Lay Saints

by Adam Connell

  Lundin’s dead body made a noise. A fart. Calder laughed loudly, the laughing of panic, which again took control of his heart’s rhythm. With much more difficulty, Calder again got his heart rate to match his breathing and his breathing his heart rate.

  Tamm’s in a coma, he thought. Briggs, Briggs, concentrate on Briggs.

  Calder was ashamed. Lundin’s was a wasteful death. He blamed Lundin for lying (convinced himself that Lundin had lied) and blamed Lundin for struggling, and felt less ashamed.

  He manhandled Lundin’s body into the backseat. Tricky when you’re sitting up front. Arranged the body to make it appear the man was asleep.

  Then Calder put both his hands on the steering wheel to fight his heart once more. His knuckles popped and he laughed again.

  One of the downstairs lights in the Council Member’s house turned off.

  Calder got out of the car, glad to be outside. He couldn’t shut the door because of his trembling; eventually it swung closed on its own, but not all the way.

  Calder was still trembling when he went into the house, but he did go into the house.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  I watched the twins periodically throughout the day, more intensely when it turned night.

  Piker stayed with Sotto’s body, in the apartment, in the bedroom. Lifted it onto the bed after the bleeding stopped. Formula 409 was the only cleanser they had, so he used that on the carpet. No paper towels to dry it, only toilet paper.

  Packed a change of clothes for him and his brother, put them in a knapsack. He fell asleep in the bedroom’s only chair.

  Attila had gone Uptown to strand the girl, then back Downtown to a local hardware store. He was afraid of the waif, wanted Piker to escort her, but also didn’t want his brother to know he was scared, so he took her without complaining.

  Later. Attila returned with two shovels and a bag of sundry items.

  Again, I gotta make it seem like they were talking out loud.

  “They had everything you needed?” Piker said.

  “Yep.”

  “And Pal?”

  “Made him forget my leaving with the kid, and coming back. He won’t remember me, the girl, or any shovels.”

  Attila had also purchased turpentine for their window that led to the fire escape and the alley behind the bar. Like many Manhattan apartments, the window was painted shut and wouldn’t budge.

  Attila handed the can to Piker, who refused it.

  “Fuck you,” Piker said. “I been on my knees the last few hours getting his blood out of the floor.”

  “Carpet,” Attila said.

  “What I meant, the floor.”

  “You get it all?”

  Piker pointed at the heap of pink toilet paper.

  Attila said, “Now we got a spot on the carpet, the floor, looks much whiter than the rest.”

  “Who cares?” Piker said.

  “It’s suspicious, first thing anyone sees, they come through the bedroom door, is that area. First thing I saw. We gotta clean the entire carpet, the whole apartment, we really have a fucking housekeeping problem. I bought some Resolve, anyway.”

  “What a fucking hassle, killing someone,” Piker said.

  They sprinkled Resolve on the carpet, waited on the bed with Sotto twenty minutes for it to settle, then vacuumed it with their ancient Oreck that hadn’t seen action for years.

  Later. The turpentine had been on the window’s frame for some time. Attila was smearing the old, adhesive paint with more toilet paper. Thick, oil-based paint. The used wads went into a second knapsack that was bursting with the pink TP from Sotto’s blood.

  “This is my favorite backpack,” Attila said as he filled it.

  “Now? Are you serious? I’ll buy you a Tumi, this is over. Open a fucking window, I’m going stupid from all the fumes,” Piker said.

  It was dark when Attila got the window to open. They both of them had turpentine highs.

  Around here, I watched them consistently. Piker went out first, onto the metal fire escape. Attila pushed Sotto through the open window. As Sotto’s old shirt was stained, he was wearing one of the twins’ shirts, which fit him so tightly it was comical.

  Piker was wearing the first knapsack. Attila, wearing the second knapsack, went next. He reached back through the window for the two shovels.

  “This is a lotta stuff,” Attila said on the grated landing. “What we need, another person to help would help. We could take Pal.”

  “Forget Pal,” Piker said, lifting Sotto onto his right shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

  “Exactly,” Attila said. “We make him forget when it’s done, finished, how we’re gonna make each other forget.”

