Shovel Ready: A Novel Page 7

  I interject.

  What were David and Bathsheba doing all this time?

  They were busy fucking. Pardon my language.

  Okay.

  So King David’s managed to pull off the perfect crime. No one suspects him, and even if they did, they’d say nothing. Because he’s the king. He is blameless in the eyes of the world. If not in his own heart. Or in the eyes of God. And do you know what the last verse of that passage is?

  No.

  But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.

  Well, yeah. You would imagine.

  Mark pounded his palm like a pulpit.

  But the thing. David had done. Displeased. The Lord. That is the lesson of the story. It’s not about temptation. It’s about vengeance. It’s about wrath. It is about God looking down, and seeing what you’ve done, and being displeased.

  Sure.

  And do you know what happens when the Lord is displeased with you?

  No.

  You end up in New York, outside a library, begging some stranger to put you in the ground.

  15.

  Mark. Persephone. Persephone. Mark.

  The three of us back on the Chinatown street corner. Mark shies from the sun, still half in the dream. Dreamy.

  He holds out a hand to Persephone.

  Pleased to meet you.

  Four letters tattooed across his knuckles.

  DAMN.

  When I first met Mark, farm-fresh from Minnesota, he was not the type to show up with new tattoos. Then again, he also wasn’t the type to tap in for a week at a time. Had never been in a bed before he came to New York.

  Still, I have to ask.

  You didn’t have these last time I saw you.

  He flips his fingers, knuckles up.

  What? These? Yeah. You like them?

  He makes a fist. A letter on each finger.

  DAMN.

  Holds up his left hand. Makes a fist.

  ABLE.

  Holds the two fists together.

  DAMNABLE.

  I smile.

  Very nice.

  He turns his fists back toward his face, admiring them.

  Right? I rented Night of the Hunter, got inspired. I’ve got a third one, too. Want to see?

  That depends where it is.

  He peels off his polo shirt. Still ripped despite the bed-rest.

  Persephone perks up.

  Mark turns his back to us. The third tattoo in block letters.

  I RULE.

  I tell him I don’t get it.

  He flexes his back. Shoulder blades spread like wings. The letters separate.

  I RULE.

  Nice. Very subtle.

  He turns around.

  It’s more of a limn thing. If you ever tapped in, you’d understand.

  Persephone chimes in.

  Well, I like it.

  Mark slides his shirt back on.

  So should we head back to my place?

  Persephone says she wants to grab a few supplies while we’re here. Points to her legs. Still pants-less.

  I peel off two bills. Feel like I’m her dad.

  She smiles and disappears into a store.

  Mark pulls his phone out and calls for a car, which seems to glide up before he’s even pocketed the phone.

  Mark calls shotgun. I hold the rear door for the lady and her shopping bags.

  She arches an eyebrow.

  So is this a blind date you’ve set up for me?

  Not likely. You two look like brother and sister.

  I know, right? Kinky. You could watch.

  This stings. More than it should.

  I tell her to watch her arm while I close the door, then lean in.

  No offense, but you’re not his type.

  Why not?

  He’s celibate. By choice.

  She smiles.

  That’s it? That’s nothing. I know plenty of lapsed celibates.

  That so?

  You bet. Even lapsed a few myself.

  We take the livery cab north toward Mark’s apartment at the former Trump Tower off Columbus Circle. Not a Brooklyn livery cab either. This is no rusted-out Crown Victoria. It’s a bulletproof limo, sleek as a sea lion.

  Dashboard Geiger counter starts clicking and the driver steers a wide arc east to avoid Times Square. On these far-east avenues in Manhattan, heading uptown, you could almost believe the city is just like it was, only less so, cleared out, like how a sleepy summer Sunday used to feel. A few stray pedestrians. The random rogue yellow cab. Bright window signs promising blow-out sales.

  But then we cut across midtown, which is a ghost town. Just trash and empty storefronts, long since looted. No more blow-out sales. Just blown out.

  Dashboard Geiger chatters again and the driver cuts north.

