Nelson reached for the hot sauce. He poured it on until his burrito looked like it had been shot in the line of duty. “Why the new moon?” he said.
“We don’t know. Maybe Babylon is a reverse werewolf. He only turns when there’s no moon.”
Nelson stopped with the burrito halfway to his mouth. “Is that a real thing?”
“No,” said Bayliss, looking away. “I just made it up.”
Nelson set down the burrito and took a pull from his crucifix. An old woman crossed herself when she saw him. “Nice one,” he said to Bayliss. “That was really passive-aggressive. You just might make an agent yet.”
“I am an agent,” she said.
Nelson cocked his head. “You sure? I thought you were assigned to get me drinks so I didn’t have to stop being so amazing at my job.”
Bayliss picked a few more bites of eggs from the burrito and gave up. “If you’re so great, how is it you don’t know why Babylon wants the box?”
“Who said I don’t? He wants it for the same reason we do. It’s important. Only he doesn’t know what’s inside, which makes it one more reason we have to get it. The idiot might open it.”
“What’s in the box?” said Bayliss.
Nelson shook his head. “That’s classified.”
“I have level nine clearance, you know,” Bayliss said.
“Really? No one tells me anything.”
“So what’s in it?”
“What’s in what?”
Bayliss shook her head. She wadded up her burrito and napkins and threw them in an overflowing trash can. “I don’t know why we don’t just get the box ourselves.”
Nelson picked up his burrito and pointed it at her. “That’s how I know you don’t have level nine clearance. Any level nine would know that it’s way better to leave strangers’ fingerprints at a scene when you’re obtaining evidence by extralegal means. It’s also more fun.”
“You just don’t want protecting the world to eat into your precious drinking time.”
“And just like that, you’re back on the top-secret list. Keep up the good work, rookie.”
“Oh, no,” said Bayliss. “I’ve taken every kind of shit from you, but I won’t put up with that word.”
Nelson held up his burrito in what Bayliss took as a sign of truce. “I understand,” he said. “Woolrich used to call me that when I started.”
“Back when dinosaurs walked the Earth?”
“Two passive-aggressives in two minutes. You’re on a roll,” Nelson said.
“That was actually straight-up aggression.”
“I stand corrected.”
As Nelson worked diligently on his burrito, Bayliss sat quietly thinking. “What if Cooper or Morton opens the box?” she said.
“It makes our jobs easier. We just sit back, relax, and kiss our asses good-bye,” said Nelson brightly.
Bayliss turned her head around as far as it would go, then gave up. “I don’t think you can both sit back and kiss your own ass.”
“Three knives in the back. A hat trick,” said Nelson. He set down his burrito and clapped.
“What do I get?” asked Bayliss.
“You get to fall on the sword. If anyone asks, you punched Woolrich downstairs.”
Bayliss sat back in her seat. “You’d tell him that, wouldn’t you?”
Nelson shrugged, wiped burrito ichor from his fingers. “Probably. Maybe. I don’t really know what I’m going to do moment to moment,” he said.
Bayliss pursed her lips and looked out the window. She longed for Cooper to open the box. Anything was better than this.
“How’s the food?” said a woman in red. Bayliss turned quickly to face her. It was strange having someone appear by her side so suddenly. The DOPS had trained her specifically to notice person-size objects looming up beside her. But here was this one, all in red—dress, nails, and shoes—asking about the local cuisine. “I think the cook is on suicide watch,” she said.
“That good?” said the woman in red, giving her a crooked smile.
The woman looked vaguely familiar, like a face she might have glimpsed for a second coming out of a movie theater or bookstore. Her eyes were dark and she had her long black hair tied back in a ponytail.
“If you want to know about the food, you should really ask him,” said Bayliss, hooking a thumb at Nelson. “I get the feeling he’s a regular.”
“I would ask him, but he can’t see me. No one can except you,” said the woman. “Just like no one else is noticing us talk.”
