Lay Saints

by Adam Connell

  “That’s work, Tattletail. And it may not excite you to stare at breasts all day, but it doesn’t disgust you.”

  “How do you know?” Lundin said.

  “So don’t stare,” Briggs said.

  “Don’t stare. That’s like saying, Here’s some food, don’t eat it.”

  “It’s, I’m a priest, I don’t think I should be going around with you like that.”

  “You’re not a priest anymore.”

  “Where the fuck is this coming from?”

  “Ever since your white collar, it’s going yellow. How long since you washed it?”

  “I buy a new collar, you’ll leave this alone?”

  “Maybe it’s time. You been outta church with me, what is it, five years? Admit it, you’re no longer a priest.”

  “It’s not like a bruise, not something that goes away. I don’t need a church.”

  “Not saying I don’t want you around anymore.”

  “Where’s this coming from?”

  “You’re the one just up and went homophobic on me. After years.”

  “The things I seen you do,” Briggs said, “I feel closer to God than I would at any church.”

  “Again with the churches. You miss listening to confession.” Lundin blew a few smoke rings. Briggs poked them with his finger.

  “When’s the last time you took confession, gave communion?”

  “I’ll buy me a new collar. What country are those you’re smoking?” Briggs said.

  “Davidoffs from the Ukraine. Wearing that albe tucked into your jeans, that yellowed collar, that don’t make you clergy.”

  “I don’t know where this is coming from.”

  “I’m in a mood. You put me in a mood with this racism.”

  “What?”

  “Now you don’t like me being gay.”

  “Gay is not a race.”

  Calder walked out Adelard’s front door and was briefly sketched by the porch lights. He got into the limo which immediately took off.

  “He’s from the Green side,” Lundin said. “I don’t recognize him. When’s the last time you had sex? Don’t tell me the collar’s been stopping you, instant Puritan.”

  “Night before seminary,” Briggs said.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Can’t remember her name, what she looked like. We did it in her house, on her parents’ bed. No, wait a minute, no, that was the first time.”

  They both shared a laugh.

  “Last licks, right,” Lundin said. “Parents’ beds. I always thought that was perverse. The same mattress you were probably conceived on.”

  “The perverser the better,” Briggs said.

  “Perverser’s not a word,” Lundin said.

  “Oughta be.”

  “You ready for more proof of God?”

  “He works His miracles through Man,” Briggs said.

  “Heaven on Earth,” Lundin said, because it was expected of him.

  “The Lord of Hosts,” Briggs said, crossed himself, looked over at Lundin, then glared.

  “Jesus H. Christ, you gotta keep making me do this?” Lundin said, crossing himself as well.

  “He died for your sins,” Briggs said. “Where’s that fancy rosary I got you last Christmas?”

  “Still in the box you wrapped so nicely.”

  “It was made of coral, it cost me money.”

  The porch lights went out.

  “Let’s move before they put the alarm on,” Lundin said.

  They left the car, walked around the house to the kitchen and forced a window.

  Boldly up the hallway stairs.

  “Settle them both before I go in,” Lundin said.

  Briggs rushed the bedroom door. Adelard was standing in the middle of the room, facing the bed but coming quickly around. “If you’re back here to — ”

  Adelard’s wife was reading on her side of the bed, pillows propped. Briggs took her by the wrist and threw her against the wall.

  He tackled the Council Speaker, spun him onto his back and braced him there.

  Lundin stood over them. He threw a tourniquet deep into Adelard’s mind, a hard, practiced surgical tourniquet. Usually they went unconscious, and sometimes they soiled themselves. Unconscious, they were easier for Lundin to influence.

  Adelard was shouting. Lundin didn’t understand how the man was still awake, so he motioned for Briggs to punch him.

  Adelard’s body went soft.

  Lundin attempted to ease himself in, wetting Adelard’s thoughts with impossible promises. All he felt was concrete resistance.

  He went for the usual hooks — work, family, enemies, friends. Reliable inroads. But nothing.

