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These are the OCR results for the 2014 published version of the Book Shovel Ready written by Adam Sternbergh. The OCR results have been produced with tesseract.
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A Novel<lb/>
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zi<lb/>
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ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
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@<lb/>
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CROWN PUBLISHERS<lb/>
New York<lb/>
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either<lb/>
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.<lb/>
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is<lb/>
</p>
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entirely coincidental.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Copyright © 2014 by Adam Sternbergh<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All rights reserved.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the<lb/>
Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House LLG, a Penguin<lb/>
Random House Company, New York.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
www.crownpublishing.com<lb/>
</p>
<p>
CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random<lb/>
House LLC.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data<lb/>
Sternbergh, Adam.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shovel ready / Adam Sternbergh. — First edition.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
1. Assassins—Fiction. 2. Suspense fiction. 3. Dystopias. I. Title.<lb/>
PS3619.14.7874,54.9 2014,<lb/>
</p>
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813'.6—de23<lb/>
</p>
<p>
2013012901<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ISBN 978-0-385-34899-7<lb/>
eBook ISBN 978-0-385-34,900-0<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Jacket design by Will Staehle<lb/>
Author photograph: Marvin Orellana<lb/>
</p>
<p>
109876543231<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First Edition<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
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</p>
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To<lb/>
Julia May Jonas<lb/>
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twé<lb/>
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Every human being who has ever lived has died,<lb/>
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except the living.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
— FREDERICK SEIDEL, “The Bush Administration”<lb/>
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aa<lb/>
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I don’t care.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't you want—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just a name.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[have his address.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Great.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
See this fucker—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I said don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The less I know, etcetera.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How much?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What I said: To the account I mentioned.<lb/>
And how will I—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You won't hear from me again.<lb/>
But how do I—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The dead guy. That’s how.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t want to know your reasons. If he owes you or he beat<lb/>
you or she swindled you or he got the promotion you wanted<lb/>
</p>
<p>
or you want to fuck his wife or she fucked your man or you<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
sorry. I don't care.\I’m not your Father Confessor.<lb/>
Think of me more like a bullet.<lb/>
Just point.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="6"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
twe<lb/>
in’<lb/>
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debi<lb/>
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<p>
4 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—best friends. At least that’s what I thought. Then it turns out<lb/>
she’s fucking him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Please, ma’am. I will disconnect. And this number doesn’t<lb/>
work twice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait. Is this safe?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which part?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aren't they listening?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Doesn't matter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Picture America.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now picture all the phone calls in all the cities in America.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now picture all the people in all the world who are calling<lb/>
each other right now trying to plot ways to blow America up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So who the fuck do you think is going to care about you and<lb/>
your former best friend?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I see. Will you tell her—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Will you tell her when you see her that it was me who sent<lb/>
you. It was me.‘<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m not FedEx. I don’t deliver messages. Understand?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good. Now the name. Just the name.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
EL READY 5<lb/>
</p>
<p>
do it for money. Sometimes for other forms of payment<lb/>
Jadot<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lways for the same reason. Because someone asked<lb/>
wi<lb/>
</p>
<p>
at a<lb/>
1e tO. -<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that’s it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Areporter buddy once told me that in newspapers, when<lb/>
leave out some important piece of information at the be-<lb/>
’ nning of a story, they call it burying the lede.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
j So I just want to make sure I don’t bury the lede.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Though it wouldn't be the first thing I’ve buried.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It might sound hard but it’s all too easy now. This isn't the<lb/>
same city anymore. Half-asleep and half-emptied-out, espe-<lb/>
cially this time of morning. Light up over the Hudson. The<lb/>
cobblestones. At least I have it mostly to myself. =<lb/>
</p>
<p>
These buildings used to be warehouses. Now they're cas-<lb/>
Hes. Tribeca, a made-up name for a made-up kingdom. Full<lb/>
of sleeping princes and princesses, holed up on the high-<lb/>
est floors. Arms full of tubes. Heads full of who knows. And<lb/>
they're not about to come down here, not at this hour, on the<lb/>
streets, with the carcasses, with the last of the hoi polloi.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, I know the word hoi polloi: Read it on a cereal box.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I never liked Manhattan, even back when everyone still<lb/>
liked it, when people still flocked from all over the world<lb/>
to visit and smile and snap photos. But I do like the look of<lb/>
Tribeca. Old industrial neighborhood, aremnant from when<lb/>
this city used to actually make things. So I come across the<lb/>
river in the early morning to walk around here before dawn.<lb/>
Last quiet moment before people wake up. Those who still<lb/>
bother waking up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Used to be you'd see men with dogs.’ This was the hour<lb/>
for that. But there are no dogs anymore, of course, not in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
this city, and even if you had one, you'd never walk it, not in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
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</p>
<pb n="7"/>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
6 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
public, because it would be worth a million dollars and you'd<lb/>
be gutted once you got around the corner and out of sight of<lb/>
your trusty doorman and your own front door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I did see a man once walking a million-dollar dog.-On a<lb/>
treadmill, in a lobby, behind bullet-proof glass.<lb/>
Feed-bag delivery boy ona scooter zips past me, up Frank-<lb/>
lin, tires bouncing over the cobblestones. Engine whines<lb/>
like he’s driving a rider-mower, killing the morning quiet.<lb/>
Cooler on the scooter carries someone’s liquid breakfast.<lb/>
Lunch and dinner too, in IV bags.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now it’s just nurses and doormen and feed-bag deliy-<lb/>
ery boys out at this hour. Tireless members of the service<lb/>
economy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like.me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Phone rings.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—and how old is she?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eighteen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You sure about that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Does it matter?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. Quite a bit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, she’s eighteen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Got a name?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Grace Chastity Harrow. But she goes by a new name now.<lb/>
Persephone: That’s what her friends call her, so I hear. If she<lb/>
has any friends.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Where is she?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
New York by now. I assume.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not much to go on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s a dirty slut junkie—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Calm down or I hang up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So youre just a hunting dog? Is that it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
pVEL READY ]<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Something like that.<lb/>
dhound in a world of foxes?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
datherapist, that’s a different number.<lb/>
York, so far as I know: She ran<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Justa bloo<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look, you nee<lb/>
She’s somewhere in New<lb/>
</p>
<p>
4 ic to ask. Any relation?<lb/>
[thought this was no questions.<lb/>
This matters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To whom?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To me.<lb/>
No, I meant any relation to whom?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
7K. Harrow. The evangelist.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
. Now why should that matter?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Famous people draw attention. It’s a different business.<lb/>
Different rates.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I said, I'll pay double. Half now, half later.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
_ Allnow, and as I said, I need to know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. She betrayed his—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don't care.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But you'll do it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Afake name ina big city..Not exactly a treasure map.-More<lb/>
like a mile of beach and a plastic shovel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
~ She said she was headed to New York. To the camps! They<lb/>
‘call her Persephone. That's a start, right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I guess we'll find out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
May I ask you another question?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Go ahead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You can kill a girl, just like that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes I can.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fascinating.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before you transfer that money, you better make sure you<lb/>
ask yourself the same thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
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</p>
<pb n="8"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
|<lb/>
</p>
<p>
twe<lb/>
in’<lb/>
the<lb/>
in |<lb/>
stn<lb/>
fro<lb/>
dig<lb/>
qui<lb/>
But<lb/>
lat<lb/>
oT<lb/>
</p>
<p>
get<lb/>
sec<lb/>
bey<lb/>
bet<lb/>
ity<lb/>
cle<lb/>
the<lb/>
</p>
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deb<lb/>
</p>
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</p>
<p>
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</p>
<p>
ae<lb/>
</p>
<p>
8 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hang up and write a single word ona scrap of paper.<lb/>
Persephone.<lb/>
Pocket it.<lb/>
Then take the SIM card out of the phone, snap it, and drop<lb/>
the phone down a sewer grate, hidden beneath the cobble-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
stone curb.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No motives, no details, no backstory. 1 don’t know and I don't<lb/>
want to know: I have a number and if you've found it, I know<lb/>
youre seriousvIf you match my price, even more so: Once the<lb/>
money arrives, it starts. Then it ends.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Waste disposal. Like I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s an old joke, but I like it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Truth is, I never spend the money:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
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</p>
<p>
he biggest one’s Central Park’ At first<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tart at the camps. T<lb/>
k hired private guards to chase<lb/>
</p>
<p>
he rich at the rim of the par<lb/>
nem out, tear down their tents, send them scurrying, by<lb/>
ecessary. Then there was a couple of incidents, |<lb/>
few headlines, then a skinning. Private guards got creative.<lb/>
ed a kid and hung him upside-down from a tree. That §<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ny means<lb/>
</p>
<p>
eel<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sc n't play well, even in the Post.<lb/>
All that’s over now. The rich never come out to the park \<lb/>
</p>
<p>
mymore, could give a shit about Strawberry Fields, the camps<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘ave been here three, four years, long past anyone caring.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dozens of pup tents, like rows of overturned egg cartons.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dirty faces. Drum circles and dreadlocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Task around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The first person who knows her has a forehead full of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fresh stitches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bitch cut my face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Band of white peeks up over his waistband. Not boxers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bandages.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks like she didn’t stop there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He picks at a stitch:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hardy-har-har.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kid nearby pipes up.<lb/>
I knew her. Cute girl. Quiet: Pink knapsack. Wouldn't let<lb/>