Bayliss stared at the woman for a moment, then at Nelson. He continued eating his burrito, taking big bites like he was afraid if he slowed for a second the burrito might bolt for the door—which, she thought, was a distinct possibility. His head was tilted slightly down, looking at the food. But not at us, thought Bayliss. She reached across the table and waved a hand in front of his face. Nelson stared right through her. She turned back to the woman in red. “Who are you?”
“Giselle Petersen,” the woman said. She held out her hand and Bayliss shook it. “I work for DOPS, too. Up on fifteen. We’re kind of a whoever-needs-us-the-most-right-now department.”
Bayliss picked up a plastic fork from the table and stabbed the side of Nelson’s burrito. He kept on eating, the fork protruding from the side like a diving board for the vermin Bayliss was certain lurked everywhere in the restaurant just out of sight. Then something occurred to her and she turned to Giselle. “Wait. The fifteenth floor?” she said and then whispered, “Are you a Marilyn?”
“Born and raised,” said Giselle. “And you don’t have to whisper. No one can hear us.”
“Wow. I’ve never met a Marilyn before,” Bayliss said.
“Yeah, well, you kind of have. Me. But I was fogging your brain most of the time. It’s nothing personal. We just sometimes shadow new people in the department. Check them out for the big brains on the top floor.”
“Uh. Okay.”
“Don’t worry. I told them you were aces.”
Bayliss didn’t say anything. She knew she should be pissed at someone who had just admitted to screwing with her senses, and maybe even her memory, but all she could do was smile. “Thanks,” she said. Then, “So we’re invisible to everyone in here right now?”
“You got it,” said Giselle. She pulled up a plastic seat from the next table and sat down.
Bayliss looked around the restaurant and yelled, “The food here sucks!” at the top of her lungs, then turned quickly back to the table and ducked her head, trying to make herself small and inconspicuous.
After a moment, Giselle said, “You okay over there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Good. Because scrunched down like that, you look like a turtle having a nervous breakdown.”
When no one looked her way, Bayliss reached across the table and moved Nelson’s cup of horchata to her side. He reached for where it had been, cupped empty air, and brought it to his mouth, drinking nothing.
“This is wild,” said Bayliss. “I could do this all day.”
“Apparently,” said Giselle.
“Right. Sorry. Wait. How did you know where we’d be? Did you follow us here?”
“Sort of,” she said, taking the horchata and sliding it across the table to where Nelson could get it. “I was in the backseat of Nelson’s car on the ride over.”
“You’ve been here this whole time? Why?”
Giselle looked around and took a paper tray of fried plantain chips off a table occupied by a dreadlocked skate punk. He didn’t bat an eye. “I like to get to know who I might be working with.”
Bayliss nodded. “You wanted a look at Sir Pukesalot over there. I don’t blame you. He must have some kind of rep in the department by now.”
“Nelson I know,” said Giselle. “I was spying on you.”
“Wait. I thought you said you already checked me out.”
Giselle bit into a plantain chip, holding up a finger until she’d crunched the thing up enough to swallow. “I’d s
een enough of you to know you weren’t Mata Hari. But I wanted to see how you were in a partner situation.”
Bayliss crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “Yeah? So, how did I do?”
Giselle pushed the chips forward until Bayliss could reach them. She said, “You haven’t shot Nelson yet, so I’d say you were doing fine.”
Bayliss took a chip, stopped, and dropped her hand on the table. “But I think about it every day. Does that count?”
“Only if you kill him. A leg or an arm wound, I think everyone would understand.”
Bayliss wanted a drink. She picked up Nelson’s horchata and took a sip, setting it down in front of her. Again, Giselle moved it back across the table to where it had been.
“It might be better if he didn’t know I was here today, so let’s keep things close to how they were. Okay?”
“Right,” said Bayliss. “Don’t want him having a stroke when he comes to his senses. Well, I do, but he’s my ride, so maybe not today.”
Giselle reached over and took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the punk kid’s pocket. She tapped a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and slid the pack and lighter back where she’d found them. “You have any questions for me?” said Giselle.