  “No Pal, no nobody else,” Piker said. He started down the stairs.

  Few windows faced the alley and nobody saw them.

  Once Sotto was in the cab between the twins, and the shovels, and the knapsacks, they told the driver to take them to Mount Zion Cemetery. Maspeth, Queens, on the Manhattan border.

  Same place Kinkaid had buried Ula and Oxford, though the twins couldn’t know. Kinkaid had cleverly hidden them under two fresh graves. The twins weren’t as clever.

  The cabbie didn’t notice Sotto, Sotto’s smell, or the shovels and knapsacks, cause the twins didn’t want him to.

  Forty-five minutes later, they were at the cemetery’s rear entrance on Tyler Avenue.

  The cabbie helped them tumble Sotto over the fence, though the cabbie wouldn’t remember it.

  They pretended to pay him, he was happy, and left.

  Again carrying Sotto over his shoulder, Piker walked a few aisles down, to a section called Path 44 that was empty of residents. Completely empty and virgin.

  Piker dumped Sotto’s body, which landed on its back and gave out a sound like a hard exhale. This gave Piker chills; Attila made fun of him.

  Attila started digging, then they took turns.

  “What else did you buy?” Piker asked during his turn.

  Attila, squatting on the ground, wiping dirt off his jeans, said, “A flashlight. Face masks, you know, biological, case of the smell.”

  “Forget those. Any gloves?”

  “No gloves, why?” Attila said.

  “Because being an irredeemable skinflint you bought the cheapest shovels they had, didn’t you?”

  “I’m gonna get extravagant? We’re burying a body?”

  “Wood’s rough, it’s cutting my fingers.”

  Attila lifted his hands, examined them back and front. “Mine, too.”

  “You couldn’t spring for gloves.”

  “You can’t survive a few cuts? You’re not gonna bleed out.”

  “Cuts mean blood,” Piker said. “Blood’s evidence. So is skin, half my palms been scraped off on these handles.”

  “Fuck off with the complaints and dig.”

  Piker threw his shovel at Attila, missed. “You dig,” he said, climbing out of the small hole. “Your turn.”

  It was extremely dark by then. Attila had purchased the cheapest flashlight in the store, and it didn’t help them much.

  “What is this,” Piker said, aiming the flashlight in his face, “ten watts? Frugal bastard.”

  “I had time for comparison shopping?” Attila said.

  When the narrow grave was about four feet deep, they rolled Sotto inside. He fell down face-first. Amusing, but also rude.

  “Now we undig,” Piker said, throwing dirt on the body.

  Feeling better, feeling more energy with Sotto halfway buried, the twins worked together, shoveling the ground back into the ground.

  Afterwards they stripped off their crusty graveyard clothing and changed into the fresh shirts, pants, and socks from Piker’s knapsack.

  Attila, who was panting like an Iditarod pace dog, said, “How many, do you think?”

  “Many what?”

  “Other bodies, buried here like we did Sotto. Unannounced.”

  “Got to be more than a few.”

  At least two o
thers. Ula and Oxford.

  Piker put their soiled clothing in the knapsack. Attila added the flashlight. Then they walked over the grave, pressing the dirt down, taking small steps, looking like Chinese women have their feet bound. The Golden Lily feet, so small.

  “Let’s do it here,” Attila said.

  “That’s a great idea. Then we’ll be standing over the grave, wondering, Who the fuck’d we just bury? The hell we doing in a cemetery at night? That would be wonderful. We’ll be so goddam curious, we’d dig up Sotto just to see who it was. Calder? Kinkaid?”

  “We didn’t need Kinkaid for this, for Sotto,” Attila said. “Maybe we don’t need him.”

  “I don’t wanna be running the bar. You gonna be running the bar?” Piker said.

  “No. What I’m saying, before, I don’t want this information in my head longer than necessary.”

  “Well it’s necessary we get to a hotel first, shower, get rid of all this junk. Safety first. Knapsacks, shovels. Where are the fucking shovels?”

  Since Attila had prematurely packed the flashlight, Piker couldn’t see them. There was no moon. And because the weak flashlight had been off and on and off and on, Piker’s eyes never adjusted to the blackness.

