Lay Saints

by Adam Connell

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  FIFTY-TWO

  Seeing as how Calder had some back luck here, it might be a good time to tell you that I failed my parole hearing. Obviously, since I’m in this cell with you, you with me. This is about a week before you arrived. It wasn’t bad luck, though. I flunked it on purpose.

  Would’ve been simple to pass it, I could easily have swayed them.

  I can’t get out early. I need to stay inside for the whole sentence. Have to serve out my three years if I’m gonna work with my old crewmates again, if they’re to trust me. I have to satisfy their doubt.

  Me back among them, I’m out early, they’re wondering about me, did I get released too early, is it dangerous to be around me, me “the rapist.”

  Kinkaid needn’t have gone through all the hassle, in a hurry betraying Faraday cause he was worried about my homecoming. I never planned on passing. Maybe if Kink knew this, the shitstorm he created wouldn’t have happened. But with Kinkaid, there would’ve been a shitstorm sooner or later, him betraying Faraday at some point.

  I don’t mind it much in here, Fish. I spent a lifetime in the city, everyone’s thoughts impeding my own. It’s not that hard, pushing them aside, you’d remember, but there was always a small part of my mind pushing. Small part always alert, never at rest.

  It’s very quiet in here, not nearly so many people in Otisville Correctional as in the city. Tranquil. I can relax. Even in the town of Mount Hope, where we are. Did you notice there’s another prison next door? Not a quarter of a mile away. Federal. If I told you what went on there. Deranged.

  For me, prison’s somewhat a vacation.

  For you, though, it’s a vocation. Sorry. Ten years, like that you could forget.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Saturday, late Sext

  The parlor in the funeral home was trying desperately to be a soothing microcosm: warm pastoral paintings, considerate deflected lighting, sighing gospel music piped in from hidden speakers. But the floors were neglected and they groaned and the ceiling was too low and one of two doors to the hallway kept swinging open on a bad hinge.

  There were classier funeral homes but none that were available within a few hours. Emmie had organized this very quickly for the sake of Faraday’s father — who’d have wanted it speedily done — and for Faraday, who loved his father too much to endure protracted traditions.

  “Crowded,” Briggs said. “Tomorrow there’s less people.”

  “It’s not a wake,” Lundin said, “it’s a funeral service. He’s being cremated.”

  “As we speak?”

  “Today’s all the visitors he gets.”

  “He the father or he Faraday?”

  “Both he’s. More Faraday. Shouldn’t you know? Being a priest?”

  “Guess I don’t.”

  Faraday and Emmie hadn’t made their entrance yet.

  With barely enough room to move, Briggs and Lundin had claimed the corner by the faulty door. They were standing in front of a closed piano, as if at some gatherings a particular mourner might feel possessed to rattle off a few show tunes.

  Lundin was watching the people coming in. Few were leaving. He recognized some: consistent and predatory clients he’d also worked with; friends who’d visit Faraday at Tattletail; various species of neighbor.

  Some he didn’t recognize but knew from their lack of familiarity: retired nurses in a huddle discussing the decedent’s health; old men drinking their water alone who’d been the father’s acquaintances; older men — neighborhood drunks — crashing the funeral service in search of free booze, not knowing Faraday’s father had been a teetotaler.

  And The Nine talking with Kinkaid in the diagonal corner where a casket would normally lie. God, The Nine. He’d finally seen them.

  “I don’t fucking comprehend,” Lundin said.

  “What, old age?” Briggs said. “A man can wind down, does wind down, all of us we do. We’re clocks. That’s in the Bible somewhere.”

  “No” — he pointed with his cup of water — “those eagles by Kinkaid.”

  “Never seen them before,” Briggs said, uninterested.

  “They work for Faraday,” Lundin said, “have for years.”

  “I’ve worked for Faraday, for years. They haven’t.”

  “By years I mean a decade at least,” Lundin said. “We don’t see ’em on purpose. It took Dad’s dying to fetch them out of the dark.”

  “What do they do we can’t?” Briggs said.

