Shovel Ready (8 page)

Then I meet Rockwell at a bar on Washington. Main artery in the proud heart of Hoboken. This bar opens early on Sunday. Most do. It’s not crowded inside, but it’s not empty either. A different kind of communion.

Bartender’s the owner. My poet-quoting friend, Sebastian, from the Dominican. Named for the saint. So he says.

Sets us up with two shots.

Rockwell used to work for the
Times
, then he got fired. Turns out he has a lying problem, at work and in life. He once told me he’s a descendant of the great American painter. Luckily I don’t care much either way.

Now he publishes his own paper.
The Rockwell Report
. Conspiracies and cover-ups. He’s the sole reporter. You can pick it up on any street corner. Literally. From a big pile. He leaves them there. For free.

Also runs a website, of course, on the old-fashioned Internet. But he likes the feel of paper, the stink of ink, so he says. Salvaged two copy machines from a bombed-out Staples near Times Square. Ran the Geiger counter over them. Only clicked a little bit, he claims.

Plus he wears horn-rims. So at least he looks like a reporter.

Tell me about T. K. Harrow.

What do you want to know that you don’t already know?

Just empty the file.

Okay. Well, he runs that big church down South that sounds like a country singer. Hope Baptist. Hallelujah Hall. Something like that. Wait. Crystal Corral. That’s it. So there’s that.

What else?

The TV. That’s where it all started. And it’s lucrative.

That many people still watch TV?

Sure. You should get out of the city more often, you’d be surprised how many rabbit ears you still see. Not everyone’s ready to jam an IV tube in their arm every time they want to escape, you know? Plus TV’s basically free—at least, besides the money you send to your favorite evangelist in a little white envelope every week. Which adds up.

I guess so.

As for political clout, Harrow runs a weekly Washington prayer breakfast that’s attended by, like, twelve senators and forty members of the House. So there’s that. He more or less got our current president elected, first genuine fire-and-brimstone Bible-thumper in the White House. So there’s that. And then he’s got this new thing. Paved With Gold.

This is good. This is useful. This is enough to buy Rockwell another round.

Sebastian sets them down.

Paved With Gold. What’s that?

It’s this limnosphere thing. Signs up converts. Promises them heaven right now, here on Earth. Why wait, that’s the pitch. Gold mansions. Endless happiness. Harp-playing-fucking-angels. All that stuff. Paved With Gold. You know, like the streets of Glory.

I thought the road to hell was paved with gold.

No. That’s good intentions.

But how do people afford it? A bed alone is a fortune. Not to mention monthly tap-in fees, feed-bags—

Harrow subsidizes. He’s got a camp somewhere down South. Rows and rows of beds. So they say. Limited space, so he can only accept the elect. How he chooses, God only knows. It’s his earthly mission, he claims. Reason God put him here. Deliver his people from the torments of this bodily world.

Rockwell empties shot two. For him, two shots is just the stretching before the marathon.

So how big is his ministry?

How big? The biggest. When you can convince half the US government to get up at dawn to listen to you tell them what fucked-up sinners they are, that’s pretty big. I don’t know
much about this fake heaven of his, but he’s already amassed enough gold here on Earth to pave plenty of streets. Plus the political pull. He’s got the president’s ear. All that stuff. The only ripples on his pond I ever heard about are his kids. He has trouble with his daughters. So I hear. The oldest one supposedly went AWOL. Can’t remember her name. Grace something.

Chastity.

Rockwell gives me a look.

Now why in the world would you know that?

Lucky guess. Figure it’s got to be one of those virtues. You know. Constance. Charity.

Funny. Those are his other daughters.

So why’d she run?

Who knows with kids these days? Broke her curfew? Daddy wouldn’t let her go to prom? Probably got knocked up by her boyfriend and decided to find some sugar daddy, try out the trailer life for a little while. No doubt she’ll be back knocking at heaven’s gates soon enough.

So where do I find him?

The South?

Seriously.

I think the main Paved With Gold camp is in a Carolina. North or South—can’t remember which. Same with the Crystal Corral, the church you see on TV. But he’s got satellite churches everywhere. There’s even one in Times Square, or used to be. If you’re looking to convert.

I just want to talk to him. About a job.

Well, if you’d like to meet the man in the flesh, you don’t have to wait too long. He’s headed here, to the city. I figured that’s why you were asking.

What for?

Big crusade. Madison Square Garden. He’s even paying to
get it cleaned up. Initiative with the mayor. You know, I hear the place is more lovely since the roof caved in. Supposedly you look up, you see stars.

And if it rains?

Fuck if I know. Tarps?

When is it? This crusade?

Dude, you’ve really got to get yourself a computer.

Downs his third.

I follow suit.

So this Harrow. Does he employ muscle?

Everyone employs muscle, Spademan.

You don’t.

No. But I have you.

Rockwell pulls out a notepad. Starts riffling pages.

I do know of this one guy who works for Harrow. Supposedly a very scary dude.

