The Everything Box (9 page)

Bayliss picked a few more bites of eggs from the burrito and gave up. “If you're so great, how is it you don't know why Babylon wants the box?”

“Who said I don't? He wants it for the same reason we do. It's important. Only he doesn't know what's inside, which makes it one more reason we have to get it. The idiot might open it.”

“What's in the box?” said Bayliss.

Nelson shook his head. “That's classified.”

“I have level nine clearance, you know,” Bayliss said.

“Really? No one tells me anything.”

“So what's in it?”

“What's in what?”

Bayliss shook her head. She wadded up her burrito and napkins and threw them in an overflowing trash can. “I don't know why we don't just get the box ourselves.”

Nelson picked up his burrito and pointed it at her. “That's how I know you don't have level nine clearance. Any level nine would know that it's way better to leave strangers' fingerprints at a scene when you're obtaining evidence by extralegal means. It's also more fun.”

“You just don't want protecting the world to eat into your precious drinking time.”

“And just like that, you're back on the top-secret list. Keep up the good work, rookie.”

“Oh, no,” said Bayliss. “I've taken every kind of shit from you, but I won't put up with that word.”

Nelson held up his burrito in what Bayliss took as a sign of truce. “I understand,” he said. “Woolrich used to call me that when I started.”

“Back when dinosaurs walked the Earth?”

“Two passive-aggressives in two minutes. You're on a roll,” Nelson said.

“That was actually straight-up aggression.”

“I stand corrected.”

As Nelson worked diligently on his burrito, Bayliss sat quietly thinking. “What if Cooper or Morton opens the box?” she said.

“It makes our jobs easier. We just sit back, relax, and kiss our asses good-bye,” said Nelson brightly.

Bayliss turned her head around as far as it would go, then gave up. “I don't think you can both sit back and kiss your own ass.”

“Three knives in the back. A hat trick,” said Nelson. He set down his burrito and clapped.

“What do I get?” asked Bayliss.

“You get to fall on the sword. If anyone asks, you punched Woolrich downstairs.”

Bayliss sat back in her seat. “You'd tell him that, wouldn't you?”

Nelson shrugged, wiped burrito ichor from his fingers. “Probably. Maybe. I don't really know what I'm going to do moment to moment,” he said.

Bayliss pursed her lips and looked out the window. She longed for Cooper to open the box. Anything was better than this.

“How's the food?” said a woman in red. Bayliss turned quickly to face her. It was strange having someone appear by her side so suddenly. The DOPS had trained her specifically to notice person-size objects looming up beside her. But here was this one, all in red—dress, nails, and shoes—asking about the local cuisine. “I think the cook is on suicide watch,” she said.

“That good?” said the woman in red, giving her a crooked smile.

The woman looked vaguely familiar, like a face she might have
glimpsed for a second coming out of a movie theater or bookstore. Her eyes were dark and she had her long black hair tied back in a ponytail.

“If you want to know about the food, you should really ask him,” said Bayliss, hooking a thumb at Nelson. “I get the feeling he's a regular.”

“I would ask him, but he can't see me. No one can except you,” said the woman. “Just like no one else is noticing us talk.”

Bayliss stared at the woman for a moment, then at Nelson. He continued eating his burrito, taking big bites like he was afraid if he slowed for a second the burrito might bolt for the door—which, she thought, was a distinct possibility. His head was tilted slightly down, looking at the food.
But not at us,
thought Bayliss. She reached across the table and waved a hand in front of his face. Nelson stared right through her. She turned back to the woman in red. “Who are you?”

“Giselle Petersen,” the woman said. She held out her hand and Bayliss shook it. “I work for DOPS, too. Up on fifteen. We're kind of a whoever-needs-us-the-most-right-now department.”

Bayliss picked up a plastic fork from the table and stabbed the side of Nelson's burrito. He kept on eating, the fork protruding from the side like a diving board for the vermin Bayliss was certain lurked everywhere in the restaurant just out of sight. Then something occurred to her and she turned to Giselle. “Wait. The fifteenth floor?” she said and then whispered, “Are you a Marilyn?”

“Born and raised,” said Giselle. “And you don't have to whisper. No one can hear us.”

“Wow. I've never met a Marilyn before,” Bayliss said.

“Yeah, well, you kind of have. Me. But I was fogging your brain most of the time. It's nothing personal. We just sometimes shadow new people in the department. Check them out for the big brains on the top floor.”

