Shovel Ready (12 page)

He’s right again. It doesn’t.

He goes on.

Well, let me provide you with an alternate version. In an act of brash but not uncharacteristic youthful rebellion, prompted by my admittedly severe punishments for her extremely humiliating acts of licentiousness, she had a foolish encounter with her no-good boyfriend. Which she managed to hide from me. For a time. When she could no longer hide it, she ran.

Which is when you contacted me.

That’s correct.

And now you want her back.

Yes, I do.

Hmmm. Well, that does make more sense, I guess.

I’m glad you’re starting to see the whole picture, Mr Spademan.

Sure. There’s only one thing I don’t quite get. And you’ll have to forgive me. I can be a little dim sometimes.

And what is that?

You hired me to kill her, Mr Harrow. Not bring her home. He smiles.

Someday you may know how it feels to be a father. You want to protect them, even from themselves. In any way you can.

Yeah. Well. I’m not buying it. But thanks.

The plain fact, Mr Spademan, is that someone in my security department overstepped his authority. That individual has been reprimanded severely, as you know. I believe you received a souvenir of that disciplinary action just recently.

So now you want her back. Like the Prodigal Daughter. Just like that.

Something changed my mind, Mr Spademan. I saw the light, as it were.

Really? What was that?

I learned I had a grandchild. That altered my way of seeing things. But I wouldn’t expect you would understand something like that.

No.

I would never harm that child. No matter his provenance. Or the circumstances of his conception. I want that child back. I want both my children back.

And you won’t hurt Persephone?

You mean Grace? Of course not. I just want her back in my arms.

Well, that’s a very good sermon, Mr Harrow. And I do thank you for your time and the tour. And I’m sorry. I am. But I don’t think I can do that. She’s a grown woman and I’m not a truant officer. I only provide one service, and if you’re no longer interested in that service, we should probably just go our separate ways.

Harrow steps down from the pulpit.

All right. I understand. You clearly see yourself as a man of principle. I respect that. However misguided.

I stand up.

I want out. Now. I’m tapping out. Unplug me.

I know you are new to the off-body experience, so let me explain how this works. This is my church. My construct. My world. You are my guest. And you’ll wake up when I wake you up.

The light pooling in the church’s dusty corners dries up. The stained-glass sunbeams snuff out.

The church door creaks behind us. All the way open. Then all the way closed.

I told you I learned a lesson from my dear old Miss Savonarola, yes? Do you want to know what that lesson was?

I glance back over the pews. Three gentlemen approaching up the aisle. Two are huge, wear overalls, and look like farmhands who bulk up by eating other farmhands.

The third is a black man. Trim build. Trim beard. Shoulders as wide as a roadblock.

I look back at Harrow.

What was the lesson?

He smiles.

First the sweets. Then the switch.

I’m not much of a brawler and this one’s over in a blink. Harrow’s world, Harrow’s rules, so I’m like a twelve-year-old fighting high-school bullies in a wading pool.

After a few good kidney shots, one of the farmboys gets behind me, loops his arms in under mine, kicks my knees out, and bends my arms back like butterfly wings.

Pinned.

I dangle.

The black guy steps to center stage.

Mr Spademan, hello. Pleased to meet you. They call me Simon the Magician. I am Mr Harrow’s head of security.

Sure. I’ve heard of you.

Good.

I’m going to guess you’re not a real magician.

I don’t do card tricks, if that’s what you mean.

He holds up a fist. Shows it to me. No tattoos. Just fist.

Pow.

Recocks.

But I do have this one nifty trick that I like.

Shows me the fist again. Tightens it like he’s crushing coal.

The skin starts to grow over the gaps between his fingers.

Thumb absorbed into knuckles to make bigger knuckles.

His fist reborn as a wrecking ball of bone.

His world. His rules.

The Magician pulls the fist back. Lets it fly. Like the plunger in a pinball machine. My head’s the pinball.

The left comes right after. Right left right, like a ball between bumpers.

I hear ringing.

Harrow’s delivering a sermon from the pulpit.

Simon the Magician was a contemporary of Jesus. Also called Simon the Sorcerer, Simon Magus, occasionally Simon the Holy God.

While Harrow goes on with the history lesson, Simon’s namesake lets another loose across my chin. He might be named for some magician, but like Samson, he’s got a thing for jawbones.

Harrow preaches.

Simon the Magician was a miracle-worker. He was considered the most powerful holy man in Samaria. Some thought him a deity. That is, until Jesus came along.

Simon stands over me, legs spread in a fighting stance. Fists hover like bees outside a hive, looking for the way in. He’s not much for words but he puts his two cents in. Simon says:

When I heard about him, I took to him immediately.

Right cross.

Simon says:

I like to think of him as the alternative Jesus.

Left cross.

Simon says:

You know. Black Jesus.

Right cross. Ah, the old rugged cross.

Harrow bangs on the pulpit with the flat of his hand.

And do you know what Simon the Magician did, Mr Spademan, once he was upstaged by the one true Lord?

I wonder if I’m expected to answer. I was always taught not to talk with my mouth full of teeth.

Harrow plows on.

He converted. Followed Jesus. A convert, Mr Spademan. A smart man.

Farmboy lets me drop like a feed sack.

I cough. Dribble blood.

You made your point. Wake me up.

I can’t do that, Mr Spademan. As real as real, am I right?

Harrow steps down from the pulpit. Toes me with a work boot.

I spit on the boot. Blood-colored polish. Spit-shine.

You may as well put your suit back on, Harrow. I’m guessing the country charmer portion of the program is over.

The pity is, Mr Spademan, that we can’t kill you in here. You can’t die. It’s not possible. Most times that seems like an inconvenient impediment. But sometimes it proves surprisingly useful.

