Shovel Ready: A Novel

by Adam Sternbergh

  Fringed in black.

  Black bubbles. Arriving to carry her upwards.

  To whatever reward awaited her.

  Then a last rude yanking and a gasp and one last watery slash painted on the wide-plank wall, crude calligraphy left by the wet brush of her long hair, never cut, her mother’s pride.

  And now here.

  Dave the doorman. In his sad little epaulets.

  Painting his own wet slashes.

  He long ago stopped spasming.

  Yet these dirty fucking panties still won’t fit all the way in his mouth.

  So she cuts him a wider smile.

  That’s better.

  Something about becoming a mother, she tells herself. That’s what she likes to think.

  Mother’s pride.

  Then she likes to stop thinking, and that helps, for awhile.

  29.

  By the time I get back to Mark Ray’s apartment, there is a body, and a wet swamp of blood, and Mark’s there, and he is crying.

  I’m sorry. I should have been here. I’m sorry.

  Hands me the note.

  A kid’s scrawl. Thumbprints in blood like lipstick kisses in the margins.

  You said you would protect me.

  Persephone’s gone.

  We lock the front door behind us and figure we’ve got at least three days until someone reports the stink.

  Speaking of three days and stink, Harrow’s Crusade is rolling into town.

  In three days.

  Ready or not.

  Back in Hoboken, I read about Rick in the Post.

  Body in a dumpster.

  Tattoos closed the case.

  GANGLAND SPRAY SLAY.

  The Post really needs to find a new synonym.

  Mark Ray doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t curse, but right now, on my sofa, he’s drinking, smoking, and cursing.

  The smoking’s not going so well. He gets through two puffs. Rick’s brand. In memoriam.

  These are fucking gross.

  Stubs it out.

  Pardon my language.

  Swigs a beer. Holds it up to the light.

  So people throw away their whole lives just for this?

  It’s an acquired taste.

  Mark puts the bottle down.

  Okay. What now, mastermind?

  You’re the mastermind, Mark. I’m the muscle.

  Well, we have to find her. That’s first.

  Is it? What for? We haven’t exactly done a bang-up job on her behalf so far.

  Are you kidding? You saved her.

  The only person I really saved her from so far is me. Everyone else, not so much.

  Mark stands up. Paces. Hard to imagine how he ever lies still in a bed. He turns to me.

  So what then? That’s it?

  No. Like you said. Three true outcomes.

  Okay. Well. Giving her to them is not an option anymore. Not that it was.

  No, it wasn’t.

  So that’s out. And without her, we have no prayer of luring Harrow into the dream. Which is fine, because without Rick, we have no prayer of crashing their construct in any case. Unless you know of someone else who you trust who can pull that kind of thing off.

  Not offhand.

  So that part’s out. Which also means I’m more or less useless to you now, because if it comes down to a street fight out here, in the nuts and bolts, realistically, you’re on your own.

  Seems so.

  And I don’t know what you may have in mind, but I can’t see a way for you to pull this off cleanly by yourself.

  Me neither.

  So there you go. There aren’t three outcomes anymore, Spademan. Only two. Maybe not even two. Just one.

  Which is?

  He kills you. He kills her. He kills us all.

  That’s a terrible outcome.

  No kidding.

  Mark slumps back on the leather sofa. Knees bobbing. Can’t sit still. I can tell he wants badly to puzzle this out. I can also tell he can barely wait to tap back in and be rid of this puzzling world. But he won’t abandon me. I like him for that. He also doesn’t have his answer yet.

  But I do. So I tell him.

  You’re wrong, Mark. There are still three outcomes.

  Really? Are you planning on sharing them with me?

  Yes. Three outcomes. He kills me. I kill him. Or both.

  Mark stares me down. Silent for a moment. Then scoffs.

  Sure. Back to the kamikaze plan. Brilliant.

  You said yourself, no way we get close enough to Harrow out here and still get out alive.