  “Help me look,” Piker said.

  “Screw the shovels. My arms are jelly. I’m not sure I’ll make it back over the wall.”

  “Can’t leave them.”

  “I’m leaving mine, you take yours, you want,” Attila said.

  “They’re evidence,” Piker said.

  “What, cause you got a few baby cuts? Are our prints in any system? DNA? Fuck the shovels, Pike, let’s go. They’ll assume the shovels are theirs, anyway.”

  “We’ll be suspects,” Piker said.

  “Should’ve buried the shovels with Sotto,” Attila said.

  “Cause that makes perfect logical sense.”

  “I guess. Look, no one’s buried anywhere near here. They won’t find Sotto for months, not until they start using this part. Years. The place is huge.” He wiped his dirty hands on his clean jeans.

  Piker said, “Don’t do that. Wipe your hands on the dirty clothes.”

  “They’re already zippered up,” Attila said. “Say he’s found. You think we can’t massage the police? They come looking?”

  “Fine,” Piker said.

  They climbed the wall, got a taxi back into Manhattan.

  In the taxi. Attila: “You sure a hotel’s the best idea? Being suspects and all.”

  Piker said, “Our room smells like a chemical factory. Did we remember to leave the window open?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Firstly. Secondly, a man died in that room today. Spent some time on our bed. I’m not so sure I could sleep on it tonight. It won’t be suspicious, any hotel. There’s days we’re not there. Weeks Sotto isn’t.”

  “Nan, shit, she gave us till six,” Attila said. “It’s well past six.”

  “You’re worried about Nan. She’s the least of your worries,” Piker said.

  “She gave us a deadline.”

  “Nan we can fix. And those notes she threatened, she hid? Are we that feeble we won’t find them, and immediately?”

  “No,” Attila said. “Kinkaid?”

  “We done enough for Kinkaid,” Piker said.

  “That wasn’t the deal we struck. He needs us to help take Faraday.”

  “If he can’t take Faraday with the help we already gave, then he’s no boss, is he? We’re staying in a hotel. Five, seven days at least.”

  Outside the St. James Hotel by Times Square, they chucked the knapsacks into a garbage can, went inside, booked a room, showered together, then wiped most of the day from each other’s minds.

  Rook is right, no one goes to a hotel in their own town unless they’ve got something to hide. Except at this point the twins had nothing to hide, were hiding nothing. Not from each other or from anyone else.

  Sotto? I don’t know. You, Piker?

  Not me. What do you mean, missing? We’ve been out on a job.

  back to top

  SIXTY-SIX

  Sunday, Matins: 1st Nocturne

  Normally on a Sunday night Tattletail would be open, but she was closed. Iommi was shooing customers from the entrance.

  Calder was way across the street on Amsterdam Avenue. Lundin’s car was parked in front of a hydrant, the only space Calder could find. Calder was leaning across the Coronet’s warm hood. He kept his profile low in the dark, but he was chain-smoking a pack of Marlboro Reds he’d bought on the way up from Queens.

  He’d waited in the parked car for hours — no police, no hydrant tickets, engine humming — with Lundin curled in the backseat because Calder couldn’t figure out or didn’t want to contemplate a way to rid himself of the body. When it began to acquire an aroma and made progressively louder bog sounds, there was no choice but to open the back door and dump him in the trunk which was full of crap — small items he’d stolen on previous jobs, the painting he’d taken from Adelard’s home ten days ago (remember?) and the paint can full of rainwater. Lundin’s dead body fell through the painting and tipped the can over.

  Trailing that the Coronet seemed like a tomb to Calder so he turned her off, waited outside and smoked.

  There was simply nowhere else he could search out Kinkaid. He had no idea where the man lived, if he had family in the city. Tamm and Briggs were beyond interrogation, and Kinkaid was the last one at the third Council Member’s home. That left Kinkaid’s hangout, and it was closed but for a giant breathing shadow nodding customers away.

  Two hours, eight cigarettes, and one public urination later, Kinkaid arrived. Iommi opened and held the doors for him. Calder phoned Rook at the bar but he wasn’t in. Calder had no way of being positive Rook would ever get the message he’d left with Pal. (Phoned the bar from another pay phone. He’d walked around for half an hour finding it, they’re so scarce.)