Bayliss thought for a minute. “I know I should, but I’m a little overwhelmed. I wasn’t even sure Marilyns were real or just another DOPS rumor . . . like aliens in the basement.”
“Yes,” said Giselle, looking away. “Rumors.” She puffed the cigarette, crossed her legs, and relaxed back against the chair. “Look, I know as far as introductions go, this is a strange one. But the next time we meet will be a lot more normal now that we’ve had a chance to chat without the department or Prince Charming over there breathing down our necks.”
“So, this isn’t an official visit?” said Bayliss. The cigarette smoke made her want to sneeze, but she didn’t want to in front of Giselle. The other woman seemed to have so much on the ball that Bayliss figured that she should at least be able to breathe right. She rubbed her nose with her index finger and smiled weakly.
“Sorry,” said Giselle. She dropped the cigarette and crushed it under her heel. “That was rude. I’m trying to quit, but it just makes me want them even more.” She waved a hand in the air to disperse the smoke. Bayliss took a plantain chip. It was good. A lot better than the burrito, though a dishrag full of frijoles would be better than the burrito, she thought. She took another plantain.
“So, are we going to be working together or something?” she said.
Giselle shrugged. “That all depends on the powers that be. But there’s an Abaddon cult kicking up a fuss. The big brains might want someone to check them out.”
“Great. I’ll read up on them.”
“No, you won’t. Not yet. You’ve never heard of them. Or me. I just stepped outside for a smoke and you’re having lunch with your partner and no one knows anything about anything. Comprende?”
“Got it,” said Bayliss. “So what happens now? Are you going to disappear in a puff of smoke and wipe my memory?”
“No. Nothing like that,” said Giselle. She and Bayliss looked at Nelson. He’d finished his burrito, but didn’t seem to know it. He was chewing empty air, wiping his mouth with a fistful of napkins. “I’m just going to keep Cary Grant and these other lovely people from knowing anything. If the three of us end up working together down the line, this meeting will just be our little secret.”
“Great. Well, it was nice meeting you, Giselle. A little weird, but nice.”
Giselle put the remaining plantain chips back on the skate punk’s table and got up. “Hey, we department gals have to look out for each other. Sisterhood of the traveling pants and all that.”
“Right,” said Bayliss, having no idea what the other woman was talking about. She made a mental note to look it up later, but not on a department computer.
“I’ll see you back at the car,” said Giselle.
“But I won’t see you, right?”
“Bingo.” Giselle glanced at Nelson. “The hungry, hungry hippo over there will wake up in a couple of minutes. Be cool when he does.”
“Will do,” said Bayliss. “Nice meeting you.”
“You, too,” said Giselle, and disappeared. One second she was there, then the next second she wasn’t. Bayliss looked around. Everyone just kept grimly chewing their ptomaine tacos. She smiled.
“What were we talking about?” said Nelson absently. He looked at his hands. Then the table.
“Lose something?” said Bayliss.
“I must have spaced out for a minute. I don’t remember finishing breakfast.”
“Maybe you were distracted by my scintillating company.”
“Dream on. I’ve got a ficus at home that’s more fun than you,” said Nelson. He frowned at her. “What are you smiling about? You look like Ronald McDonald on mushrooms.”
“Nothing,” said Bayliss. “I’ll just have to remember this place. I hear the chips are really good.”
TWELVE
STEVE, JORGE, JERRY, TOMMY, AND TOMMY’S BROTHER-IN-LAW, Lloyd, were huddled around a worktable in the construction company’s office on the work site. Before Tommy brought Lloyd over, the others had gone over the place carefully, stowing all signs, sigils, statues, throw pillows, and commemorative plates of Caleximus out of sight. Lloyd might be useful to their cause, but he wasn’t a true believer, and explaining how they wanted him to help speed along their plans to destroy the world might have made negotiations, by Steve’s reckoning, unnecessarily complicated. All Lloyd needed to know was that they wanted to get into the building where he worked. The group stood around the table looking down at Lloyd’s hand-drawn layout of the Blackmoore Building.
