Shovel Ready: A Novel

by Adam Sternbergh

  Nothing happened.

  He was pure. An excellent pastor.

  He’d drop them off and drive home alone. Stay up late reading in the lamplight. But it always found him.

  Home, at school, back home, it didn’t matter.

  Gripped with lust.

  He turned out the lamp.

  One day Beth and David stopped back at his office.

  Hand in hand.

  Good news. We got engaged.

  Later, alone, David asked Mark to be the best man.

  He said he’d be honored, of course.

  I wouldn’t think of asking anyone else.

  You’re a lucky man. She’s a catch.

  A year later they stopped by his office again.

  He looked up from his lesson plan. The story of Bathsheba.

  What now? Pregnant?

  No smiles. Beth’s eyes red.

  We need to ask your advice.

  By all means. Have a seat.

  David was considering a missions trip to Mexico.

  Mark grimaced. The only news from that region was of drug tensions and body counts. Both rising.

  Not the safest spot on the globe.

  David nods.

  You go where you’re called to go.

  Beth speaks up.

  We’re also talking about starting a family.

  I see.

  David shrugs.

  But that means if I’m ever going to go on a missions trip, the time is now. And it’s only a year.

  She swats him.

  Only?

  Smiling. But nervous. Sick over this.

  She’s grown into such a beautiful woman.

  Mark clicks his pen.

  Recalls school. The nights, mostly.

  Clicks the pen again. Clickety-click.

  Embossed on the side of the pen: the cross.

  The old rugged cross.

  Clickety-click.

  Puts the pen down.

  Looks David square in the eye.

  Best friends since childhood.

  Go.

  Mark leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Hands gripped to whiteness.

  Watching the lions. Watching New York. Where he wound up.

  Confessing to a stranger on cold stone steps.

  David never even made it to the guesthouse. The flight hit bad weather, got delayed, arrived past dark. They decided to risk it, which was stupid, of course. The stubborn gumption of the faithful, as my grandfather liked to say. Hit a road block. No doubt he tried to convert them, even to the end.

  I’m sorry.

  It’s not a story about temptation at all. Don’t you see? Not about lust, or love, but punishment. God’s wrath. How it follows you. When the Lord is displeased.

  He rubbed his hands like he was trying, and failing, to get warm.

  Said it like something he’d only just remembered.

  But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.

  Sounds to me like you’re mostly punishing yourself.

  Look at me. Playing shrink.

  Well, if that’s true, I’m doing a terrible job. That’s why I called you. Failed even at that.

  So what happened with her?

  Beth? She was crushed, of course. Broken, really. Inconsolable.

  You didn’t try? To comfort her?

  No. I couldn’t even look at her. Not after that. So I ran.

  But you loved her.

  He looked at me.

  Not her. Him.

  32.

  I pull off the red ribbon, pocket the box-cutter, but don’t head inside. Not yet.

  There’s a place in Hoboken where I like to go to when I need a moment to think. The door says SOCIAL CLUB, but really it’s just a bunch of old guys playing cards who know how to make you feel unwelcome. My first visit, they shunned me like they were Amish farmers and I was selling electric razors door-to-door. By visit three, I was getting good at shooting my own withering looks at any hapless strays who happened to stumble in. It’s the kind of place where an espresso appears at your elbow without asking and fistfights break out over checkers. Just try opening up a chess board, you’ll get cuffed upside your brainiac noodle.

  So after Milgram drops me off, I decide to make a detour.

  Sit a bit and think about that motorman.

  Espresso appears. Without asking.

  I nod a thank-you to the waiter.

  He nods back.

  Puts down a second cup.

  I’ve never told anyone about this place, not Mark, not Rick, not anyone, so imagine my surprise when Simon the Magician pulls out the chair opposite mine.

  Chair legs scrape the tile floor with a squeal.

  Canasta players frown.

  Simon the Magician.

  Ta-da.

  He sits down, folds his hands in front of him, and sighs, like he’s come to break up with me. Then he opens his hands.

  You want to go somewhere, get something to eat? Maybe pancakes?

  I’m more of a waffle man.

  Of course. Well then, let me cut right to it. I know you just met with Milgram. I know what he offered you.

  Okay.

  Let me offer something better.

  I’m all ears.

  You keep the girl. I give you Harrow.

  I lean in, so as to not be overheard.

  To be truthful, given what you did to my friend, I’m inclined to just come across this table right now and cut your face and keep cutting until I hit something hard.

  He scratches at his beard.

  Ah yes. Your friend. Ugly but necessary.

  Really? Why’s that?

  He gestures between us, like now we’re connected.

  You have him, you don’t need me. Now you need me.

  Maybe we should continue this discussion outside.

  We can do that, sure. But we tried that once and I don’t remember it ending too well for you.

  That was a dream. This is the nuts-and-bolts world. I do better out here.

  Simon watches me. His fingertips drumroll the tabletop.

  Spademan, let me invite you to take the long view for once. Your gizmo buddy is dead. Respiratory issues.

  Don’t be cute.