  The lack of tourists alone leaves it spooky. No one snapping photos, wrestling maps, gawking at skyscrapers, waddling along in a cluster, clogging the sidewalk, kids trailing behind licking soft-serve ice cream and wearing seven-pointed Statue of Liberty crowns made of sea-green foam.

  Now there’s plenty of room on the sidewalk for everyone, if anyone was out on the sidewalk.

  No traffic.

  Streets are clear.

  The brighter side of car bombs, I guess.

  They still go off from time to time. The car bombs. Planted by copycats with lesser ambitions. Easy to pull off now that no one’s paying much attention to the streets.

  Just another ongoing inconvenience of life in the big city.

  As long as you’re not standing too close, I find you flinch a little less every time.

  In the end, half stayed, half left.

  Simple math.

  Not all who stayed hid in penthouses either. Some still run delis, wash dishes, fold laundry, mop lobbies, ride buses, drive cabs. They either moved back in to Manhattan when the last wave left or they still trundle in on broken trains from the outer boroughs. Too dumb or too poor or too hopeful to pull the plug and pack up and leave like the rest. All those diehards who refuse to let the city die.

  In any case.

  No mystery to it. Just basic subtraction.

  Cut a city in half and you’re left with half a city.

  But you definitely notice the ones who are gone just as much as the ones who stayed.

  The driver pulls up to the building, idles out front as we head inside.

  Trump Tower. Former hotel and soaring glass eyesore. Named for the Donald of course. Long since dead. First thing the kids did when they pitched their camps in Central Park was lasso his statue, pull it down, put a dress on it. Last I saw it, it was still riding on the roof deck of a double-decker tourist bus, forever looping the park.

  Mark’s apartment’s not the penthouse, but it’s close enough. Not sure how Mark affords it. He’s got some secret deal with some closet benefactor. He’s coy about it and I don’t press.

  From his living room, we can see the camps in Central Park. Bonfires dotting the dusk.

  On the avenues, police cars park, lightbars swirling. A show of force.

  Mark’s got two drinks in his hands, one liquor, one seltzer. Liquor’s for me.

  Mark sips the seltzer.

  Looks like the mayor’s decided to finally crack down.

  Now? Why?

  I think it’s the Crusade. You must have heard about it. Harrow at the Garden.

  You ever met him?

  T. K. Harrow? Oh no. But I never really felt like we were in the same business, to be honest.

  We watch as the cops lay down bright orange barricades.

  What are they doing? Chasing them out?

  No.

  Another sip.

  Sealing them in.

  Persephone comes out of the bathroom, poured into snakeskin pants.

  What do you think? Nice, right? Chinatown special. They’re Prada. So cheap! I had to roll the waistband a little to get them on.

  I unroll the waistband a little.

  I hate to t
ell you this.

  What?

  They’re not Prada. They’re Prodo.

  Mark agrees to let Persephone bunk for the time being. One thing you can say about Trump Tower, like most high-rises, the security is not lax. Two round-the-clock doormen, well armed, and private plainclothes patrolling the halls. If Pilot wants in here, he’ll have to scale the outside of the building with a plunger in each hand.

  I decide to head back to Hoboken. Mark hands me a card.

  Give this to the driver. He’ll take you. The Holland Tunnel’s still functional, right?

  I give Persephone a peck on the forehead.

  Mark’s good people. He’ll take care of you.

  Thanks. So who’s going to take care of you?

  That’s what I’m heading back to Jersey to figure out.

  Truth is, I have no idea what the next step should be. I’ve had jobs get out of hand, but not like this. I was hired to kill her, not adopt her.

  And to be honest, I would have been happy to put her on a bus, point her north, deal with the fallout with Harrow myself. But that’s not an option anymore. Not if I know that Harrow has also sent someone like Pilot.

  Pilot definitely strikes me as a different kind of psycho.

  So Persephone’s problem is now my problem.

  Which means Persephone is now my problem.

  Though, I confess, it’s more than that.

