Told her to be quiet.
Be a good girl.
Mama will be back soon.
Then sobbed while she and Mark shoved that cupboard in the kitchen into place.
Bare bulb brightens.
Takes a second for her eyes to adjust.
She knows this may well be the last moment of her life. Accepts it almost calmly. Feels weirdly resigned to it.
Because she won’t go on. Not without her. She just won’t.
Not without Hannah.
Her eyes adjust.
And for the rest of her life, Persephone will never be able to quite find the words to describe this moment, even alone, even to herself. She feels at the same time completely empty and completely full, as if something forceful is rushing into her chest while something equally forceful rushes out.
Because Hannah’s here.
And she’s safe.
Sitting patiently in the middle of the concrete floor, all by herself.
Being quiet. In the dark.
A good girl.
And Persephone understands that there are no words yet invented for how this feeling feels.
Scoops her up.
Sweeps Hannah’s curls aside, to keep them clear of the blood and tears and snot that all now trickle freely down Persephone’s face.
Kisses every part of Hannah’s head.
Don’t let anything touch you. Don’t let anything. Ever.
Hugs her closer. Whispers.
Mama’s here.
Then promises. Aloud. To her baby. To herself.
I will never let that happen again.
She’s so overcome that she almost forgets.
Almost turns out the light again and hikes back up the stairs before she remembers she never found that other man.
Or the playpen she left Hannah in.
So she turns back. Holding Hannah.
Checks the darkened corners.
Finds both.
Third man’s slumped in the playpen, like he’s enjoying a siesta.
Head droops at a gruesome angle. Choked and his neck’s broken. Arms tied behind his back with plastic riot cuffs.
Persephone stands alone, holding Hannah. Trying to make sense of what she sees.
She looks around. Still clutching Hannah.
Hannah seems happy. Giggling. And babbling.
Just nonsense.
Until she says one word.
Persephone nearly misses it.
Hannah speaks so rarely that every word comes as a surprise.
But this one’s especially surprising.
Persephone leans in and listens hard in the dark to make sure she heard it right.
Whispers.
What’s that, sweet girl? What did you say?
Hannah says it again.
She heard it right.
A single word. That makes no sense.
Hannah says it again.
Dada.
16.
Simon.
In my home in Hoboken. Sitting on my sofa. Smiling.
Simon the Magician.
Hannah’s dada.
Ta-da.
The last time I saw Simon the Magician was at my social club in Hoboken. We were shaking hands.
Deal with the devil.
Regret it ever since.
Simon agreed to betray his old boss, Harrow, in order to take over Harrow’s empire.
Apparently, that isn’t working out so well for him.
So now he’s here. On my sofa.
Holding Hannah.
Hello Spademan.
Everyone’s back in Hoboken now.
My broken, makeshift family. Safe and sound. That’s what counts.
Or so I keep telling myself.
Persephone’s sitting on a windowsill, smoking, still angry, still shaken, and not really speaking to me. Waves the smoke out the open window like she’s bidding it good-bye.
Mark’s sitting at the dining table, nursing a broken jaw, which was wired shut at the local ER, paid for in cash, to skip all the questions. Ugly bruise the size and shade of an eggplant now spreading over his cheeks. He’s destined for a diet of milkshakes and mumbling, probably for a good six weeks at least.
Hannah’s happy. Hannah’s sitting on her daddy’s lap. Smiling.
Simon’s beaming too. Having played the role of the cavalry. Swept in. Saved his daughter.
And then there’s me.
After I hung up with Mark at the waffle place, Nurse took a rain check, understandably. And not knowing what else to do, I came here to Hoboken. To stew. To feel useless. Wait for word.
All the while thinking.
I should have been there. I should have stayed. It should have been me who saved them.
I should have camped out in a rocking chair on the front porch with my box-cutter in my fist.
Instead I came back here to the city so I could chase down some renegade hopper. Eat oyster bisque with a bureaucrat. Spend the night in a rich man’s bed.
I left.
And Simon saved them.
I should have stayed. But I didn’t.
I left them.
That’s what I did.
Now here we are.
Hello Spademan.
Hello Simon.
He scratches at his curly black beard. A little bushier than when I last saw him. Hair’s bushier too. Like a man who’s been on the road awhile. Let his grooming lapse.
Simon says.
I left her in your protection, Spademan.
I say nothing back. Because I’ve got no good answer for him.
From the windowsill, Persephone speaks up, sharply.
We don’t need you to protect us, Simon.
Simon laughs.
Whatever you say. Either way, it’s just nice to have the family back together.
Turns to me.
Assuming you don’t mind me crashing for a while.
I thought you were busy down South taking over Harrow’s empire, Simon.
Yes, well, I had some issues with the flock. They weren’t quite ready for my brand of leadership.
You don’t say.
My plan hit a snag. Three snags actually.
Persephone pipes up.
Who?
Your sisters.