anyone near it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know what was in it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="9"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
twe<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ly<lb/>
th<lb/>
</p>
<p>
in<lb/>
</p>
<p>
str<lb/>
fro<lb/>
dis<lb/>
qu i<lb/>
a<lb/>
lat<lb/>
of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
get<lb/>
sec<lb/>
bey<lb/>
bet<lb/>
ity<lb/>
cle,<lb/>
the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
deb<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
10 ADAM STERNBERG<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Drugs, be my guess. That’s what most people hold on tg<lb/>
tightly around here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He's a skinny kid with a shaved head, sprawled out on a<lb/>
ratty towel. Sleeveless t-shirt and sweatpants and thousand-<lb/>
dollar sneakers, barely smudged. The kind of kid who's useq<lb/>
to having other people run his errands for him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Task him the last time he left the park.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me? Why? Truce with the cops seems cherry enough,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have everything you need right here?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Pretty girl peeks her head out of his tent before he shoos<lb/>
her back inside. Then he shoots me a look like, What can you<lb/>
do? Duty calls. Lignore it:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How well did you know her?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone? Not as well as I would have liked. Common<lb/>
theme among the dudes living here, by the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You make a move?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ask my friend with the stitches how that would have<lb/>
worked out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So where did she go?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just left in the night, far as I know. I woke up and all her<lb/>
stuff was gone. Most of my stuff too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Any clue where she was headed?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. But if you find her, tell her I want my blanket and my<lb/>
stash of beef jerky back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You mind if I talk to your friend in the tent?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Smiles. Shrugs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s all yours.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pretty girl. Young. Far from home. Overalls and a red ban-<lb/>
dana tied over hair she cut herself. Seems sisterly. Figure<lb/>
she’s more the type Persephone might have opened up to.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I tap on the tent, then we walk out of earshot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
READY 1!<lb/>
</p>
<p>
erent close. Talked a few times. Then I heard she left.<lb/>
je w'<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hy?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a) too many enemies. Or rather, unmade too many<lb/>
Bie<lb/>
</p>
<p>
de. Headed to Brooklyn, was what I heard. Maybe to-<lb/>
ds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
is family.<lb/>
hat helps.<lb/>
y the way, yO<lb/>
her.<lb/>
Do tell.<lb/>
‘outhern guy-<lb/>
call them—<lb/>
A jators.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
u're not the only one come asking around<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Buzz cut. Those mirrored glasses, what do<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
How long you been here?<lb/>
Me? Ayear, give or take.<lb/>
Where's home?<lb/>
Here. '<lb/>
Before that?<lb/>
Don’t matter.<lb/>
And how old are you?<lb/>
' Look, you can’t fuck me, if that’s what you're asking.<lb/>
That's not what I’m asking.<lb/>
Well, maybe you can. Don’t give up too easy.<lb/>
Thanks for your time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Viva la revolucion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
snows someone who knows someone who knows.'The people<lb/>
Who got too close to her usually have some memento. Some-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="10"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
stn<lb/>
fr¢<lb/>
dig<lb/>
qui<lb/>
But<lb/>
lat<lb/>
of |<lb/>
get<lb/>
seo<lb/>
bey<lb/>
bet<lb/>
ity<lb/>
cle<lb/>
the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
deb<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like I said, I don't like Manhattan.<lb/>
Like Brooklyn even less.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Personal reasons.<lb/>
But I don’t like Brooklyn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Queens I could take or leave.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But then, I’m from Jersey. Wrong side of the river. So<lb/>
maybe my aversion is hereditary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Though to tell the truth, aversion and hereditary are both<lb/>
words my father never would have used. Might have cuffed<lb/>
me if he heard them coming out of my mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was a garbageman. A real one. The kind with garbage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't like pretension.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't like the word pretension:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But he loved Jersey. That much he gave me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I even tried to live in Brooklyn once, believe it or not.<lb/>
Didn't take. But I tried it. Thanks to my wife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thad a wife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Believe it or not.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I was a garbageman too, if youre interested, a real<lb/>
one The kind with garbage, like my dad. Left that too. Left<lb/>
most everything eventually.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whatever hadn't already been taken away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now [kill people:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ole get upset when you say you kill people.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
air enough.<lb/>
But wait.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What if Itold<lb/>
T's not true, but what if I told you that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now what if I told you! only kill child molesters? Or rap-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
you I only kill serial killers?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<9 OF people who really deserve it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wavering yet?<lb/>
Okay now what if I told you I only kill people who talk<lb/>
</p>
<p>
udly in movie theaters?-Or block the escalator? Or cut you<lb/>
fin traffic?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't answer. Think it over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not so self-righteous now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Tm just kidding.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There’s no such thing as movie theaters anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bway, wheezing, barely makes it over the bridge, though I<lb/>
year I feel that way every time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The problem in this city used to be too many people» Now<lb/>
's not enough. And when only poor people use something,<lb/>
0 one takes care of it: Roads, schools, neighborhoods. Sub-<lb/>
rays too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘Rusted-out, empty, watch the track-slats pass as we travel.<lb/>
foaning drunk curled in a corner, already done for the day.<lb/>
issed his pants, and not recently either.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now to Brooklyn, that victim of tides.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My father took me to the beach once, pointed toward the<lb/>
fater, eighty yards out! thought, No way that ocean ever gets<lb/>
ack to here. Two hours later, it was lapping at our ankles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nd I thought, stupidly, No way it ever goes back out to there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="11"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
14 ADAM STERNBERGS READY 15<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Money comes, the people come. Money goes, the People ing you need to know in about fifteen min-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
most anyth<lb/>
</p>
<p>
‘e ither online,<lb/>
came back, then after the attacks they left again. Not every- ed calls. Because you know who has a good idea of<lb/>
plac ’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
recede. After the blackouts they left, then after the boom they from public records, or through a few<lb/>
</p>
<p>
one, of course. Just the people who'd tried to turn Brooklyn es where?<lb/>
ive e<lb/>
</p>
<p>
srbagemen.<lb/>
and moved to the regular suburbs. F sy notice. Know addresses.-Not everyone. But the no-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
into the suburbs, got a whiff of a dirty bomb, figured fuck it<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyway, tide’s out now.<lb/>
e ones.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
5 | make a few well-placed calls.<lb/>
where windowpanes went. Concrete blocks are the bling 1 d out a certain Lyman Harrow lives in a mansion in<lb/>
17)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brownstones are back to being barren. Concrete blockg<lb/>
</p>
<p>
man’s stained glass, someone once told me. sklyn Heights. Likes to throw things out.” Expensive<lb/>
After the attacks, the second ones, the whole borough a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
emptied out. A boom, bust, and bang economy. The squatters ceepsakes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and lesser vagrants just moved right back in. Like they were People remember.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
returning from a long vacation. Which is why | keep a few well-paid contacts who are still<lb/>
</p>
<p>
1 s garbage business. They're not nosy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Brooklyn camps in Prospect Park are more scattered,” [just tell them I work on missing persons.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
less crowded, less refugee pile-up, more Cub Scout jambo- Don’t tell them how the persons end up missing. '<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ree: Tambourines and Hacky Sacks. Come nuclear winter, °<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hacky Sacks will prevaily A lone sack, being hackyed, on ont care at all, and even I find this house beautiful.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
some burnt-out horizon..We'll know civilization, and jam © swnstone, limestone, some kind of moneystone.” Real<lb/>
</p>
<p>
bands, survived. med glass, the kind for people with eyes-And four armed<lb/>
I ask around.Same stories»She moved through here, ids, making their hardware visible.<lb/>
quicklyM could have guessed. Not long for camps. She seems [ wait and watch from across the street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to attract the unwanted element in the open air. Tused to ride this route, back when I lived in Brooklyn,<lb/>
Luckily the next step isn’t too hard to figure. Supposedly ick before Times Square, so I can remember when neigh-<lb/>
she’s headed toward family.-And it turns out that her father, hoods like these were basically sponges to soak up all the *<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T. K. Harrow, the most famous evangelist in America, has a cess cash sloshing over from across.the river. All these<lb/>
</p>
<p>
famous financier brother living in Brooklyn. and old brownstones, bought up and gutted. Scaffolding<lb/>
Yes, I know the word financier. Just don’t ask me to say it Ke skeletons. Blue tarps like funeral shrouds. Crews of Mex-<lb/>
out loud. ans tearing out the drywall:Armed with hammers. Wear-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In my business, the disadvantage of the famous is that ig dust masks. Eating lunch on the stoops, dusted white.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
they draw more attention. The advantage is that you can find ‘Haunting these houses like ghosts.<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="12"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
16 ADAM STERNBERGH READY 17<lb/>
</p>
<p>
|<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I) No one ever wanted to keep the insides of these old houses J s me inside and up a curved staircase» The<lb/>
:<lb/>
|<lb/>
</p>
<p>
¢Jer lead<lb/>
Just the facades. That’s what they always said about brown. 7. is wood, highly polished, like it’s all been carved<lb/>
inne pe trunk of one giant dead tree.<lb/>
Good bones. he stairs, the butler motions for me to stop. I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fne top of t<lb/>
that same pretty nurse disappearing through a dif-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
d oorway down the hall. Her hands held high. Elbows<lb/>
: ngle. Like she’s prepping for something sterile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
er’s short but solid. Brazilian maybe. Built for more<lb/>
polishing silver.-Not-alinebacker_but definitely. the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
o, if you.ever find yourself in a cage with him,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So it was out with the old, in with the expensive-and-new_<lb/>
designed-to-look-like-it’s-old. Gut renovations. The insides<lb/>
torn out and tossed in a dumpster out front.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know, because I used to pick up all the trash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But then disaster struck and Brooklyn got seedy, Now<lb/>
gangs of men with masks and hammers might still visit your of guy wh<lb/>
the one who winds up walking out.<lb/>
olds up a white-gloved hand. Asks politely:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
brownstone, but they're not coming to renovate your kitchen,<lb/>
Still, a few stubborn holdouts hang on. Wall Street types<lb/>
</p>
<p>
like Lyman Harrow, who can't stomach the thought of ever rms out please.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
running from anything. Everyone leaves, Lyman Harrow legivesmea quick once-over witha metal-detector wand!<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
™ hires security. Everyone scurries, Lyman Harrow hunkers es my outstretched arms.-Brushes my coat pockets:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a down. Lyman Harrow, his butler, and his four armed guards, Jand squeals.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
En And he assumes his money should function like a moat. e reaches a white-gloved hand gingerly into my coat<lb/>
~ Which, in his defense, most of the time, it does. . and pulls out a metal Zippo lighter. Flicks it open,<lb/>
a Wall Street types. Funny to call them that. s it, then snaps it shut and places it on a silver tray on a<lb/>
" | Given there's no such thing as Wall Street anymore either, le by the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
= Swipes again. Down each inseam. Over my boots.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
= A nurse comes. She’s an unusually pretty nurse. Wand squeals.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
| Rings the bell. Butler answers. Honest-to-God butler in shrug.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
-— white tails and everything. steel-toe.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
" ‘| Disappears behind a heavy door. He seems satisfied. In any case, he’s mostly just putting on<lb/>
