Shovel Ready: A Novel Read online

  Everyone who was left died in the second explosion.

  I hope she died in the first one. The diversion.

  That’s what passes for hope these days.

  21.

  On my way back to Mark’s I make a detour to Hell’s Kitchen. Radio City’s too expensive to rent out on anything but Sundays, so Harrow has a Paved With Gold outreach center here, set up in a tidy storefront which is yawning awake just as I arrive. Strapping gents set out the pamphlet rack, while a wholesome blonde in a knee-length skirt sparks up the coffeemaker. Everyone has the whiff of missionary. Look too healthy to have been in New York for long.

  I spot the clean-cut usher from the other night. Not in his suit now. Sharp slacks and a flowered Hawaiian. Looks like a Beach Boy.

  I sit down in a folding chair opposite his desk.

  Uncrease my brochure.

  Tell me more.

  I get the full pitch:

  Fully subsidized dreaming on a pastoral country campus, a hundred acres, wholly owned and maintained by Crystal Corral Ministries. In essence, you sign on to serve the church, maybe do a tour of service in an urban outreach center like this one, maybe work some time doing labor on the Paved With Gold farm. For example, he says, he’s from out west, California, and after this month-long stint in our fair city he’s heading straight to Paved With Gold to tap in for the first time. Moreover, he assures me, the tours of duty are short and the requirements minimal. In fact, the church has had such a good response, he says, leaning in, beckoning me forward, like we’re buddies and he’s letting me in on a secret deal, they can’t find enough work for all the applicants.

  So some people get to go straight to heaven.

  Do Not Pass Go, etcetera.

  As for heaven: He hasn’t been yet so he can’t presume to describe it. But it’s wholly scriptural, a hundred percent accurate, designed according to biblical teaching. You can visit for a day, a week, a month, he says, it’s the ultimate time-share. I can tell he’s used that line before.

  Like a good salesman, he hasn’t mentioned cost. So I mention it. Plead poor.

  I’m just a garbageman.

  He laughs.

  Look at me. Think I’m a billionaire? Economy the way it is? And trust me, California is even worse.

  Leans in again.

  There is no cost.

  How can that be?

  He tents his fingers. I can tell this is his favorite part of the pitch.

  Pastor Harrow pays the freight. With the money he raises through the church. Heaven should not require a golden ticket, as he likes to say. Just a golden heart.

  This same quote runs across the bottom of the brochure.

  The Beach Boy continues.

  Think of it like the Army. They sign up thousands and it costs nothing to join. In fact, they pay you. Well, this is like that. It’s God’s army. There’s no point in building a heaven if you haven’t got anyone to walk its golden streets. That’s Pastor Harrow also.

  I figured.

  I’ll tell you this. You sign up today, I can have you at our farm by this time tomorrow. Morning after that, you’ll wake up in Glory Land.

  And where is all this exactly?

  The Crystal Corral compound. South Carolina. Beautiful site.

  Seems far.

  From this? Are you kidding? I can’t wait to get out of this hellhole. No offense.

  I stand up. Tap the brochure on the desk.

  I’ll think about it.

  When you make up your mind, we’ll be here. Maybe not me, but definitely someone who can help you. But I’ll be gone. I’ve got an appointment to keep.

  Appreciate your time.

  No worries. God bless you.

  I figure the Beach Boy for a greenhorn. Another round of soothing hallelujahs and he might have closed this sale. You let me wriggle off the hook too easy, rookie.

  Then I turn around and notice the line behind me that’s waiting for my spot in the chair.

  22.

  By the time I get back to Trump Tower, Rick the tech-head is long gone and Mark’s up and around, out of his bed, unplugged, wearing a robe, drinking a coffee. He pours me one and offers me a bagel.

  Good morning, Spademan. I believe the last time I saw you, it was in a country church where you were moonlighting as a doormat.

  Very funny. Thanks for that, though. I mean it.