  Yes, but you’re missing the most important part of that statement, which is the getting-out-alive part.

  You and I both know she’s out there right now, running. Alone. Thanks to us. Thanks to me. And Harrow won’t stop until he finds her, Mark. You know that. Which he will.

  Spademan, stop it. It’s suicide.

  I shrug.

  You have a better idea?

  Come on. It’s not an option.

  It was for you.

  Here’s the part I can’t explain to Mark.

  It’s been a long time since I needed to do something.

  I’ve done a lot of things, but not out of need.

  And I’ve learned there are a lot of ways, and ugly places, where things can end.

  Backyards. Garbage bags. Subway trains.

  Most people don’t get to choose.

  We don’t discuss it further. Watch football instead.

  While Mark works on acquiring a taste for beer.

  Overtime. Fumble.

  Miami scores.

  I flip the channel.

  Fucking Jets.

  Another note.

  This one hand-delivered.

  Slides under the door like a base-runner stealing home.

  By the time I get the door open, hallway’s empty.

  They just want us to know that they know.

  Note’s from Milgram.

  I believe I mentioned we’d be getting back in touch.

  30.

  Milgram meets me the next day at dawn at the Hoboken waterfront in a stretch limo. Morning air is just cold enough that you can barely see your breath. The sun’s rising across the river, over the city, peeking through the curtain of towers like a shy actress on opening night.

  Lights come up.

  A farmboy, this one in khakis and a button-down, frisks me with impressive inventiveness. Makes certain not a square inch goes unfondled. Finds a few hollows I’d forgotten existed.

  This Harrow fellow. Real hands-on operation. At all levels.

  Farmboy pockets the box-cutter he finds hidden in my boot. Left there more as a test than anything else.

  Milgram dismisses the muscle.

  Just the two of us in the backseat.

  He knocks twice on the dark glass.

  We drive.

  Milgram gestures at Manhattan.

  It’s a bit of a cliché, I know, this meeting in the limo. But it’s quiet, it’s private, and it’s a great way to see the city.

  The skyline passes. Actually, it doesn’t pass. We pass.

  Amazing, isn’t it? After all that’s happened? The city still has a grandeur, don’t you think?

  I tend to favor this side of the river.

  Well, why not? Over there, they have to look at sunset over New Jersey. You get to watch the sun rise over New York. Pastor Harrow doesn’t understand the allure of this city, frankly. Sees it as a cesspool, a kind of new Sodom. But I get it, though. I do. New York. The greatest concentration of human potential in the history of the world. So much so that they had to start piling the people one on top of the other. An island so crowded it had nowhere to go but up.

  Yeah, well, it’s not so crowded anymore.

  I’m amazed you stayed, all these years. After what happened. So many people vacated.

  Not all.

  No. But most. And many of those who stayed simply dropped out of life, holed up in their metal
lic cocoons. Well—look at this woman. That’s curious.

  A jogger huffs up the waterfront, trailing steam clouds, like a locomotive. I’ll admit, it’s a strange sight. I haven’t seen a jogger in years.

  Now that’s hopeful, isn’t it? People out again. Out in their bodies again. That’s what our crusade is all about, Mr Spademan. New York. Reborn.

  I understand you have some other business in the city while you’re here.

  He forges on. A salesman. Knows when to engage. When to ignore.

  It’s an enticing idea, isn’t it? Rebirth. Especially for a man like yourself. What you went through. I would think—well, you know. Memories. Regrets. They can form a toxic cloud of their own. A different kind of fallout, I imagine.

  Milgram’s dressed in a navy suit. Red tie. Perfect knot. A politician’s uniform. He flicks at his lapel, brushing away some blemish only he can see. Wears a lapel pin. A tiny silver cross. Readjusts it. Turns back to me.