Jorge pointed to the side of one drawing. “Why are we meeting by a duck? Whose duck is it?”
“Yeah. A duck is a lousy landmark. They wander off,” said Steve.
“Not ‘duck,’” said Lloyd. “Dock. We’ll meet at the loading dock.”
“It looks like duck to me too,” said Jerry.
“Well, it says dock. D-O-C-K.”
“That makes more sense,” said Steve.
Tommy clapped Lloyd on the back. “You need to work on your penmanship, dude.”
“No, I don’t. I’m a janitor, not a . . . pen teacher guy.”
“You mean an English teacher?” said Jerry.
“Yeah,” said Lloyd quietly. He adjusted his shoulders. “I’m not used to this stuff, and now you’re getting me all agitated.”
Lloyd was in his gray janitor overalls. He had long slicked-back hair and biker muttonchops. Unfortunately, they didn’t make him look like a badass as much as Wolverine’s pool boy.
“It’s cool. No one’s coming down on you. We just want to know where we’re going,” said Jorge.
“Yeah. All right.”
“So, we come in through the duck. Then what?” said Steve.
Lloyd shot him a look. “I bring you in through the loading dock while the cleaning crew is on break. Then we go up the service elevator to the ninth floor.”
“What about alarms?” said Jorge.
“There won’t be any. We’re going in when the building is being cleaned, so it’s okay getting you in and upstairs because I work on nine.”
“Where’s the office?” said Jerry.
Lloyd took out a second piece of paper and set it on the table. It was spotted with grease stains. “Sorry. We had wings tonight.”
“Good for you,” said Steve. “Is this really how the ninth floor is laid out?”
“Sure. What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure exactly. It kind of looks—”
“Like the fat guy in that game. Operation,” said Jerry.
“Yeah. That’s it. It’s a fat man.”
Lloyd turned the paper around and pointed. “No, it’s not. Here’s the elevators and here’s the receptionist desk.”
“Right. By the Charlie Horse and the Funny Bone,” Jerry said.
�
��Look. I’m not an artist, okay? I’m a guitarist.”
“I thought you were a janitor,” said Jorge.
“Not on the weekends.” Lloyd flipped the map over. There was a grainy Xeroxed photo of five young men in very tight clothes striking surly poses. Lloyd was at the end of the line, holding a Fender Stratocaster like he was using it to harpoon a narwhal. At the bottom of the flyer it said PEARL SERPENT.
“What the hell is a pearl serpent?” said Steve.
“It’s Lloyd’s band,” said Tommy.
“We do Whitesnake covers. All the way from Trouble to their new stuff.
“They have new stuff?” Steve asked.
“They have old stuff?” Jerry asked.
Steve turned the paper over. “And this is what you chose to draw the plan on?”
Lloyd shrugged. “It was the only paper I had.”
Steve nodded. “Not being a pen teacher guy and all, I can see your dilemma.”
“What about the fat guy?” said Jerry. “Is he in the band?”
The others laughed.
“I said I wasn’t an artist. This is the best I could do. Anyway, there’s the office.”
“By the Adam’s Apple.”
“Whatever.”
“So, there aren’t any alarms to worry about in the building. What about the office?” said Jorge.
“I walk around in there all the time, so it’s easy.”
“And there’s a glass display case on the wall with valuable-looking objects in it?”
“Oh yeah. Little statues from like Africa or something, and jewels, and boxes and shit.”
“Is there a safe in the office?”
“I don’t know.” Lloyd put his hands in his pockets and looked nervously at the other men. “You going to go busting open a safe? Tommy didn’t say anything about that.”
Steve picked up the flyer and held it at different angles, trying to see it as a floor plan and not a naked fat man. “Don’t worry about it. What we want is probably in the display case.”
“Okay. ’Cause I don’t want to lose my job or anything.”
Steve set down the paper, having given up on Lloyd’s art. “Don’t worry, Stevie Ray Vaughan. We’ll be as quiet as a moth taking a dump on a daisy.”
“Cool. So, is there anything else you need?”
The Everything Box Page 8