Shovel Ready: A Novel Read online

  Keepsakes.

  People remember.

  Which is why I keep a few well-paid contacts who are still in the garbage business. They’re not nosy.

  I just tell them I work on missing persons.

  Don’t tell them how the persons end up missing.

  I don’t care at all, and even I find this house beautiful. Brownstone, limestone, some kind of moneystone. Real stained glass, the kind for people with eyes. And four armed guards, making their hardware visible.

  I wait and watch from across the street.

  I used to ride this route, back when I lived in Brooklyn, back before Times Square, so I can remember when neighborhoods like these were basically sponges to soak up all the excess cash sloshing over from across the river. All these grand old brownstones, bought up and gutted. Scaffolding like skeletons. Blue tarps like funeral shrouds. Crews of Mexicans tearing out the drywall. Armed with hammers. Wearing dust masks. Eating lunch on the stoops, dusted white.

  Haunting these houses like ghosts.

  No one ever wanted to keep the insides of these old houses. Just the facades. That’s what they always said about brownstones.

  Good bones.

  So it was out with the old, in with the expensive-and-new-designed-to-look-like-it’s-old. Gut renovations. The insides torn out and tossed in a dumpster out front.

  I know, because I used to pick up all the trash.

  But then disaster struck and Brooklyn got seedy. Now gangs of men with masks and hammers might still visit your brownstone, but they’re not coming to renovate your kitchen.

  Still, a few stubborn holdouts hang on. Wall Street types like Lyman Harrow, who can’t stomach the thought of ever running from anything. Everyone leaves, Lyman Harrow hires security. Everyone scurries, Lyman Harrow hunkers down. Lyman Harrow, his butler, and his four armed guards. And he assumes his money should function like a moat.

  Which, in his defense, most of the time, it does.

  Wall Street types. Funny to call them that.

  Given there’s no such thing as Wall Street anymore either.

  A nurse comes. She’s an unusually pretty nurse.

  Rings the bell. Butler answers. Honest-to-God butler in white tails and everything.

  Disappears behind a heavy door.

  This seems straightforward enough.

  I ring. Same butler.

  I’m here to see Mr Harrow.

  Regarding?

  It’s about his niece.

  Follow me.

  The butler leads me inside and up a curved staircase. The whole place is wood, highly polished, like it’s all been carved out from the trunk of one giant dead tree.

  At the top of the stairs, the butler motions for me to stop. I glimpse that same pretty nurse disappearing through a different doorway down the hall. Her hands held high. Elbows at an angle. Like she’s prepping for something sterile.

  Butler’s short but solid. Brazilian maybe. Built for more than polishing silver. Not a linebacker but definitely the kind of guy who, if you ever find yourself in a cage with him, he’s the one who winds up walking out.

  Holds up a white-gloved hand. Asks politely.

  Arms out please.

  He gives me a quick once-over with a metal-detector wand. Traces my outstretched arms. Brushes my coat pockets.

  Wand squeals.

  He reaches a white-gloved hand gingerly into my coat pocket and pulls out a metal Zippo lighter. Flicks it open, fires it, then snaps it shut and places it on a silver tray on a table by the door.

  Swipes again. Down each inseam. Over my boots.

  Wand squeals.

  I shrug.

  Steel-toe.

  He seems satisfied. In any case, he’s mostly just putting on a show. He wants to let me know that, in this house, he’s the last line of defense, and he’s got more skills on his résumé than just answering the door.

  Stows the wand back in its stand.

  Turns a gold knob the size of a softball.

  And in we go.

  Lyman Harrow turns from his windows, which look out over Manhattan.

  You have a view like this, you don’t give it up. Am I right?

  The furniture is mahogany. The smell is old library. The carpets are the expensive kind. With patterns.

  He opens his arms. He offers drinks. I decline.

  Well, what can I offer you then?

  Your niece. Grace Chastity.

  You’re too late. She’s already gone. My brother sent you, I assume.

  That’s a fair assumption.

  It’s the only reason I let you in. Apologies for the security. But you know. The rabble. City is thick with them.