  Well, Rick and I figured you might need a cavalry.

  You two do that often? Crash other people’s private meetings?

  Not as a rule. But if you ever need to do it, Rick is definitely the best. Knows how to find the seams and how to slip you through them. I did enjoy the look of surprise on their faces.

  You mean the faces you didn’t bury your little toy ax in?

  Mark shrugs.

  Hey, I may not be much help in this world, but when you spend enough time on bed-rest, you tend to pick up a few party tricks.

  So that’s what you do in there all day? Fly around and hack people to pieces?

  No. That was special for you. Though I do like to spread my wings once in awhile.

  I nod toward Mark’s bed.

  Luxury liner like that, why the hell do you ever go all the way down to Chinatown?

  You know me. I like congregations. The comforts of a like-minded crowd.

  Persephone pads out of the bedroom. Wearing sweatpants. Scratches at bedhead curls.

  Good morning. What I miss?

  Eyes my bagel.

  God, I’m starving. Is there one of those for me?

  I hand it over.

  Nice sweatpants. What happened to snakeskin?

  She frowns.

  They split.

  Given that I can now be fairly sure there are no professional killers actively stalking us, at least not in the nuts-and-bolts world, I decide to be nice and treat everyone to a proper lunch. Mark suggests we head to the shopping mall next door. It was built as a sparkling lure, baited with luxury goods, but it’s not so luxurious anymore and no one’s biting. A few fancy restaurants still survive, catering to the dreamers upstairs, sending up five-star takeout, but the stores have all shuttered, most of the mall’s abandoned, and all that’s left of the jewelry boutiques and clothing stores are faded poster ads, peeling behind glass, selling shiny stuff you can no longer buy at shops that are no longer there.

  In their place, now there’s squatters’ stalls mostly, set up illegally, lining the mall in long rows in front of the emptied-out stores. Mall owners turn a blind eye, collect payments in cash, figure at least the street market keeps foot traffic up, wards off squatters who come in from the park. Figure all the old businesses packed up anyway, heading for higher ground. Let the nomads move in, pitch a tent. Plant a flag.

  Many different flags, actually.

  Vendors shout for attention as we pass, hawking wares, stalls stacked with everything from dried spices to saris to sjamboks, those leather African half-whips, made as snake-killers and crafted from rhino hides, sold here for self-defense. That’s the pitch anyway. Salesman demonstrates, slicing the air with a whistle as we walk. Cuts close to Persephone. She jumps, then curses. Salesman looses a goofy grin. She flips him double birds.

  Then we head to the food court, which is just a cluster of food carts, run by guys who broke in the back way. Carts serve up dishes for a dollar, curries and dosas and kebabs. Flaming grills and sizzling griddles. The tempting scents of spiced steam. Everything looks delicious, though a few carts offer meats you wouldn’t want to know the family tree of. Luckily all the vendors have the same strict food policy: No Questions Answered.

  We retire to a bench in the mall with hot meals on our laps, not a utensil between us, a war council with paper plates. I go to dig in when Mark bows his head to say grace. Persephone follows. I succumb to peer pressure.

  Mark with his eyes closed.

  Lord we thank you for this bounty we are about to receive.

  At first I think he’s making a joke.

  Apparently not.<
br />
  Lord and thank you for watching over us and keeping us safe so far. Let our actions on this day as on every day glorify your name in every way. Amen.

  Amen.

  Amen.

  I take a bite and ask the obvious.

  Okay, Harrow’s shown his hand. So what’s our brilliant plan?

  Mark eyes Persephone.

  She shouldn’t be here for this.

  It’s okay. She can hear this.

  Mark shoots me a look. This is the look that says he’s probably a little more qualified than me in the arena of emotional counseling. He’s right. But I don’t budge.

  She can hear this.

  He frowns. Then proceeds.

  All right. Well. There’s three potential outcomes, as I see it. You give him what he wants. You kill him. He kills you. Those are the only options.

