertised on the sides of the marquees. Both fighters were from Manhattan, of course, both probably prisoners, never knowing that their championship belt only existed in this collective dream world. Parker bought two tickets from the box office, then they entered through the main gates.

  A couple of cops lounged around by the doors, but nobody bothered to check visitors for weapons, and Parker passed right through, the weight of the revolver heavy on his belt.

  Inside, the Garden was sweltering hot and wreathed in cigarette smoke. The smoke haloed the lights and tickled Parker’s lungs. This was a smoker’s world, and everyone around him puffed away. He and Clayton pushed through the backed-up lines at the concession stands, then found their way onto the main floor. The eighteen-thousand-seat venue was almost at capacity; two middleweights limbered up in the middle of the ring, bouncing back and forth on their toes while the announcer proclaimed the undercard bout statistics.

  The first line of seats near the ring looked to be all press types. Older men in fedoras bent over portable typewriters, the stubs of cigars crammed into crooked mouths. The next row was the money, women in fur shawls despite the tropical heat, and men in tails.

  “You think he’s in the second row?” Clayton asked.

  “Not sure.”

  Parker scanned each of the faces. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but nothing jumped out at him. He was confident their man would be bigger than this. He looked upward, scanned the VIP box seats along the outer edge of the Garden. There, the big money enjoyed air-conditioning and privacy, watching the fight from above. But even that didn’t seem grand enough for a senator’s son.

  And then it occurred to him.

  Parker flagged down one of the vendors and bought a program. The front cover featured a stencil drawing of two fighters landing hooks on each other. Inside were a few pages of ads for men’s fashion and electric razors, and then a couple pages dedicated to each fighter. Parker turned to the main event page.

  Thomas “Granite” Granville versus Andrew “The Empire” Adams.

  There were small black and white photographs of each. Granville was a bruising man in his mid-thirties, a punchy face, half-swollen like mashed pizza dough. Adams was a good, clean-looking kid, movie-star handsome, in his early 20s. Parker touched the photograph of Adams and showed it to Clayton. “This is our guy.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Our kid was a big boxing fan. I thought he’d be here to watch the fights, but in this place, where you can be anything you want if you have the money, why just watch when you can actually be the fighter? You can be heavyweight champion.”

  “I don’t know,” Clayton said. “Maybe.”

  “And the nickname. Empire. His father is a New York senator. The Empire State,” Parker said. “And look at this. He only turned pro a year ago. That’s exactly when this kid came into the system. I really think this is our guy.”

  Up near the ring, the bell clanged and the two heavyweights charged each other, banging away, the thump of glove against flesh carried across the floor. The crowd cheered.

  “Even if he is our guy,” Clayton said, “what’s our next move? It’s a heavyweight title fight. What, you’re going to shoot this guy when he steps into the ring?”

  “No. We’re going to go down to the locker room. That’s where he’ll be. That’s where we’ll get him alone.” Parker tapped his ear. “Selberg, you there?”

  “Oh, now you come crawling back,” Selberg replied.

  “I need you to find me a way into the locker room,” Parker said.

  “That’s not my area,” Selberg said. “Chan, can you help them?”

  “I’ll figure something out,” Chan said.

  The fighters entered the ring through a long lane that cut through the crowd and led down between the rows of stadium seating. Clayton and Parker worked their way around the seats, then moved up the aisles toward the fighters’ entrance. In the ring, someone scored a knockdown. The crowd rose to its feet as the referee began the ten second cadence.

  A security man stood at the entrance.

  “Walk toward him now,” Chan said. “I’ll handle it.”

  As Parker and Clayton approached, a phone behind the guard let out a shrill ring. The guard turned his attention to the phone and walked a few steps backward to answer it. With his back to them, the duo slipped by and moved quickly down the long corridor. Around them, the roar of the crowd reverberated through the concrete of the building. The feeling was intense, like being inside a thunderstorm.

  The hall turned sharply right and ended with a single door. Another security guard stood out front.

  “You’re on your own with this one,” Selberg said. “I’m out of ideas. He’s a prisoner, though. You can probably put him to sleep without raising too many alarms.”

  “Got it,” Parker said.

  Parker stepped ahead of Clayton and waved his hand to the guard. The guard moved slightly away from the door, his face surprised and confused. Hidden behind Parker, Clayton slipped the brass knuckles onto his fist. When they were just a few feet from the guard, Clayton stepped out from behind Parker and swung, the metal around his fist connecting flush with the guard’s jaw. The man’s eyes rolled back and he dropped to the ground.

  Parker pushed open the door.

  The locker room was small and stank of old sweat. Open-faced, wood panel lockers lined the wall, with a large mirror in the back of the room. A table stood in the middle of the parquet floor and a fighter sat on the edge of the table, in a robe, his gloves being laced up. Around him were clustered a half-dozen other men in his entourage, trainers and a couple of heavies who looked like bodyguards. The group was laughing about something when Parker and Clayton entered. The laughing ended. The men turned to face them.