  You must wonder from time to time. What if someone’s wife had missed her train? Or what if her teacher had called in sick and the acting class was cancelled? Or—and these are just hypotheticals, mind you—what if her husband calls her back for one more good-bye kiss in the doorway of their apartment? So she sets off five minutes later. These troubling questions of timing—

  Milgram, I’m going to cut you off right there—

  I just mean it can all feel so random, so meaningless. That’s all we try to do, Mr Spademan. Bring meaning to people’s lives. Order.

  Persephone told me what you like to do. For example, to her friend.

  Rachel? Yes. A troubled girl.

  Milgram looks away, out the window, like a shy little boy caught in a lie.

  I like to believe she’s in a better place now.

  I’m sure you like to believe that. Let me interrupt the sales pitch, Milgram. You, me, Harrow, we’re all of us a little bit sick. Some of us sicker than others. And I don’t see a way that any of us are getting out of this alive.

  Well, that’s a very dark view of the world.

  Not dark. Just a view.

  Well, let me offer you an alternate view. We have asked something of you. To give us someone. We’ve made an offer in return, and it’s a good offer, and that offer stands. But let me add one more thing.

  I don’t need a sweetener.

  Hear me out. We have something else we can offer to you. Someone, actually.

  Like I said—

  Do you recall how many people were involved in the attacks that day?

  I never read the papers.

  There were six. That they know of. That they caught or were killed. The two in the van. The two they caught in Brooklyn who helped build the bombs. The one who supposedly left the first bag on the train. And the money man. The elderly one. So that’s six. The Dirty Half-Dozen, as they dubbed them.

  Sure.

  And then of course whoever coordinated those car bombs that came after.

  They never proved those were related.

  All chaos is related, don’t you think? In any case. Our Dirty Half-Dozen. The Times Square bombers. Do you know what always fascinated me about their plan?

  What?

  The precision of it. I mean, you really have to marvel. A subway bomb, then a second one, precisely timed, and then a van that drives down to Times Square all the way from upstate.

  Sure. Very impressive. Gold star.

  But do you truly believe that, in an operation that well-executed, that precise, you’d leave a bag to ride unattended on a train for—what? Half an hour? From borough to borough? Hoping no one spots it? No one gets suspicious? No one sees something, says something, as they used to say?

  I don’t really care about logistics. Especially in hindsight.

  They say the bag with the bomb on the train rode in alone all the way from Brooklyn. Just like your wife, Mr Spademan.

  Your point?

  There was a seventh man.

  That’s bullshit.

  A motorman.

  That’s not true.

  He worked for the MTA. Begged off his shift at the station right before the explosion. A half hour earlier than scheduled. Called ahead. Claimed to be nauseous.

  So?

  So there is one place you could leave a bag and no one would notice. Right at the front of the train. The motorman’s car.

  Sure. But who would—

  You leave the bag, radio ahead, complain that you’re ill. Replacement driver meets you, takes over, spots the bag, figures you left it, figures he’ll drop it off for you at the next stop. But there was no next stop.

  If that’s true, if it’s even half-true, how come no one knows about it? How come the police never tracked this guy down? They put every fucking speck of every person from that day under a magnifying glass. Trust me.

  I don’t know. What I do know, Mr Spademan, is that this motorman is out there. And no one’s asked him these questions yet.

  He puts a hand on my arm. Pale as soap. Perfect manicure.

  We thought you might be interested in asking him yourself.

  Okay, Milgram. But why tell me now? Why not before?

  For most men, the promise of the dream is enough. More than enough. They’ll happily make that bargain.

  Milgram works past his habitual wince to an actual smile.

  We understand that you’re different. Persistent. And ruthless. I must say, I thought we had you cornered. But what you did to the Chinaman? I almost admire it. I’m not even sure how you knew he’d turned.

  You mean Rick? You fuckers killed him. Sent your errand boy Simon.

  Milgram squints, as though I’ve just told him a joke he doesn’t understand. Then continues.

  In any case, Mr Spademan, here is our proposal. You give her to us, we give him to you. I will drop you on his doorstep personally. Hand-delivered. Give you two a little privacy. Maybe you get to put that box-cutter to use after all.