  “I asked that to Kinkaid, what was it. Yesterday. He condescended with a line about ‘Stuff you can’t,’ or some such shit. Which doesn’t make sense to me because there’s about nothing I haven’t done for Faraday. Or you for me.”

  “Give ’em a read, get it from them.”

  “I been trying since they put roots down in that corner. They’re not Stones. It’s more like a meadow middle of winter. Grass hard from frost, it’s that fucking still. And they know I’m trying to walk on it.”

  “Can’t be better than you are,” Briggs said.

  “What the fuck is it they do?”

  “What would you need so many for?” Briggs said.

  “Bigger contracts,” Lundin said. “Cooperative jobs.”

  “Bullshit,” Briggs said. “Why wouldn’t he have assigned them Int 3001?”

  “They only take the jobs they want? They have right of refusal?”

  “Bullshit,” Briggs said, this time shaking his head.

  “What then?” Lundin said.

  “Who cares?” Briggs took an offered cup of water from a server’s tray. “You haven’t seen them before this afternoon, won’t see them again. Faraday’s mother’s dead.”

  “It bothers me they’re out there,” Lundin said. “Given jobs more important. Making Faraday more rich.”

  “You suspect. We make Faraday plenty of cash money.”

  “They make him more,” Lundin said.

  “Again, bullshit. So what’s their mission statement?”

  Lundin’s head flashed around at Briggs in annoyed surprise. “Mission statement?”

  “I read The Economist,” Briggs said as though it was an accomplishment.

  Lundin motioned towards The Nine again, not caring if they noticed, hoping they’d notice. “The way they’re standing, same body language. They sleep in the same room, eat their meals the same time together.”

  “All this from the way they’re standing,” Briggs said.

  “Well you got no observations except from The Economist,” Lundin said.

  Briggs sipped his water, laid the cup on the piano.

  “Massive blackmail on a royal scope,” Lundin said. “Estate-type families.” He grinned along with his hypotheses. “Twenty-four-hour jobs need nine men to coordinate. Simultaneous overseas and here to negate time zones. Nine men could do that.”

  “You’re spinning bedtime stories,” Briggs said.

  “A conference. A seminar, and everybody needs their temperature taken. Nine men could do an auditorium.”

  “Ask one of them now, there’s one coming behind Kinkaid and I’m pretty sure they’re headed here. Tell them your bedtime tales, see if they fall asleep.”

  “Nice party,” one of The Nine said.

  “Show some respect,” Briggs said.

  “Why is he here?” Kinkaid asked Lundin, pointing at Briggs.

  “He knew Faraday’s father better than you, Kink,” Lundin said.

  “I mean why is he here, working for Faraday.”

  Briggs reminded himself where he was, at a funeral service, and saved his anger for later.

  Lundin said, “How many times are we gonna — ”

  “Until I believe you,” Kinkaid said.

  “How many times?” Briggs said. “What other times?”

  Kink’s companion, one-ninth of Lundin’s mystery, had lost interest in the conversation and was scanning the parlor like an upperclassman shopping for a better date to take home from the prom. There was no better date for him
than Kinkaid, and both knew it.

  “Been to many funerals, parson?” Kinkaid asked Briggs.

  “Unfortunately I seen a share,” Briggs said. “I didn’t enjoy them, that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking. You, Lundin?”

  “The usual, the vague aunt and uncle. Some friends that died too young.”

  “I bet they did,” Kinkaid said, “friends like you have. Friends share your orientation.”

  Lundin said, too calmly, “I won’t have Briggs tear your liver out because we’re all wearing black today and there’s already one body.”

  “Just a statement of fact,” Kinkaid said. “I am doing my best to be civil.”

  “You’re failing,” Briggs said.

  “Me, I like a funeral now and then,” Kinkaid said. “It’s good mindfulness that every day we’re closer to one of these” — he spread his hands low by his waist — “of our very own. Too many forget, going about their lives. And it’s good, a funeral service, helps you to appreciate your life. I don’t have family. Sometimes I attend two, three a year.”

  “That’s a sick pastime,” Briggs said.

  “Here, down to Vanella’s. I been to them all, the entire city. Get to hear some funny anecdotes,” Kink said. “They’re not depressing, you don’t know who it was died.”

