by Adam Connell
“It might be a two-sided job.”
“Someone hard for Faraday to recognize,” Calder said. “Or whoever he’s got under him.”
“I don’t know how many he has. Thirteen last I had count, but maybe there’s more now.”
“You’re not selling this very well,” Calder said.
“The job, it’s important. You’ll agree with me. I’m not selling you something, I’m offering you something. You’re lonely.”
Calder looked at Sotto, then at the door inside to the right of the bar. “I don’t suppose lying to you will work.”
“No it won’t.”
He stared at the door a little longer. “I been alone a long time.”
“You reek of it,” Sotto said, leaning in, taking up too much of the table. “We’ll give you brethren. Spend some time with your own.”
“And if it’s not for me? If I prefer alone?”
“Leave when the job is done. No one’ll stop you from going.”
Calder didn’t believe him, but he was tired of the constant driving, and the buses and hitchhiking. The chasms of solitude.
“I’ll probably leave,” Calder said.
“Under Pal’s bar we keep a couple mini lockboxes disguised as refrigerators,” Sotto said. “You can ask Pal for petty cash but no more than a hundred a day. Let’s show you the room.”
He led Calder past the door in back and up some narrow flights of stairs. On the topmost landing there were doors on the right and left. The landing smelled of old air-conditioning and abused carpet.
“My room’s the second floor,” Sotto said.
Calder nodded towards one of the doors. “I don’t roommate.”
“You’ll have your own. One on the right. Where’s your things?” he said, opening the door. Standard small Manhattan apartment, no better than a hotel room. And like a hotel room, no kitchen.
“She’s not so big,” Sotto said. “The bathroom’s not so big, too. I own the building.”
“Do I get paid?” Calder said.
“I keep three-quarters the fee,” Sotto said. “Where’s your bags?”
“This.” Calder raised the satchel. “The second one I left at Port Authority, Greyhound storage. I came in by bus.”
Sotto gave Calder a key. “For your room, and also the front door of the bar. Now bring the other bag back here, now that you’ve got a home.”
back to top
FOUR
Tuesday, late Sext
Uptown, there was an old man naked from the waist up being helped onto a big folding table by his latest nurse. They’re in the living room of a beautiful brownstone. The man coughed hard into his hands, getting blood on them.
“Lie down for me, facedown,” said the boy beside the table. The old man stared at him: sixteen, dirty long hair, grimy fingernails. The look of a runaway.
“He’s not even clean,” Faraday said. “You could have showered him, Hoone. Before bringing him here. He look clean to you?”
Hoone. Eternally dressed in one of his secondhand suits. He said, “I brought him fast as I could. We didn’t stop for a shave and a haircut. It was serendipitous I found one so quick this time.”
“Who says serendipitous?”
“Fine, a stroke of luck.”
“Dad,” Faraday said, “we have to try him.” Faraday had a doubtful look on his face but he was feeling hopeful.
Hoone crossed his fingers and hid them behind his other hand.
Faraday’s father cleaned his bloody hands with a ready handkerchief and lay down. The boy approached with evident apprehension, warmed his palms together. Put those palms to the old man’s back, fingers curled over the soft ribs. Five minutes he kept them there, towards the end sweat was running from hands shaking with strain.
A sloppy coughing made the boy cringe. A jet of whitish blood came out the father’s mouth. The boy stepped back and Faraday had him by the shirt. He turned the boy around and began pounding him in the face. Lefts and lefts and lefts, always aiming for the cheeks, always with the biggest knuckles on his hand.
The boy slumped but Faraday still had him by the shirt. “Who’ll heal you?” Faraday yelled with each punch. “Who’ll heal you now? Who? Who’s gonna heal you?”
Faraday let him go like a dropped barbell and Hoone was there to catch him. Faraday wiped his hands on his father’s handkerchief. “You knife him,” Faraday said.
“God’s honest, he doesn’t look so great already,” Hoone said.
