Lay Saints

by Adam Connell

“And you’re telling this to us,” Piker said.

  “Want us to help,” Tilla said.

  Because he wants allies. Many. For when I was supposed to get out, Fish. So I’ll have no home, be no threat.

  “I can take the priest Briggs,” Kinkaid said, “and possibly Lundin, but the three of us at this table can take Faraday.”

  Attila sipped some water and stared at Kink. He spoke with his brother, silently.

  “That’s rude, what you’re doing,” Kinkaid said. “Not to mention cheating.”

  “What do we get?” Attila said.

  “You get to be my lieutenants. You can do whatever you want, I don’t care. Take all the jobs Sotto wouldn’t ever let you have. The personal stuff, the dirty little assignments. The squalid little grievances down here.”

  “There’s plenty of those,” Attila said and looked at his brother.

  “Down here,” Kinkaid said. “Without Sotto. The bar yours.”

  “Makes you think we’d need you for that?” Piker said.

  “Because the man’s still breathing is why. The two of you, no. The three of us — ”

  “Like the three of us versus Faraday,” Attila said.

  “Any and all contracts?” Piker said.

  “Long as you make me money.”

  “Why wouldn’t me and Attila take over from you?” Piker said.

  “I’m not as strong as you together but I know how Faraday’s business runs and how to keep it running.”

  “His club,” Attila said.

  “You’ll get a cut of that, too, being lieutenants. That club makes money on Easter,” Kinkaid said. “In my head’s his little black book of clients, old and new. And the business model for jobs we do, market penetration, whatever the hell economists call it.”

  “Those’re two different things,” Piker said, “and I’m not so sure they apply.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You’re impressing us with more than you have,” Attila said.

  “The two of you don’t want to be in charge,” Kinkaid said. “You’ve never liked responsibility.”

  Attila talked with his brother again. Kinkaid eased some tomatoes from his sandwich and ate them. “Mealy,” he said.

  “So we’d be ousting Sotto,” Attila said.

  “Told me he got old.”

  “We had a meeting about that this afternoon,” Attila said. “Got old, but now he’s got new ideas and the two don’t mix.”

  “For us they don’t,” Piker said. “So we could fight Faraday?”

  “I’m offering you freedom.”

  “We’re pretty free. You need us,” Piker said.

  “We have to talk about this, Piker and me,” Attila said.

  “You’ve done that,” Kinkaid said.

  “While you’re not here,” Piker said.

  Kinkaid took a bite of his BLT, chewed it for a few seconds, spat it back on his plate. “Fucking disgrace, the kitchen here.” He stood up. “It’s gonna take some planning, so don’t debate it forever.”

  “We’ll talk it out however long it needs,” Piker said.

  “Don’t talk it to death, you two.”

  “A day or so, that okay?” Piker said.

  “There’s no downside.”

  “We have to come to that on our own,” Piker said.“

  You haven’t mentioned the dollars from Faraday’s current contract, City Council vote,” Attila said.

  “Those dollars are mine to keep. Mental-anguish dispensation. You’ll see it my way,” Kink said on the way out, and to Pal, giving him the finger, “I’m not paying for that sandwich, it was for shit. And thank you, forgetting me that hit of your homemade likker.”

  “You don’t deserve it, turncoat,” Pal said.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Saturday, late None

  Briggs was driving. “You get some sleep?”

  “It’s five o’clock in the evening,” Lundin said. “I slept.”

  Briggs waited a beat. “By yourself?”

  Lundin declined to answer. He was resting his head against the passenger’s window and watching the streets perpendicular to Fifth count down.

  “When’s the last time you got laid, Lundin?”

  “Why do you care? Got someone to set me up with?”

  “I don’t associate with your orientation much, aside from days at a time with you.” He chuckled.

  Lundin grunted. “In the Church, not my orientation? Plenty there.”

  “Some few bad apples — ”

  “The barrel’s what’s rotten.”

