by Mike Nappa
Fortunately, one of the sales clerks had seen her drop. A quick trip to the hospital had fixed her right up, but Bliss had never forgotten how this little insulin pump was a two-edged sword. Handled diligently, it was a lifesaver. Handled carelessly, it could put her in a coma, or even kill her.
She attached the clip inside the waistband of her slacks and rolled her chair to the desk. It was time to call Samuel Hill, she decided. Time to fill him in a bit, as best she could at the moment.
Samuel’s cell phone rang four times before she heard his voice on the other end.
“This is Samuel. Mama, is that you?”
“I’ll never get used to that calling-ID thing,” she grumbled. “I miss the good old days when people were polite and filled with happy surprise to find out I was calling.”
“Of course I’m happy to hear from you. I’m just in the middle of a little bad news right now, so I was slow getting to my phone. But you’ve got my full attention, Mama. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, Samuel, thank you for asking.”
“What can I do for you?”
“You told me to call you after I did some snooping about your problem.”
“You have information on Nevermore? Well, that’s good news. What have you got?”
“Samuel,” she said, “I don’t know if you’ll think this is good news, or bad news, or no news at all.”
“Well, tell me anyway. I’m sure it’s going to be more than I’ve got right now.”
“All right. Here’s the news: There is no news.”
She heard him shift the phone in his hands. “What do you mean, Mama?”
“I mean, I’ve put the word out, asking for anybody to tell me anything they know about something called Nevermore. Samuel, nobody knows anything. Nobody’s heard anything. It’s an invisible story. I mean, maybe it’s not a story at all.”
“You think it’s a hoax?”
“You’re the detective, not me. I’m just an old lady who keeps an ear to the ground in Little Five Points.”
“My source says, well, my source said . . . Hmm.”
“Maybe you should go back to your source and dig for more.”
“Yeah, that’d be the thing to do at this point. Except my source is no longer available.”
“That sounds cryptic.”
“Well, this is confidential for now, but it’ll be public knowledge by the end of the day, so I guess it won’t hurt to tell you. My source was sitting in the pre-trial detention center at the federal penitentiary here in Atlanta. He was one of the Kipo gang members arrested in that big arms bust a few weeks ago. I just got a message from my captain about him. Apparently he still had friends on the outside.”
“What do you mean?”
“Last night somebody posted bail for Andrew Carr. Just for him, not for any of the other Kipos. He walked out the front door of the prison and disappeared. No one thought to have him followed or to keep him under surveillance. He’s turned into a ghost. Might not even be in Georgia anymore.”
“I see.”
“That’s the phone call I was dealing with when you called just now.”
“Sorry to hear that, Samuel. But maybe that boy was just trying to make himself seem more valuable to you. Maybe he was angling to make a deal to lessen his sentence by trying to convince you there was some big plot going on.”
“Maybe it was all a big lie, you’re saying. A smokescreen sent up by a desperate kid facing jail time? Maybe it was that.”
Mama Bliss felt herself relaxing a bit. If Samuel Hill could stop worrying about Nevermore, then maybe she could stop stressing about it too. Maybe they could both relax and get on with their lives.
“Or,” he was saying now, “maybe that kid was telling the truth, and whoever is behind Nevermore found out about it. And maybe that was enough to find a way to silence the mouth that was talking.”
Bliss suddenly felt a headache coming on. “What you want me to do, Samuel?”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing, Mama. Just keep listening. Be my ears and eyes out there in Little Five Points. If you hear anything, even if it seems far-fetched or only mildly related, you let me know, okay?”
“Sure, Samuel. You know I got nothing but love for you and your little Trudi.”
“Thanks, Mama. And Trudi really liked your gift, by the way. Said to tell you so.”
“Good. Thank you. Got to go now, Samuel. You take care.”
“You take care too, Mama.”
Bliss ended the call and watched the cold telephone do nothing for a minute or two afterward.
The timing was bad for this. But she owed Samuel, as much for who he was as for the things he’d done. Often, when the CIA was involved, he didn’t even know he’d been helping her. But she knew. Now she was worried that he might be getting in too deeply with this Nevermore situation. Samuel Hill was relentless, she knew. And smart. Resourceful. He’d lost one informant, but he wouldn’t let that stop him. He’d keep digging until he found another, maybe several others, and that could put him in the path of danger.
Of course, Samuel thrived on danger. Leonard Truckson, his CIA handler, had introduced him to that emotional drug and kept him happy with it until Truck’s untimely death about a year and a half ago. She frowned at that thought.
That man was both a blessing and a curse, she told herself.
The man they called “Truck” was a soldier, a spy, a farmer, and who-knew-what-else. William never said how he and Truck had met up, and Truck never offered it, either. Bliss could only guess until finally she gave up guessing. Truck was part of their lives, and that was that.
It had been Truck who’d helped William first set up the weapons laundering infrastructure under the cover of Sister Bliss’s Secret Stash. And it was Truck who had somehow managed to make that whole covert operation a “black ops” project, meaning it had initial funding from the CIA but no direct oversight from the CIA. In fact, there were only a handful within the agency that even knew of the CIA’s involvement in the Stash—Truck had seen to that. “Plausible deniability,” he’d called it.