  In any case. He’s gone on to his earthly reward. Without him, your whole plan falls apart. You still want Harrow, but you know you won’t get within fifty yards of him with anything like a weapon in your hand. And he still wants the girl, and he still has me, and I’m still very good at my job.

  He pauses, rubs his palms together, like he’s considering whether or not to betray a confidence. Then he leans in. Voice low.

  But this is where I can help you. Or I can get up right now and disappear from your life. At least temporarily. Your call.

  Leans back. Having finished his pitch.

  I shrug.

  Truth is, Simon, you’re too late. She already bolted. Right after you sent one of your cronies to kill her.

  My crony?

  Sure. Turncoat doorman. He’s uptown right now, doing the backstroke in his own blood. Her work, not mine.

  Simon grins.

  Backstroke, huh?

  Maybe more of a dead man’s float.

  Simon pats his pockets. While he does this he says:

  But I thought you were supposed to protect her, Spademan.

  Yeah, well, so did she.

  He pulls a cellphone from his pocket.

  Lucky for you, I can help you with that too.

  Tosses the phone on the table. Phone spins like spin-the-bottle. Stops at me.

  I watch him. He seems like that rare, enviable man completely content in the world. I feel an angry urge welling up to toss the table aside, I could be on him in a second, I’d have a moment or two to leave a permanent mark before he recovered. After that, it would just be animal time, two dumb beasts clawing. No one here would say a word, let alone intervene. These old men have seen worse and kept silent. That’s how they all lived to be so old.

  But then I think of Mar
k and temptation. The sword devours one as well as another.

  Then I think of Persephone.

  And I ask what I shouldn’t ask.

  So what will it cost?

  Simon’s grin upgraded to a smile.

  What does anything cost?

  He names his price and just like that, we’re just two merchants haggling, over spices, over fabrics, over slaves, a scene as old as the world.

  I have a nest egg. His price isn’t the whole thing, but close enough.

  I have to ask him one more thing, though.

  What about the motorman?

  He pauses. Considers.

  What about him?

  For starters, does he exist?

  Sure. Best as I know.

  Where do I find him?

  Simon looks me over. Wonders if this is a deal-breaker. I wonder the same thing.

  Settle down, chief. One deal at a time.

  I want a name, Simon.

  Forget that. This isn’t about that. This is about this.

  And if there is a time to leave, draw a line, take a stand, this is it. I don’t. Instead I say:

  How do I know I can trust you?

  He holds his hands out.

  Nothing up my sleeve.

  What you did. I don’t forgive you.

  I don’t expect that you would.

  Last question. Why?

  You familiar with the term simony?

  No. I do know Judas, though.

  He sips his coffee.

  Well, then, you get the drift.

  Black Judas.

  Says to me:

  Do you remember that old game show where they put someone in a plastic booth, turn the fans on, and dollar bills start swirling? You had to grab all the money you could?

  Sure.

  I always thought that would be a much more interesting game if they put two people in the booth. Let them fight it out.

  He backs his chair up.

  More like life.

  He stands.

  Also, Harrow is old. And his empire is vast. And, like nature, I also abhor a vacuum.

  He reaches out his hand. No more wrecking ball of bone. Just a hand.

  I want to say deal with the devil, and it is, but that’s not all it is.

  Dumb luck.

  Sometimes you have to hope it comes when you need it.

  We shake.

  Okay, Simon. Now how do I find her?

  Simon points to the phone.

  First number on speed-dial.

  And why on earth do you think Persephone would answer a phone call from you?

  Trust me. She’ll pick up.

  33.

  This time, she finds me.

  I get back to my apartment and she’s already there waiting, dressed in her hoodie, Docs laced over sweatpants, like a soldier.

  Chatting with Mark.

  Seems happy to see me.

  Hey.

  Hey. You came back.

  Yep. And I brought friends.

  Eight mangy stragglers, refugees from the camps. Hard to tell the boys from the girls. Too much grime and everyone’s got dreadlocks.

  I hate dreadlocks.

  I spot the one guy with the sliced-up forehead. I guess he and Persephone patched things up.

  They’re all hungry, too, siege-starved, haven’t eaten in a week. Spent the last of their energy dodging nightsticks and paddy wagons. Tossed every trash can they passed for food on their way here, found nothing.

  There aren’t a lot of pedestrians in the city anymore. So no trash.

  No real use for garbagemen.

  I order a tower of pizzas from the one place in Hoboken that still delivers. Hurricanes, blackouts, bombs spewing toxic waste, you call their number, they never don’t answer. I like that.

  Fresh and hot in twenty minutes.

  Plus, the name of the joint is the Last Slice.

  I like that too.

  My kind of place.

  While we’re waiting, one hungry kid wanders off and starts rooting through my barren fridge. Finds nothing but bottled water and waffle batter.

  So he opens the freezer.

  Just a Ziploc.

  Takes it out. Shakes it. Thinks maybe he’s found my secret stash.

  Which he has, sort of.

  Gropes the baggie. Squeezes the paper-wrapped package. Feels four stiff cylinders.

  Smiles.

  Dude. This is some serious spliffage.

  I take the Ziploc from him. Politely. Place it back inside the freezer.