  Milgram’s presentation is over. He’s clearly pleased with himself. Folds his pearly hands in his lap. Leaves me to ponder. We ride in silence while I consider what he’s told me. No real reason to trust him, but then, this is too big a lie to be a lie. He’d never dangle this if he couldn’t deliver. Consequences would be far too grave.

  A seventh man. Out there. Unpunished.

  There’s no way I’ll ever give Milgram anything he wants. But I’ll admit it. I feel it. Temptation, I mean. Years ago, Mark Ray asked me if I’d ever been tempted by religion, and I told him that’s not the kind of temptation I have to worry about.

  The limo’s circled back to my block. Milgram drops me at my door. A considerate date.

  I get out.

  Let me think about it.

  He leans across the expanse of black leather.

  Please do. Pastor Harrow’s in the city this weekend, as you know. He’d be happy to meet with you. In person this time. Assuming we can work something out. You have my card. Until then.

  The limo drives off. I turn to head home.

  On my doorstep, my box-cutter. The one they confiscated.

  Red ribbon tied around it, like a gift.

  31.

  I’m sitting with Mark Ray on the front steps of the library. Watching the lions watch the city.

  This is the first day we met.

  He’s finishing his story. The one about temptation.

  Mark had two friends. Beth and David.

  Beth he’d known since middle school. David since diapers.

  They grew up in the church together. Sunday school. Youth choir. Easter pageant. Wednesday-night volleyball, followed by prayer.

  In their teens, Beth and David started dating. It seemed natural enough. Beth had blossomed into the belle of the congregation. Brunette. Hourglass. David plenty handsome too. Sandy-haired and smiling. They swapped chastity vows and promise rings.

  Perfect couple. A billboard for God’s good bounty, bestowed on those He loves. On those who obey. They looked like Adam and Eve strolling Eden, pre
-serpent.

  Everyone said so.

  Save Mark.

  He couldn’t help himself.

  He was gripped with lust.

  He hoped Bible school would quell it. He got accepted to all of them, and chose the one farthest away.

  At Bible school he walked the ring road on campus with other women, in among the chastely courting couples.

  On your third walk around the ring road, you were allowed to hold hands.

  Still, at night, alone, the lust found him.

  Gripped him.

  He lay in bed after lights-out. Gripped himself.

  Then stopped himself.

  Prayed instead.

  For some kind of release.

  He heard on Facebook that David and Beth had split up. Saw Beth’s status changed to single.

  Started waking up joyful for the first time in months.

  Put in for a job at his old church. Youth pastor.

  The Prodigal returns. A fisher of men.

  His first day back, unpacking books in his new office, Beth and David stopped in to surprise him with a welcome-home basket. Warm socks and hot cocoa. His favorite treat, or so she remembered. He used to clutch hot cups of cocoa on the sidelines when the youth group went ice-skating at the pond. Watching the two of them skate in lazy circles, oblivious to anyone else.

  She didn’t know it had just been something to hold on to. An excuse to sit it out. Hot cocoa, slowly going cold. He always poured it out into a snowbank when it was time to head home.

  They handed him the basket.

  Standing hand in hand.

  Welcome back.

  He smiled.

  We patched things up.

  He smiled wider.

  Great news.

  A smile he’d practiced for years and would eventually perfect.

  He worked with the teens, the youth. Went from Wednesday-night volleyball star to referee. Whistle at his lips. Later led the prayers.

  All the girls formed crushes, naturally. Ray of Sunshine, they called him. Ray of Light. Told him he looked like that guy from the old TV show. The Greatest American Hero.

  I’m no hero, he told them, American or otherwise.

  The older girls liked to sneak up behind him, finger his curls playfully and in mock wonder, until he brushed them off like horseflies, told them to cut it out. They also liked to linger a little too long in the passenger seat of the car when he gave them rides home. Engine idling. Pregnant moment.