“Uh. Okay.”

“Don't worry. I told them you were aces.”

Bayliss didn't say anything. She knew she should be pissed at someone who had just admitted to screwing with her senses, and
maybe even her memory, but all she could do was smile. “Thanks,” she said. Then, “So we're invisible to everyone in here right now?”

“You got it,” said Giselle. She pulled up a plastic seat from the next table and sat down.

Bayliss looked around the restaurant and yelled, “The food here sucks!” at the top of her lungs, then turned quickly back to the table and ducked her head, trying to make herself small and inconspicuous.

After a moment, Giselle said, “You okay over there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Because scrunched down like that, you look like a turtle having a nervous breakdown.”

When no one looked her way, Bayliss reached across the table and moved Nelson's cup of horchata to her side. He reached for where it had been, cupped empty air, and brought it to his mouth, drinking nothing.

“This is wild,” said Bayliss. “I could do this all day.”

“Apparently,” said Giselle.

“Right. Sorry. Wait. How did you know where we'd be? Did you follow us here?”

“Sort of,” she said, taking the horchata and sliding it across the table to where Nelson could get it. “I was in the backseat of Nelson's car on the ride over.”

“You've been here this whole time? Why?”

Giselle looked around and took a paper tray of fried plantain chips off a table occupied by a dreadlocked skate punk. He didn't bat an eye. “I like to get to know who I might be working with.”

Bayliss nodded. “You wanted a look at Sir Pukesalot over there. I don't blame you. He must have some kind of rep in the department by now.”

“Nelson I know,” said Giselle. “I was spying on
you
.”

“Wait. I thought you said you already checked me out.”

Giselle bit into a plantain chip, holding up a finger until she'd crunched the thing up enough to swallow. “I'd seen enough of you to know you weren't Mata Hari. But I wanted to see how you were in a partner situation.”

Bayliss crossed her arms and sat back in her chair. “Yeah? So, how did I do?”

Giselle pushed the chips forward until Bayliss could reach them. She said, “You haven't shot Nelson yet, so I'd say you were doing fine.”

Bayliss took a chip, stopped, and dropped her hand on the table. “But I think about it every day. Does that count?”

“Only if you kill him. A leg or an arm wound, I think everyone would understand.”

Bayliss wanted a drink. She picked up Nelson's horchata and took a sip, setting it down in front of her. Again, Giselle moved it back across the table to where it had been.

“It might be better if he didn't know I was here today, so let's keep things close to how they were. Okay?”

“Right,” said Bayliss. “Don't want him having a stroke when he comes to his senses. Well, I do, but he's my ride, so maybe not today.”

Giselle reached over and took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the punk kid's pocket. She tapped a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and slid the pack and lighter back where she'd found them. “You have any questions for me?” said Giselle.

Bayliss thought for a minute. “I know I should, but I'm a little overwhelmed. I wasn't even sure Marilyns were real or just another DOPS rumor . . . like aliens in the basement.”

“Yes,” said Giselle, looking away. “Rumors.” She puffed the cigarette, crossed her legs, and relaxed back against the chair. “Look, I know as far as introductions go, this is a strange one. But the next time we meet will be a lot more normal now that we've had a chance to chat without the department or Prince Charming over there breathing down our necks.”

“So, this isn't an official visit?” said Bayliss. The cigarette smoke made her want to sneeze, but she didn't want to in front of Giselle. The other woman seemed to have so much on the ball that Bayliss figured that she should at least be able to breathe right. She rubbed her nose with her index finger and smiled weakly.

“Sorry,” said Giselle. She dropped the cigarette and crushed it
under her heel. “That was rude. I'm trying to quit, but it just makes me want them even more.” She waved a hand in the air to disperse the smoke. Bayliss took a plantain chip. It was good. A lot better than the burrito, though a dishrag full of frijoles would be better than the burrito, she thought. She took another plantain.

“So, are we going to be working together or something?” she said.

Giselle shrugged. “That all depends on the powers that be. But there's an Abaddon cult kicking up a fuss. The big brains might want someone to check them out.”

“Great. I'll read up on them.”

“No, you won't. Not yet. You've never heard of them. Or me. I just stepped outside for a smoke and you're having lunch with your partner and no one knows anything about anything.
Comprende?
”

“Got it,” said Bayliss. “So what happens now? Are you going to disappear in a puff of smoke and wipe my memory?”