. This seems straightforward enough. how. He wants to let me know that, in this house, he’s the<lb/>
ae I ring. Same butler. t line of defense, and he’s got more skills on his résumé<lb/>
bey I’m here to see Mr Harrow. in just answering the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—_ Regarding? Stows the wand back in its stand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ia. It’s about his niece. Turns a gold knob the size of a softball.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
-_ Follow me. And in we go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
deb<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="13"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
18 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lyman Harrow turns from his windows, which look out over<lb/>
Manhattan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have a view like this, you don't give it up. Am I right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The furniture is mahogany. The smell is old library. The<lb/>
carpets are the expensive kind. With patterns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He opens his arms. He offers drinks. I decline.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, what can I offer you then?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Your niece. Grace Chastity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You're too late. She’s already gone. My brother sent you, |<lb/>
assume.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s a fair assumption.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s the only reason I let you in. Apologies for the security.<lb/>
But you know. The rabble. City is thick with them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not a problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow’s half-hidden behind a huge desk, which is bare,<lb/>
save for a bottle, half-emptied. He pours himself another co-<lb/>
gnac, his glass as big as a fish bowl. Overall he has the un-<lb/>
kempt air of the weird rich. Gray hair past his collar, slicked<lb/>
back with something greasy. Sweatpants and a crisp tuxedo<lb/>
shirt, untucked and open at the throat. Can't tell if he’s half-<lb/>
way to getting dressed or just all the way to no longer caring.<lb/>
Then again, it’s a classic tapper uniform. Perfect attire for<lb/>
the beds. And sure enough, he’s got a luxury model tucked<lb/>
away in the corner. Which also explains the nurse I saw.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He sips.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you know why my brother sent you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hoped you'd tell me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, he’s plenty mad at his daughter, I know that. Mad<lb/>
enough to send her running to me. And to send you after her.<lb/>
And so on. I assume you've met Mr Pilot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not yet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. You will. In any case, Grace rang my bell. Game from<lb/>
</p>
<p>
those dirty encampments. But I haven't even spoken to T. K.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 19<lb/>
</p>
<p>
in ten, eleven years. And I haven't seen Grace since she was<lb/>
a toddler.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Swirls his cognac, which looks expensive even from across<lb/>
the room. Sniffs it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Glances up at me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s not a toddler now, I can tell you that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take it you and T. K. aren't close.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. Especially once I made it clear to him I had no interest<lb/>
in the family business.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which is?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Heaven, of course. At least ten generations of holy men.<lb/>
Harrows were converting seasick sailors on the Mayflower.<lb/>
Then savages in the new world. Then anyone who'd listen.<lb/>
It was a bull market. We Harrows sell heaven, that’s our<lb/>
business.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Another sip.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or, at least, we sell tickets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But not you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My brother and I both grew up to be carnival barkers in<lb/>
the end. We just wound up working in different carnivals. If<lb/>
I’m going to wail and pray and fall to my knees, I prefer to do<lb/>
it at the stock exchange.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And what about your niece?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What about her?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Did you help her?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oh. No. I’m afraid not.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Iam among the, I don’t know, five hundred richest men in<lb/>
America. AndT. K. is at least twice as rich as I am, and com-<lb/>
mands an obedient army besides. If he'll do this to get to her,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
send you and whoever else might follow, what do you think<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
More cognac.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="14"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
20 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t need that trouble. Not for a little girl. My only goal<lb/>
was to get her off my hands as quickly as possible. My hands<lb/>
and my conscience.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So then what:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She spent the night. | owed her that much. She's family<lb/>
after all. Then this morning I introduced her to a couple of<lb/>
men. | found them on the Internet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What kind of men?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not the nice kind, I’m afraid. Man with a van, that sort of<lb/>
thing. There were two men, actually. And they did come with<lb/>
a van, as advertised. I think they make it their business to<lb/>
find jobs for little girls.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know where they went?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I didn’t ask.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What about the van?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hard to say. It was black: Or blue. Black or blue.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Drains his drink.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No offense, but I don’t generally take to interrogations<lb/>
by my brother’s hired helpers. Not Mr Pilot. Surely to God<lb/>
not that maniac Simon. And while you seem perfectly pleas-<lb/>
ant, Mr—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Spademan, I can honestly say I don’t think I'd like to<lb/>
see you again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Understood. Thanks for your time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And thank you for stopping by. Say hi to Mr Pilot for me,<lb/>
when you do meet him. He can’t be too far behind you. As for<lb/>
me, if you'll excuse me, I’m going to return to my bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His unit sits in the corner of the study, tucked away, like a<lb/>
treadmill, though one that obviously gets a lot of use. It, too,<lb/>
looks out over Manhattan. It's titanium, part coffin, part luge<lb/>
sled.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 21<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, I watch luge. The only winter sport worth watching.<lb/>
That and skeleton, which is like headfirst luge for nihilists.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[ put on my coat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
With this view, I wouldn't think you'd need that. The bed<lb/>
I mean.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, then you don’t really understand the bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He undoes his cuff links, lays them on the desktop. Rolls<lb/>
up his sleeves, gets ready to slip in. Steps out from behind the<lb/>
mahogany desk. Wearing shower slippers. Crazy tycoon toe-<lb/>
nails, untended. Grown out like talons. Head of a financier.<lb/>
Feet of a gargoyle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Notices me noticing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thomas will show you out. Thanks for coming by, Mr—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan. Like I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The butler walks me out of the study discreetly, leaves me<lb/>
in the hall, then returns to help Lyman Harrow tap in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That sure is a top-of-the-line bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes sir. Thank you for coming by. Good day.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We stand on the moneystone stoop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look, if there’s anything you remember about those men<lb/>
who came—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I really should be getting back inside:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—any marks or details.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
same thing those men are going to do, except I’ll be a lot<lb/>
quicker. With nothing extracurricular.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The butler looks away. Considers. Then holds up one white<lb/>
glove.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Points to the back of his hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="15"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
22 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One of the men. He had a tattoo. Right here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you remember what it looked like?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like a fishhook. Except twisted. Into the shape of an eight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pull a marker and a scrap of paper from my pocket.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Can you draw it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The butler waves off the paper, uncaps the marker, and<lb/>
sketches it on the back of his own white glove. Holds the glove<lb/>
up again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure enough, like he said. A fishhook, twisted into the<lb/>
shape of an eight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
&.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
An ampersand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He caps the marker and hands it back to me. Then peels<lb/>
off the white glove and hands me that too. Pulls a fresh white<lb/>
replacement from his pocket.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t worry. Mr Harrow gives me plenty of gloves. Likes<lb/>
me to keep my hands as clean as possible.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I would imagine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pocket the drawing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thank you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I wait while he lights one for himself: Then I point to the<lb/>
pack.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You mind?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He frowns: Then knocks one loose for me. I stick it in my<lb/>
mouth. Smile thanks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then curse.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Goddamn it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Patting pockets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I forgot my lighter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turn my best hangdog to the butler.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Family heirloom. Gift from my grandfather. You mind?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 23<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Harrow will not want to be disturbed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Finger to my pursed lips.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Quiet asa church mouse. Scout’s honor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The butler’s already started on his cigarette. Considers<lb/>
chucking it: Takes a long drag instead. Nods toward the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Athanks-buddy backslap as I head back inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Crush the unlit cigarette in my jacket pocket.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Never smoked and I’m not about to start.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Must be the choirboy in me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t get me wrong. I went to Sunday school for about<lb/>
ten minutes as a kid. Didn’t take. Not the important stuff,<lb/>
anyway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The core beliefs. Right, wrong, etcetera.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As you might have guessed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Zippo’s still sitting on the dainty silver tray. I snatch it up<lb/>
though it’s not like I need it. I have a dozen more just like it in<lb/>
a box back home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Buy them in bulk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turn the gold knob quietly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Lyman Harrow’s defense, it’s true that money often<lb/>
functions like a moat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But not today.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow is already swaddled and gone in the bed. Sedatives,<lb/>
feed-bag, sensors connected. IV tubes in all the IV holes:<lb/>
That nurse really knows what she’s doing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The bed truly is top-of-the-line Polished touch screens.<lb/>
Metallic surface I can see my face in:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow dozing lightly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I lean in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="16"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
24 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s lost in the dream, eyes fluttering under closed lids.<lb/>
I check to make sure he’s under, which is more than he de-<lb/>
serves.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I keep a box-cutter stashed in my steel-toe boot, by the<lb/>
way. It’s enough to set off a metal detector, but then, so is the<lb/>
boot. Not my fault if you don’t double-check.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pull the box-cutter out, extend it, place it against Harrow’s<lb/>
throat, and pull across, pressing deeply.’ Hold his forehead<lb/>
down. It works well enough.’<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Watch him bleed out on the leather. Blood puddles on the<lb/>
touch screens.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stained glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They'll find him but they won’t know who did it. Someone<lb/>
named Spademan.-<lb/>
Spademan’s not my real name, by the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Got it from a garbage can.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[head straight up to Montague Street with the white glove in<lb/>
my pocket and look for the first Internet kiosk I can find.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Since the beds got up and running, sucking up all the<lb/>
bandwidth, the boring old Internet survives mostly as an<lb/>
afterthought, kept alive like a public utility for people who<lb/>
can't afford to tap in.|So, like a decaying neighborhood, all<lb/>
the money in the Internet moved out. And, like a decaying<lb/>
