Every Day Above Ground

by Glen Erik Hamilton

Hinch was distracted. A woman sashayed past us, her black vinyl catsuit hugging every inch except for where the zipper opened in a deep V down to her navel. I wondered briefly if the word cleavage still applied when you could see most of a hemisphere. The feline woman returned Hinch’s barefaced stare, smiling over her shoulder.

  “Let’s get this done,” Hinch said, still watching her slink away. “I got shit to do.”

  Mick O’Hasson reached us. He held out a key, and Hinch snatched it away and knelt in front of the footlocker. O’Hasson teetered slightly. I bent down to murmur in his ear, under the rattle of Hinch’s popping the latches on the box.

  “Cyndra’s safe,” I said, and repeated it. I wasn’t sure how well the little burglar was tracking what was going on around him. “She’s okay. No matter what happens here, you stay with me. I won’t let them take you again. Do you understand? Nod once.”

  An instant. Then his blue eyes, duller than usual but still in focus, met mine, and he nodded. I sat him down on the edge of the stage.

  “Yeah boy,” said Hinch. Inside the footlocker were ten small duffel bags made of thick undyed canvas. Hinch had one of the bags partway unzipped. I reached in to pull it closer. The bag was shockingly heavy.

  Gold. Ten kilobars gleamed from inside the bag as if powered by a living energy.

  “It’s here,” Hinch said, hushed with awe. Talking to Fekkete on the earpiece. “All of it.”

  Foxes and chickens. And four million dollars’ worth of grain.

  Boule spoke on the radio. “Is the gold confirmed?”

  “Checking,” I replied.

  I’d lost Boule in the shifting waves of the crowd. And the second monk as well. Marshall and Bomba were a scant eighty feet away on my one o’clock, watching each other as much as what was happening with me and Hinch. But I’d lost the other two men.

  Goddammit. Too many players. I had known going in that I couldn’t watch all of them, all the time. An acceptable risk, so long as they were watching each other. That’s what I had imagined while I was sitting safe and sound and making impressive plans in my head yesterday.

  Dono would have snarled at me to get my ass out and be satisfied with saving Cyndra and O’Hasson.

  But I could see the brass ring now. Close enough to reach out my hand and try.

  I began to divide the canvas bags between the red and blue suitcases, and after an instant’s hesitation Hinch joined me. Five bags apiece. Two fortunes, ready to roll.

  “Stop,” said Boule. “Give us Fekkete.” I barely heard his demand over the cadence shouts of a platoon of Imperial stormtroopers to our left, marching in formation. Security guards walked ahead, clearing a path for them.

  Fekkete wasn’t coming. I’d have to play for time until O’Hasson and I could find a way out.

  “Thirty seconds,” I said to Boule.

  Hinch spotted the security guards coming and nudged me, thinking I hadn’t noticed. I slammed the roller bags closed. The guards were nearly on top of us. I shoved my blue case forcibly under the stage, hiding it behind the drapery of the supports, and Hinch hastily did the same for his red one.

  As we stood up, the security guards and a double line of ivory-armored troopers passed directly in front of us. Blocking any path back to the entryways.

  “Shaw,” Boule said. “Don’t move from that spot.”

  They were done waiting. I spotted the second monk, twenty yards off ten o’clock and closing. Boule’s grinning demon mask, flanking us now on the right. Shit.

  “I got it,” Hinch said to Fekkete through his earpiece. He had edged out of reach, keeping one eye on me. “I got this asshole, too.”

  The stormtroopers halted right in front of Hinch and me, made a left-face to the open room, and began swinging their rifles in close-quarters drill. Everyone in the room except our little band turned to watch. The two monks and Bomba were stuck on the other side of thirty cosplayers and a hundred phone cameras already recording the show.

  “We’re gonna kill you, fucker,” Hinch said, glancing to where O’Hasson sat unsteadily on the stage edge. “Both of you.”

  He was between us and the access door hidden behind the stage. I could try to coldcock him, before he did the same to me. Or I could throw O’Hasson over my shoulder and slam through the troopers like a cornerback. Crap odds of survival, either way.

  “Hey.” Corcoran’s angry voice, suddenly loud in my ear. “I found him. Fekkete.”