“No. Nothing like that,” said Giselle. She and Bayliss looked at Nelson. He'd finished his burrito, but didn't seem to know it. He was chewing empty air, wiping his mouth with a fistful of napkins. “I'm just going to keep Cary Grant and these other lovely people from knowing anything. If the three of us end up working together down the line, this meeting will just be our little secret.”

“Great. Well, it was nice meeting you, Giselle. A little weird, but nice.”

Giselle put the remaining plantain chips back on the skate punk's table and got up. “Hey, we department gals have to look out for each other. Sisterhood of the traveling pants and all that.”

“Right,” said Bayliss, having no idea what the other woman was talking about. She made a mental note to look it up later, but not on a department computer.

“I'll see you back at the car,” said Giselle.

“But I won't see you, right?”

“Bingo.” Giselle glanced at Nelson. “The hungry, hungry hippo over there will wake up in a couple of minutes. Be cool when he does.”

“Will do,” said Bayliss. “Nice meeting you.”

“You, too,” said Giselle, and disappeared. One second she was
there, then the next second she wasn't. Bayliss looked around. Everyone just kept grimly chewing their ptomaine tacos. She smiled.

“What were we talking about?” said Nelson absently. He looked at his hands. Then the table.

“Lose something?” said Bayliss.

“I must have spaced out for a minute. I don't remember finishing breakfast.”

“Maybe you were distracted by my scintillating company.”

“Dream on. I've got a ficus at home that's more fun than you,” said Nelson. He frowned at her. “What are you smiling about? You look like Ronald McDonald on mushrooms.”

“Nothing,” said Bayliss. “I'll just have to remember this place. I hear the chips are really good.”

STEVE, JORGE, JERRY, TOMMY, AND TOMMY'S BROTHER-
IN-LAW,
Lloyd, were huddled around a worktable in the construction company's office on the work site. Before Tommy brought Lloyd over, the others had gone over the place carefully, stowing all signs, sigils, statues, throw pillows, and commemorative plates of Caleximus out of sight. Lloyd might be useful to their cause, but he wasn't a true believer, and explaining how they wanted him to help speed along their plans to destroy the world might have made negotiations, by Steve's reckoning, unnecessarily complicated. All Lloyd needed to know was that they wanted to get into the building where he worked. The group stood around the table looking down at Lloyd's hand-drawn layout of the Blackmoore Building.

Jorge pointed to the side of one drawing. “Why are we meeting by a duck? Whose duck is it?”

“Yeah. A duck is a lousy landmark. They wander off,” said Steve.

“Not ‘duck,'” said Lloyd. “Dock. We'll meet at the loading dock.”

“It looks like duck to me too,” said Jerry.

“Well, it says dock. D-O-C-K.”

“That makes more sense,” said Steve.

Tommy clapped Lloyd on the back. “You need to work on your penmanship, dude.”

“No, I don't. I'm a janitor, not a . . . pen teacher guy.”

“You mean an English teacher?” said Jerry.

“Yeah,” said Lloyd quietly. He adjusted his shoulders. “I'm not used to this stuff, and now you're getting me all agitated.”

Lloyd was in his gray janitor overalls. He had long slicked-back hair and biker muttonchops. Unfortunately, they didn't make him look like a badass as much as Wolverine's pool boy.

“It's cool. No one's coming down on you. We just want to know where we're going,” said Jorge.

“Yeah. All right.”

“So, we come in through the duck. Then what?” said Steve.

Lloyd shot him a look. “I bring you in through the loading dock while the cleaning crew is on break. Then we go up the service elevator to the ninth floor.”

“What about alarms?” said Jorge.

“There won't be any. We're going in when the building is being cleaned, so it's okay getting you in and upstairs because I work on nine.”

“Where's the office?” said Jerry.

Lloyd took out a second piece of paper and set it on the table. It was spotted with grease stains. “Sorry. We had wings tonight.”

“Good for you,” said Steve. “Is this really how the ninth floor is laid out?”

“Sure. What's wrong?”

“I'm not sure exactly. It kind of looks—”

“Like the fat guy in that game. Operation,” said Jerry.

“Yeah. That's it. It's a fat man.”

Lloyd turned the paper around and pointed. “No, it's not. Here's the elevators and here's the receptionist desk.”

“Right. By the Charlie Horse and the Funny Bone,” Jerry said.

“Look. I'm not an artist, okay? I'm a guitarist.”