neighborhood, the Internet is now mostly a refuge for poor<lb/>
folks and perverts, people in the shadows, by choice or not.<lb/>
Just a place where you can log on to advertise your junk, then<lb/>
swap it for someone else’s junk, then revel for a day in new<lb/>
junk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ora place where you can find a man witha van to take away<lb/>
your problem little girl. ~<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, there are pockets.’Niches. Chat rooms where like-<lb/>
minded rebellious citizens can scrawl graffiti. Plot upheaval.<lb/>
Organize something like the camps.”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But for the most part, it’s just a digital cesspool. Free mar-<lb/>
ket, at its freest.”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take the first kiosk I find on Montague, though it’s not<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="17"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
26 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
really right to call it a kiosk. It’s just a screen on a pole, with<lb/>
a metal keyboard sticking out, and a stool on an angle like a<lb/>
cactus arm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take a seat, tap a key, and swipe a paycard to get started.<lb/>
Not my paycard, of course. Belongs to a car salesman, name<lb/>
of Sidney, who lives out in Canarsie. Or, rather, lived. Appar-<lb/>
ently, Sidney rubbed someone the wrong way. Who knows.<lb/>
Maybe sold them a lemon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case, paycard works fine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I log on and run a search for AMPERSAND+TATTOO. Get<lb/>
back a bunch of photos, but nothing promising. College lit<lb/>
majors, mostly, showing off frosh-week mistakes:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I run a search instead for AMPERSAND+BROOKLYN.<lb/>
Same deal. One listing for a local bar for bookish types, long<lb/>
since closed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Behind me, coming down Henry Street, I hear sirens,<lb/>
which is unwelcome.’Twin cop cars doppler past in a hurry,<lb/>
lights whirling, whoop-whooping like a war party, heading<lb/>
south.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I guess the butler finally found Mr Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pull out the glove the butler gave me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Examine his shaky sketch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
&.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Think again about what he told me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A fishhook. Twisted into the shape of an eight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I run a search for AMPERSAND+EIGHT+TATTOO. Still<lb/>
nothing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then just AMPERSAND+EIGHT. Find a jazz combo in<lb/>
Queens.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then AMPERSAND+FISHHOOK.<lb/>
Actually, ISHHOOK.<lb/>
F key doesn’t work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 27<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fucking kiosks.<lb/>
So I type in AMPERSAND+HOOK instead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bingo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s a missed connection, of the type that litter the Internet:<lb/>
Cute-girl-I-saw-you-reading-on-the-subway kind of thing.<lb/>
This one says: You, burly type with a fondness for whis-<lb/>
key. Me: cat’s eye-glasses, matching you drink for drink. Not<lb/>
sure, but I swear we had a moment at night’s end out in the<lb/>
street waiting for a car service, in the light of the neon am-<lb/>
persand. If I was right, meet me tonight back at the Bait &<lb/>
Switch in Red Hook. You bring the bait. I'll bring the switch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Run a search on the Bait & Switch, which turns out to be a<lb/>
titty bar down in Red Hook, with a knock-three-times,<lb/>
private-members S&M room in back. Switches, riding crops,<lb/>
cat-o’-nine-tails, bullwhips. Whatever your pleasure, they've<lb/>
got a cabinet, and it’s very well stocked.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And also, possibly, an outreach program: Job placements<lb/>
for wayward teenage girls.”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Service jobs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe my tattooed henchman is an extremely loyal em-<lb/>
ployee. Who recruits reluctant women. Ungently.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Long shot, I know, but I write the address down anyway,<lb/>
then log off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ball up the butler’s stained white glove.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Drop it down the sewer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Same place I’m headed, more or less.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="18"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s well past dark by the time I start walking down the water-<lb/>
front. Not the safest walk at this hour, and the shortest route<lb/>
on foot would be straight down Columbia Street. But I still<lb/>
can't bring myself to walk down Columbia Street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Personal reasons.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I take the scenic route, winding through Cobble Hill<lb/>
and Carroll Gardens, past the blocks of boarded-up and<lb/>
blacked-out brownstones. Occasional bonfire burns ina bay<lb/>
window. Nearly all the trees on these picturesque streets<lb/>
long since chopped down for salvage or firewood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stump-lined streets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If only my Stella could see this. What’s come of our old<lb/>
stomping grounds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My Stella.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She was my wife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not her real name either. Just a nickname that<lb/>
stuck. At least between us.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I skip our old block. Give it a wide berth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like I said, I like Brooklyn least of all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then I finally reach the raised Brooklyn-Queens Ex-<lb/>
pressway, cross under, and head into what’s left of Red Hook.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All the wiring’s waterlogged, corroded and useless, so there’s<lb/>
not a streetlamp lit in any direction. Streets are dark and the<lb/>
warehouses derelict, windows all broken by bored kids with<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 29<lb/>
</p>
<p>
good aim. In the road, oily water waits in puddles, camped<lb/>
out by the overstuffed sewers. There’s a dead-dog smell and,<lb/>
sure enough, a dead dog, chained toa fence to guard an empty<lb/>
lot, then left on its leash to starve and fester.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Flies feasting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Red Hook’s version of a welcome mat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Red Hook sits low on the water, and from some parts you<lb/>
can see the Statue of Liberty, and supposedly the whole place<lb/>
used to feel like a frontier town, a refuge to escape to when<lb/>
the rest of Brooklyn got flooded with money. But then Red<lb/>
Hook got flooded with water. A few times. Waist-deep sewage<lb/>
and six-foot-high watermarks staining the walls. Storm of<lb/>
the century came three times in a decade, so this neighbor-<lb/>
hood was in trouble even before Times Square. After Times<lb/>
Square, forget it. Anyone with a car and a suitcase headed for<lb/>
higher ground.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Some people still live here. The poor with no options,<lb/>
packed into public housing. Hardy stubborn squatter types<lb/>
who don’t mind living in an abandoned row house that’s<lb/>
made up mostly of mold. Business interests that rely on an<lb/>
element of privacy. Since the floods, the whole neighborhood<lb/>
stinks like the underside of a wharf. And, like the underside<lb/>
of a wharf, this allows a certain kind of life to thrive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My plan is to drop in at the Bait & Switch, knock back a few<lb/>
drinks, and ask some questions. Maybe I'll even get lucky.<lb/>
Unearth my Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Instead I’m only halfway down Van Brunt Street when I<lb/>
stumble on the same pair of police cars I saw back in Brook-.<lb/>
lyn Heights, with an ambulance besides, all pulled over at<lb/>
the end of Coffey Street, parked by the Valentino Pier.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Roof-lights swirling. Turning the dead-end block into a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
disco.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="19"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
30 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On the stoops, wallflowers watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Guess the cops weren't headed to Harrow’s after all.<lb/>
Though I’m not too eager to wander over, in case they're out<lb/>
on some Lyman Harrow-related APB. Then I hear a crackled<lb/>
command on one cop’s walkie-talkie and realize that’s not<lb/>
what they're here for.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Two cops shine their Maglites into the back of an aban-<lb/>
doned van.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Black van. Or blue. Black or blue. Too dark to tell.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Even so, my chest clenches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which is weird.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Because what exactly am I worried about?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That someone got to her first?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, no one should go this way. Not like this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I shoulder closer through the sparse crowd of mostly<lb/>
bored onlookers. One cop halfheartedly tries to shoo us all<lb/>
back while also checking texts on his phone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Phone chirps. Incoming message. Cop smirks. Funny text.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I edge to the front of the crowd.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Van's back doors are flung wide open. Blankets piled up<lb/>
inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Body under the blankets, if my eyes see right. Or bodies.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My eyes see right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
EMS guys yank the first stiff from the back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not a girl, though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aman.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dump him on to a gurney.<lb/>
Arm flops over the side.<lb/>
Back of his hand. A tattoo.<lb/>
&.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So much for leads.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 31<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First body lays splayed out on the stretcher, bloody and ne-<lb/>
glected, and it’s not like TV. No one solemnly says a prayer<lb/>
or pulls a sheet up over his head. These EMS guys have other<lb/>
things to worry about, like rolling up another gurney and<lb/>
pulling the second body from the van.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Also aman. Also mangled.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Signs of serious knife-work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
L ask the texting cop what happened. He doesn't even look<lb/>
up from his phone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Who knows? Lovers’ spat? Some random psycho? Ask me,<lb/>
smells like some homo 69 gone very wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wince. Play squeamish.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks like those guys got slashed to ribbons.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cop shrugs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sometimes passions run high.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Any leads?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cop looks up finally.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Human garbage lives around here? Take your pick. I’m<lb/>
just surprised whoever did this didn’t torch the van. Would<lb/>
have saved us a trip. Let fire worry about it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How long’s that van been here?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No more than a few hours, maybe. Only got called in be-<lb/>
cause some thugs pried the back open, looking to loot it, and<lb/>
got spooked. Found more than they expected and phoned 911.<lb/>
Not until they'd stolen both stiffs’ wallets, of course. And<lb/>
stripped out the stereo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Phone chirps again. New text. Cop smirks again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I say thanks as I retreat back into the crowd.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t really worry about him remembering my face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m not that memorable.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just a garbageman.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="20"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
32 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I should have remembered.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bitch cut my face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First rule of the runaway. Always carry a blade.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And don’t be bashful about using it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She definitely wasn't bashful.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which is when I wonder if maybe I’ve been underestimat-<lb/>
ing this Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Interesting girl.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And still has some claw in her yet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Bait & Switch is hard to miss, since it’s the last place in<lb/>
Red Hook, housed in a small brick building at the end of Van<lb/>
Brunt Street, on the last block before you walk straight into<lb/>
the river. And turns out the butler was more right than he<lb/>
knew. The bar’s sign has a bright neon fishhook, twisted to<lb/>
look like an ampersand, between the words Bair and switcx.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spot it six blocks away. Bar must be running a private gen-<lb/>
erator to get that much wattage out here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ampersand blazing like a flare sent up over an otherwise<lb/>
pitch-black street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Soif Persephone came this way looking for help, this is the<lb/>
place she would have ended up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Assuming she didn’t know that this is where those men<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
were planning to take her in the first place.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or that she came this way.<lb/>
Or that she needed help.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I figure Sherlock and the other cops back there will probably<lb/>
just call it a night. Didn’t seem too concerned with cracking<lb/>
the Case of the Man with the Ampersand Tattoo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Couple of lowlifes in a van. Not exactly top priority. And no<lb/>