Now, decades later, the Stash was a twice- or thrice-removed pathway, an avenue the CIA used to export weapons to friendlies without having to have the United States government attached. Untraceable guns fighting in foreign wars was good business for both the Stash and the United States espionage agency, especially now that everyone was living in the age of terror.
Money from running guns had secured financial stability for Bliss and William, had paid for the broad expansions of the retail business going on at the Secret Stash, and had given them the ability to find influence in the greater community of Little Five Points. But all that money had a cost, an emotional price that sometimes felt like too much to bear.
For William, though, it had never been about the money.
It was about patriotism and, corny as it sounded, about keeping the world safe for democracy. That was what Leonard Truckson had really given her husband—purpose and meaning to his life, the idea that he was making a real difference in the world, the thought that he was doing right by helping to undermine and topple oppressive foreign governments. After Davis’s death, though, Bliss hadn’t been so sure.
Still, back at the beginning, it had all been a great new, patriotic adventure. They started importing guns and other small arms, cleaning serial numbers and laundering them through several ports of call until they were virtually untraceable. Then they’d export them out again, secretly supplying arms to rebels in Venezuela, Kurds in Iraq and Syria, freedom fighters in the former Soviet republics, spreading the wealth to those needing relief from oppression and a chance at self-government.
Guns go through here, William had insisted, but no guns stay here.
Those were his terms. His home was his home, and he didn’t want to learn that even one of his guns had been responsible for harming anyone in the ATL. Of course, he couldn’t have predicted the problems that would arise after Truck went off the grid and tur
ned his dealings over to freelancers. And he certainly hadn’t counted on dying at the young age of fifty, leaving Bliss and Darrent to carry on for him. No guns stay here, he’d said time and again. But sometimes your dead husband’s good intentions just weren’t good enough.
It’s best you passed before Davis did, Willy, Bliss thought to herself. Before you could find out that one of your guns would cost your grandson his life.
She reached into her shirt pocket and retrieved the picture once more. Davis, arms spread wide, smiling like an angel. Keys to a new car flashing in his hand. Keys to a new life, he’d thought. The whole world ahead of him.
She turned the picture over and reread the printing on the back.
There were six names.
15
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
West Midtown
Friday, March 24, 10:09 a.m.
21 days to Nevermore
“How do you suggest we go about reading my mind?”
Part of her thought she should just stop this little game, that she should smile, thank The Raven for his kind invitation, and then usher him out the door. That was the professional side of her. The side that was practical and hardworking and successful in her job.
Another part of her was kind of enjoying this guy. He was a two-bit crook, but a charming one. Besides, she told herself, The Raven is out in the streets of Atlanta every day. Maybe he’s heard something—maybe something he doesn’t even know he’s heard—about Nevermore. This street magician could turn into as good an informant as any other I’ve got.
Out loud she said, “Do you want me to think of a number or something?”
“So it’s a bet, then?” he said, sitting back in his chair. “All I have to do is read your mind and then we have a date tonight?”
Dinner at a nice restaurant. In pleasant company. She could think of worse ways to spend a Friday night. Plus, she was maddeningly curious to see if this guy could pull off a mind-reading trick. He certainly didn’t lack for confidence, she’d give him that.
“Fine,” Trudi said at last. She was still holding The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, so she set it on the desk beside her. “You read my mind, and I’ll meet you at seven-thirty tonight at the restaurant of your choosing.”
“Eclipse di Luna.”
“Right. In Buckhead. I know the place.”
“All right, then.” He rubbed his hands together. “Do you want to make this easy for me, or hard?”
Trudi guffawed. “Hard, of course. I want you to work for it.”
“Sure, sure. Then we’ll start by getting you a random number.”
He pulled out his cell phone and tapped an app. When he handed it to Trudi, she saw he’d brought up a calculator for her to use.
“Pick any three-digit number you like, we’ll call that your ‘triad.’ Now, you can choose anything as long as it’s a triad, but if you want to make it hard on me, use a number where the first and last numbers are at least two digits apart. You know, like 846, or 117, or something like that. But it’s your call.”
Trudi picked up his cell and tilted it so he couldn’t see her typing. She chose the number 921.
“Got your triad?” he asked. She nodded. “Okay, let’s mix it up. Reverse the order of your triad so the first digit is last and the last digit is first.”
She cleared the display and then tapped in 129.
“All right, you remember both your triads?” She nodded again. “Now subtract the smaller triad from the larger one.” She cleared the display again and subtracted 129 from 921.
792, she thought.
“Got a new number?”
“Yes. So are you going to guess it?”
He smiled. “Sure. You ready to give up that easy? Good, good. That’s great. Now, Eclipse di Luna is a nice place, but dress is fairly casual. I’m going to wear jeans, but—”
“No,” she said. “Let’s keep going.”