  Not a problem.

  Harrow’s half-hidden behind a huge desk, which is bare, save for a bottle, half-emptied. He pours himself another cognac, his glass as big as a fish bowl. Overall he has the unkempt air of the weird rich. Gray hair past his collar, slicked back with something greasy. Sweatpants and a crisp tuxedo shirt, untucked and open at the throat. Can’t tell if he’s halfway to getting dressed or just all the way to no longer caring. Then again, it’s a classic tapper uniform. Perfect attire for the beds. And sure enough, he’s got a luxury model tucked away in the corner. Which also explains the nurse I saw.

  He sips.

  Do you know why my brother sent you?

  I hoped you’d tell me.

  Well, he’s plenty mad at his daughter, I know that. Mad enough to send her running to me. And to send you after her. And so on. I assume you’ve met Mr Pilot.

  Not yet.

  Okay. You will. In any case, Grace rang my bell. Came from those dirty encampments. But I haven’t even spoken to T. K. in ten, eleven years. And I haven’t seen Grace since she was a toddler.

  Swirls his cognac, which looks expensive even from across the room. Sniffs it.

  Glances up at me.

  She’s not a toddler now, I can tell you that.

  I take it you and T. K. aren’t close.

  No. Especially once I made it clear to him I had no interest in the family business.

  Which is?

  Heaven, of course. At least ten generations of holy men. Harrows were converting seasick sailors on the Mayflower. Then savages in the new world. Then anyone who’d listen. It was a bull market. We Harrows sell heaven, that’s our business.

  Another sip.

  Or, at least, we sell tickets.

  But not you.

  My brother and I both grew up to be carnival barkers in the end. We just wound up working in different carnivals. If I’m going to wail and pray and fall to my knees, I prefer to do it at the stock exchange.

  And what about your niece?

  What about her?

  Did you help her?

  Oh. No. I’m afraid not.

  Why not?

  I am among the, I don’t know, five hundred richest men in America. And T. K. is at least twice as rich as I am, and commands an obedient army besides. If he’ll do this to get to her, send you and whoever else might follow, what do you think he’d do to me if I tried to keep her from his clutches?

  More cognac.

  I don’t need that trouble. Not for a little girl. My only goal was to get her off my hands as quickly as possible. My hands and my conscience.

  So then what.

  She spent the night. I owed her that much. She’s family after all. Then this morning I introduced her to a couple of men. I found them on the Internet.

  What kind of men?

  Not the nice kind, I’m afraid. Man with a van, that sort of thing. There were two men, actually. And they did come with a van, as advertised. I think they make it their business to find jobs for little girls.

  You know where they went?

  I didn’t ask.

  What about the van?

  Hard to say. It was black. Or blue. Black or blue.

  Drains his drink.

  No offense, but I don’t generally take to interrogations by my brother’s hired helpers. Not Mr Pilot.
Surely to God not that maniac Simon. And while you seem perfectly pleasant, Mr—

  Spademan.

  Mr Spademan, I can honestly say I don’t think I’d like to see you again.

  Understood. Thanks for your time.

  And thank you for stopping by. Say hi to Mr Pilot for me, when you do meet him. He can’t be too far behind you. As for me, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to return to my bed.

  His unit sits in the corner of the study, tucked away, like a treadmill, though one that obviously gets a lot of use. It, too, looks out over Manhattan. It’s titanium, part coffin, part luge sled.

  Yes, I watch luge. The only winter sport worth watching. That and skeleton, which is like headfirst luge for nihilists.

  I put on my coat.

  With this view, I wouldn’t think you’d need that. The bed I mean.

  Well, then you don’t really understand the bed.

  He undoes his cuff links, lays them on the desktop. Rolls up his sleeves, gets ready to slip in. Steps out from behind the mahogany desk. Wearing shower slippers. Crazy tycoon toenails, untended. Grown out like talons. Head of a financier. Feet of a gargoyle.

  Notices me noticing.

  Thomas will show you out. Thanks for coming by, Mr—

  Spademan. Like I said.