one wants to hang out in Red Hook after dark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then again, one of the cops might remember that tattoo,<lb/>
spot this neon sign, and decide to earn a paycheck for once<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and maybe poke around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="21"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
34 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If so, I'd like a head start.<lb/>
Door of the Bait & Switch jingles as I head inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sparse weeknight crowd. A few dedicated lonelies parked<lb/>
at the bar. One couple fighting at a round-top in the corner,<lb/>
hissing at each other in inside voices. Her: cat’s-eye glasses.<lb/>
Him: at least six whiskeys down. Looks like they made their<lb/>
missed connection after all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Iclaima stool.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bartender wanders over. No ampersand tattoos. Just an-<lb/>
chors on his forearms. Like Popeye.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What can I get you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m looking for a girl.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aren't we all?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She would have come ina few hours ago. Might have looked<lb/>
scared. Or maybe not.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He unsmiles. Puts a shot glass down in front of me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry, but I’m not paid to notice anything here except<lb/>
empty glasses.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fills the shot glass up with whatever’s on hand. Some-<lb/>
thing amber and alcoholic. Screws the cap back on. Anchors<lb/>
flexing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But if you're looking for company, we do have a back room.<lb/>
Plenty of girls back there. Some of them scared-looking. If<lb/>
that’s what youre into.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I toast him with the shot glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No thanks. I’m good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, why don't I leave you to your drink then? This one’s<lb/>
on the house. Next one you can get somewhere else.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then he trundles off to tend to the other drunks, like a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
gardener pruning a row of wilted plants.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 35<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As for me, I’m more or less back at the beginning. New Yorkis<lb/>
big and my Persephone could be anywhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Needle in a haystack and that’s not even her real name.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I vow to look in all the usual places, starting with the<lb/>
bottom of this here glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I raise the glass. Solemnly promise. I will get to the bot-<lb/>
tom of this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Downit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know it’s a cliché to be a hard drinker in my profession.<lb/>
But it’s the one part I do really well.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, this, and that other part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s just all the stuff in between.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Camps have dried up. Uncle’s dead, thanks to me. And she<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I'll give her that. Technique’s rough, but certainly no short-<lb/>
age of guts. Then again, it’s not too hard to take down two<lb/>
men if you've got a decent-sized knife and they don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just start stabbing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I motion for another round, then remember I’m on the<lb/>
bartender’s blacklist.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So if I’ma girl, maybe covered in blood, definitely alone in<lb/>
the big city, where do I head next?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tiffany's?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If there was still a Tiffany’s.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I guess I could always peek into the bar’s back room. In-<lb/>
terview a few of the dominatrices.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Plural of dominatrix. That word I had to look up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I’m not really in the mood to interrogate regular peo-<lb/>
ple right now, let alone ones wearing full-leather masks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
With zippers for mouths.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="22"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
36 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I need to get out of Brooklyn.<lb/>
But I sit a minute more and try to formulate a theory.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On the run from her father, presumably. Did something bad<lb/>
enough that he wants her found but he doesn’t want her back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If I can figure out what, that might give me a hint where<lb/>
she’s headed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not that I’m interested in motives. Just whereabouts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But my brain’s an empty blackboard. There must be a<lb/>
school for this somewhere. I’1] enroll in the morning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I finish the dregs of my drink.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pull my coat from the stool-back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Needle in a haystack. Never did understand that expres-<lb/>
sion. Fuck searching, just buy another needle—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bells on the door jingle. Like it’s Christmas.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bartender calls out to a squat Hispanic, freshly entered.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey Luis. You fuck that girl or what?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There’s some amount of dumb luck involved in this under-<lb/>
taking, especially if, like me, you are not a gifted, trail-of-<lb/>
bread-crumbs kind of guy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dumb luck.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You just have to accept it and hope it comes when you<lb/>
need it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sometimes in the form of a squat Hispanic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Luis is a livery cabdriver. Livery cab being a fancy way of<lb/>
saying Crown Victoria in need of new shocks. Apparently<lb/>
they still run livery cabs across the bridges, what few souls<lb/>
still make that journey.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bartender leers while he wipes out a beer stein.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That piece of chicken. Tell me you banged her, Luis.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Luis is quiet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 37<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She had blood on her. On her clothes.<lb/>
I perk up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We retire to the corner.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Take the two-top vacated by cat’s-eyes and the whiskey<lb/>
connoisseur. They left earlier. Not together. Another missed<lb/>
connection, I guess.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Two rounds later, Luis tells me he drove this girl all the way<lb/>
to Central Park. Young, maybe eighteen, maybe younger. Ap-<lb/>
proached him while he was outside the bar, finishing a ciga-<lb/>
rette. He says it was dark and he swears he didn’t notice all<lb/>
the blood on her until they were halfway up the FDR. Caught<lb/>
the shine of it in the rearview in the sweep of a streetlamp.<lb/>
At that point, figured it was safer to just keep driving. Left<lb/>
her at the park’s edge. Told her the trip’s on him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Did she say where she was going? Back to the camps?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That theory doesn’t sit right with me, but why not cross it<lb/>
off first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Luis shakes his head.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. Somewhere else. To Bethlehem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To Bethlehem?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s right. That’s what she said. To Bethlehem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Buy Luis another round. Settle up with old anchor arms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not what she said. She said Bethesda. But close<lb/>
</p>
<p>
enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Luis is in no mood to take a second trip back into the city but<lb/>
he drops me off at the F and I settle in for a long slow journey<lb/>
</p>
<p>
on the rattling train.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The park is long since dark.<lb/>
The angel of Bethesda watches over a barren fountain, the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="23"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
38 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
water finally turned off years ago. One wing stolen, the other<lb/>
half-broken. Her face spray-painted red, as in shame.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A girl ina bundle at the base of the fountain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I step in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hello Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks up. Hooded sweatshirt, frayed denim, Doc Mar-<lb/>
tens. Blond curls matted. Hands balled in pockets. Face tear-<lb/>
damp. Voice steady.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’ve had a long day, I have a knife, and I’m not looking for<lb/>
trouble.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pocket moving. Like she’s tightening a grip.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I step closer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mind on that blade.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m not here to hurt you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which is exactly the opposite of true.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whatever's going to happen, it’s not happening here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I coax her up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She stands. Jeans cut to mid-calf. Docs look like hand-<lb/>
me-downs. Technicolor laces. Like a dreamcoat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hands balled in hoodie pockets. Still got that knife some-<lb/>
where.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not sure how to make the introduction. Friend of your<lb/>
father doesn’t seem like a promising opener. Friend of your<lb/>
uncle, even less so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I work with an outreach program for kids.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
God, I hardly half-believe this even as I say it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You look like you could use a hot meal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is no part of her that trusts me. But every part of<lb/>
her wants that meal. Every part of her wins. She hoists up a<lb/>
knapsack that maybe used to be pink. Half a rainbow decal<lb/>
with a little pony, peeling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Motions with her chin, hands still balled.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You lead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I walk out the west side, her five paces behind me. The park<lb/>
is dark and dead and, on the streets, it’s no different. Not a<lb/>
soul on the sidewalk and it’s not even eleven. Doormen sit<lb/>
</p>
<p>
behind glass, watch us pass, shotguns propped on their laps<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
could shoot up a flare and they won't stop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="24"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
40 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Most of the restaurants on Amsterdam shut down in the<lb/>
past few years, once the moneyed types stopped eating out.<lb/>
Now there’s two shuttered businesses for every one still<lb/>
open, big gaps in a rotting smile. But there’s still a coffee<lb/>
counter here and there, in among the army surplus stores.<lb/>
Posters hawking half-price gas masks and Geiger counters,<lb/>
with a voucher for a free donut next door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know a place, the American Century, popular with<lb/>
nurses. The lively clatter of steerage. The servant class, be-<lb/>
tween shifts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We take a booth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Where you from?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
South.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How long you been here?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A few weeks. I came for the camps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How ’'d that work out?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not so good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what’s next?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t know. I’m not coming with you though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not an option. In any case. Though I do have a room.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dirty fingers disembowel a white dinner roll. Stuff it in<lb/>
like it’s medicine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks like you could use a manicure at least.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fuck you. You sleep three weeks ina park, see what it does<lb/>
to your cuticles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just an observation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You're a beautician too?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I dabble.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Quick smile. Despite herself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then I'll take a mani-pedi both, if youre offering.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, that I can’t promise. But I do have a clean bed. An<lb/>
</p>
<p>
extra bed, I mean.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 41<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait, don’t you work for some kind of shelter? For way-<lb/>
ward teens?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I thought you might be tired of sleeping in open spaces<lb/>
with a bunch of people you don’t know. I have a guest room at<lb/>
my place. Door locks too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And where are you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hoboken. I’ma Jersey boy. Like Sinatra.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On her second roll, eating quickly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Who’s Sinatra?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t usually do it this way, just so you know. I don't track<lb/>
people down and then take them out to dinner. I prefer if it<lb/>
works the same way on both ends of the job. The less interac-<lb/>
tion, the better.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But whatever you think of me, which by now may not be<lb/>
much, I’m not going to cut a woman open in Bethesda Foun-<lb/>
tain. Ora diner bathroom. I prefer when I find them dream-<lb/>