  “Where?” I said, no longer caring if Hinch would hear.

  “He’s way east of you, under the hanging spaceship that looks like slug vomit. The orange one with all the neon. He’s wearing a Dracula mask to hide his face, and black jogging clothes.”

  I couldn’t see him. The spaceship Corcoran had mentioned was halfway to the other side of the huge hall, at least a hundred yards from the stage. People at that distance looked no larger than a thumbnail.

  Out of time. The stormtroopers were nearly done with their show. Boule was already forcing his way through the throng of spectators, and Bomba and Marshall squared off, gladiators ready to give the crowd something else to watch.

  “We’ve spotted him,” I said to Boule. Trying to stall.

  “The fuck are you talking about?” Hinch said. Starting to click that there was more going on than the gold. The mob around us cheered.

  Boule wasn’t falling for it. He pushed closer, near enough now that I could follow movement in the corner of my eye, as I desperately looked for Fekkete. The crowd rushed in to congratulate the platoon of troopers, momentarily blocking him.

  There. Fekkete, in his vampire mask, lips so red with plastic blood I could see it even at this distance. Staring intently our way.

  “Boule,” I said. “Fekkete is three hundred feet off your four. Dead center in the aisle. Vampire mask.” I hit the button on the radio to open up Boule’s channel to Corcoran.

  “Tear his mask off,” I yelled. “Show them.”

  Jimmy got it. I saw his grotesque Freddy face and fedora suddenly appear in the crowd and close on Fekkete from behind. Boule turned away from me to look.

  Hinch grabbed me. “What the fuck are you doing? We’ll kill you, asshole.”

  But I was watching Fekkete. Hinch followed my eyes, just as Corcoran slipped up behind Fekkete and reached out to yank the rubber Dracula mask off his head. Fekkete wheeled, too late to catch Corcoran as Jimmy slid with astonishing speed into the enveloping crowd.

  “It’s him,” I heard Boule say, just as Fekkete realized he was a target, and exposed. He tried to run for the exit. Upstream against a crushing tide. The first panels of the day had let out, and a new tsunami of humanity flooded the convention floor. Boule pursued him, and an instant later Marshall did, too. Bomba, left without a dance partner, started to tentatively go after them.

  “You motherfu—” Hinch said. I caught his hand as it reached down for the ankle holster, squeezed. I have a strong grip. Inherited from Dono, like my black hair and black eyes. Hinch grabbed my shoulder, tried to yank me into an arm lock, but I was braced. We strained against each other, stalemated.

  “Hey,” said a girl dressed as a barbarian. Uncertain if the two nasty-looking bastards behind the dispersing mob of stormtroopers were just messing around.

  “Fekkete’s done,” I said softly to Hinch. “You can run and try to save him. Or you can take the gold for yourself.”

  His eyes were crazed. Lips drawn reflexively back into a snarl. He wanted to try me. Beat me. For a moment I thought his bestial side would win out, two million dollars be damned.

  He let go. I stepped back, giving him room. The girl still stared at us, along with a couple of curious stormtroopers.

  “This ain’t over,” Hinch said, and reached under the stage to haul out the red suitcase. “Gonna fuck you up good, Zack boy.” He walked away fast, loaded suitcase rolling behind him, forcing the barbarian girl and her companions to scatter.

  I reached under the drapes to grab the blue case. Lifting one hundred pound
s never felt so easy.

  “Come on, Mick,” I said to O’Hasson. “Let’s go home.”

  He followed me down the gap behind the stage to the access door. The door wasn’t locked. I spared a moment to throw the bolts, top and bottom. No one would follow.

  The interior of the convention center was a well-ordered maze. We took a right, a left, and another right, moving as fast as O’Hasson’s condition allowed. People swept through, rushing to their own priorities. We all nodded to one another. Our green badges assured passage. O’Hasson and I came to a stairwell, and I carried the case like a steel baby down two floors as he followed, and through wide double doors painted exit.

  We emerged onto a narrow railed sidewalk, in the tunnel under the looming weight of the convention center. Traffic sped by, roaring motors echoing off the walls. The noise made O’Hasson flinch. We waited.