  The detached Nine was beside Kinkaid now, tugging on Kinkaid’s sleeve. Kinkaid nodded in response but stayed where he was.

  “How goes your assignment?” Kinkaid said.

  “You don’t rush a souffle. It’ll get done,” Lundin said.

  “You’ve only got three days left to bake,” Kinkaid said. “Reason I’m asking, what with Faraday grieving, my promotion’s got some longevity. It’s me you’ll answer to, and it’s me who’ll ask.”

  “You were in the car at the UN yesterday,” Lundin said.

  “And since then?” Kinkaid said.

  “Why wasn’t I in the car?” Briggs said.

  “Tonight’s the third and last politician,” Lundin said.

  Kinkaid raised one eyebrow, a talent Lundin envied in anyone, even Kinkaid.

  “Briggs and me have a date in the man’s home,” Lundin said. “His wife’s in Betty Ford. Happens they’re both sterile, and he’s not corrupt enough that he can afford maids to harass. He’s lonely.”

  “I’ll keep Briggs company,” Kinkaid said.

  “No you won’t,” Lundin said.

  “Take a night for yourself,” Kinkaid said. “Relax, for fuck’s sake. Rent a movie, go to a movie.”

  “Why would you wanna come?”

  “Because I can make you stay home is why. The promotion I mentioned. This way, me and Briggs can chat.”

  “I’ll not be pushed out, Kink.”

  “Who says? Sorry, what I mean is, who says I’m pushing? I’m not pushing you out. Faraday looks awful. You seen him this morning? I watched him cry.”

  “The man’s allowed his grief,” Lundin said.

  “Not in the presence of employees he’s not,” Kinkaid said. “Ever seen a man crying when his face’s busted and with every sob his ribs are hurting him and the poor busted bastard can’t bend away from you?”

  “I seen plenty of men cry,” Briggs said.

  “You can tell me about that tonight. But ever your boss? I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. The looks of him, my thinking is he won’t get over this. The beating or his Dad.”

  “Give him more than a day, Christ,” Briggs said.

  Kinkaid said, “The Faraday I knew — ” The one Nine tugged at Kinkaid’s sleeve again. Kinkaid nodded twice, waited, then shook his head. The tugging stopped.

  “He loved his Dad,” Lundin said.

  “We all loved our Dads,” Kinkaid said.

  “Another day, tomorrow,” Briggs said. “At most a few days after that might be all he needs.”

  “It might,” Kinkaid said.

  “He might be Bristol fashion now,” Lundin said.

  “Only Briggs’ God would know,” Kinkaid said. “The Lord knows why,” he said, staring up at the flaked mural on the ceiling, “but Faraday trusts me. There’s people here at this service, could be the last time we see them employed.”

  Fast, Briggs retorted, “Faraday’s not firing anybody.”

  “Faraday’s not,” Kinkaid said. “He was attacked. His wife was attacked. He let another club almost open up on our own lawn.” He walked off, one-ninth in tow.

  “That wasn’t you he was implying,” Lundin said to Briggs.

  “The diarrhea I feel brewing says otherwise.”

  “I promised I’d protect you. And it was me he was implying.”

  “Then how am I protected?”

  All the dancers except Tamm were there. Kitten came over to Briggs and Lundin. Briggs, contemptuous of all transsexuals, preop and post-, left the corner without excusing himself.

  “I’d want an intimate cremation and memorial service,” she said.

  “You’d want a marching brass band and a presidential eulogy,” Lundin said.

  They laughed. They weren’t the parlor’s only clique laughing. Kinkaid was right, there’s a certain joy at these gatherings though Lundin didn’t hear any anecdotes about Faraday’s father, funny or sad.

  “Piano’s an odd choice of furniture,” she said. For makeup, she was wearing a Cleopatra kohl.

  “I like your dress,” Lundin said. “You look good in it.”

  “My new boyfriend’s,” Kitten said.

  “Then he must be tall, too.”

  “You’ve never met him yet? About six-two, but so feminine he’s dainty. He’s a good boy.”

  “Not like you,” Lundin said. “Not a good girl.”