ing in their beds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And yes, I’m sorry to bring that up, but that is what I’m<lb/>
here to do. It’s a real conversation stopper, I know. You may<lb/>
say, how can you do it? That’s not a question I usually enter-<lb/>
tain. But remember what I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t know these people.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m just a bullet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rolls, soup, cheeseburger, cake. Tears through it like she’s<lb/>
eating for two.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Two bills to the waitress.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're about ready to head out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want to ask her how old she is. Though I haven't had<lb/>
much luck with that question today. Truth is, I realize there’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
a small chance she’s too young. Too hard to tell anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="25"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
42 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every fourteen-year-old a supermodel, every forty-year-old<lb/>
still trying to pass for a teen. My Little Pony backpacks used<lb/>
to be a reliable indicator. Same with heels and belly pierc-<lb/>
ings. No more.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe the voice on the phone lied. And if she’s not eigh-<lb/>
teen, that means I take her home, set her up with a hot<lb/>
shower, maybe bus fare, let her sleep eight hours for the first<lb/>
time in weeks,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If she is eighteen, same thing, except no shower or bus<lb/>
fare, and she'll sleep a lot longer than that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Waitress brings my change.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s silly, I know. This fixation on birthdays. But tell that<lb/>
to a kid with a learner's permit. Or a kid signing up for the<lb/>
draft.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And as much as I’m starting to maybe hope it’s not the<lb/>
case, if she is eighteen, she’s an adult. And deserves to be<lb/>
treated as such.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I spill it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How old are you anyway?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why? Are we going to vote?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hostel regulations. Overnight guests. Children-adults.<lb/>
You can stay either way. It’s just for bookkeeping purposes.<lb/>
Head counts. That kind of thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She shifts in the booth. Like she’s wondering which way<lb/>
to play this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Swipes back a dirty curl.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Proudly age of majority. Just had my eighteenth a ‘few<lb/>
weeks back. That’s partly why I headed to New York.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Happy birthday.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Figured it was time to blow out my candles, New York—<lb/>
style.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Greatest city on Earth. Once upon atime.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 43<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She squirms a little in the booth.<lb/>
[ think I might take you up on that extra room after all. If<lb/>
the offer’s still open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course.<lb/>
I watch her dirty face. I'll let her have the hot shower, at<lb/>
</p>
<p>
least.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And the door locks, you said?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, then so should we get going?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You're not lying to me are you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She smiles. A glimmer of trust.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No, I’m not. I’m eighteen. Freshly minted grown-up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I leave a fat tip on the tabletop. Some kind of penance, I<lb/>
guess.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She shifts again, restless.<lb/>
Damn, | just can’t get comfortable. And it’s so hot in here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Are you hot?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She slides out of the booth. I sit still.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She stands. Empties out her hoodie pockets. Lays an un-<lb/>
derfed coin purse on the table, looking skinny. Next to that, a<lb/>
five-inch bowie knife in a stained leather sheath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Parting gift from my father. Don’t worry. I know how to<lb/>
use it. But I won't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I sit still.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Girl alone in the big city. You understand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She slips the knife in her boot. Unzips her hoodie. Flaps it<lb/>
back like a cape.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
God, that’s better. Sorry, I get these flashes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hands on hips. Leans back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Baby bump.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="26"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The way it happened was, it started as business software.<lb/>
Some kind of fancy teleconferencing gimmick. Clunky hel-<lb/>
mets, silly goggles, but once you plug in, it was pretty amaz-<lb/>
ing. 3D around a table. Avatars that look surprisingly like you.<lb/>
Pick a tie, any color. Your choice. Dreams really do come true.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was maybe ten years back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And if we've learned anything in this once-proud world,<lb/>
it’s that once someone figures out how to do something as<lb/>
miraculous as that, it’s only a matter of time before someone<lb/>
else soups it up so you can use it to suck a horse's cock. In<lb/>
pretend land.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or runa brothel. Or be a holy Roman emperor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In pretend land.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Soon people were running around, half-centaur, or<lb/>
space-alien furry, or Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, or what have<lb/>
you. Fucking Chewbacca. |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Literally fucking Chewbacca.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then they got rid of the helmets and goggles and made the<lb/>
whole thing about a thousand times more convincing and all<lb/>
you had to do was get in a bed. But beds are expensive. From<lb/>
basic model to deluxe silver bullet. The basic ones are just<lb/>
tricked-out cots, but the top end are like shiny half-coffins,<lb/>
personal escape pods, with a bunch of touch screens to guide<lb/>
</p>
<p>
you into the dream, sensors to put you under. Full immersive<lb/>
experience.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As real as real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 45<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s the pitch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As for the specs, I can’t tell you. I’m not an IT type. And<lb/>
I’ve only been ina bed a few times.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not the deluxe kind either.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anyway, they figure out that this is clearly where the<lb/>
money is. But the bandwidth required is huge. So they build<lb/>
another network, call it the limnosphere, everything shifts,<lb/>
and they leave the boring old Internet for the rest of us. In-<lb/>
ternet goes to seed, of course, but the rich don’t care, because<lb/>
the rich are now lost in the limnosphere. It’s like the Inter-<lb/>
net but better, much better, because it’s an Internet you can<lb/>
live inside. Or the rich can. The costs are astronomical, of<lb/>
course, but then again, that’s why they call them the rich.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After that, the math is pretty easy. Thirteen hours in first<lb/>
class from New York to Tokyo, or slip into a bed and hold your<lb/>
meeting in minutes, with you at the head of the board table,<lb/>
glowing like a gladiator pumped up on steroids and Cialis.<lb/>
Drop twenty thousand on diminishing returns at the plas-<lb/>
tic surgeon, mending the same old curtains, or spend it ona<lb/>
month-pass to the limnosphere, sashaying down Park Avenue<lb/>
like Marilyn Monroe’s prettier sister. With a leopards tail.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In pretend land.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, it was just part of life for the first while. An addictive,<lb/>
maddening, seductive, destructive part of life, but part of<lb/>
life. They called it limning, or tapping in, or going off-body,<lb/>
or whatever, and most people dipped in and out. For the first<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="27"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
46 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the gates, and goodnight moon. Goodnight stars. Goodnight<lb/>
world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was maybe five years ago.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My point being, usually how this works is I getaname, find<lb/>
an address, let myself in quietly, and introduce myself po-<lb/>
litely to an old man’s atrophied body in a coffin that’s already<lb/>
half-assembled. Even if the old man is only thirty. Feed-bags<lb/>
will keep you alive, but they won't help you keep your youth-<lb/>
ful glow. Or your hair. When you start limning full-time and<lb/>
go on permanent bed-rest, you pretty much leave your body<lb/>
behind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you lie there, half-mummified and lightly drooling.<lb/>
And unfortunately for you, someone back here in the nuts-<lb/>
and-bolts world has decided they can’t let that grudge slide<lb/>
after all. And they found my number. And I found you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Quick slit with the box-cutter and it’s all over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Except maybe not. Not in the dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is a theory, unprovable I guess, that when you die,<lb/>
there’s a last little burst of neural activity. The brain’s last<lb/>
helpless, hopeless little sigh. Normally, this would be your<lb/>
blown kiss to a cruel world as you exit, stage left.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, I did a play in high school. Mitch in Streetcar, if you<lb/>
must know. Would have made a better Stanley.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But if you're in the limnosphere, in the dream, at that last<lb/>
moment, this little burst of brain activity loops. Your final<lb/>
seconds skip forever like a record. Even after they unplug<lb/>
the mummy and cart it to the furnaces. You remain as a data<lb/>
burp, hiccupping, some tiny line of code stillin the dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you don’t know this. That’s the theory. You're just<lb/>
stuck in that last moment, an eternal right fucking now, end-<lb/>
lessly repeating for however long the batteries of this planet<lb/>
hold their juice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 47<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No one knows if it’s true, of course, because how would you<lb/>
test it? They say they have programmers combing the code<lb/>
for these little hiccups, but most of their resources are on<lb/>
other things. Like developing newer, better, more tactilely<lb/>
realistic horse cocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But it’s true enough that some people try to game it. After<lb/>
awhile they're not happy enough with just the dream. They<lb/>
pick a program, their ultimate fantasy. Movie star. Fuck your<lb/>
neighbor. Crowd roar when you take the podium on Inaugu-<lb/>
ration Day. Or sight the podium in your rifle-scope. I don't<lb/>
know. That one fantasy you can never say out loud to anyone.<lb/>
The one moment you would happily live in forever.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They time it out to the second. Hire someone to stand by.<lb/>
Lean in. Make sure the lids are fluttering. Clock hits zero.<lb/>
Put you down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sounds weird, I know. But then again, people used to hang<lb/>
themselves while jerking off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Funny thing is, most people choose real-life memories.<lb/>
Your husband turns around in the airport, back from the<lb/>
war, and it’s really him. Your miracle mother comes out of<lb/>
her coma. You cut class and the bedroom door swings open<lb/>
and your high-school crush finally drops her dress. What<lb/>
people want is to live in that heart-swell of I can’t believe this is<lb/>
happening, over and over again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Black-market agencies sell this service. Split-second tim-<lb/>
ing. Our watchers are the industry's best. Results guaran-<lb/>
teed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ifthey fail, who’s going to tattle? You're lost ina loop some-<lb/>
where, your needle bobbing on the inner edge of the record,<lb/>
at the far shore of a vast ocean of black.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you better hope they loop the right moment.<lb/>
Because if they miss, that person standing over you,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="28"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
48 ADAM STERNBERGH SHOVEL READY 49<lb/>
</p>
<p>
watching you fall into the dream, if they miss, even by a mo- nario in practice, I thinkit’s safe to say that pregnant teenag-<lb/>
ment, half a moment, or just a breath, then you're stuck, and ers fall under the category of a different kind of psycho.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
your husband never turns around and you never know if he ; Harrow I can handle. Sometimes circumstances change.<lb/>
made it, or your mother stays sunk in her coma with you an- My policy in this regard is actually pretty simple. I give back<lb/>
chored bedside worrying, or you stare at that bedroom door the money. What you do then is your business. As for me and<lb/>
forever, knob trembling, wondering what’s about to come in. the girl?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Our paths uncross.<lb/>
I choose not to believe it. Seems too convenient, and besides,<lb/>
if I buy that, then I might believe I’m not ending someone. In the meantime, though, what I can do is offer her that hot<lb/>
I’m just pausing them, maybe in the happiest moment they've shower after all. And a bed. And bus fare. And maybe waffles<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ever had. for breakfast.<lb/>
That seems cheap. It’s a cop-out. So | think of it the Back here in the nuts-and-bolts world, we can’t all be holy<lb/>
other way. Roman emperors. But we do enjoy a waffle now and then.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Most of them have already given up on this world, the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nuts-and-bolts world. This party’s over and they've moved on Like I said, I live in Hoboken. Jersey boy. Like Sinatra. I<lb/>
to the after-party. They've left their bodies behind. wasn't making that up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm just sweeping up. And I did play Mitch. Would have made a better Stanley.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hated learning lines though. Hated crowds. Hated acting,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case, that is what I am used to. All jobs don’t go like basically. Enjoyed kissing the girl who played Stella though.<lb/>