  “I don’t wanna debate this no more,” Briggs said. He honked a gaggle of tourists crossing in the middle of the street. “You’re wound up like a tight watch. You’ve accumulated some backup in those pants.”

  “I take care of that myself.”

  “Not nearly the same. You gotta have somebody do it for you or it doesn’t count.”

  “Doesn’t count,” Lundin said. “Same result.”

  “Physiogony,” Briggs said with satisfaction.

  “Physiogony is — The fuck you talking about? Physiology, maybe.”

  “Science. There’s an emotional component with a partner you lack by loving yourself.”

  “Four months,” Lundin said.

  “Four months,” Briggs yelled. “A grown man, four months. What about that blond Irish? Cian.”

  “I don’t take home every beefcake I meet. You?”

  “A week, if that. This collar’s like a wedding ring. You’ll notice it’s a new one, the collar, nice and white. Better than a ring. Forbidden fruit, my friend.”

  “Listen to yourself, what you said that last part, then reread Genesis, fucking heathen,” Lundin said, smiling, coming out of his stupor.

  Briggs turned into a garage on 35th close to Fifth. He gave the keys to a short illegal alien and said, “No dents, no scratches.”

  “Yes, I don’t.”

  Briggs and Lundin walked up the ramp to the street. Briggs gave the stub to Lundin, said, “I’ll lose it. Where’s this place?”

  Lundin said, “It’s called a library. Thirty-fifth on Madison. A right after the next two corners.”

  “How about Kinkaid. He’s taken too much interest.”

  “Long as he doesn’t interfere. Don’t worry about Kink. He won’t touch you while you’re with me. And you’ll always be with me.”

  “Didn’t say he made me nervous. But for that, I might just find you a nice, good man.”

  “And hard, too, would be appreciated. Enough with that.”

  It’s a small modern library, why Lundin liked it so much. Called SIBL: The Science, Industry and Business Library. Young city collegians on the first floor studying behind a wall-length glass panel. Above the glass, in the grey-beige foyer, is a snaking montage of obscure quotes from famous visionaries in — yes — science and industry and business. Bohr, Mellon.

  Bore. Ing.

  Lundin led Briggs down the staircase to the stacks and computers. Left of the bottom stairs is a wall of televisions independently tuned to the news channels. Information junkies wore headphones jacked into the wall, listening intently.

  Right of the stairs was some plastic pictorial exhibit on the construction of the subway system, emphasizing the Second Avenue Line.

  Lundin got a password from the Delivery Desk by the computers, sat at one of the terminals. Briggs sat next to him.

  “Go get your own password, start looking things up,” Lundin said.

  “I don’t know how to use a computer.”

  “You don’t know what? A computer?”

  “What’s a priest need with a computer? I’m a people person.”

  “You are not a people person, you’re not even a priest.”

  “I’m getting tired of you saying that. I may not be the most devout, I may be going to Hell, but I take my calling seriously. Wouldn’t stick around you if I wasn’t. You know how to use one?”

  “Yah, just don’t own one. If you can’t h
elp here,” Lundin said, “go upstairs and pick up some college girls.”

  “Sure they’re in college? Isn’t school out?”

  “Summer semesters,” Lundin said.

  Briggs was out of his chair.

  “Maybe one’ll remind you of Tamm,” Lundin said.

  “Why would they remind me of Tamm?” Briggs said.

  “Because you’d want one to. As close to Tamm as you’ll get.”

  “Why’d I wanna get close to her?”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “I can save her,” Briggs said.

  “Okay. Right.”

  Briggs started walking away. “I got an eye out for you, too. Any guys — ”

  “Fuck off with that.”

  “See you upstairs.”

  Lundin logged in. He started, as most do, with The New York Times’ site but, as most discover, their articles are overlong and overwritten and uninviting. A paper for the contemptuous elite and a colossal waste of effort.

