by Adam Connell
“I know Kink,” Faraday said. But he didn’t. “You’re, we’re, overdue. To get away from this. I couldn’t ever forgive you — ”
“For what? What is it I’ve done? Why would I leave with you?”
She was wailing.
“Okay, pack a bag, would that be better?” he said. “One bag, some necessities, I don’t care what, and we run and we talk this out with no Kinkaid coming back. Wouldn’t that be better than Kinkaid? Him coming back?”
“A bag.”
Faraday had her mind in a good grip. “You put your favorite things in there, Love.”
“You never once called me Love.”
“I will,” he said.
“And we work through this. I’m your wife.”
“I’m your husband, I love you. We can put this behind us but that means distance, and right here, this room, is no distance at all. There’s ten people coming this way want to interrupt us.”
They went upstairs and Faraday watched Emmie pack.
“What about your bag?” she said.
“It’s already at the place we’re going.”
Downstairs, he guided her through the tunnel, out Suit’s house, and into a passing taxi.
You’d have to be me to follow Faraday and Emmie to their destination. I happen to know where The Nine live. In a defunct warehouse Faraday has a thirty-year lease on, close behind the huge red Pepsi:Cola sign across the East River in Hunters Point, Queens. He’d gutted the place like a serial killer, then had it redone for nine.
Nine distinct dens, but open-aired, not divided. Not divided by walls but all nine so distinctive they don’t mesh.
Four of The Nine were asleep upstairs, but five were downstairs and they approached the husband and wife.
Faraday swung Emmie in front of him, put a straight shaving razor to her ear and slashed her neck diagonally. He held her up by the back of her tank top as she bled. Danced. Groped. Moaned.
She was slipping in her own blood and when the tension left Faraday’s fingers she dropped.
“I don’t get made a fool of,” Faraday said.
“In our house.” It was the tallest again. “You sully? Bring a body where we live?”
Faraday pointed at them. Collectively, with one of those roving fingers that paid lecturers use. “You’ll each of you get one request,” he said. “That’s what I’ll bestow when you return to me. You don’t all have to, but those of you choose against me won’t leave here the same person. Ask my wife if I’m serious.”
The tall one was the first forward. “I’ll submit, but you cannot use any of us to fight Kinkaid. We sided with him, and putting him down would make us traitors.”
“You’re already traitors,” Faraday said.
“Once, not twice. Once I can live with and learn from. That why you came? For soldiers versus Kink?”
“I couldn’t take him without you?” Faraday said. “I’m that weak in your eyes? Did I ask you to hurt him?”
The tall one said, “He wasn’t sure without us he could end you. But without us you could end him?”
Faraday said, “Without you it’s me versus him.”
“Then you’re in my debt and when that’s settled, I’m yours,” said the tallest.
Lie.
He stepped aside and another of The Nine took his spot. This one had no characteristic features I can use for a nickname. He said, “What I want from you — ” and locked Faraday in a gloomy shipping container. Faraday could smell smoke but see nothing. He felt for a wall and made a door.
There were another three Nines standing up front. Faraday dropped them into a pool hot as piss. Their clothes and lungs were inhaling water. Faraday was raising the temperature — what he should’ve done from the start, before dropping them in — when the best swimmer, the tallest, the liar, found the surface and helped the other four out.
Keeping the pattern going, this traitorous five stranded Faraday in a burning stairwell (which I could see into). The blue-orange fire caught at his clothes and he patted himself like someone freezing. He jumped down the steps but at each sizzling landing no doors would appear for him. After ten storeys he jumped into that space between the steep flights and fell free. Landing on a plush hatch.
The five, smug and then jarred, found themselves buried in earth. Something large above them was tamping the topsoil. They were dizzy from all sorts of deprivation, but two of the five made it to air by pulling on and swallowing as much dirt as they could.