that, obviously. But you'd be surprised how much overlap One day as a stand-in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
there is between people with the money and desire to disap- And my dad was a garbageman. An actual garbageman, |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pear into pretend extravagance forever, and people who want mean. So after high school I followed him into that line of<lb/>
those people dead. work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What I am not used to is eighteen-year-old runaways car- And I married the girl who played Stella.<lb/>
rying bowie knives and babies. My Stella.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But that’s fine. Better than any encore.<lb/>
Because she’s pregnant.<lb/>
So our business here is done. PATH trains to Jersey shut down years ago, half the under-<lb/>
| ground tunnels collapsed. No one commutes from Jersey to<lb/>
I kill men. I kill women because | don’t discriminate. I don't Manhattan anymore.<lb/>
kill children because that’s a different kind of psycho. So I owna boat.<lb/>
And while I'll admit I’ve never tested this particular sce- Just a rowboat with an outboard. Lock it up with a heavy<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="29"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
50 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
chain at a west-side pier. I give Persephone a handkerchief<lb/>
to tie over her mouth like an outlaw. I do likewise. This time<lb/>
of year, you don’t want to be drinking the Hudson. Not even<lb/>
spray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Any time of year, for that matter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then I yank the cord and we cross state lines.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Behind us:<lb/>
American Century, with a cLosrp sign. Which is weird,<lb/>
because it’s 24, hours.<lb/>
Counterman sighs, expecting a hold-up, knows the proto-<lb/>
cols, starts scooping out bills from the tray.<lb/>
Southern gentleman asks in a Southern accent about a<lb/>
young pregnant girl, possibly with a man.<lb/>
Counterman shrugs.<lb/>
Waitress is more helpful.<lb/>
I seen them.<lb/>
That’s what a big tip gets you these days.<lb/>
Heard something about Hoboken. Sinatra. Girl didn't<lb/>
even know who he was.<lb/>
Says it ina tone of what’s this world coming to, am I right?<lb/>
Southern gentleman nods.<lb/>
Much obliged.<lb/>
She smiles back.<lb/>
Smile distended in the convex of the aviators. Clownish.<lb/>
Also distended: Her blood, her brains, on the back wall,<lb/>
like a thrown pie.<lb/>
Turns the long revolver on the counterman. Like a divin-<lb/>
er's rod, seeking water.<lb/>
Finds blood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The apartment is palatial, just because everyone cleared out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Packed up their pinstripes and skedaddled. For them, Times<lb/>
Square was like a roach bomb, sent them scurrying, either to<lb/>
full-time bed-rest or safer cities or both. Most even left the<lb/>
furniture behind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Their hasty exit, my real-estate opportunity. For a few<lb/>
months there, after Times Square, when no one thought any-<lb/>
one would stay, you change the locks on a place, it’s basically<lb/>
yours. Mayor declared a tenant amnesty, a homesteader’s<lb/>
free-for-all. Disputes got settled with fistfights, not leases,<lb/>
and the cops were otherwise occupied. It settled down even-<lb/>
tually. Turned out there was plenty to go around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Come reelection time, the mayor clamped down. Ran ona<lb/>
platform of rebuilding and rebirth. Stood on a dais and de-<lb/>
clared the city shovel ready. I think he was right, but not in<lb/>
the way he meant.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I probably could have moved to Park Avenue if I'd wanted<lb/>
to, but it felt like the right time to retreat across the river.<lb/>
Always preferred this side, in any case. Even if it means you<lb/>
need to own a boat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And there’s no more Wall Street, not in New York. There's<lb/>
still the actual street, in the city, that you can walk on, but that<lb/>
financial part? Moved elsewhere. London, Beijing, Seoul. For<lb/>
</p>
<p>
awhile, they tried swapping stocks in the limnosphere, set<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="30"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
52 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
up a virtual exchange, but there were too many distractions,<lb/>
too much money to be made indulging other vices. So they<lb/>
set up a separate network and do all that money-swapping<lb/>
somewhere overseas. All the bankers and brokers relocated.<lb/>
Good riddance. And thanks for the divan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay, divan is a word I had to look up. A visiting lady-<lb/>
friend said it to me once. Said she admired it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My hand-me-down divan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone is admiring my divan. Stretched out, leaning<lb/>
back on it, more obviously pregnant. White wifebeater under<lb/>
the unzipped hoodie, revealing a sliver of belly. I'd guess<lb/>
maybe five months. Like I’m a doctor now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I give the tour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Room back there. Lock on the door, as promised. Bath-<lb/>
room’s there. Clean towels etcetera. I sleep out here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thanks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hugs the guest pillow to her chest. Asks an obvious ques-<lb/>
tion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why are you being so nice to me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was a sad day when people started to ask that routinely,<lb/>
don’t you think?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She laughs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t really remember when they didn't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have a change of clothes?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She shakes her head. Unzips the rainbow knapsack with<lb/>
the decal of My Little Pony. I half-expect a tinier pony to<lb/>
come out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Instead, a bottle and diaper inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You won't need those for awhile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know. I just like having them with me. Remind me why<lb/>
I’m doing this, you know?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Makes sense.<lb/>
The knapsack was mine when I was a little girl. Always<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Looks alittle worse for wear.<lb/>
Yeah, well. I couldn't find the part of Central Park with the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
She smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You're not from some youth hostel, are you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me? No. Iam from Hoboken though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Are you going to hurt me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Were you going to hurt me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This one’s tougher. I say no. Because I would have tried to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Well, thank you. For your help. I haven't met too many<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Not a problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You listen to music?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What do you listen to?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[hold up a hand. Moment of silence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The city quiet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I listen to that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lot of people tapped in here, huh?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yeah. Not most. But a lot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I guess I should be getting to bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yell if you need something. I’m a light sleeper.<lb/>
She looks me over. Then asks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How old are you anyway? I told you. It’s only fair.<lb/>
Me? I’m you, plus fifteen years.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="31"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
54 ADAM STERNBERGH SHOVEL READY 55<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Morning. Making waffles. Plates cleared, coffee drained, waffles eaten.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me doing dishes.<lb/>
What can I say? I don’t mind. I have a dishwasher too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I mix batter, then head down to the street corner. Pick up<lb/>
takeout coffees, bagels, and the Post. Three comforts that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
outlived the apocalypse. Daily News went under and the Times Never used.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
long since disappeared into the limnosphere. Now it’s just a [like to clean up my own mess, as arule.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ticker running through rich people’s dreams. She wanders over to the fridge while I’m not paying atten-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But God bless the Post. They still publish. On paper. tion.<lb/>
I get back, she’s up and dressed. Left her a sweatshirt, Stainless steel. Sub-Zero. A remnant from the Wall Street<lb/>
which on her grew into a dress. types.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry about the fit. All my clothes are garbageman clothes. You got any ice cream?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s clean. It’s great. She glances over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You sleep okay? So sue me. I’m pregnant.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yeah. About three weeks’ worth. Opens the freezer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She giggles. Inside, a single Ziploc baggie. Inside the Ziploc, a butcher-<lb/>
What? paper-wrapped package, about the size of a brick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have a waffle iron. Cat arches again, but playful.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes I do. What's this? Your secret stash?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I step over right-quick.<lb/>
That? No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You don’t really strike me as a waffle-iron kind of guy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Best way I’ve found yet for making waffles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Can’t argue with that. She pulls the baggie out. Holds it up. Laughing now.<lb/>
It was a gift. From my wife. Teasing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eyebrow arches like a cornered cat. What, you deal coke? Is that how you afford this place?<lb/>
Really. And where’s she? I snatch the bag back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Deceased. No. I do a bit of butchering.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sorry. Really?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cat relaxes. But slowly. It’s a hobby.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cool. So what’s that? Please tell me it’s bacon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. Not bacon. Just bones. For stock.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, look at you, Mr Julia Child. Let me know ifyou rustle<lb/>
up some bacon. I’m not a big meat eater but I’ve had weird<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I slide a waffle on her plate.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what’s next?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m not sure. I’ve thought about Canada.<lb/>
Last I heard, border’s closed.<lb/>
Yeah. I heard that too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cravings of late.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="32"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
56 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rubs her belly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stash the bag. Close the freezer. Step between her and it,<lb/>
Try to smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Can't let the cold out. 10.<lb/>
I don’t have many visitors. So I get sloppy. Forget.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A freezer is a very bad place to keep your souvenirs.<lb/>
Lazy Sunday. Me in an armchair. Her on the sofa with Sports.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Regular Cleavers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
| flip through the Post.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ag2. Tiny item.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
DEATH DINER DOUBLE SLAY.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The American Century.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I fold the paper back. Read it. Fillin the parts between the<lb/>
lines.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Surveillance tape caught him: Buzz cut. Aviators. Left the<lb/>
cash in the cash drawer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Odd detail. Before he left, everyone dead, he holstered the<lb/>
pistol.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stopped at the sink.<lb/>
Washed his hands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Buzz cut. Aviators.<lb/>
Fondness for firearms.<lb/>
This must be Mr Pilot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Retracing our steps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bus-fare option doesn’t seem like an option anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I fold the paper up, slide it under the chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know, you could stay here again tonight. A few more<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
nights. I’ve got plenty of sweatshirts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She yawns. Stretches out on the leather. Leather squeaks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="33"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
58 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I just might.<lb/>
Turns her head. Freshly showered hair.<lb/>
Might even learn how to sleep with the door unlocked. If<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Well, you're welcome to. Stay, I mean.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I gotta ask you again. Why are you being so nice to me?<lb/>
Everyone’s got to be nice to someone, right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I get up. Pretend I’m tidying the kitchen. Try to plot plan B.<lb/>
She turns back to Sports. Then stops. Sits up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stares me down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My father sent you. Didn't he?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stand like adummy. With a dishcloth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Who?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know who. T. K. Harrow. Man of God.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm not religious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't fuck with me. He sent you. It’s the only way this<lb/>
makes sense. ©<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m no good at lying. Same as acting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. He sent me. To find you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(Technically true.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And do what with me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Keep you safe.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