  He was searching for local politicians other than Adelard, other Council Members might influence the Int. He went to USA TODAY’s Web site, the people’s paper. It was his favorite paper. And mine. Broad, concise, well written, friendly to the reader — with respect and without snobbery. It’s the only real national national, but it covers local news, big local players.

  Lundin went back three months and worked forwards, concentrating on the Nationline, Nation, and Across the USA departments.

  Two months in he needed a break so he googled his mother and father, both doctors in California. L.A., Bel Air. They’d wanted him to become a doctor as well but things started in high school that set him apart and sent him away.

  He’d been on the fringe of the popular terrors, advancing up the social ladder, when his talents appeared. He thought maybe they were normal, the talents. Unspoken but normal, like so many aspects of sex this country refuses to acknowledge to its teens.

  Off-track, sorry Fish. What was it? Lundin, high school. He’s finishing other people’s sentences. Too often. Did what they were thinking first, or what they wanted him to do. Too often. Few weeks of this and his friends, they retreat. One jock thought him possessed.

  He went to a university on the East Coast to reinvent himself. SUNY Albany was the best he could get into. Sophomore year he met Alvaro, an ESL from Madrid. He also came from a wealthy family didn’t miss him much. He and Lundin didn’t have the same major but they studied together anyway.

  Lundin fell in love with him. He knew, knew, Alvaro didn’t feel as strongly but at least there was a great attraction. Enough that they’d slept together, enough that they’d spend weekends in Alvaro’s suite watching the films of Pedro Olea, Fernando Colomo, Santiago Segura. Lundin was sure Alvaro’s love would fall into place.

  To ensure that, Lundin used his gifts to please Alvaro. Again it backfired.

  “I don’t know how you’re doing it, but get out of my head.”

  “Alvaro.”

  “I’m not sure you do things because I want you to or because — ”

  “Because you want me to,” Lundin said.

  “Not always,” Alvaro said. “Yesterday I thought I, thought I might like that new sweatshirt at the Union. It’s hideous. And this morning you brought me a present.”

  “At the store didn’t you mention,” Lundin lied, backpedaling where there was no road, “said to me, pointed at — ”

  “I never said anything. You’re, the word is, you call it? Kepp? Creep! Creepy. I don’t know what is the word. Creepy’s not strong enough. I don’t know the word for it.”

  “You love me.”

  This was all in Alvaro’s suite, his door open, his suitemates listening. There was drunken giggling.

  “You love me.”

  “I never said that, I never thought that. Get away from me, I can’t be safe around you. I’m afraid of you.”

  A week later the campus Wiccans — decked out in their black hemp and Green Man necklaces and silver — came to read, all of them and hopefully Lundin, too, from Charge of the Goddess. Hold hands, chant.

  People he didn’t recognize from other buildings on campus were staring at him.

  Next time his roommate was away, three weekends after Alvaro’s philippic, Lundin packed his things in a duffel and took a train to Manhattan. It was the best place he could think of to get lost in.

  Famous for it, isn’t she, Fish?

  Lundin had trouble getting a job without a degree or experience, and he needed money soon. A Chinese restaurant was hiring busboys. The kind of restaurant where nobody working there is Chinese.

  A year and a half later and he was still telling himself he’d find a new job tomorrow. Or he’d call his parents for money and crawl back to Albany.

  Faraday came in to eat with some woman, she’s not a part of this story, doesn’t matter her name. He recognized Lundin immediately for what he was. Faraday’s good like that, he’s a dowser.

  When Lundin came over at the end of their meal, Faraday says to her, “Watch this.”

  Lundin began piling their plates along one arm. They were light, mostly clean, but he was having visible difficulty. Management wanted him to clear tables this way even though sometimes he dropped them because his arm couldn’t hold the weight.

  “What color am I thinking of?” Faraday said.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “What color.”

  “How would I know?”

  “I don’t know how it works,” Faraday said, “I just know it does.”

  “Purple,” Lundin said.

  “You’re lying.”

  Lundin continued to stack and balance the plates and glasses.