  Thirty seconds later, the black Navigator came around the corner off Pike, fast enough for the wheels to squeal like a startled hog. Hollis popped the rear door before the car had come to a complete stop. I jumped the railing and helped O’Hasson step through and down to the car.

  The cars behind us honked angrily. I carried the bag to the back. The cargo space was already half-full with one red suitcase.

  My blue case fit neatly beside its brother. Their combined weight made the rear of the big Lincoln sag another half-inch.

  Four million dollars. The curses of the furious drivers behind me didn’t even smudge my exhilaration.

  I tore off my mask and jumped into the passenger seat.

  “No troubles?” I said to Hollis.

  “None.” He hauled ass toward the avenue at the far side of the center. “Though it was damn tight under that stage.”

  “You were as quiet as a stoned mouse,” I said.

  And he had been. I’d been listening, even as the stormtroopers performed their close-quarters racket. Hollis had swapped one shiny red case for another in less than two minutes. A hundred pounds of scrap metal, for a suitcase full of gold. Hinch was in for a nasty surprise.

  He nodded happily. “Not bad for a hoary bugger like me, hauling such heavy things. I might just take up powerlifting.”

  “Invest in a whole gym.”

  “On that subject. Fekkete?”

  “He might already be stuffed in somebody else’s trunk.”

  That sobered Hollis. He stayed quiet as we rounded 7th Ave. and pulled up alongside the building at one of the flat emergency exit doors. He kept the engine running and his foot barely touching the brake.

  “What’s keeping him?” he said after a long moment.

  “It’s a big place,” I said.

  O’Hasson reached to grip my shoulder, hand quivering. The morning had bled all the energy he had, and kept right on taking. His lips were the color of bone china. “Where’s Cyndra?”

  “She’s close, Mick. Take it easy.”

  He collapsed back on the seat, spent. Another minute passed. Hollis was about to speak again when the door slammed open and Corcoran came out. He opened the car door and fairly leaped into the backseat. O’Hasson gaped at him.

  “Drive, for fuck’s sake,” said Corcoran, removing his Freddy mask. Hollis was already punching it.

  “Head toward Olive,” I said. I gave him directions for the next few blocks, until I saw the café on the south side of the street. Patrons sat at outside tables, soaking in the gentle sun and sipping their drinks. Two of them, one tall and one small, rose to their feet as the Navigator approached.

  “Cyn,” O’Hasson said as his daughter ran to the car. Hollis hadn’t fully stopped before Cyndra was yanking open the door, leaping into her father’s arms.

  “Daddy,” she said, sounding much younger than twelve.

  I got out. “Take ’em to the boat. The cases, too. I’ll meet you there.”

  Corcoran complained. Everyone ignored him. Cyndra was crying. O’Hasson looked like he would do the same, if he had anything left in him. Instead, he shook soundlessly.

  “Mickey?” I said.

  O’Hasson nodded. A spasm of the head, as his shaking increased. “M’okay,” he said. “I’m okay.”

  Cyndra held on as if she’d never let go again.

  Twenty-Seven

  Hollis took O’Hasson and Cyndra and Corcoran and four million dollars away. The tall woman waited for me by the café table.

  “You zipped up,” I said. The silver ring on her catsuit hung at her neck now, like a pet license on a collar.

  Elana Coll smiled. “A nod to modesty when I’m off the convention floor.” A very faint nod. The black vinyl was only a fraction thicker than paint. Cars passing by slowed noticeably. With three-inch heels on her boots, Elana and I were nearly eye-to-eye.

  I raised an eyebrow, mock-stern. “When I asked you to help with a distraction—”

  “Why be subtle?” Her smile became the proverbial Cheshire grin. “Besides, I can do more than just unlock a few exit doors and bribe people for badges.”

  “Were the stormtroopers your idea?” I said as we sat at her table. Talking low enough to keep the other diners out of the conversation.

  “Of course. What better help than an entire army?”

  “Thanks. You may have saved our asses. Especially Mick’s.”

  “Are they going to be all right?”

  I tilted my head. “He’s still got cancer. She’s still going to lose him.”

  Elana’s green eyes lost a touch of their light. “There’s nothing that can be done? Chemo, or something?”