  “I’m more woman than you ever had,” Kitten said with a light, airy cackle. “The dainty ones, they go for that, go for me. You’d be surprised. Or maybe you wouldn’t.”

  “Smooth sailing?” Lundin said. “So busy with customers we don’t talk anymore.”

  “It has been a few months. Yesterday I found some hair on my toes.”

  Lundin looked down but Kitten was wearing purple pumps that hid her feet.

  “I called the doctor of course, the very second. Going tomorrow.”

  “More estrogen?” Lundin said.

  “Feminizing hormones, yeah, like estradiol. But estradiol. Testosterone inhibitors, spiron-something. All drugs. Stuff you never heard of and shouldn’t care about.”

  “My you make it sound so sexy,” Lundin said. “Long as you’re healthy.”

  “As a horse.”

  Another server went past with another tray of water. Lundin snared two cups, held one out for Kitten. “You miss alcohol?”

  “The one thing I miss,” Kitten said. “Only thing I miss, a little booze, all the drugs I’m on.”

  “I put my body through what you did, alcohol wouldn’t be the most important thing I miss.”

  “Baby, I never wanted it, I never needed it, I never used it.”

  They shared another laugh.

  “Your breasts still look fantastic,” he said. “They’re holding up that dress.”

  “As if you’re the connoisseur,” Kitten said. “Nobody wants to see breasts and whiskers on the same dancer.”

  “Not at Tattletail.”

  “Lucky I got an attentive doctor. Hamid, he treating you right, or did he run off with some girl?”

  “We haven’t spoken since May. He has jeans he left at my place, books, shirts, a prescription bottle of benzos. Every once in awhile, I’m feeling sad about it, I take one of them, throw on a pair of his jeans.”

  “Makes you feel better,” Kitten said. “What’d you leave at his place?”

  “I never leave anything at anyone’s,” Lundin said.

  She put her hand on his sleeve briefly. “Sorry I introduced you. Though, friend of a friend, you don’t know enough is it gonna be a good match.”

  “And it wasn’t a bi thing,” Lundin said. “He was a Democrat and a Republican
. A vegetarian, he also ate steak. Catholic, sometimes agnostic.”

  “Too many things at once,” Kitten said. “Tamm’s not here. When’s Faraday gonna show?”

  “When he’s composed,” Lundin said.

  “Would you do me a favor?” she said. Her hand was back on his sleeve.

  Lundin heard the request before it was voiced.

  “Keep Kink away from me.”

  Lundin was feeling a residual defensiveness from his argument with Kink. How many friends do I have to protect? he thought. But she was a friend, and he wasn’t mad about her asking.

  “I’m getting the whiff of a purge,” she said. “And me the only one not born with her vagina, I’m first to go.”

  “You are all woman,” Lundin said. “Kinkaid won’t have any say, I promise you.”

  She kissed him on the cheek; her cheek, brushing his, was soft like a woman’s.

  “I’ll be mingling now,” Kitten said.

  Some minutes later Hoone came through the open door, deposited a scared teenager outside the threshold, and found Lundin. He received a lot of nods on his way over, then shook Lundin’s hand.

  “This is a tragedy,” Hoone said. He was wearing one of his used suits.

  “How’d you hear so fast?” Lundin said.

  “The nurse at Faraday’s, simple as that. She was packing to leave. I drove in from Chicago this morning. With my find over there, honest to God.”

  “He a healer?” Lundin said.

  “Not enough of one he could’ve saved the old man, but I found him so swift I figured I’d bring him back without looking around to make a full bus of it. See if he’d work, make Faraday happy. Sometimes I’d rather do things fast than right.” He laughed at himself. “I’m to call when I net one, but he was so serendipitous — ”

  “Serendipitous, like that last one a week, ten days ago?” Lundin said.

  “Point of it is, I wanted to surprise Faraday without phoning.”

  “The old man’s beyond help,” Lundin said. “Faraday’s gonna need the boy himself.”

  “No joke. The alley, I heard.”

  “What else did you hear?”

  Hoone rested an elbow on the piano. “Without talking to anyone I can hear a lot of doubt in this room.”