“You take a knife, Hoone. You use a knife up and down his face, both sides. Mark him cause I don’t want you finding him again like with that other one. Make sure you damn well recognize him the second time. Get him out of here. Then I want you out there, tonight, looking harder. And with a little more diligence, if it pleases you.”
Around here I fell asleep. Took a nap. Scenes like this were common around Faraday.
When I woke, Kinkaid was knocking on the door to Faraday’s study. It was one of those ornate wooden doors that couldn’t have possibly come with the home. A deliberate trophy antique, they don’t make them that way anymore anywhere.
“Come in.”
Kinkaid fingered his hair behind his ears. It grew down to his neck, brown-blond. I’ve always hated his hair, it’s so heavy and straight.
“Sorry to hear about this afternoon,” Kinkaid said.
Faraday closed a ledger and put it on a shelf behind him. “He’s frail. I think he’s lived past the point he should’ve died. It’s sad, Kink.”
He hated that nickname. Kink. The only one he ignored it from was Faraday. Everyone else knew better by now than to call him anything but Kinkaid.
“The regular doctors, they still don’t know?”
“Aren’t any more tests to take. Besides, he’s running out of steam. Those tests, they require stamina, some of them.”
Kinkaid sat in one of the two chairs facing the desk. He didn’t want to spend an evening talking about the old man, pretending he cared. He wanted to be outside. Involved. So he changed the subject: “The union job, that’s done.” He would have put his feet up on the desk but didn’t want the sharp cornice to scuff up his new boots. Imported boots, free, talked out of the salesperson. Instead he put his feet against the front of the desk and leaned back and rocked on the chair’s hind legs.
“How messy did it get?” Faraday said.
“Union jobs they’re always messy. Local this, Local that. Everything’s territory and concession, the two things no one wants to give up.”
“The new job just come in. That you barely agreed about.”
“I’m just saying, it’s a politician,” Kink said. Ha! He would hate me calling him that. “Unions are messy, but politicians’re hard. Plus the client has a strong feeling Sotto got the other side. Wrestling with him, that’ll take people.”
“You’ve got Lundin and Briggs.”
“We’ve got Briggs and Lundin, and that’s it.”
“They’re enough,” Faraday said. “We’re taking it.” He looked through the debris on his desk but couldn’t find the contract. “I must’ve left it at the club. Iommi, he’ll have picked it off one of the tables. Next I see Lundin and Briggs, I’ll tell them.”
“Briggs is unreliable,” Kinkaid said. “We could use The Nine.”
“Their last job spanned twelve time zones, they need to rest. So do I, it’s, dealing with them — and all at once is the only way to do that — it’s exhausting. Plus they get summers off, no matter what.”
“Then we could use Hoone.”
“No, my father comes first,” Faraday said.
“But Sotto.”
“Speaking of non sequiturs, Big Sir is getting out early.”
“Is he,” Kink said. If he wasn’t constantly constipated from Oxy he’d have shit his pants. He thought he had two more years till I was a problem for him again.
“Didn’t he go down for three years?” Kink said.
“Prison’s a lot like time travel that way,” Farad
ay said. “Go up Otisville Correctional for three years, get out in one. Parole.”
That would be me.
No, not Sur. I only ever been out to California twice.
Sir.
Big Sir. Short story shortened, a job I did over in Leeds for an expat. The outcome was spectacular. Faraday starts calling me Big Sir.
“I wouldn’t have pegged Big Sir for good behavior,” Kinkaid said.
“Not that you had time to know him. The hearing’s in a couple weeks.”
“So it’s not definite,” Kinkaid said.
“It’s definite. He’ll be released about a week after. He’s smart, been on good behavior. Plus he’s strong enough to warp the hearing however he wants it to go.”
“He was strong,” Kinkaid said.
“Is,” Faraday said.
Damn right I am.
“Plus I kept tabs,” Faraday said.
“On him? With who?”
“His Unit Warden,” Faraday said. “She calls me, first of every month, even if it’s a Saturday. We’ve an arrangement. Big Sir will do fine.”