  Persephone pipes up.

  Or I can run. I’ve been running. You don’t even need to know which direction I went.

  Mark wipes his mouth.

  That’s not an outcome. That’s a delaying tactic. Eventually this ends. In one of those three ways.

  He looks to me.

  You a baseball fan?

  No. Jets fan. Not by choice. By blood.

  Well, in baseball there’s this thing the statisticians call the three true outcomes. It’s the three possible outcomes of an at-bat that only involve the actions of the pitcher and the hitter, and none of the other players on the field. So they’re considered the purest possibilities.

  Okay. And they are?

  Mark counts them out on his fingers.

  A walk. A strikeout. A home run. That’s it. The three true outcomes.

  I think of lesson two of hauling garbage. You discard it. It discards you. Or you die.

  Three true outcomes.

  Okay. I got it. So?

  Mark pauses, then gives me a look. This is the look that says he’s about to tell me something he doesn’t want to tell me.

  Go on, tell me.

  There’s another factor.

  What’s that?

  This Simon. The Magician.

  What about him?

  He’s a factor.

  Because?

  For starters, he’s between you and Harrow.

  I can take care of him.

  Like you did in that church?

  That’s not fair. That was in there. That’s the dream. We’re out here now.

  Even so.

  I’m on better footing out here.

  Still. I’m just saying. He’s a factor.

  You don’t even know what he can do out here. Or who he really is. He could be eighty years old, for fuck’s sake.

  My guess? He’s not.

  So I turn to Persephone.

  What do you know about him?

  Simon? You saw him.

  And?

  He is what you think he is.

  Meaning?

  He’s that bad. He’s worse. Out here? He’s worse.

  Mark chimes in.

  What about money? Can he be bought?

  She laughs.

  If you’re planning to outbid my father, that’s not an auction we’re going to win.

  I press her.

  Okay. So what is he not good at?

  I don’t know. Whatever it is, I haven’t seen it. He’s ruthless. He’s smart. And he’s not someone you can reason with. And don’t expect any sympathy. Or mercy.

  All right. No reason. No sympathy. No mercy. That narrows our options, at least.

  Persephone runs both hands through her unkempt curls. Tugs at tangles that refuse to untangle. Looks down at her feet.

  Then tells us something more.

  He was my bodyguard.

  For how long?

  Until I ran.

  So he’s not a great bodyguard. At least there’s that.

  It wasn’t his fault. He was supposed to protect me. He wasn’t my babysitter. And I wasn’t his prisoner.

  And he did a good job? Of protecting you?

  Sure. From everyone but my father.

  Mark reaches out, takes her hands in his. Mark the former pastor. Knows ways to balm wounds.

  I say to Mark:

  I still want to hear your three true outcomes.

  Sure. Yes. Three true outcomes, like I said. You give him the girl, he kills you, you kill him. Walk, strikeout, home run. Only the pitcher and the batter have a say in it.

  Okay.

  In this case, Harrow’s the pitcher. You’re the batter.

  He motions to Persephone.

  We’re just the fielders.

  Okay.

  Meaning ultimately you have to decide.

  Okay. In that case, I choose the home run.

  All right.

  Wait. So which one is that again?

  Very funny.

  I put my hand on Persephone’s, lightly.

  But that means you and I need to have a conversation.

  Mark’s apartment, an hour later. Two chairs pulled up by the picture window. Mark’s run off to Chinatown, day trip to the land of Nod.

  She and I watch the campers in the park.

  Weird to think I was down there with them a few days ago.

  Didn’t sound like it was too much fun.

  It had its ups and downs.

  You know them. You lived with them. You think they’ll last long in there? Police have it locked down. Nothing in, nothing out.

  They’ll last.

  The thing I don’t understand is, what exactly are they protesting?

  They’re not protesting anything. They just want to live in a different kind of world. Figured you have to start building it somewhere.