Persephone, perplexed.
Which ones?
Simon scowls.
All three.
Turns back to me.
Any case, I thought it was an ideal time to regroup. Reconnect with family. Keep an eye on things. Good thing I showed up when I did.
Well, you can’t stay here.
Persephone barks at me from the window.
Of course he can stay. Or we all leave. All three of us.
I look to Mark. He shrugs. Says nothing. Seems happy to have his jaw wired shut.
Simon says.
Don’t worry, Spademan. I’m not staying too long. Just long enough to figure out who tried to kill my family.
They were nutjobs.
Simon frowns.
I don’t think so.
Why not?
These guys had training. Moved in tandem. There’s also this.
Simon pulls out a swatch of gray fabric. Ripped from a coverall. Shows it to me. One word, written in stitched script.
Pushbroom.
Simon asks.
Mean anything to you?
Not really.
Though even as I say that, I remember the card I plucked from Lesser’s doorjamb. Which also said Pushbroom. Don’t mention that to Simon.
Simon stows the swatch. Says to me.
Pushbroom is a security company. Hired sweepers. Work mostly in the limn. But they’ll do work out here, for a price.
And who do they work for?
Whoever pays them.
So who paid them to do this?
Simon smiles.
That’s what I’m going to find out.
He hoists Hannah. Speaks to her in baby talk.
Because no one fucks with my
family, right?
Looks back at me.
Don’t worry, Spademan. I didn’t travel all this way to hang out with you.
Tickles Hannah.
Did I, girl?
Doorbell rings.
I’m not expecting guests. Head to the window and pull back the curtain to take a look outside. Street’s empty save for a single cop car parked just down the block.
Not Jersey cops, though.
NYPD.
Head downstairs to the building’s lobby and find Officer Puchs at my front door.
Tips his cap.
Evening, Spademan.
What the hell are you doing here, Puchs?
Lieutenant Boonce heard about what happened upstate. Wanted us to swing by and check in on you. I’m sure you’re all shaken. But we’re going to stick around, keep an eye on things. We’ll be right out here. Just wanted to let you know.
I glance over at the cop car. Luckner, his partner, sits in the passenger seat. No smile or wave. Just watching.
Turn back to Puchs.
You know we’re in Jersey, right? You two even have jurisdiction out here?
We have a reciprocal agreement with the local authorities. Besides, if push comes to shove—
Puchs smiles.
—we can worry about jurisdiction later.
I glance back at Luckner. Then back at Puchs.
Fine. Thank you. I appreciate it.
He tips his cap again.
Let us know if you need anything. And do send Lieutenant Boonce word when and if you hear anything from Lesser.
Then Puchs turns, looks both ways, and crosses the street back to his car.
I head back upstairs to my apartment. Decide I’ve had enough of being useless in Hoboken. So I’m happy when my phone buzzes and I get Hy’s text. Her message is just a single number.
8.
Figure she’s dug up something on Langland. It’s seven now, which barely gives me time to get to Williamsburg, even by boat.
I step back inside and interrupt the family reunion. Announce to the room.
I have to go out. There are two cops outside keeping watch. You can trust them.
Simon’s wary.
You sure?
I pull a gun from a drawer in the side table by the sofa. Standard-issue cop’s sidearm. I rented it once from a Jersey patrolman and never did give it back. Long story.
Offer the gun to Simon. He waves it off.
That’s okay. I brought my own.
So I offer it to Mark, who grunts from under his jaw wire. Holds his hands up as if to say, Not me.
So I hand the pistol to Persephone. She slips it in her waistband, behind her back, like a pro. Must have picked that up somewhere.
Then she asks.
And just where are you heading off to?
To run an errand.
Okay. Pick up some diaper wipes while you’re out.
Diaper what?
Diaper wipes. We’re almost out.
I make a mental note.
Diaper wipes. Got it.
Say to Simon.
Keep them safe.
Next part’s harder. Don’t want to say it. But I say it.
And thank you.
He grins.
Don’t worry, Spademan. You can always count on me.
17.
Hy hangs out in an abandoned warehouse on an empty street in Williamsburg, which supposedly used to be a brewery once. Street’s dark and the building doesn’t have a name, or a sign, or an official membership policy, but it’s open at all hours and is always occupied. Basically it’s just a huge room with a wide floor covered with sawdust and a bunch of scavenged couches scattered around. And wires. Lots of wires. Thick black wires lying looped over each other like in a snake pit. And there’s so many lit screens everywhere, of all sizes, that it casts everyone inside in a deathly glow. Including me, as I stand in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the darkness.
Building definitely must have been a brewery once. Place still smells like hops. Inside it looks more like an illegal chop shop, though, except not one for cars. For information. All these Netniks, working away with their sleeves rolled up.
Poking around under the hood of the Internet.