Kinkaid was real queasy then. He fixed a giant grin to his face, show how happy he was. Wasn’t. There were a hundred worried things he wanted to say, but instead, “We’ll throw a party.”
There were things I wanted to throw. Like Kinkaid through a window. A wall.
“It’s a good thing, this news,” Faraday said.
“Fantastic, he’s been missed. About Hoone for Sotto — ”
“My father first.”
FIVE
I’m doing this for your soul, Fish. Could be that Briggs rubbed off on me more than I realized. If Briggs is right, then there is a God. If there’s a God, that means you’ve got a soul. And if there’s a God, then there’s Heaven and Hell.
You’re headed for Hell. You think God’s so lenient, he’ll allow you Heaven because you can’t remember all the bad shit you done? Some really horrible shit, Fish?
I want you to know what happened. So that, after knowing, give you a chance to repent, feel some remorse. A kind of third-person confession/confessional. An experiment. A favor to you. Save you from damnation, Fish. I’m that pious.
I know, I know, don’t have to tell me, anyone in your position — no memories at all — they’d be eager to discover anything, anything about their past.
Don’t be thanking me yet. You’re not gonna like what you find, but that’s too fucking bad. There’s no such thing as bad publicity? There’s no such thing as good amnesia? Bullshit.
Faraday would have triplets if he found out I was telling you any of what happened. Triplets — I’m not sure how that started, but it’s how we always describe Faraday mad, him having triplets.
There’s the slight chance you could rebound, recover, hearing all this. Faraday doesn’t think there’s any chance of you rebounding, but if it happens I’m under orders to lame you again. And again, should it come to that. Custodian, at least for the two years we’ve got together. If you haven’t rebounded by then, you won’t ever.
I’m only supposed to watch you. Not even supposed to be talking to you.
But your soul. Consider it a favor. We can both ignore Faraday’s being mad about this, he’s far away, him and his triplets.
back to top
SIX
Tuesday, Matins: 1st Nocturne
In a cab going uptown. The backseat, like I said I could.
“She’ll digest you, this city,” Rook said.
Calder, who’d spent some time hiding in the back pockets of small cities, grunted agreement. If this outing was going to be all about Rook’s advice, a man he didn’t know and didn’t trust, Calder knew he’d regret coming. But this man was his best friend at the moment, and the only one who’d asked for his company.
“A bad place to be, really,” Rook said. “People choose to live here, I don’t know why.”
“You chose,” Calder said.
“No I didn’t,” Rook said.
“You could leave,” Calder said.
“No I can’t.” Rook sat back, head on the top of the seat rest, closed his eyes. “Least we’ve got this special edge, and work. Don’t you talk much?”
“I’m told no, no I don’t. Usually I’m not around people worth saying anything to.”
“Sotto said you were strange, but that’s okay cause I’m crazy. Sotto could tell you that about me. Fact he wasn’t keen on the idea me taking you out tonight. Thought you should stay in that tiny room of yours. Dwell. And I don’t mean dwell like make it a home, I mean dwell like fester. Thinks you’re a fucking wound. Used to be my room. Keep the mouseholes covered with the dresser, want my advice.”
Rook opened his eyes, stared at the roof of the taxi and interlaced his hands behind his head. Big boxer’s hands. “There’s no getting settled,” he said. “This city’s like a virus. You need a few days, a week, a month to let it run through you. Then you get immune.”
“I’ve been in cities before,” Calder said.
Rook laughed. A condescending, superior New York laugh. “You’ve been in cities but not The City. The City is what I’m showing you tonight.”
The streetlights whipped past them with railroad regularity. Street signs and shop names a blur. The cabdriver cut west through the Park. It was late but there were still runners and cyclists competing for road.
“Conflict is what this city’s about,” Rook said.
Now Calder closed his eyes. This outing was going to be about Rook’s advice.
“Even where I’m taking you tonight, Faraday’s club. Conflict.”
“Who is Faraday?” It sounded juvenile to Calder. Who is Faraday? What is algae? What’s an eclipse? Still he needed to ask. Who is Faraday?
“Competition,” Rook said. “He might even have the other side of your job. If anyone has it.”