  He’d lost track of time, as he always did. Half an hour had passed. He looked around, didn’t see Adelard’s wife. Briggs pointed at the carpet beside the bed; he was still astride Adelard who was beginning to shift around. Lundin tried the most subtle tactic he knew, undressing Adelard’s mind chronologically, working backwards by the minute, the hour, the days and weeks, searching for a cistern to drop in what he needed.

  Briggs had to punch Adelard three more times over the next two hours.

  Lundin tried going back years.

  He sat on the bed, then stood up. “We should go,” Lundin said.

  Lundin stole the painting closest to the front door on their way out, flung it into the trunk of his car. It was a small painting. Very light, otherwise he wouldn’t have been strong enough to carry it.

  Briggs took the driver’s seat. “Did you do it?”

  “Gave it my best,” Lundin said. “He was ironclad.”

  “So it’s not done?”

  “I said I tried.”

  “The fuck is wrong with you?” Briggs said and started the car. “You never try, you do. The hell?”

  “Just get us out of here.”

  The car rolled up the block.

  “You tried. I don’t believe this.”

  “The man was a Stone,” Lundin said.

  “I put him down like four times,” Briggs said.

  “Watch for that kid on the bike. Not physically a stone. Up here. In the brain. Like Iommi at the club.”

  “What about Iommi?” Briggs said.

  “You can’t get in there. He’s naturally immune to me. All I get is hard vapor. Fucking rare.”

  “You didn’t get in. There’s no way in.”

  “Kinkaid couldn’t even.”

  “Faraday’s gonna have triplets over this,” Briggs said.

  “Drive around a couple hours, I don’t want to see Faraday yet,” Lundin said.

  “Take us forty minutes getting to the city anyway.”

  Lundin didn’t ask if knowing about Stones would disturb Briggs’ faith, would it make him question what Briggs thought of Lundin and Kinkaid and Faraday and me — and you, Fish — as having gifts direct from God. And if these gifts aren’t always used benevolently, that never fazed Briggs. God is known as a right bastard sometimes, too, look up any plague or natural disaster.

  They decided on a long breakfast in Queens and didn’t reach the city till dawn. Briggs didn’t talk. His face, though, was a shifting mask of anger, disappointment, dejection, uncertainty.

  Dawn was Lundin’s favorite part of the day, people getting up and getting ready while he was clocking off about to go to sleep. He liked going against the flow of things.

  He couldn’t enjoy this dawn, he knew he’d see Faraday mad. Triplets.

  back to top

  TWELVE

  FRIDAY, late Lauds

  Kinkaid hated Faraday’s study. He always felt powerless there. No matter his opinion, even when sought, it would be ignored. Faraday’s opinion was the only one that mattered, and what he wanted was unanimity. Or he could waffle and would forget that days earlier you’d been the champion of that particular alternative, the one he’d rejected.

  Infuriating.

  “What we need is more men,” Faraday said.

  Kinkaid, who felt he was being pa
raphrased, said, “More people.”

  Faraday was tracing the knots in his wooden desk. “I can’t pull Hoone off his road trips. Since Oxford and Ula deserted — ”

  “They were sick,” Kinkaid said. He was sitting on the floor by the door. “We had to allow them to leave. Said so yourself.”

  “Well it feels like desertion, now that I’ve had some distance and now I’m counting how many are left.”

  Kinkaid didn’t mind them gone. A depressive, and the pregnant teen, in this line of work. These were credible meltdowns. Faraday had made Kinkaid ask them to leave the city. They were buried at Mount Zion Cemetery. Kinkaid had doubled them up in two occupied graves.

  I’m not sure if Faraday knows or not.

  “The money from Int 3001,” Faraday said. He was on his feet, playing with the spines of the books on the shelf along the wall. Kinkaid doubted Faraday had read any but he wasn’t about to delve in and see for sure.

  “Once the money comes,” Kinkaid said.

  “We slow everything down,” Faraday said, “use that cushion to start looking with conviction.”

  “For more help,” Kinkaid said.

  “Need to bulk up,” Faraday said. He was back in the chair. This kind of fidgeting was unusual for him. “I don’t suppose we could wean any off Sotto.”

  “I tried getting the twins to leave with me,” Kinkaid said, “and they’re the most indifferent part of that crew. No, I’m the only one you’ll ever get from Sotto.”