Faraday was at a rally and everyone there was wearing his face. They congratulated and complimented and clapped him on the back. He was losing his bearings, his mind a pennant loose in the windy avenue. It blew from Faraday to Faraday as they tried snaring it for themselves. He barreled towards it, unsheathed his bloody razor and stabbed everyone within his radius. Eleven Faradays fell; the rest took off their masks. They were Kinkaids.
Faraday grabbed the pennant, rolled it up and swallowed it like a snake.
The two Nines that were left began choking. They were wrapped bodily in tight tarps. They tried stretching the canvas and biting it for air but their hands were secured behind their backs where the tarps were knotted. Their tongues couldn’t puncture the wrapping. Their eyes were closing, those oily colors you see in fast darkness taking hold of their vision.
Faraday kept them there till they psychosomatically asphyxiated.
This made The Nine currently The Four.
Faraday was panting.
The Four were leaning on the balcony of the second floor. “Is there anyone else likes a test?” Faraday said.
No one responded.
Faraday forced himself calm. “I’ve four more requests to offer.”
“I don’t want any, don’t need any,” said one. “You’ve proven yourself fit.”
“I’m taking the rest of you, you’re, what’s the — reticence for allegiance,” Faraday said.
In answer, they said nothing.
“I have my own good graces you’ll have to win,” Faraday said with the roving finger.
They nodded, agreeing with him and between themselves.
“Clean up the bodies. Bury my wife apart and the rest in a pile. Soon’s that’s over, you will stay here for me to give word.”
It doesn’t matter who asked, but one of them said, “What word?”
“Whatever word it is, and you’ll obey it.”
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SIXTY-FOUR
Sunday, Compline
There was a soiree at Council Member Marillac’s home in Queens. An upper-crust party in a middle-class neighborhood. The event was beginning to wane, it being nine o’clock on a Sunday. Marillac had this party every Sunday two weeks before Labor Day. Limousines and town cars were queued down 68th Drive, simonized and air-conditioned, awaiting pampered politistars and celebrifficials to take them home to their larger houses.
Calder was in the Coronet’s driver’s seat, Lundin the passenger’s. They were parked across the street with the regular cars, with a good view of Council Member Marillac’s lighted lawn.
Lundin rolled down the window, lit a Gitanes — French — for himself. He couldn’t feel the cigarette between his numb fingers, but his mouth and lungs were in perfect order.
“Do you have another one for me?” Calder said.
“Last one, friend. I had more packs from the carton but some asshole stole them. Kinkaid, I’d say, I were a cynic.”
“We’ll share it,” Calder said.
Before passing it Lundin took a healthy second drag, not so sure he’d be getting it back. The cigarette.
Calder scrutinized the party’s evacuees through a smoky exhale.
“There’s a lot of them drunk,” Lundin said. “Those high heels are gonna rake up that lawn. I always hated working politics. Caving is how they get shit accomplished. Sounds irrational, right? They cave. Can I have it back for a couple puffs? It’s my favorite brand.”
Calder reluctantly returned the cigarette.
Lu
ndin said, “They call it compromise, I say it’s caving.”
“If they were rigid all the time nothing’d get done,” Calder said.
“I’m rigid all the time.” They shared a laugh despite the tension. Lundin said, “Shit would get done, and faster. There’d be lots more votes, lots more movement.”
“Not progress,” Calder said.
“Movement,” Lundin said, doing his best to quickly and quietly smoke the rest of the Gitanes alone. “Policy made,” he said. “We elect those who most resemble ourselves and if we don’t receive much from them in office, we don’t deserve as much say. Majority majority.”
“You’re a minority,” Calder said.
Lundin pulled on the cigarette, decided to hand it back to Calder.
“So we get less voice,” Lundin said. “Politics should have a formula, it doesn’t. I’ve made my peace with that. Then there’s corruption. Take the apartment we just left. First off, that Council Member’s married and every Sunday he’s at his girlfriend’s. That’s corrupt. While ago, there’s this uproar over trans fats, and also should calories be counted on menus. The city — ”
“Wouldn’t that be federal?” Calder said. The cigarette was in its throes; Calder killed it with a deep pull, killed it again in the Coronet’s ashtray.