  Sometimes when people call me, I can tell pretty soon that they don’t want to hire me, they just want to chat. Blow off steam, fantasize, walk up to the edge but not over it. Before I hang up on them, they always throw out that same question.

  Just tell me: How can you do what you do?

  I don’t answer, of course, but if I did, here’s what I’d tell them.

  It’s not the doing-it part that’s hard. It’s the justifying-it part. And I don’t do that.

  I’m not the decision. I’m just the action.

  I’m just the bullet.

  So I don’t need to justify it. Or live with it.

  That’s your job.

  And there’s one more thing I’d tell them.

  The world is full of bullets. Sometimes in the form of speeding buses. Or aneurysms that go pop in the night. Or rotted branches that fall in a snowstorm at the exact moment you happen to pass.

  Or exploding subways. Or bombs left in gym bags.

  All bullets.

  We dodge them every day, until one day we don’t.

  So if I didn’t hang up, that’s what I’d tell them.

  That’s how I do it.

  I’m just another bullet.

  But not this time.

  Not for her.

  When I get to the ground floor outside Mark’s building I hand his limo driver the card and tell him to take me home.

  First, though, we’re making a detour.

  Direct him straight down Broadway and he groans.

  Drives as far as Fifty-Third, then pulls over and says he’ll keep the engine running.

  I can’t begrudge a man his fears. So I get out and walk south.

  Skirting the edge of Times Square.

  I pass a few bored cops and a few hopeful clickers, decked out in their goggles and Geiger counters, sweeping the sidewalks for junk that’s not too poisonous to pocket. Truth is, everything worth scavenging got snatched up years ago. All those toxic souvenirs.

  I head east at Fiftieth.

  Follow the faint hum of gospel.

  It is still Sunday after all.

  Half-wonder if I’ll bump into Pilot. I figure I’m headed to either the last place he’ll look for me, or the first.

  Street’s dark. Like a cellblock after lights-out.

  Not Radio City, though.

  Radio City is lit up like it’s opening night.

  On the marquee: The Crystal Corral Revival Hour.

  Rockwell was right. Crystal Corral does sound like a country singer.

  I head into the lobby and an usher intercepts me. Smiles and says I haven’t missed much.

  In the seats, maybe a thousand people, all huddled near the stage and singing softly.

  Onstage, a giant screen.

  On the screen, a giant preacher.

  T. K. Harrow.

  Head as high as a drive-in movie screen.

  Sunday sermons broadcast on a loop. Free admission.

  All welcome.

  When Rockwell gave me his rundown, I didn’t mention I’d been to this place before. Made a few visits right after Times Square, back when prayer suddenly seemed like a viable option. Churches or beds. Most people sampled.

  Congregation sings the chorus.

  So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross. Till my trophies at last I lay down.

  Harrow, in close-up, expounds the Word in urgent staccato. Sounds a fire-and-brimstone drumbeat under the melody of the hymn.

  Usher taps me on the shoulder. Can’t be older than twenty.

  Clean-cut. Cheap suit. But well kept.

  Hello, brother. Care to join me down front?

  No thanks. I’m just browsing.

  Well, whatever you’re looking for, you won’t find it out there. In here, though, that’s a different story.

  I glance around. Shrug.

  Awfully close to Times Square.

  He smiles.

  It’s true. This city has a sick heart. But that poison can’t touch you in here.

  You sure about that?

  Brother, it doesn’t matter, because we’re headed to a better place.

  Sure. Of course, there’s just one catch.

  What’s that?

  You have to die first.

  He hands me a pamphlet.

  Not necessarily.

  Claps my shoulder.

  Our door’s always open.

  He leaves me, drifts toward the front, rejoins the chorus.

  I will cling to the old rugged cross. And exchange it one day for a crown.

  On the pamphlet’s glossy cover, a photo of a rustic barn.

  Placid countryside. Golden sunshine.

  Heavenly.

  Arrayed over the barn, in bold letters:

  PAVED WITH GOLD.

  Under that. Bolder letters.

  WHY WAIT?

  I tap the bulletproof glass, startle the driver.