“I thought you were a janitor,” said Jorge.

“Not on the weekends.” Lloyd flipped the map over. There was a grainy Xeroxed photo of five young men in very tight clothes striking
surly poses. Lloyd was at the end of the line, holding a Fender Stratocaster like he was using it to harpoon a narwhal. At the bottom of the flyer it said
PEARL SERPENT
.

“What the hell is a pearl serpent?” said Steve.

“It's Lloyd's band,” said Tommy.

“We do Whitesnake covers. All the way from
Trouble
to their new stuff.

“They have new stuff?” Steve asked.

“They have old stuff?” Jerry asked.

Steve turned the paper over. “And this is what you chose to draw the plan on?”

Lloyd shrugged. “It was the only paper I had.”

Steve nodded. “Not being a pen teacher guy and all, I can see your dilemma.”

“What about the fat guy?” said Jerry. “Is he in the band?”

The others laughed.

“I said I wasn't an artist. This is the best I could do. Anyway, there's the office.”

“By the Adam's Apple.”

“Whatever.”

“So, there aren't any alarms to worry about in the building. What about the office?” said Jorge.

“I walk around in there all the time, so it's easy.”

“And there's a glass display case on the wall with valuable-looking objects in it?”

“Oh yeah. Little statues from like Africa or something, and jewels, and boxes and shit.”

“Is there a safe in the office?”

“I don't know.” Lloyd put his hands in his pockets and looked nervously at the other men. “You going to go busting open a safe? Tommy didn't say anything about that.”

Steve picked up the flyer and held it at different angles, trying to see it as a floor plan and not a naked fat man. “Don't worry about it. What we want is probably in the display case.”

“Okay. 'Cause I don't want to lose my job or anything.”

Steve set down the paper, having given up on Lloyd's art. “Don't
worry, Stevie Ray Vaughan. We'll be as quiet as a moth taking a dump on a daisy.”

“Cool. So, is there anything else you need?”

“Yeah,” said Jorge, turning over the flyer. “What the hell is a pearl serpent?”

“It's my band.”

“I know that. But what does it mean? Like the Beatles spelled their name funny as a play on the word ‘beat.'”

“I didn't know that,” said Steve. “That true?”

“I swear to Caleximus,” said Jorge.

Steve and Jerry stared at him.

“To God. I swear to God,” blurted Jorge.

“What's a Caleximus?” said Lloyd.

“It's a kind of booze,” said Jerry looking at the others.

Jorge nodded. “Yeah. Cheap south-of-the-border stuff. You swear to it and if you're lying, you've got to drink a shot.”

“It gives you a bitch of a headache,” said Steve.

“Awesome,” said Lloyd. “You have some? I have some beers outside. We could party.”

“Maybe later,” said Steve, shooting Jorge the evil eye. Jorge returned the look with a grim, hangdog nod.

“So, is there anything else?” said Lloyd.

“We never really resolved the Pearl Serpent question,” said Jorge.

“Are you serious?” said Steve.

“Sue me. I want to know.”

“It's just the band, man,” said Lloyd a little desperately. “You know. Whitesnake. Pearl Serpent. Get it?”

“Oh yeah,” Jorge said. “What kind of music is it?”

“Metal.”

“Hair metal,” said Jerry.

“Hey man, metal is metal,” said Lloyd.

“Not if you're dressed up in a leotard like my mom doing aerobics.”

“It's Spandex and it's expensive. And chicks dig it.”

“In 1989. You guys play a lot of old-folks' homes?”

“Pearl Serpent kicks ass,” shouted Lloyd.

Steve put up his hands. “Let's everybody take a breath and talk
this over. Now Jerry, even though hair metal isn't your favorite, you have to admit that some of it is, in fact, capable of kicking some amount of ass.”

“If you say so,” mumbled Jerry.

“What?”

“Hair metal kicks ass. Some.”

“And Lloyd,” said Steve. “You have to admit that hair metal is a bit on the nostalgic side and a boy like Jerry, raised on more contemporary forms of the metal arts, might not immediately be able to appreciate all the nuances of your particular version.”

“I guess so,” said Lloyd uncertainly. He took his hands out of his pockets, crossed his arms, stood there silently. He went up on the balls of his feet, then down again. He stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “So, um, about the other thing Tommy mentioned.”

Tommy bumped his shoulder against Lloyd's. “He's being all shy about it, but he wants to know what we're prepared to give him for all his awesome help.”