Lundin was distraught about that, but said, “No, the city has control over it, the restaurants. Anyway, national politicians don’t even work the whole year. Bottom line, and I don’t wanna debate all night, it was Washington warned us against a two-party system. That much I remember from what college I had. Was it George Washington?”
“Jefferson?” Calder said.
“Maybe it was George Jefferson,” Lundin said and they laughed again, again despite the tension. “There was evidence Mr. Marillac was paid for his vote on trans fats is my point. Used the money for a spree at La Perla for his lady friend, is my point. Politicians, some of them believe in Creationism, Chrissakes.”
Calder had no idea what La Perla or Creationism were and didn’t ask. “Vianney caved,” he said.
“Like an empty box,” Lundin said. “How can you respect that? As a voter?”
“You vote?” Calder said.
“I’m in that booth every Tuesday the people are petitioned to be heard,” Lundin said. He foraged through the glove compartment, maybe there was a box of Gitanes in hiding, but no.
“Pay taxes?” Calder said.
“I pay taxes. Faraday makes sure we do. And jury duty,” Lundin said. “I have a driver’s license, they go together, jury duty. I’d go more often if they called me. I love passing judgment on my peers.”
“You don’t have another cigarette?” Calder said.
“Are you gonna come work for me?”
“What, a second cigarette’s contingent?”
“No, just are you gonna come work for me.”
The lawn lights were blinking. Some hired valets were guiding tipsy guests to their vehicles. The genteel don’t get drunk, they get tipsy.
“Ever been in a long-term relationship?” Calder said.
“More than one,” Lundin said.
“I haven’t.”
“But you’ve been laid.”
“I been laid but rarely the same woman twice.”
“Women,” Lundin said, “that’s where we part ways.”
“I’m horrible at breakups,” Calder said. “They’re repugnant, horrendous things.”
“Both ways,” Lundin said. He was rubbing his hands together.
“Also I’m no good for telling who to pick,” Calder said. “Long-term. It’s a big coin to be flipping.”
“But worth the agony it lands on the right side. That’s love, for you, a coin?”
“Did I say love? I’m talking about pairing up for good. Love doesn’t necessarily, does it? Fit in? Always?”
“I’m in a car with someone’s never been in love,” Lundin said. “My car. You, son, need to be romanced.”
“Tamm and me, I’m pretty positive the coin landed on the right side.”
“And I’m sorry about that,” Lundin said. “On my behalf, and on Briggs’.”
“Please don’t bring him up.”
In my car, Lundin thought, but said, “I’m just looking forward to when you restore him is all.”
“I’m not feeling any romance from you, and I’m not feeling any from Sotto.”
“I should woo you,” Lundin said.
“Not to bed,” Calder said, “but which part of the city I should bed.”
“All right,” Lundin said, “here’s how I get you to come home with me. This is the black and the white of it. Sotto — the white of it — he’s a warden. He’s been at this a while, he’s got ideas on what’s best, he knows discipline and how to discipline.”
The automobile queue was advancing on Marillac’s house, taking passengers and dispersing.
“Me, I’m the black of it.” Big grin. “I’m the gym teacher. I don’t care what the fuck you’re doing cause half the time I’m not even looking. Long as you score points — and nobody gets hurt who shouldn’t, like Tamm — I’m gonna let you do whatever it is you want. How’s that for roses and chocolate?”
“You, you’re gonna have some thugs on your team,” Calder said.
“My team’s not written yet, and it goes without saying what’s-his-face is crossed off. You’d be on my team. We do get along, admit that.”
“I admit I had a cigarette right now, I’d be smoking it.”
“I can treat you at my wholesaler, put you on my tab, that’ll be a perk, free cigs. They’ve gotten very expensive. And foreign ones, imported? Astronomical. There’s some champagne for your roses and chocolate. Get you Roth-Handles from Germany. Silk Cuts and Seven Stars from Japan.”