  He seems happy when I point him toward Hoboken.

  The limo glides down the west side, and for the first time in a long while, I feel a hard ache for the beds. Here in the backseat, it’s almost like being on bed-rest: silent, safe, the low hum of movement with the city sliding by, untouchable, untouched, just lights.

  When I get back to my apartment I find a padded envelope taped to my apartment door. I pry it loose, rip it open. Shake it out.

  Aviators.

  Lenses cracked. Blood-dotted.

  Interesting.

  I shake the envelope again.

  Out comes a note.

  Consider these an apology. Or a good-faith gift. Mr Harrow regrets our misunderstanding and he would very much like to meet with you. We hope to resolve this matter in a timely and amicable fashion. Please contact me directly at the number below.

  The signature’s from someone named Milgram.

  I palm the note, pocket the shades.

  Unlock my door.

  I like that phrase.

  Good faith.

  16.

  We’re in a wheat field.

  Belt-high stalks rustle in unison, like a congregation on their knees, whispering prayers. I reach both my hands out to let the stalk tops and wheat flowers tickle at my palms.

  T. K. Harrow walks beside me.

  —and the most beautiful thing of it is, we can make of this what we wish. This realm is given to us as a second Eden. God made us once in His image, and now He’s provided us the tools, and the know-how, to remake ourselves in His.

  A white clapboard church on the crest of a hill.

  Steeple bells welcome us.

  Harrow hikes toward it, a half-step in fr
ont of me.

  See, now this here is exactly the kind of church I grew up in. Small. Cozy. Everyone knew everyone. You couldn’t look left or right there wasn’t someone looking back at you, quick with a smile or a steadying word. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I am thankful for my many blessings. But sometimes I think of what we’ve built today and wonder what we lost along the way.

  The door is ajar. We enter. Rough-hewn pews on a wide-plank floor. Sunlight spun into stained-glass rainbows.

  A vacant crucifix hangs heavy behind the pulpit.

  Life-sized.

  Harrow takes a seat in the front row and motions for me to join him.

  I’m sorry we couldn’t meet in person. But this is much preferable, don’t you agree?

  He could have self-presented in any way he chose. A serpent, the angel Gabriel, or simply T. K. Harrow forty years ago, still robust and full of hellfire. But he’s here more or less as you’d find him in life, as he looked on that Radio City screen. Tall, weathered, bristly gray hair, scarecrow thin, a kindly face when it wants to be kind, but one that easily snaps back to rectitude. The only costuming flourish he allows himself is that on TV he’s always in a suit. Here he’s in flannels and wool. Work clothes.

  As for me, I look like me. A garbageman.

  Harrow claps me on the shoulder with a hand gnarled by age, his fingers folded up like a wounded bird. Still, his grip is strong.

  When I was a lad, sitting on a pew not much more comfortable than this one, in a church pretty much just like this, the most terrifying thing to me in the whole wide world was not death, or the wages of wickedness, or the wrath of the Almighty Lord. It was the stares of Miss Savonarola.

  Harrow chuckles at the memory.

  She was our church organist. Tiny woman. Would sit at the electronic organ, right up there.

  He points a crooked finger toward the altar.

  She sat facing the congregation. Her eyes could just barely peer over the top of the organ. Yet I remember those eyes like twin glowing moons, hanging low on the horizon. And the funny thing about Miss Savonarola was that, before the service, she was your favorite person in the world. She’d greet you at the door and slip you sweets from her dress pocket, make you promise not to tell your folks. But during the service, let me tell you. She changed. You could hide in the back row, crouched out of sight, bury your toy in your lap, didn’t matter. You got up to mischief while the pastor was preaching, she saw. She’d find you after the service and whap! Rap your wrists with a switch right in front of your parents. Wouldn’t even say why, to you or to them. But she knew. And she knew you knew. And I will tell you, Mr Spademan. I am respectful and awed by my Lord in His heaven, but I don’t think anyone’s ever kept me in line better than she did. She taught me a few things, I’ll tell you that.