  “Put ’em down before you break them all,” Faraday said.

  Lundin complied with inner thanks. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but how would you know I’m lying?”

  Faraday grabbed Lundin’s free forearm. “Same way you know what color it is. Tell me, I’ll get you out of here.”

  “Maroon.”

  “Leave the smock and come with us, Lundin.”

  In a month Lundin had a two-bedroom close to Tattletail. This is nineteen years ago.

  “Are you done?” a woman said over his shoulder. Lundin could see her snarky expression reflected on the monitor.

  “No.”

  “It’s almost closing, there’s no free computers.”

  “And I’m still working.”

  “You’re just sitting there,” she said.

  “Doesn’t mean I’m not hard at work, miss.”

  “Look, I have a report due and I ne — ”

  Lundin spun around in his chair. “Then I guess you should’ve gotten here before me.”

  She stalked off. Lundin was done, but to spite her he stayed at his station and looked up nothing in particular. He avoided the Web sites for the Daily News and the New York Post as they were more concerned with attaching names to scandals than civics. He had a month left on USA TODAY but he’d found three prominent Council Members and figured that would be enough. He should have put the Minority Council Leader on his list, but she hadn’t been in the paper, and Lundin didn’t know from Majority or Minority Leaders. Only Council Speakers.

  He waited till the girl found a vacant terminal, then logged out and told her, “I’m finished now. All yours.” And went upstairs. Briggs was chatting up two uglies, his back to the glass.

  Lundin left without him, got the car, drove uptown.

  back to top

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Saturday, Vespers

  “You’re buying.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy.”

  “No, till this thing is over,” Rook said. “You cover my expenses. My meals are free.”

  The hostess, a wizened old woman too restless to retire, told them to choose any table they liked. Calder chose one by the windows with a good view of Adelard’s office across Queens Boulevard, the Boulevard of Death. (Henceforth the BoD for brevity.) He sat facing the door, an old habit.

/>   Rook, sitting across from him, “You got enough money for this? For me and all?”

  “I’ll get Pal to give me some from the safes. Plus I been saving for a long while,” Calder said and picked one of the menus from the metal ring at the end of the table. “I never had much to spend it on.”

  “Not even yourself?”

  “Nah. I’ve got underwear older than — ”

  Rook put up his hand. “I follow.” He also took a menu. “Me, I only spend it on myself. On the gym, clothes, restaurants. I never cook. On women. And I mean dates and presents, not rentals. Even then, it’s really for me, what it comes down to. What do I get from those dates and presents.”

  “I’ll cover what Pal won’t,” Calder said. “What’s good here?”

  “How should I know? It was you picked the place.”

  “How many diners are there in the city? Don’t they all do a regional dish — ”

  “Regional, in New York? It’s a diner,” Rook said. “I never been to this particular one but I can tell you this much — it’s all mediocre, but there’s a lot of it to choose from. That’s a diner.”

  “So this Adelard’s a Stone,” Calder said.

  “Going to his house to get through to him, that was a good start. You couldn’t have known.”

  “I didn’t know these people existed, Stones.”

  “If we exist, why can’t they?” Rook put his menu down. The salt, pepper, and Tabasco were out of place in the wrong slots. Rook put them back, orderly, way they were supposed to fit. Then straightened his menu so the bottom of it was flush with the table’s edge.

  “I did meet the wife, though,” Calder said.

  “That you didn’t tell me.”

  “She seemed friendly. Wore a robe. It was kinda late.”

  “People wear robes at night.”

  “For like ten minutes, between changing into their pajamas until getting into bed. Get into bed. Who needs a robe?”

  “Walk around in, watch the telly,” Rook said.

  “Then don’t change into your pajamas till later. I don’t get it.” Calder put his menu back. “She’s the way in, she’s the key.”

  Their waitress came over, pad in hand. Her apron was smeared with a colorful variety of sauces and condiments. She had the hips and face of a woman who’d given birth once a year for years.