“It’s clearing out, the cars are moving,” Calder said. “When we go in, you’ll smooth anybody in the way and I’m for the Council Member. Bust and Gust, I once had a friend called it that.”
“Trespassing with intent, the law calls it that,” Lundin said. “And following, you refund my hands?” He held them up on display.
“Following the third Council Member on this list of yours,” Calder said.
“Told you I don’t know where he is and I forget who he is, his name.”
“I told you that’s bullshit.”
“I remembered this one cause I tailed him, read him, all the way to his mistress’ pad and I was there with Faraday. I remembered the other one’s home on S.I. cause Kink and I dropped him off. I have decent recall for locations but not places I never been. I was disinvited, it was Briggs and Kinkaid and Tamm. You could find out from Briggs, but you can’t find out anything from Briggs. Excuse me using his name.”
“Tamm? Why in hell would you want Tamm there?”
“I didn’t want.”
“How could she help?” Calder paused and shook his head in tiny revolutions. “She helped, didn’t she.”
“Put on a show for our vote, that was the extent of it, for the pol’s vote. It’s my understanding there was no touching.”
“You used Tamm?”
“It wasn’t using. Long fucking story, the end of which is I don’t know where the guy is.”
“How’s this, I don’t need directions, just gimme the address,” Calder said.
“Not numbers, locations,” Lundin said.
“Fucking Christ,” Calder said. “We’ll look up his name, find him that way.”
“Places, locales, and I got nothing written down, I gave it to Bri — ”
Calder sighed. “I’m on none to little sleep because of Bri. Three hours ago, I let you slide. I let this horseshit slide an hour ago but listen to me” — he was facing Lundin — “I am done being lenient. You’ll give me the name, you’ll give me the address. You want to drive? That what this is about? It’s your car?”
“I don’t need to drive, I wouldn’t know where to go.” The first time I ever heard pleading in Lundin’s voice.
Calder said, “You can ha
ve this seat.”
“Don’t go getting hyper, the windows aren’t tinted.”
“It’s night,” Calder said. “How come you said there were three Council Members you’d duressed?”
“There were three. The last one I wasn’t — ”
Lundin was lying. Calder thought he was anyway — lying about the name or the address, Calder had no clue why. Pride? Stupidity? So Calder reached in to take them. Lundin struggled with the invasion, attempted to ride it into Calder but Calder was traveling so fast that Lundin’s entire body went numb. Calder flipped through Lundin’s recent achievements and found nothing to support or refute the man’s denials. Calder did see Kinkaid, and Briggs, and a funeral service.
Angry, Calder pushed and dug harder and further until, like a drowsy surgeon, he clipped something he shouldn’t have.
Lundin began gurgling. His legs kicked out like a majorette’s. They wouldn’t stop kicking, and his chest pumped in and out like a bellows. His eyes rolled away from each other.
Calder frenziedly tried repairing the cleft but the shorn ends wouldn’t fit; one side was flayed, the other a curlicued pig’s tail. He put an arm across Lundin to keep the man from bouncing out of the seat.
Lundin died. Lundin died like a disappointing holiday: an unorganized parade, a little fireworks, some commotion, and time to leave. Not much of a scene from afar.
None of the valets noticed.
“Motherfucker,” Calder said. Shouldn’t have gone in with such speed. So hard. No patience. I’ve lost my patience. I’ve become a true New Yorker. Maybe Lundin was telling the truth. I should’ve been calm.
Calder felt anything but calm. His heart was speeding up. Skipping beats. I recently ruined a man, he thought, now I’ve killed another. But killed? Murder? I didn’t murder Briggs. Lundin? Manslaughter? Is this manslaughter? Accident is what it was. Manslaughter three? Five? How many fucking degrees of manslaughter are there? Manslaughter ten?
He managed to get his heart rate to match his breathing, then his breathing to match his heart rate. Regularity. Steady.
Manslaughter, he thought. No, accident. No accident? I’ve just killed someone and he’s sitting right next to me.