I know the one you mean. Southern guy. Call him Pilot. Wears aviators. Big on hand-washing.

No, that’s not him. This guy’s black. Bearded. Name of Simon, I think.

Keeps riffling. Then stashes it.

Must be in my other notebook.

We’re both on empty, so I signal Sebastian. Set us up again.

The dread pre-noon nightcap.

Bar’s cleared out a bit. Brief lull between the first-thing-in-the-a.m. crowd and the afternoon-ennui rush.

Ennui. That’s Rockwell’s word.

Claims it’s French.

Just two good buddies on the Lord’s day, enjoying a Sabbath drink.

Bellied up to the bar.

Backs to the door.

Pilot walks in.

Picks wrong.

Broken horn-rims skid in the spatter.

Rockwell’s forehead hits the bar. Exit wound swallows the shot glass.

I drop.

Sebastian grabs the sawed-off he stores by the Bushmills.

The shotgun speaks.
Barroom
.

I roll.

Sebastian martyred by bullets, not arrows, this time.

I scamper to the men’s room to solemnly reconsider my predilection for box-cutters.

Predilection. Another Rockwell word.

Lock the door.

Men’s room looks out over an alleyway.

Lucky.

By the time Pilot puts two new peepholes in the locked door with his revolver, I’m down the alley, cut right, right again, circle back to the bar’s entrance.

Score one for the local boy.

Still.

Box-cutter.

I peek in the open door. Carefully.

Bar’s dark.

Pilot comes back from the men’s room.

Aviators look left. Right.

Reflect emptiness.

Walks back behind the bar.

Steps over broken bottles. Over Sebastian.

Stows his revolver in a shoulder holster.

Stops at the sink.

Washes his hands.

Half a block away, two patrolmen watch the action like Heckle and Jeckle on a wire.

Jersey’s Finest.

Like most cops, like the whole of the NYPD, they’re cash-strapped and half-privatized now, their salaries buoyed by moneyed interests with the city crying poor. So their main job is to stand watch and make sure the dreamers on the upper floors aren’t disturbed. As for us carcasses down here, down in the grimy urban mosh pit, they don’t much care what we do to each other.

I approach.

You’ve got shots fired at that bar on the corner.

We heard. Called it in. Waiting on backup.

I eye the pistol on one cop’s belt. His hand instinctively hovers.

I reach in my pocket. Pull out my slush fund. Peel off a thousand cash. Then another.

Hoping I’ve guessed his caliber.

Mind if I rent your firearm? I’d like to make a citizen’s arrest.

Cop looks at me. Looks at his partner.

I feed them their story.

There were ten of them. They overtook you.

Partner shrugs.

Seems fair to me. So long as you plan to split that.

I stride back through the bar’s front door, unloading half the magazine as a herald.

Do serious damage to what’s left of the liquor bottles behind the bar.

Seven shots echo. No one’s shooting in here but me.

And Pilot’s gone.

Fuck.

I fire off three more shots. Bottles fall like fainting ladies.

Run back to the apartment, cop’s Glock in my waistband. We’ll have to extend this to an all-day rental.

Yes, I have my own gun at home. Somewhere.

Thing about guns, in this line of work, they’re not all that useful. Everyone has guns.

So they kind of cancel each other out.

Home. Secret knock. No answer.

Unlock the door. Shoulder it open. Slow.

Gun drawn.

Persephone on the sofa. Her back to me.

Huge headphones on her head like she’s communicating with another planet.

Head bobbing. Eating ice cream.

She turns around.

Hey you.

Spoons another mound of Rocky Road in her mouth.

I went down to the corner. Hope you don’t mind.

Licks the spoon.

What’s with the pistolero, Sheriff?

I lock the door behind me. Scan the apartment.

We’re alone, right?

Of course. What’d you think? I was going to throw a party?

I put the cop’s gun in the drawer of a side table. Figure I can return it next time the department holds a toys-for-guns amnesty campaign.

In other words, I just bought myself a two-thousand-dollar teddy bear.

Pack your stuff.

What stuff?

Your bag. We have to go.

Oh my God, why? This is heaven. This is the most comfy place I have stayed in weeks. You have a shower! A glorious, hot-water—

We have to go. Now.

She holds up her hands, palms out.

Okay. Simmer down, Sarge.

She stuffs the headphones and balled-up laundry into her backpack. Zips up My Little Pony. Stands.

Still wearing my sweatshirt dress. And Docs.

I frown.

We need to get you some pants.

She slides the knife into her boot.

Don’t worry about me. Let’s go.

Doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t ask where.

So she trusts me.

Well that’s good.

Not sure if it’s smart. But it’s good.

I need to stash her with someone I trust, which is a short list. Someone who can protect her, who has no love for the Church, and who I know beyond a shadow won’t be tempted to creep up on her in the dark. That list is even shorter.

I do know one guy who qualifies. On all counts.

Mark Ray.

The only trouble with Mark is that he’s tapped-out daily, a bed-rest junkie. So first you have to find him. Then you have to wake him up.