  Of course.

  The butler walks me out of the study discreetly, leaves me in the hall, then returns to help Lyman Harrow tap in.

  That sure is a top-of-the-line bed.

  Yes sir. Thank you for coming by. Good day.

  We stand on the moneystone stoop.

  Look, if there’s anything you remember about those men who came—

  I really should be getting back inside.

  —any marks or details.

  The butler considers. Looks like he could use a nudge.

  Think about this. Mr Harrow’s brother sent me to do the same thing those men are going to do, except I’ll be a lot quicker. With nothing extracurricular.

  The butler looks away. Considers. Then holds up one white glove.

  Points to the back of his hand.

  One of the men. He had a tattoo. Right here.

  Do you remember what it looked like?

  Like a fishhook. Except twisted. Into the shape of an eight.

  I pull a marker and a scrap of paper from my pocket.

  Can you draw it?

  The butler waves off the paper, uncaps the marker, and sketches it on the back of his own white glove. Holds the glove up again.

  Sure enough, like he said. A fishhook, twisted into the shape of an eight.

  &.

  An ampersand.

  He caps the marker and hands it back to me. Then peels off the white glove and hands me that too. Pulls a fresh white replacement from his pocket.

  Don’t worry. Mr Harrow gives me plenty of gloves. Likes me to keep my hands as clean as possible.

  I would imagine.

  I pocket the drawing.

  Thank you.

  He nods and digs a pack of cigarettes from a breast pocket. I wait while he lights one for himself. Then I point to the pack.

  You mind?

  He frowns. Then knocks one loose for me. I stick it in my mouth. Smile thanks.

  Then curse.

  Goddamn it.

  Patting pockets.

  I forgot my lighter.

  Turn my best hangdog to the butler.

  Family heirloom. Gift from my grandfather. You mind?

  Mr Harrow will not want to be disturbed.

  Finger to my pursed lips.

  Quiet as a church mouse. Scout’s honor.

  The butler’s already started on his cigarette. Considers chucking it. Takes a long drag instead. Nods toward the door.

  A thanks-buddy backslap as I head back inside.

  Crush the unlit cigarette in my jacket pocket.

  Never smoked and I’m not about to start.

  Must be the choirboy in me.

  Don’t get me wrong. I went to Sunday school for about ten minutes as a kid. Didn’t take. Not the important stuff, anyway.

  The core beliefs. Right, wrong, etcetera.

  As you might have guessed.

  The Zippo’s still sitting on the dainty silver tray. I snatch it up though it’s not like I need it. I have a dozen more just like it in a box back home.

  Buy them in bulk.

  Turn the gold knob quietly.

  In Lyman Harrow’s defense, it’s true that money often functions like a moat.

  But not today.

  Harrow is already swaddled and gone in the bed. Sedatives, feed-bag, sensors connected. IV tubes in all the IV holes. That nurse really knows what she’s doing.

  The bed truly is top-of-the-line. Polished touch screens. Metallic surface I can see my face in.

  Harrow dozing lightly.

  I lean in.

  He’s lost in the dream, eyes fluttering under closed lids. I check to make sure he’s under, which is more than he deserves.

  I keep a box-cutter stashed in my steel-toe boot, by the way. It’s enough to set off a metal detector, but then, so is the boot. Not my fault if you don’t double-check.

  Pull the box-cutter out, extend it, place it against Harrow’s throat, and pull across, pressing deeply. Hold his forehead down. It works well enough.

  Watch him bleed out on the leather. Blood puddles on the touch screens.

  Stained glass.

  4.

  They’ll find him but they won’t know who did it. Someone named Spademan.

  Spademan’s not my real name, by the way.

  Got it from a garbage can.

  I head straight up to Montague Street with the white glove in my pocket and look for the first Internet kiosk I can find.

  Since the beds got up and running, sucking up all the bandwidth, the boring old Internet survives mostly as an afterthought, kept alive like a public utility for people who can’t afford to tap in. So, like a decaying neighborhood, all the money in the Internet moved out. And, like a decaying neighborhood, the Internet is now mostly a refuge for poor folks and perverts, people in the shadows, by choice or not. Just a place where you can log on to advertise your junk, then swap it for someone else’s junk, then revel for a day in new junk.