Simon stomps my head. I’m really starting to hate this magic act.

Mr Spademan, when I say we can do this all day, I really do mean it. All day. All night. A whole lifetime.

Simon stomps my head.

I spit up.

Harrow, I came here in good faith.

Harrow laughs.

Now what would you presume to tell me about faith, good or otherwise?

Simon stomps my head.

Skulls weren’t made for this.

Harrow stands over me, supervising like a pit boss watching a card sharp get his comeuppance.

I want my daughter back.

Knock at the church door.

Some minutes later. Not sure how many. Several stomps’ worth, at least.

Harrow looks at Simon. Simon looks at Farmboy Number One. Who looks at Farmboy Number Two. Who walks over and answers the door.

Enter Mark Ray.

I look up from the wide-plank floor. Taste of plank in my mouth.

Mark’s in some kind of getup. It all matches his blond curls nicely. White robe. Sandals. Gold braid belt.

Hurlbat.

Sorry to interrupt. Did I miss the sermon?

A hurlbat looks like an ax but with two blades, set in opposite directions, one east, one west. Mark grips it and twirls it loosely in a batting stance, like a slugger waiting on-deck. Farmboy Number One watches mutely.

So he gives Farmboy Number One a closer look.

Farmboy falls.

Mark pries the hurlbat free from the farmboy’s face. It takes a couple of good jimmies to pry loose.

Ax free, Mark walks up the aisle.

Since we’re telling religious stories, I’ve got a good one. Saint Fidelis. Heard of him? German saint. Philosopher. Friar. Wore a hair-shirt. You ever worn a hair-shirt? Anyone?

Farmboy Number Two shrugs. Harrow and Simon stand silent, sizing Mark up. Simon’s fists turn back into hands. He spreads his fingers, cracks newfound knuckles.

Mark continues.

It’s no fun, I’ll you that. A hair-shirt I mean. Not recommended.
Do you know the hair’s on the inside? Anyway. Saint Fidelis. Scourge of heretics. Known to carry—

And here he bows and presents his weapon to each man like a jester proudly showing off his scepter.

—a hurlbat.

Then Mark stands. Shakes his shoulders out. Regrips. Crouches once, a quick low bounce in the knees, then sticks the ax into the middle of Farmboy Number Two.

Timber.

I’d give him a standing ovation if I could stand.

Harrow steps forward.

And who are you?

I’m just here to pick up my friend.

We’re having a word with him.

So I see. Don’t worry. I’m not here to stop the hurting. I’m just here to spread it around a little bit.

He takes a quick step left and hacks toward Simon, who feints, snatches the handle, twists, and wrests it free.

Mark empty-handed.

Harrow smiles.

All right. Now we can talk like civilized folk. May I ask, and I apologize if this sounds somewhat silly given the situation, but how the devil did you manage to get in here?

Funny you should mention that. I know a devil. From Chinatown. Name’s Rick.

Well. That’s all very interesting, Mr—

Uriel.

Apparently Mark’s got a nickname.

Mr Uriel. But this is still my construct. Yes? My church. My rules.

That’s true. More or less.

So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.

Harrow gestures to Simon, who steps up, ax held high. Ready to swing low.

Mark’s robe ripples in the back.

Rips.

Mark’s flesh ripples in the back.

Rips.

Mark lurches forward.

Mark’s a hunchback.

Then an angel.

Wings unfurl.

Ax meets air.

Mark’s foot meets Simon’s forehead. Hard. From on high.

Mark’s airborne. He laughs.

Turns his sandal into a steel-toe boot.

Kicks Simon again. Harder.

For unto you is given this day a boot to the head.

Simon staggers.

Harrow waves his hand.

All right. Enough.

He toes me.

Simon, tap out Mr Spademan.

Harrow looks up at Mark, who hovers, feathered wings trembling.

I imagine you can find your own way out.

I’m awake. In a bed. In a cathedral.

Not a cathedral. A bank.

An angel hovers over me.

Not an angel. A nurse.

Behind her, Mr Milgram. He of the note.

The nurse cradles my face.

Be still. Let the painkillers work.

My jaw and skull throb. Nothing broken but a very convincing facsimile.

Pain. Killers.

Two things I’ve been spending way too much time with recently.

We’re in the financial district, the old Wall Street, where I came to meet Milgram, a neighborhood where abandoned banks abound. This one’s got vaulted ceilings, like a burial vault, built for kings. Paintings on the ceiling. Angels touching men.

Milgram hands me a card.

Mr Harrow would like you to know his offer still stands.

Milgram’s a fussy type. Buttoned-down. Looks like he’d enjoy the back room at the Bait & Switch. Though I’m not sure which end of the whip he’d prefer.

I take the card.

One question.

Yes?

Why hire me if you’d already sent Pilot?

Mr Pilot’s job wasn’t to kill her. That was your job. Mr Pilot’s job was to kill you. So, as you can see, this has been a real cavalcade of incompetence. But rest assured, we plan to set it right.

I stash the card.

Don’t expect a call.

He tries to grin, can’t quite make it past a wince.

Well, I suspect you’ll be hearing from us either way.

I stop outside on the stone steps of the bank. Sit on the steps. Catch my breath.

Run a palm over the cold pebbled stone, squinting at the street, which is all edges and angles and light.

It’s early morning. New day still has that new-day smell. Sunlight scrubs away what’s left of last night. Tries to, anyway.

I don’t go off-body often and haven’t in a long while.

It’s been long enough that I forgot about this part.

Bed-resters call it the wake-up call. A painful sensitivity when the simulation’s over and you first come out of it and your senses all come back online. When you’re back to using your actual organs, your eyes and ears and nose and nerves all open for business again.

Light searing your optic nerves. Odors numbing your nose. Sound galloping across your eardrums.

The wake-up call.