  The trainer stepped away from the table and Parker could see the fighter for the first time. Blocks of muscles were slapped onto his body like mounds of clay. His skin had a light sheen of sweat, his hair slicked back and tight on his scalp. His face had a sharp animal cunning and smile that made you feel more afraid than anything else. Parker could tell he was a mean, cruel kid who liked beating up on people, didn’t matter who it was. Men, women, kids . . . probably all the same to him. The kind of guy that got his kicks from giving pain.

  “I think you got the wrong room,” one of the trainers said. “No press.”

  “We’re not press,” Parker said. “We’re looking for someone.”

  “I don’t care who you’re looking for. He ain’t here. Now beat it.”

  “Looking for Senator Scott’s son. Any of you boys know him?”

  “Now I said beat it,” the trainer took a step forward.

  Still seated on the table, the boxer cocked his head slightly. The atmosphere in the room shifted imperceptibly. He held out a gloved hand and restrained his trainer. The entire entourage turned to watch.

  “What would you want with him?”

  “We’ve come to take him home,” Parker said.

  “Says who?”

  “Says Senator Scott. He paid us to do a job.”

  “Who the fuck is Senator Scott?” the trainer said. “Now, out you two bums go before I have security throw you.”

  The boxer patted his trainer’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Jimmy.”

  Though it
looked more and more like this was their man, Parker felt something was wrong. “You know these guys?” the trainer said.

  “Yeah. Friends of my father. They came here to kill me. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”

  Parker shook his head. “Not exactly. We came to get you out.”

  “Oh right, right. Of course.” The boxer smiled. “Why the fuck would I want to leave? I’m a king in here. Out there, I’m just some guy.”

  “Because your family misses you.”

  “Because Dad’s sad, I have to give up all this?”

  “Listen,” Parker said, “I don’t really give a fuck what you want. We’re paid to come get you and bring you back. You want to stay, fine. But you have some information I need. You give me that, we’ll be on our way.”

  Scott look surprised. “What information?”

  “I’m looking for a prisoner. Her name is Susan Parker. I don’t know what she’d look like in here, but on the outside she was about five foot seven, hundred thirty pounds, brown hair. She’d have been in this system for about two years,” Parker said.

  Scott’s eyes narrowed and he stared as if Parker were a riddle he was trying to figure out. That look was not what Parker expected. He started feeling a deep, nameless anxiety spread through his system. Something definitely felt wrong here. “Did Scotty K put you up to this?”

  Parker slowly shook his head. “I don’t know a Scotty K.”

  “Come on fellas, what’s the gag here? Susan Parker? Who is she to you?”

  Parker clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to smash this pretty boy’s face until it wasn’t so pretty anymore. “She’s my wife.”

  Scott’s head went back and he laughed. He laughed so hard his sides shook and tears formed at the corners of his eyes. It was a bully’s laugh, and his entourage joined in too, not really sure what was going on, but just taking their boss’s lead.

  “What’s so funny?” Parker said through gritted teeth. “Maybe I missed the joke.”

  “My old man sent you here? Oh, that’s rich. Real fucking rich. Susan Parker. Of all the people in the world.”

  “Hey, listen,” Clayton said sharply. “Cut the shit and tell my partner where she is.”

  “She’s not in the system,” Scott said. “She’s not a prisoner. She’s dead, man. She died two years ago. The only way you’re breaking her out is with a shovel and some smelling salts.”

  Parker suddenly felt lightheaded. The heat of the room, the smoke, the people . . . everything rushed through his brain at once like rocket fuel. That couldn’t be true. His wife couldn’t be dead. He could feel her out there somewhere. Like a part of him that was in the system. This had to be a mistake.

  “She’s not dead,” Parker said. “She’s in here. Somewhere. And you’re going to tell me where she is.”

  Scott looked serious for a moment. “Why did they tell you about me?”

  Parker took a moment and answered truthfully. “They didn’t tell me anything.”

  “They didn’t tell you why I’m in here?”

  Parker suddenly knew what was coming. Like a skier caught in the path of an avalanche, there was nothing he could do to avoid impact. He wanted desperately to back up in time. To rewind himself out of this room. Back to the beginning when he still had hope.

  “No . . .” Parker said quietly. “They didn’t.”

  “I’m in here for murder. I killed Susan Parker. I killed your wife,” Scott said evenly. His voice didn’t waver for an instant. And Parker knew this man was telling the absolute truth. “Oh man,” Scott held his hand to his forehead as if suddenly remembering something. “I know you. I know who you are. I didn’t recognize you. You’re the husband. I remember you from the trial. You were in the back looking all sad. Your wife was out with her friends at a bar when I first saw her. Sexy.

  “I tried to buy her a drink and she told me she was married. But then later, when I ran into her in the parking lot, I followed her home. To your sad, little depressing apartment. I caught up to her at your front door. Little bit after nine at night. Papers said you were still at work. She had the keys in the lock and had the door open when I pushed her inside. She fought a little, you know, but yeah, I fucked your wife. I raped her right on your bed, then I beat her head in and choked her until she died. And that’s why I’m in here. Living like a champion.

  “And now you’re here because my dad is paying you money to get me out. That’s fucking perfect.”