  Or a place where you can find a man with a van to take away your problem little girl.

  Yes, there are pockets. Niches. Chat rooms where like-minded rebellious citizens can scrawl graffiti. Plot upheaval. Organize something like the camps.

  But for the most part, it’s just a digital cesspool. Free market, at its freest.

  I take the first kiosk I find on Montague, though it’s not really right to call it a kiosk. It’s just a screen on a pole, with a metal keyboard sticking out, and a stool on an angle like a cactus arm.

  I take a seat, tap a key, and swipe a paycard to get started. Not my paycard, of course. Belongs to a car salesman, name of Sidney, who lives out in Canarsie. Or, rather, lived. Apparently, Sidney rubbed someone the wrong way. Who knows. Maybe sold them a lemon.

  In any case, paycard works fine.

  I log on and run a search for AMPERSAND+TATTOO. Get back a bunch of photos, but nothing promising. College lit majors, mostly, showing off frosh-week mistakes.

  So I run a search instead for AMPERSAND+BROOKLYN. Same deal. One listing for a local bar for bookish types, long since closed.

  Behind me, coming down Henry Street, I hear sirens, which is unwelcome. Twin cop cars doppler past in a hurry, lights whirling, whoop-whooping like a war party, heading south.

  I guess the butler finally found Mr Harrow.

  I pull out the glove the butler gave me.

  Examine his shaky sketch.

  &.

  Think again about what he told me.

  A fishhook. Twisted into the shape of an eight.

  I run a search for AMPERSAND+EIGHT+TATTOO. Still nothing.

  Then just AMPERSAND+EIGHT. Find a jazz combo in Queens.

  Then AMPERSAND+FISHHOOK.

&nb
sp; Actually, ISHHOOK.

  F key doesn’t work.

  Fucking kiosks.

  So I type in AMPERSAND+HOOK instead.

  Bingo.

  It’s a missed connection, of the type that litter the Internet. Cute-girl-I-saw-you-reading-on-the-subway kind of thing.

  This one says: You, burly type with a fondness for whiskey. Me: cat’s eye-glasses, matching you drink for drink. Not sure, but I swear we had a moment at night’s end out in the street waiting for a car service, in the light of the neon ampersand. If I was right, meet me tonight back at the Bait & Switch in Red Hook. You bring the bait. I’ll bring the switch.

  Run a search on the Bait & Switch, which turns out to be a titty bar down in Red Hook, with a knock-three-times, private-members S&M room in back. Switches, riding crops, cat-o’-nine-tails, bullwhips. Whatever your pleasure, they’ve got a cabinet, and it’s very well stocked.

  And also, possibly, an outreach program. Job placements for wayward teenage girls.

  Service jobs.

  Maybe my tattooed henchman is an extremely loyal employee. Who recruits reluctant women. Ungently.

  Long shot, I know, but I write the address down anyway, then log off.

  Ball up the butler’s stained white glove.

  Drop it down the sewer.

  Same place I’m headed, more or less.

  5.

  It’s well past dark by the time I start walking down the waterfront. Not the safest walk at this hour, and the shortest route on foot would be straight down Columbia Street. But I still can’t bring myself to walk down Columbia Street.

  Personal reasons.

  So I take the scenic route, winding through Cobble Hill and Carroll Gardens, past the blocks of boarded-up and blacked-out brownstones. Occasional bonfire burns in a bay window. Nearly all the trees on these picturesque streets long since chopped down for salvage or firewood.

  Stump-lined streets.

  If only my Stella could see this. What’s come of our old stomping grounds.

  My Stella.

  She was my wife.

  That’s not her real name either. Just a nickname that stuck. At least between us.

  I skip our old block. Give it a wide berth.

  Like I said, I like Brooklyn least of all.

  And then I finally reach the raised Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, cross under, and head into what’s left of Red Hook.