But something had caught Steve's eye. He pointed to a spot on the drawing. “What's an Eric?”

Lloyd looked and said, “Exit. It's an emergency exit.”

Steve nodded. “The grease stain makes it look like Eric. Emergency Eric. Hey, that should be your name in the band. It's a little more rock and roll than Lloyd, don't you think?”

“That's actually not too bad.”

“So, what is it you'd like, Emergency Eric? What's getting inside going to cost us?”

Lloyd shuffled from foot to foot. He started to say something and stopped. Finally, he crossed his arms and said, “Ten thousand dollars.”

Steve and the others laughed lightly.

“Son, do we look like we have ten thousand dollars lying around? The last time I saw ten thousand dollars was in a Clint Eastwood movie.”

“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,”
said Jerry.

“That's the one. Now, tell me what it is you really want so we can get things rolling.”

Lloyd swallowed and looked at Tommy, who gave him a thumbs-up.
With the plan suddenly getting real, Lloyd wasn't sure he wanted to be there anymore.

“You know, I blew off band rehearsal to come here tonight,” he said.

“And we appreciate that,” said Steve. “But we still don't have ten thousand dollars.”

Lloyd was sweating. What he really wanted to do was go home, open up the sofa bed, crawl in, and pull the covers up over his head. Instead, he stood up straight.

“Five,” said Lloyd.

Steve shook his head. “Can't do it.”

“Be serious, Lloyd,” said Tommy.

“Yeah. You might as well ask for one of our trucks,” said Jerry.

Lloyd looked around, trying to think, but he didn't have a lot of business experience. A week earlier, he'd bought a color TV off a guy in a truck and when he got home all he found inside the box were bricks and a pack of Skittles, and even those were stale.

Steve leaned on the table. “That's not a bad idea, son,” he said to Jerry. “What about it, Lloyd? That band of yours have a van to haul equipment? I bet a truck would come in handy.”

Lloyd scratched the back of his neck. “Huh. A truck? You serious?”

“As the clap, Lloyd. There's one right outside. It's not brand new, mind you. It's got a few miles on it, but it's clean and runs like a dream. It even has a camper shell you can put over the back so your tight pants won't get wet.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jerry. “That sounds like
my
truck. You can't give away my truck.”

Steve took Jerry's arm and steered him over to a far corner of the room.

“I know it's your truck, but don't forget. The Apocalypse is coming. The end of days. When Caleximus gets here and turns this world into burnt toast on a hot road, where you going to drive the thing? Give the baby what he wants. Until we summon Caleximus, you can borrow your mom's car.”

Jerry looked over at the men and back at his father. A note of desperation crept into his voice. “I can't drive around town in that little shoebox. It's yellow. And why
my
truck? Why not yours or Jorge's?”

“Jorge didn't lose the boar and try to feed our Lord corn chips. This is your chance to step up for the cause.”

Jerry sighed and looked at his father, feeling utterly defeated. There was no talking him out of anything when he was in Crusade mode. “Okay. Let him have it.”

“Good boy.”

“But you're never going to bring up the corn chips again, okay?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

“Okay.”

Steve went back to the table with his arm around Jerry's shoulder. “The boy has something to tell you, Lloyd.”

Jerry mumbled, “You can have my truck. It's the F-150 by the gate.” He pulled his key ring from his pocket slowly, like he was hauling a body out of a swamp with a fishing hook on a piece of string. He handed the keys to Lloyd. “The registration is in the glove compartment.”

Lloyd smiled and took the keys. “The band's going to love you for this, man,” said Tommy.

“This is so cool. Thanks,” said Lloyd.

Steve folded up the floor plans and put them in his back pocket. “It's a pleasure doing business with you.” He held out his hand and the two men shook.

“Let's go have a look at your new truck,” said Tommy.

Before they left the office, Lloyd said, “Don't lose those flyers. We're playing a show this Saturday night. You ought to come. The flyers will get you half off the cover charge.”

“That sounds swell. Looking forward to it,” said Steve.

After they left Jerry said, “We're not really going to see Lloyd's band, are we?”

“Hell no,” said his father. “If things go like we planned them, by Saturday the world will be one big ball of fire and we'll take our place with the other chosen ones.”

“Hail Caleximus,” said Jorge.

“Hail Caleximus,” said Jerry.

“Hail Caleximus,” said Steve. “And fuck hair metal.”