  This man was evil. He wasn’t just a rich man son’s that bullied the weak. He was a psychopath. He was a murderous lunatic and deserved to die. Parker thought back to the apartment overlooking Columbus Circle. The bloodstains on the floor. The broken glass. The photographs of him and his wife on the refrigerator. That had been his apartment. That had been his memory. That was the crime scene. That was what he had found when he’d come home from work that night. Only his wife had been there. She was dead already.

  My wife is dead.

  The truth of it knocked the wind from him. He couldn’t think. He . . .

  “You okay, buddy?” Clayton said. His hand lightly touched Parker’s shoulder, but his face was hard as stone as he stared at Scott. Clayton leaned in toward Parker. “Whatever way you want to go, I got your back.”

  Parker couldn’t answer him. His hand slowly went to the gun in his waistband. His fingers wrapped around the grip. Parker had murder on his mind.

  But there was no murder in this place. You couldn’t kill what wasn’t real.

  But Parker just wanted to spray lead. To see this man die. To remember that at least.

  Help me. Help me, please.

  The words he had heard on the pay phone with Selberg. The same words that had lured him into the tunnels. The voice had been familiar. But now he knew. It had been his wife’s voice. He had come home that night and found her. She was still alive. Those were her last words.

  And the big band music that had been playing on the telephone in The Dakota. That same song had been in the apartment the night he found her. Oddly playing on the bedroom radio.

  He understood everything. There had always been memories trying to seep through. And only now did he grasp them.

  Parker pulled out the revolver.

  “I told you, I’m not going back,” Scott said. “I’m never going back.”

  Parker’s finger tightened on the trigger. With incredible speed for a big man, Scott vaulted off the table and shoved his trainer forward right into Parker, who fired. The bullet struck the trainer center mass. The man grunted in pain as a flower of blood blossomed on the front of his white shirt. He collapsed to the ground.

  Scott was out the back door of the locker room in an instant. Parker waved the revolver at the entourage, holding them back. Then he sprinted through the doorway after the boxer. Outside was another long hall that ran deep beneath the Garden. Scott, in great shape, had a thirty-yard lead on Clayton and Parker. He was pulling away. Parker fired once while running, but missed, the shot heading wide. These were silver bullets he was firing, and he only had a half dozen. He had to be careful with his shots, or nobody was leaving here.

  Clayton and Parker chased Scott into an underground parking garage.

  Scott slid behind the wheel of a light blue Chrysler Royal. The engine turned over and the big car accelerated with a roar down the length of the parking garage. Parker ran after it, chasing the car in a blind fury.

  “Selberg, Chan, I need some help here.”

  “Got it,” Chan said. “Third car up on your right, should be a black Dodge Coronet. There’s a mailbox drop location nearby. I’ll leave the keys there for you.”

  On the curb stood a U.S. Postal mailbox. The small access door was unlocked, and inside Parker found a set of keys. He hit the car running, pulled open the door, and threw himself behind the wheel. The keys jangled into the ignition and the engine turned over the first try. Clayton barely had the car door closed when Parker floored the accelerator, bottoming out on the ramp leading up to st
reet level.

  They launched out of the parking garage onto Forty-Ninth Street. A whistle-blowing cop jumped out of their way as the car screeched over the curb and sideswiped a box truck, sending the truck crashing up and into the plate glass of the Nedick’s. Scott was a few car lengths ahead, the Chrysler weaving in and out between cars.

  Scott hit the West Side Highway and headed north. Parker followed behind, the Dodge engine struggling to keep up with the larger Chrysler. Parker’s hands were tight on the wheel as they sped by piers stretching out into the Hudson. The taillights of the Chrysler were the only thing that mattered now. He would have time to think later on, but now he had only the chase.

  “Maybe he was wrong,” Clayton said. “Maybe he’s lying.”

  “No. He’s telling the truth. She’s dead. And he killed her. She was never in the system anywhere. They lied to me. They used her as bait. The first job was all a setup. The 1880s job. That’s when they got access to my brain. When they removed the memories of my wife. Of the trial. Of her murder. Put in false memories. Described a story that made sense. That she was in prison. But that never happened. You remember when we were on the outside, and we found the dead junkie in the building in the East Village?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Overdose.”

  “I know why that guy was familiar now. I remembered him.”

  “Who was he?”

  “That was the target from the 1880s job. After I got him out of the system, they murdered him. The point wasn’t to get him out, the point was to get me in. So they could work on my brain and take away my fucking memory. Made me think, just one more job and I can find my wife.”

  The Chrysler flew past the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument set up on a ridge in Riverside Park. They had reached the block of the West Nineties and still headed north. Parker had never been this far up in the system before. Scott was running out of room. Only Parker still wasn’t sure what would happen when they caught up with him. The mission had been to kill Scott. Kill him to wake him up. So killing him was exactly what the senator wanted. Parker couldn’t give that to him. But just leaving him here in 1953 wasn’t an option. Rich and powerful. He was living out his fantasy here. He was convicted of killing Parker’s wife, and this was his punishment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.