  “Maybe. I doubt the doctors at Lancaster explored every option. Just the ones where the state was willing to foot the bill.”

  “Well, he can certainly afford the best treatment now.”

  “Yeah.” Seattle wasn’t safe for the O’Hassons. But maybe they could settle in another big city, with an oncology hospital. Mick was past the idea that he might have a fighting chance, and I hadn’t even thought about it. Cyndra was the one with faith.

  “And I can afford a long vacation,” Elana said, stretching. Her languid movement attracted a few eyes, most but not all male. “The Caribbean, I think. I’ve never been to the ’bean. A beach and a tall stack of trashy paperbacks.”

  Crime paid. I’d promised Elana ten grand, on top of what she’d had to front to get us our passes at the last minute, which had cost half again as much.

  “Sorry again about the thing with Luce,” she said. “I really didn’t think you would be at the hangar that early.”

  “Forget it.”

  “She asked if you were in trouble of some kind. I said I wasn’t sure. Which was true. You didn’t share any details at the time.”

  “Luce already knew the answer.”

  “Should I tell her about it now? I mean, you were trying to save that guy’s life.”

  “Why? So she’ll think better of me?” This chat was rapidly shuffling toward a cliff.

  “Yes,” Elana said plainly. “Exactly that. She should know.”

  “I was also turning a profit. That’s how this whole clusterfuck started, me breaking the law.”

  “I suppose. But Luce cares.”

  “Don’t try to paint over my rough spots, Elana.”

  “Then don’t pretend Luce’s opinion doesn’t matter.”

  Of course it mattered. That didn’t change anything.

  “I’ll have your cut for you next week,” I said, standing.

  “No rush. Look after yourself.” Elana gave me a sardonic wave, and I walked away.

  A block later I peeled off my coveralls and stuffed them into a trash can. My t-shirt was crisp with dried sweat. I walked north, long strides, no real direction, just feeling the wind.

  To hell with her. Them. I wasn’t going to let anything spoil this day. We’d just scored four million bucks. I took a long breath, and let it out so slowly that my lungs ached. Knots in my shoulders that I hadn’t known were there loosened with each step.

  My cut would be enough money for the house, and mo
re. Cash on hand for the foreseeable future, whatever future I wanted that to be. I’d made more profit today than my grandfather and I had in nearly a decade of stealing together. Reason to celebrate. And I would, soon.

  The world was bright. Every line as sharp as a high note, every hue as rich as cream. Mine for the taking.

  Age Twelve, December 24

  Granddad wasn’t at home when I finally stumbled in the door at seven in the morning. It was still dark out. After leaving the empty mansion I had jogged a few miles—uphill, it felt like—until I finally found the main transit center I’d known was somewhere in downtown Bellevue. I’d waited two hours for the first bus of the day across the lake, then taken another two buses to get to the Hill, and walked down to our block. My legs hurt. My stomach hurt. I wished I’d stayed in the linen closet of the RV, even if I wound up in Tijuana.

  And I’d forgotten my bike. Dammit.

  Could I leave it where it was chained up at the church? Granddad thought I’d taken it to Davey’s and I wouldn’t have come home without it.

  I turned around and walked back out the door.

  I’d tried to reach Granddad a couple of times with my new cell phone, thinking it might be safe by now. No answer. There was a niggling worry, way at the back of my fuzzy head, that Trey and the vulture—Quincey—had something bad planned. I tried him again. No answer, again.

  A block up from our home, there was a two-lot clearing where houses were scheduled to be built, sometime after the holidays. Granddad had pointed out to me how the construction crew had used heated blankets to make sure no part of the ground was frozen before laying out the forms and pouring the concrete for the first house’s footings.

  The crew had left the second foundation unfinished during the holidays and put up a wooden fence to keep people off the lots. I jumped it to take the shortcut. The foundation was still a big empty hole, about four feet deep. With the sky so black and overcast the hole looked like it could go down for miles, like the pit in that Poe story. I made sure not to fall in as I cut across the lot.

  It was Christmas Eve today, I realized. I still hadn’t wrapped the new shirt and the jars of salsa I’d bought for Granddad up at the co-op. Maybe he—