  It had been a savage betrayal, but one Kinkaid had seen the day he’d been invited by Sotto to join. All through his childhood Kinkaid had been betrayed, and it was his delight to return that treason during his adulthood. He hadn’t been planning to do the same to Faraday, not when he joined up.

  Me, that was different. He knew from the moment he met me that I was his competition for Faraday’s favor.

  And with my prodigal return, it was time to betray Faraday. My parole.

  “We should rove, and we need parameters,” Faraday said.

  “Let’s ignore the slums,” Kinkaid said. “Hoone, he’s from the slums, and what I heard he was too raw at the time. I don’t wanna be training.”

  “Hospitals are good,” Faraday said. “Boardwalks. We take a trip. Leave the club with Iommi. We have to recruit. Soon’s this Int’s settled. After the vote. Us and Big Sir.”

  “How far?” Kinkaid said.

  “Afield.”

  “Can we limit this to the Tri-State?”

  “Farther afield,” Faraday said.

  Kinkaid was terrified of long drives, why he always settled in cities.

  “And meanwhile,” Faraday said, getting up out the chair, “we’re needed at the club. Some ladies to audition for Clover’s old spot.”

  Kinkaid’s favorite chore, one he was good at and enjoyed besides. “Where is Clover?”

  “Another overdose,” Faraday said. “Far as I go. That’s the last one. No discipline, no moderation, I’ve got no use for you.”

  They didn’t pass the kitchen, or see the Winged Lady eating breakfast. By the time she was lifting crumbs off her plate with a wet thumb, the doorbell rang. She was wearing rayon shorts and a top more suited to track and field, but it’s what she always wore to bed. Briggs, who usually saw her naked, thought her carefree outfit was extremely sexy.

  “Is he here?” Lundin said.

  The Winged Lady motioned them inside.

  “Thanks, Emmie,” Lundin said. He was leery of crossing the threshold but Briggs was already halfway down the hall to the kitchen.

  Lundin was surprised Briggs hadn’t removed the yellowed collar on their drive over, untuck his albe. But Briggs hadn’t. He was wearing a simple look of contentment, unlike his facial contortions over breakfast.

  Lundin guessed Briggs had reconciled the knowledge of Stones, of Lundin’s inability to coerce Adelard. Like all truly devout people, when confronted with evidence contrary to their beliefs, they see it as a test, a trial of faith. Come out the other end of it more faithful, with greater fervor.

  Lundin didn’t question the process; Briggs was better company happy than confused.

  “Coffee?” Emmie said. “I’m always making too much coffee.”

  “No, thanks,” Briggs said. He pretended not to stare, she pretended not to notice. Didn’t take much effort, they were both so used to it.

  “Is Faraday here?” Lundin said.

  Emmie brought the pot and three cups to the kitchen’s island. “You both may as well sit. Better to drink sitting.”

  They took the chairs, Lundin reluctantly. He didn’t know which would offend Faraday more, giving him a belated account of last night or hurting his wife’s feelings. He drank some coffee.

  “We don’t have any milk. Faraday’s up at the club, left with Kinkaid.” She took a long sip. “Auditioning some dancers today.”

  “Really?” Briggs said.

  “How come you aren’t there?” she asked Lundin. “You’re the most objective.”

  “When’d he leave?”

  “’Bout a half-hour ago. Didn’t say good-bye. He couldn’t be anywhere else — he’s not here he’s at the club.”

  “You have a wonderful brownstone,” Briggs said.

  Lundin was shooting him stinkeyes but Briggs suddenly had no peripheral vision.

  “I copied most of it out of magazines,” Emmie said.

  “No magazine could describe my place,” Briggs said. “You could raise veal in my apartment.”

  Lundin finished his coffee in a few gulps. He didn’t feel guilty about affecting his partner, this was too important; Briggs felt a sudden claustrophobia.

  “Would you — ” Briggs began. “Would you be offended if — ” Gesturing at the hall down to the front door.

  “Sometimes he’s like this, other people’s homes,” Lundin said and helped Briggs off his chair. “Be best we left.”