  Trust me. It’s too much for you.

  Bummer.

  Close the freezer door sharply while his hand still lingers on the opening.

  He snatches his hand away.

  I give him a smile of my own.

  Tell him.

  Watch your fingers.

  Eighteen minutes later. Doorbell.

  Pizza’s here.

  They have a kind of party, finish off the last of Mark’s beer.

  I sit with Persephone.

  I was worried.

  I’m okay.

  Don’t run away.

  Don’t leave me alone.

  Fair enough.

  We sit a minute more, wait for the city to make the next sound.

  Then she says:

  So you met Simon.

  In the flesh.

  And he’ll help us?

  We’ll see.

  She reaches out, rubs my arm.

  I heard about Rick. I’m sorry.

  Thank you.

  If he’s out, does that mean we’re screwed?

  Maybe. Maybe not. I may have found us a replacement.

  Okay. So what’s next?

  Honestly, that’s between me and your father.

  She pulls her hand back.

  Not exactly. I had a day to think about it. Which I did.

  And?

  And I have an idea.

  Good. Me too.

  She looks at me. All business.

  I’m pretty sure you’ll like my idea better.

  Mark and Persephone escort the gang of carcasses out for a field trip to the riverfront. Fresh air. Sunshine. I tell Mark to maybe throw a few in, for a bath.

  Truth be told, I’d asked for privacy. Miracle of miracles, I got it.

  I finger the business card.

  Then call Milgram.

  She wants to talk to him first. Alone.

  Naturally.

  Not here. In there.

  Why?

  She’s scared. Understandably. This way is more comfortable for her. She needs to clear the air.

  We can arrange that. Not a problem.

  And I want to meet with him. In person. To hand her over.

  Of course.

  And I want the motorman.

  He will be delivered to you. After you deliver her to us. Understood?

  Yes. I’ll deliver her.

  I hang up. Turn to Mina.

  White cross of bandage on her forehead.

  Red cross, etched in blood, seeping through.

  Black cross, underneath, stitched in sutures.

  You sure you can do this?

  Look. I was his girl, not his fucking apprentice. But I do know my way around a bed. And I am plenty fucking motivated, I will tell you that.

  I hope so.

  If I wasn’t, would I have tracked your ass all the way here? To fucking New Jersey?

  Skinny Mina. Mina saves the day. Maybe.

  Mina Machina.

  34.

  Sunday.

  New York Reborn.

  Madison Square Garden jammed to the rafters, if it still had rafters anymore.

  A gospel choir kicks it off. A thunderstorm of tambourines. Across the stadium, fifty thousand hands clap in unison.

  Then a warm-up sermon. Opening slot. Light the fire, stoke the brimstone. Local preacher, made good.

  Then T. K. Harrow appears.

  Angelic. Faintly glowing.

  Waves left. Waves right.
/>   Hosannas rain down.

  His image wobbles a little, then corrects.

  He smiles.

  Hologram.

  Most know. Few care.

  All cheer.

  I’m down in the financial district, back at that same abandoned bank. Hike the stone steps and enter. My footfalls echo in the lobby. Farmboy heads me off at the pass.

  Farmboy is just as good at frisking as I remember. Finds the box-cutter in my boot and a pistol besides.

  My gun. I finally dug it up.

  He confiscates both.

  Ushers me in.

  In Chinatown, Mina in darkness hovers over two beds. Mark in one, Persephone in the other, side by side, like a blood transfusion about to begin.

  Tubes and wires strung in between. Mina lit by the blue glow of her laptop. Whole thing rigged like she’s trying to jumpstart a car that’s been dead for a century.

  Margo the nurse sits behind her, smoking.

  You sure you can do this?

  Mina, cranky.

  You worry about the vital signs. This part I got.

  Mark and Persephone already gone into the limnosphere. Eyeballs shiver under closed lids. Off to see the wizard.

  Mina, crankier.

  This chick is pregnant, you know.

  I know.

  So you shouldn’t smoke.

  Margo blows fumes out her nose like a bull about to charge.

  Don’t worry. It’s okay. I’m a nurse.

  In the dream.

  Persephone, alone.

  Barefoot.

  She’s dressed in her baptismal dress. Father’s favorite. Floral pattern. Matches the pastures that stretch out on either side of the path before her.

  The cobblestones cool underfoot.

  Radiant.

  Catch the sun and amplify it back at her.

  She squints.

  Wow, he wasn’t kidding.

  Paved with gold.

  Milgram greets me with a handshake like I’m here to apply for a loan.

  His smile tells me I’m not going to get it.

  Mr Harrow will be with us shortly. He’s just finishing up his meeting. With her. Hopefully all will go well.

  No worries. I can wait. Between here, heaven, and Madison Square Garden, Mr Harrow is a busy man today.

  The frisking farmboy is joined by three more farmboys. Muscles bulge under shirts. Guns bulge under jackets. They form a loose semicircle around me and Milgram, like he’s the cowboy and I’m a skittish calf that might bolt. The frisking farmboy hovers directly behind me like he’s daydreaming of all the different parts of me he could break, once he’s given the go-ahead.