It’s not hard to spot Hy, what with the pinstriped zootsuit, which practically glows in the dark. She’s on a couch near the back, with her wingtips up on a milk crate, fiddling with a handheld that’s plugged into a laptop that’s plugged into an old hijacked Internet street terminal, the kind that looks like a screen on top of a steel cactus. Someone must have ripped it out of the sidewalk and dragged it here, just for kicks, like college kids stealing a parking meter for their dorm room.
On the couch beside her, some dude in a backward ballcap is lost in his headphones and tapping on a laptop so old it’s the size of a suitcase. That’s how Netniks like it, apparently.
Vintage.
The more primitive, the better. Computer equivalent of a refurbished jalopy. Proves you’re a better mechanic.
I flag Hy and she motions me over. I sink into the musty couch between her and Headphones. She nods to the laptop screen, which seems to be running something, but nothing I can make any sense of. When I log on to the old Internet, which is not often, I see it like anyone sees it. Just text, a virtual scrolling bazaar for illicit trading, underground bulletins, and chat rooms full of inchoate howling. But what’s scrolling across Hy’s screen right now isn’t English. Looks more like music, except made of numbers.
While she scrolls she asks.
You ever follow up on that motorman?
I got waylaid. It’s on the back burner now.
That info was good shit, Spademan. And not easy to unearth.
I’ve got other things to worry about, Hy.
She points to her screen.
I’m guessing you mean your man Langland. Well, friend, I promise you’re not going to be disappointed at what I found.
Hy does her best to translate the number music, tracing the screen with her finger, while I do my best to pretend like I’m following along.
So this Piers Langland. Big banker. Big money—
That much I know, Hy.
Also DOA last weekend. Dead in his bed.
I know that too.
Big political muckety-muck also. Before his passing, he dropped a lot of cash on this year’s mayoral race. A lot of cash. Want to guess which candidate?
Bellarmine.
Bingo.
Hy likes to do it this way. Parcel the info out slowly. Draw out the drama. She has a showman’s streak. She starts back in.
Here’s another fun fact about your mysterious Mr Langland. He ran a foundation for disadvantaged kids. Also bankrolls a school called the Langland Academy. Posh private school upstate stuck in the woods somewhere south of Albany. Special home for wayward whiz kids. You know, troubled youths with gifts who could use a leg up.
Hy gestures to the assembled Netniks.
This crowd, basically. You want to guess at his prize pupil, Spademan?
This time I have no idea. So I ask her.
Who?
Your missing person. Jonathan Lesser.
At the mention of his name, a few pairs of eyes drift up from their screens to watch us. Lesser’s legendary, apparently. Among the riff-raff anyway.
So wait—Langland knew Lesser?
He more than knew him, Spademan. He was his fucking benefactor. Brought him to Langland Academy on a full scholarship.
Poor kid made good.
Sure, except Lesser never graduated.
Dropped out?
Not exactly.
Hy taps a few times on her touch screen. Numbers dance. She’s hunting for something. While she searches she says.
Remember how, once upon a time, you wanted to find out something on someone, the best place to start was the dumpsters out back of an insurance company or a law firm? You know, where people dumped all the records they were supposed to destroy?
Sure.
She sits up straighter. Squints at her handheld. Then continues.
Well, sometimes the old Internet’s like that too. It’s like the dumpster full of unshredded documents, except for the entire world. Most of it’s encrypted, sure, but you know who they usually hire to encrypt shit like this, before they bury it?
Who, Hy?
She gestures to the room.
Miscreants like us. And we usually make sure to do a job that’s just good enough to get paid, but not so good that we can’t undo it easily in the future. Just takes patience.
Looks at me.
And genius, of course. Patience and genius. A recipe for conquering the world.
Then she’s back to her screen. Still chewing. Still searching. Starts humming. Kind of feels like I’ve been put on hold. So while she rummages, I ponder. Lesser knew Langland, which he failed to mention to me. And Lesser liked to peep on his former benefactor, which he also failed to mention. Which means—what? It might put Langland at the top of the list of suspects in Lesser’s disappearance, except for the inconvenient fact that Langland’s dead.
Hy makes one last dramatic tap on the handheld. Then leans back. Looks triumphant. Points screenward.
Voilà!
Not sure what she’s voilà-ing. Screen looks like gibberish to me.
What am I looking at, Hy?
Your boy Lesser never graduated because he got recruited out of Langland. For some hush-hush mission. By the cops.
How do you know that?
For starters, his school records stop, right here.
She points at gibberish.
But he never officially left Langland. His scholarship was suspended while he went on some sort of hiatus, which I can promise you did not involve backpacking through Europe. And this timeline coincides roughly with Bellarmine’s arrival at the NYPD, post—Times Square, which I’m sure you remember, since it was all pomp and circumstance and hail our new mighty protector.
She jabs the screen with a purple-polished finger.
And check this: That year’s police budget? Included a line-item requisition for funding that was never specified. And never delivered. Not officially.
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