  Sure, but why Central Park? Why not Woodstock? Or Utah?

  Take a look at the park. At this city. At this moment. It’s all kind of up for grabs, don’t you think?

  So you know what this means.

  Yes.

  You okay with it?

  Time was, I thought I might do it myself. Dreamt about it.

  Nothing happens unless you say it can happen.

  I know. Thank you.

  She folds her hands over her belly.

  I didn’t think it would end like this. I just wanted to get away.

  Well, what he did, that’s going to follow you. He’s going to follow you.

  I know.

  And it’s not like he’ll give you up.

  I know.

  Before this goes any further, I need to get something straight.

  Okay.

  When I saw your father, he showed me pictures.

  Okay.

  Of you.

  Okay.

  Said you took them.

  I did.

  Said you sent them to your boyfriend.

  I did. They weren’t meant for public consumption, obviously. But you know teenagers. We’re stupid sometimes. Trust the wrong people.

  We all do that.

  Did he tell you where he found them?

  He said someone from the congregation brought them forward.

  Hmmm. Well, that’s bullshit. My father trolls for that trash all the time on the Internet. Just so happened, one day, he clicked a link, saw his own daughter. In among all the usual naked jailbait he prefers. Just bad luck, really. For me, anyway.

  He also told me something else. That your boyfriend is the father.

  A dry laugh.

  No. That asshole fucked me over plenty, but not in that way.

  Your father says it isn’t his.

  Well, what do you expect him to say?

  I just mean that, if you’re running for some other reason, whatever it might be, I need to know.

  She straightens. If any of this is acting, her look right now would win the Oscar.

  Wait, what are you saying? You want to send me back to him?

  I need to know what made you run. Because you didn’t run at first. When you found out about the baby. You waited. For a few months at least.

  I was scared. My father
has a long reach. As you know.

  But then something made you leave.

  Yes. That’s true.

  Gnaws her lip. Says to me, her voice catching:

  Just tell me you’ll protect me.

  I’ll protect you.

  Say it again.

  I’ll protect you.

  Say it again.

  I’ll protect you.

  She turns. Tears poised on her lower lids, peering over the edge, like jumpers on a ledge.

  Yep. Just what I thought. Sounds just the same coming out of your mouth as it does out of everyone else’s.

  Grace—

  Don’t.

  I will. I swear. I’ll protect you.

  Jumpers teeter.

  Don’t make me go back to him. Don’t make us.

  If what you told me is true—

  It’s true.

  —well, then, I don’t think your father can be forgiven. At least not by anyone he’s bound to meet on this Earth. Certainly not by me. And not by you.

  She looks back out over the park.

  You’re right. When I found out, I stayed. I thought maybe he would forgive me. He would still love me, love us, if I stayed. So that wasn’t why I ran away.

  No?

  Jumpers jump. Free fall. Straight plummet down her cheek. Followed quick by more jumpers. They’re all jumping now.

  She looks at me.

  No. And it’s not the most unforgivable thing he’s ever done.

  23.

  So at first the rough plan was, we hold tight until Harrow arrives in Manhattan, when we know he’ll be here, he’ll be tapped out, and he’ll be walking among the living. Grace told me that on his New York trips, he likes to meet with his top donors, the ones he calls the Deacons’ Circle, show them a little Christian love. Then, of course, there’s the Crusade itself, with Harrow preaching in public to an overflow crowd. Yes, there will be a hundred bodyguards and twenty thousand witnesses.

  I said it was a plan. I didn’t say it was a good plan.

  But we thought, maybe a sniper shot. Sideswipe the motorcade. Finagle a face-to-face, rush the podium, take him down in a kamikaze tumble.

  That was the plan, such as it was. Until Persephone told me her story.

  The rest of it.

  The part she hadn’t told to anyone.

  So Persephone had a best friend. Rachel.

  She was a few years younger than Persephone. More beautiful than Persephone too, at least to hear Persephone tell it.