  “Promise you’ll come back,” Emmie said. “This is the first time you’ve ever been. All I get’s Kinkaid. Big Sir used to come by.”

  “If you want,” Lundin said.

  Lie.

  “Faraday’s at the club?” Lundin said.

  “At the club,” Emmie said.

  And at the club, Faraday watched a pink-haired woman make love to the pole. Wrapped herself around it like a scarf, twined her limbs, untied herself. Went at it again, the same moves but this time upside down.

  Kinkaid admired her balance and ingenuity, the vacant sexuality she projected.

  Faraday, unmoved, glanced at her CV. The usual fabrications — age, experience, references. She had a wonderful body but her frankness would detract from his other, more polished dancers.

  “Thank you, honey,” Faraday yelled out from their seats in the audience. “I will call.”

  She winked, scooped up the outfit she’d discarded too early in her routine. Bending over in such a way that Faraday and Kinkaid had a vulgar squint of her privates. Faraday was definitely not gonna call. Tattletail’s not that kind of club.

  Sweetheart — that was her name, Sweetheart — she walked confidently off the main stage.

  The next woman came out. She was shorter, wider in the hips and chest.

  “Good for breeding,” Kinkaid said.

  The Emotions’ “Best Of My Love” started. She started with it and her arms pumped cheerleader-fashion. She took to the pole like a fireman, then swung herself around and around. Faraday liked her. She was able to unhook her bra in midair, her breasts high and meaty. She fumbled with her skirt, was then stymied by the strap on her bikini bottom, and Faraday found himself looking at the club, cataloging what needed fixing or replacing. Veneers, lights.

  The music ended. Faraday looked over and saw she was naked, holding her clothes in a sweaty ball, panting.

  “Thanks,” he looked at her CV again, “Violet. That was wonderful. Awkward, though.”

  “It’s my sewing, the straps. I make the clothes myself.”

  “That’s great,” Far
aday said. “I’ll — I’ll probably call.”

  Violet left, knowing full well it was a wasted morning.

  “What was violet about any of that?” Kinkaid said. “She’s brunette. Her uniform was red. Where’s the violet? I liked the one before.”

  “I don’t know how many more I can look at today.”

  Kinkaid could watch them all day long, and was hoping to.

  Faraday’s jacket vibrated, and he answered his cell. “Baby. Yeah, I love you, too. Of course I do, but it’s only been — Yes, I love you. I’m in the middle of — work, yes. Yes. Yes, I do. Soon. Tonight. After your show, I’ll see you then. No, no sooner. Yes. Me too. Bye.”

  “Your Mom?” Kinkaid said with a grin.

  “You’ve never left the schoolyard, your whole life.”

  “It’s a comfortable yard to play in. You haven’t told me, how much we’re getting from the Int job.” He lit a Marlboro, careful to keep the smoke away from Faraday.

  “That Int will bring in more than Tattletail could churn in five, six weeks,” Faraday said. “Enough to cover our cross-country and back.”

  Kinkaid didn’t think he could spend that much time alone with Faraday, or with anyone. Especially me. Plus cars have the infernal ability to maximize people’s bad traits. Plus he’d miss the Winged Lady.

  “You get the dollars from the Int,” Kinkaid said. “I’m gonna be missing jobs for one, two months. Being gone so long, that’s money in the pipe was coming my way.”

  “You’ll get a bonus down your pipe, I was planning that,” Faraday said.

  “How big a bonus?”

  “Worthwhile. Worth the trip with me,” Faraday said.

  “Worthwhile worthwhile? Or just ample.”

  “You’ll come out ahead.”

  “How far?” Kinkaid said for the second time that day.

  There was rust in Faraday’s voice as he said, “Fucking Christ, Kink.” He turned to face him. “Forget about worthwhile, ample, coming out ahead — you’re going with me and Big Sir.”

  “I’m sorry, that was selfish. The Lady, though, she won’t like the idea,” Kinkaid said. Hoping to blight Faraday’s wanderlust.

  “She’ll just have to stomach it. Keep that rancid smoke away from me. You’ll have to quit before the ride.”