“This job, the one I’m not even sure I’m taking, maybe you could explain what it is.”
The cabbie honked an arrogant pedestrian and Calder opened his eyes.
“The job,” Rook said, “is Council Member Adelard, Council Speaker. Means he’s the highest Council Member, has the most say. You heard of Int 3001?”
“Int?”
“A city law being introduced. Called Ints. City Council —
(Ahem. Rook goes on to tell this awfully. ConEd has four grayish monsters in the East 30s, First Avenue. Some years ago they decided, sell them. Developers choked on their own saliva.
City Council blocks this with the state’s imprimatur. Fourteen acres we’re talking, total. Land use is part of the Council’s bailiwick. Deemed the land the buildings are on was eminent domain. We’ve got some clash, years of it. Developers sue, lose. They appeal. Blah blah blah, lose.
There’s a compromise born of bribes. Int 3001. Yea and the stations are converted for cleaner, safer energy. Nay and down with the stations and up with the apartment buildings, the city leasing the land to developers and ensuring an enormous annual income.
What’s ConEd? City Council? Fish, Faraday wiped you down good.
Back to that idiot Rook.)
— and the clean energy, we’re for it. Council Speaker Adelard hasn’t publicly made his mind known, and we want to make it for him.”
“I’m his lever,” Calder said.
“You mean — Yah! Voting machine’s lever. That’s a pun.”
Calder hadn’t meant it to be one.
“You’re going to convince him,” Rook said, “in the most subtle way possible.”
“So he won’t realize he’s been convinced.”
“I was wrong. Maybe the virus’ll only last a few days. But only convince him. Just him. That’s the job. Don’t bother with the rest of the Council, we’re not getting paid for that, all fifty-one of them, so Adelard’s all they want, him being the Speaker.”
The cab pulled up in front of a club on Amsterdam whose awning read Tattletail in pink on black.
“You get out,” Rook said. “We can’t be seen together, that wou
ld ruin why we need you. Look around. Stay long as you like. Try the Nicotine Queen if she’ll have you. And no matter what trouble I get in, keep away. You might want to watch but don’t involve yourself.”
The cab took off to travel round the block a few times.
It’s a crowded club and smells like perfume and cologne. I don’t know Faraday’s trick but she doesn’t smell like cigars and beer. The floor slopes downwards towards three oval stages. Fixed lights showcase the fluid ladies. Businessmen and businesswomen, on their way home from work, they watch from the small European tables.
Calder found the only empty seat, next to a man in a loosened tie. “If my wife were only twice as old and half as pretty as her,” the man said. “But she’s neither.”
Calder gave him a noncommittal smile. There were three dancers onstage; Calder didn’t know which was being compared to this man’s spouse.
The man clarified. “She’s the one I come to see,” pointing at the third oval platform.
She was completely nude, lights reflecting off her skin like hard plastic. She was older than Calder. She teased the pole; stroked it; clenched it in her legs, let it go. Jerked around and around so fast the pole bent slightly in the middle.
A lit cigarette between her lips the whole time. Spinning like that with fire on her mouth.
“Looked at me, just now,” Loose Tie said. “Good God, I couldn’t stand up if I wanted.”
The music got louder, Persephone’s Bee’s “City Of Love.”
Calder didn’t see Rook. He noticed a bouncer kneeling below the center stage.
“Best women in the city. I’m waiting for the Winged Lady.”
Calder couldn’t understand strip clubs. He’d rather find a woman, didn’t comprehend this ogling. To him, nothing was more frustrating than looking and looking only.
The music died a little.
“Oh hell, she’s coming right for me,” Loose Tie said.
The cigarette was there. Now she was wearing a white thong so close in color to her skin tone she looked sexless. She had above-average looks, above-average height, the same for her breasts and physique. Separately, there was a radical homeliness to her features. But together, she was an above-average beauty. Attainable beauty. Realistic beauty, which is why she had so many fans. You could see her looking this good thirty years from now, whereas with the others, you knew their looks would curdle.