“Wait a minute, you said we could stop here, and I already read your mind to win the bet. What if I used up all my mind-reading energy and I can’t read your mind again later? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Deal with it. Keep going.”
“Oh, so you really aren’t going to make it easy for me, are you?”
“Nope.”
He spread out his hands, palms up. “All right. Have it your way. Go ahead and take the triad you’ve got now and reverse the digits.”
297, she thought.
“Add the last two numbers together,” he said, “and we’ll go from there.”
792 plus 297. She did the math in her head instead of using the calculator app. It equals 1089.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve got it.”
“Still a triad?” he asked.
“I’m not going to tell you,” she teased. “You figure it out.”
“Unless you’re lying to me in your thoughts,” he said. “I already know.”
“Prove it,” she said.
He nodded toward The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe, sitting on the desk beside her. “All right. Make the first three digits of your number a page in that book. Turn to that page.”
Trudi raised an eyebrow but did as he’d instructed, turning to page 108. She found herself in one of Poe’s more obscure short stories, “The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherazade.”
“Now take the last digit of your number and count down that many lines on the page.”
Trudi counted, One, two, three . . . nine.
“Read the first word on that line silently to yourself, then close the book.”
She read been.
She closed the book.
That was a fairly innocuous word, she decided. If he could pull that one out of her head, maybe he did deserve a dinner date. She found herself thinking about what she liked best to eat at a Mexican restaurant.
He sat up in his chair and leaned forward a bit. “Now,” he said, “look deeply into my eyes and, without speaking, tell me that word.”
She started to comply, but then stopped. “Wait a minute,” she said. She leaned over and pressed the intercom button on the telephone. “Eulalie, would you come in here just a moment?”
The Raven looked curious but said nothing.
“Right away, Ms. Coffey.” A moment later her assistant joined them in the office. “What can I do for you?” she said.
Trudi stood up and walked to the side of her desk, motioning for Eulalie to come closer. “Sit in my chair, Eula,” she said, “and think of this word.” She held out “The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherazade” and pressed a thumb underneath the word been.
“Okaaay,” Eulalie said, taking the seat behind the desk.
The Raven laughed. “Sneaky, but you’re too late. I already read your mind. The word you’re both thinking of now is been.”
Trudi tossed the book onto the desk.
“Okay, I think I missed something,” Eulalie said. “Do I care what I missed?”
The Raven stood, smiling. “Admit it. That was your word, wasn’t it?”
Trudi searched his eyes. That was pretty impressive, she had to admit, and he’d made it look easy. She knew it was just a trick, something magicians do, but she had no idea how he’d done it. It was such a random word, pulled out of such a random place, in a book that she herself owned. He couldn’t have doctored it before coming in here today. What was the secret?
Her eyes narrowed. “Do it again,” she said.
“Oh no, this is a one-time-only mind-reading.”
“He read your mind?” Eulalie said. “That’s kind of cool.”
“No, he didn’t read my mind,” Trudi said. “He did a devious little magic trick with smoke and mirrors and The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe. And now he’s going to do it again, this time for you, Eula. You’d do that, wouldn’t you, Raven? Show your amazing mind-reading trick to my favorite assistant and wow her with your supernatural ability, right?”
“Ms. Eulalie,” he s
aid, bowing slightly, “you must forgive me, but I cannot perform this mind-reading exercise twice within the same hour.” He feigned like he was fanning himself with a handkerchief. “It simply taxes my brain too much, and I wouldn’t want my head to overheat all over the Coffey & Hill Investigations office floor.”
Trudi didn’t know whether to laugh or throw the stapler. “All right, then,” she said, “tell me how you did it.” She was like a cat readying herself to catch a mouse.
“I can’t do that. A magician never reveals his secrets.”
“Tell me how you did it, or you can eat by yourself tonight.”
His smile grew even broader. He leaned over toward her as if to whisper something out of earshot of the assistant. “Trudi,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear, “I read your mind.” He gestured toward Eulalie. “And hers too. That was actually helpful, so thanks for asking her to come join us. Two minds add strength to the mental frequency.”
Trudi stalked back to her desk while Eulalie jumped up and came around the other side.
“Um,” Eula said, “I think I hear the phone ringing in the reception area. Maybe I should go check that out.”
“Hold on,” Trudi said.
Eulalie stopped before getting to the doorway. The Raven stood smirking near his chair. Trudi looked from him to her, then back again. She stood, started to say something, then decided against it and sat down. Finally, she sighed, shook her head, and allowed a small smile to sneak onto her face.
“Eulalie,” she said, never taking her eyes off the magician, “please add an appointment to my schedule. Seven-thirty. Tonight.”
“With him? I mean, with Mr. Deasy? Seven-thirty on a Friday night?” Now Eulalie was trying not to grin. “Did you lose a dinner bet?”
“Stop gloating,” Trudi said to The Raven. “You too, Eulalie. For all I know, you had something to do with this. Dinner at seven-thirty.” She eyed both of them, then turned back to Eulalie. “Put it on my calendar, please.”