  Calder had destroyed someone that morning. By evening he’d accidentally killed another. There was a trend that he was aware of, and he wasn’t afraid of it. This scared him. He felt no remorse over Lundin’s death, and no remorse about feeling no remorse. This, more than anything, the absence of all remorse, terrified him.

  Outside the Council Member’s home Calder had blamed Lundin’s death on Lundin. He’d since changed his mind about that: now he blamed the city.

  Leaning on the hood, chain-smoking like he was Ali Jinnah.

  Tamm, Calder thought. Briggs and Lundin. The fuck am I doing here? Do I care about the Int so much? Could I ever work for any of these men? It isn’t — Is this so much better than the traveling? I don’t — Do I need this kind of company?

  Lundin’s body made another noise, loud enough to be heard through the trunk. It’s like the fucker’s answering me, Calder thought, went around to the trunk, opening it quietly to make sure that Lundin was dead. He was. Calder closed the lid just as quietly.

  Half an hour later Faraday walked past Calder towards Tattletail. Didn’t say a word, merely grimaced at him and crossed the street. Iommi didn’t let him in, wouldn’t open the glass doors. Faraday hung his head, turned to leave, turned again and crashed through the thin glass. Spinning to his left, Faraday kicked Iommi’s knees out — both of them, incredible — and went inside. Across the street Calder heard the whipcrack of joints disjointing.

  Calder smoked another cigarette to give Rook five minutes more. If Rook didn’t show, Faraday and Kinkaid had that five minutes to compromise or be grappling on the floor.

  Then, after stubbing his cigarette into the Coronet’s hood, Calder decided another five minutes and he’d go in.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Sunday, Matins: 1st Nocturne

  Faraday was bleeding from the glass in his face and arms. Not his lips so much but his face, yes. Blood had gathered under his hollow eyes but he didn’t notice. Or didn’t wipe them because who looks dangerous wiping their eyes?

  He was standing on the club’s main floor, fists on the two t
ables either side of him, head tilted up at Kinkaid who was on the Winged Lady’s stage but down on his haunches like an imp.

  Kinkaid hadn’t spoken to the twins in days. After the beating, seeing the state of Faraday, Kink found himself some hubris. Decided, what with The Nine on his side, the twins had become unnecessary. What he hadn’t figured out yet was the best way to betray them. As was his trend. Annex the bar, drive them from it? Implant at the bar some of The Nine?

  “You’ll be very unhappy,” Faraday said. “That’s what your coup will bring you. Sadness. Being pharaoh, for people like you.”

  “You were so depressed where I am,” Kinkaid said.

  “There’s nobody left for your disloyalty.”

  “I’ve got more. And there’s always friends to be made and hurt,” Kinkaid said. “Taken advantage of.”

  “What, hacks?”

  “There’s no more management for you,” Kinkaid said with a smile. “Edicts aren’t edicts if there’s no one listening.”

  “I have my followers,” Faraday said.

  “But they won’t have you anymore. Your tenses are wrong, there’s nobody in your care.”

  “I’ve won back The Nine.”

  “A fucking lie,” Kinkaid said with a good deal of spittle.

  “Only now there’s four. I had to kill five in the convincing.”

  “You are a terrible fucking liar,” Kinkaid said.

  “I’m no good at it cause I never had to be,” Faraday said. “You’re the profound liar.”

  Kinkaid rose but stopped short of standing. “Because you’re lying,” he said, “to your Tattletail’s new owner, to your wife’s new husband, to — ”

  “She’s dead,” Faraday said.

  “Sure she is. To your men’s new leader. The cream of your memories are riding the bus with your brother and Dad. The brightest parts, the laughs, your breakfasts at truck stops. His attention. I’ll skim that cream.”

  Before Kinkaid finished his sentence, they were gone from Faraday.

  Kinkaid said, “All you have now are the cold nights without heat, days behind schedule, no stopping for food, the breakdowns and the awkward passengers. Wanna lose more? Let me steal the favorite parts of your life?”