(Less true. Much less true.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bring me back?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Something like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She sits up straight. Picks up the bowie knife in its sheath<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Turns it in her fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, let me tell you about how things work in my fam-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
(More acting. I hate this.)<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 59<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
Set me up on a blind date. A double date. With two rapists.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or white slavers. Sex-trade assholes. Who the fuck knows?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sounds like a charmer.<lb/>
Lucky for me, the only place they didn’t want to stick their<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
grubby hands was in my boot.<lb/>
She pulls the blade from the stained sheath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Last I saw them, they were bleeding ina van in Red Hook.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Laffect a shrug. Hapless Mitch all over again.<lb/>
Sounds like they got better than they deserve.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She inspects the blade.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Does come in handy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sheaths it.<lb/>
As for my father. The great T. K. Harrow? Leader of men?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pastor of sheep? Instrument of God?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pulls the blade out again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You've probably seen him on TV, right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't watch TV.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s okay. He’s got bigger plans than that. Do you know<lb/>
what you've gotten yourself into? Do you have any idea what<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
kind of man my father is?<lb/>
I'm starting to get some idea.<lb/>
No. I don’t think you do.<lb/>
Sheaths the blade.<lb/>
But if youre on his payroll, you should know.<lb/>
Puts the sheath down.<lb/>
He’s my father.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pulls her knees up. Hugs them hard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. I know. I know he’s your father.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. You heard me wrong.<lb/>
Hugs them harder. Arms round her knees. Arms round<lb/>
her baby.<lb/>
I said, he’s the father. He’s the father. That’s what I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="34"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ll.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I worked as a garbageman for ten years, more or less. Lost my<lb/>
father, my union card, and my marbles, in roughly that order.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Father went first. Died of a heart attack he worked a life-<lb/>
time to earn. Strict regimen of smoking, bacon, and televi-<lb/>
sion. Man loved his Jets. Claimed they were Jersey’s team.<lb/>
Forty-five millionaires in green helmets somewhere, carry-<lb/>
ing his heart into battle every week.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He didn’t die on the job, thank God, stink of other people’s<lb/>
garbage in his nose, not that he would have cared. When people<lb/>
asked his line of work, he never faltered. It was a good union<lb/>
wage and he wanted the same for me. My first day, he took me<lb/>
out to the truck yard, pulled the gloves on, drewa deep breath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Smell that? That’s security, son.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was felled too young, in his own backyard. The plot of<lb/>
ground he'd bought by hauling other people’s trash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Barely room enough to fall down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My mother sat on his chest, pumping, wailing, waiting for<lb/>
an ambulance that came ten minutes too late. Two streets<lb/>
with the same name. One avenue, one lane.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They picked wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My mother tried. She was a nurse. Not the kind that fix<lb/>
feed tubes to rich people either.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
By then I’d married my Stella. A Jersey girl, she swore never<lb/>
to live in Jersey by choice. I said Queens. She said Manhattan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 61<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We split the difference and ended up in Brooklyn. Carroll<lb/>
Gardens. South, down by the expressway. The part that’s not<lb/>
so gardeny.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My parents wanted to see a family. We were trying, but we<lb/>
weren't ina rush. We tried long enough to worry something<lb/>
might be wrong, but then we decided to stop worrying. We<lb/>
were young. My Stella wanted to be an actress. She rode the<lb/>
train to Times Square every day. Acting class in a shabby<lb/>
studio. Half my union wage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I rode a route up through brownstone Brooklyn. Nicer<lb/>
neighborhood than we could afford. Nicer garbage too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Boys on my truck gave us a nickname for a joke. Not gar-<lb/>
bagemen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Trash valets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s hokey but it’s true. You learn things hauling trash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lesson one. Don't buy cheap bags. They always tear. If not<lb/>
in your hands, then in mine. No discount bag ever went to its<lb/>
grave without being loudly cursed along the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lessontwo. There is nothing, and no one, that you will be-<lb/>
come attached to in this life that you will not one day discard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or they discard you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or you die.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Those are the only three outcomes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A bartender I know once quoted me a poem, by a guy<lb/>
named Idol or something similar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every human being who's ever lived has died, except the living.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lesson three.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You'll leave a trail of trash on this Earth that will far ex-<lb/>
ceed anything of worth you leave behind. For every ounce of<lb/>
heirloom, you leave a ton of landfill.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not a poet. That’s me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="35"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
62 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What can I say? Sometimes you're on the toilet and you've<lb/>
already read all the magazines. Inspiration hits.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But that’s the lesson. Your real legacy will be buried in a<lb/>
dump somewhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And the richer you are, the more trash you leave behind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After the first attacks, the ones on 9/11, so they tell me,<lb/>
they took the rubble of the towers to a landfill.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fresh Kills.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sifted through it, searching for bodies. Bits of bodies. Bits<lb/>
of bits. Did their best and found what they could and left the<lb/>
rest of it there, buried.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
True story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Landfill became a graveyard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The landfill doesn’t care.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Never more than a whisper of difference between them to<lb/>
begin with.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every garbageman has funny stories of stuff he’s found on<lb/>
the job, of course. False teeth, brand-new flatscreen still in<lb/>
the box, a fake leg, a stuffed ferret. A double-ended dildo<lb/>
switches on, leaps out of the bag, twisting like an electric eel.<lb/>
Stuff like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
People don't know what to do with something, they toss it<lb/>
in the trash. Brush off their hands. Expect it to disappear.<lb/>
Like magic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every garbageman has a funny story like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here’s mine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Street. Not six blocks from Long Island Hospital. We were<lb/>
done for the day and doubling back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was on the rear, riding shotgun. Like I’m security on a<lb/>
Wells Fargo stagecoach.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 63<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We roll past three bags, dropped ina vacant lot. Look like<lb/>
dim-sum dumplings sitting there. Illegally dumped. People<lb/>
miss their day so they hump their trash down the block. Can't<lb/>
stand the stink in the kitchen. Commonplace. These jokers<lb/>
couldn't even be bothered to drag the bags to the dumpster,<lb/>
maybe twenty yards away. Property of a private disposal<lb/>
company.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Company name stenciled on the dumpster.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SPADEMAN.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bags in the dumpster are not our problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
These three bags. Our problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Technically our shift’s done. Plus no one’s watching.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, I slap the side of the truck twice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Driver stops.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Figure, our job is to keep the city looking nice. I’m a new<lb/>
neighbor here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Let’s make it look nice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pick one bag up, swing it overhead like a hammer toss. For a<lb/>
laugh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fling it in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Second bag, swing it sidearm like David’s slingshot,<lb/>
sighting Goliath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bullseye.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Third bag.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lift the bag.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Funny heft.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lower it. Slowly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Though the God’s honest truth is that I never would have<lb/>
</p>
<p>
opened it if I hadn't heard the gurgle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="36"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
64 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They must have chickened out. Thought the plastic bag would<lb/>
finish it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cheap bags.<lb/>
Always tear.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I carried a box-cutter to slash problem trash. Unbroken<lb/>
boxes, tangled twine. Shit like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Popped the blade up. Sliced the bag as carefully as I could.<lb/>
Like surgery.<lb/>
Peeled the bag back.<lb/>
Baby still breathing, barely.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s my funny story.<lb/>
First and last time I ever held a baby in my arms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not six blocks from Long Island Hospital.<lb/>
They could have left the baby on the front door, rung the<lb/>
bell, run.<lb/>
Instead, vacant lot became a landfill. Became a graveyard.<lb/>
So they hoped.<lb/>
Six blocks.<lb/>
So I took the trip they couldn't be bothered to take.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In some other version of the story, I adopted the baby. Named<lb/>
it. Raised it with my wife as our own. Told it the story, when it<lb/>
was old enough, of Baby Moses, left in the bulrushes, the one<lb/>
I learned in church as a kid.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This isn’t that story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I left the baby at the hospital. With a nurse. Answered a<lb/>
few questions. Signed a few forms. Went home to my wife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't check back. Didn't want to know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And didn’t tell my Stella until she read about it the next<lb/>
day in the Post.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 65<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Saw another item in the Post a few days later.<lb/>
BAG BABY BURIAL.<lb/>
Buried deep inside the paper.<lb/>
Not even front-page news.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They needed a scandal. Baby left in a garbage bag? Story like<lb/>
that demands a villain. Someone to wear the black hat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No one knew who left it. So that left me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Post said I found it. Dumped it at the ER.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't do enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't even stick around to see if it would be okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[took a six-month leave. Union mandated. Half pay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Weekly psychiatric consultations.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Daily visits to the bar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nightly nightmares.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then the mayor finally busted the union. I tore up my card<lb/>
and cancelled my next visit to the shrink.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I went back to work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Someone’s got to pay for all those acting lessons.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Even my Stella didn’t understand. Not really.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She let it be. But I could tell.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Guys on the job too. Even the guys on my truck. Guys who<lb/>
were there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Figured at the very least you stay. Cheer that baby back to<lb/>
life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe they're right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Truth is, I wasn’t going to sit in a waiting room so a<lb/>
nurse could tell me that the baby I just found in a garbage<lb/>
bag died.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="37"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
66 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I peeled that bag open so carefully it was like I was deliv-<lb/>
ering my own baby.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So scared of what I would find inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I couldn't do that twice. Wait for news. Wait to know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sit there. Hunched over. Waiting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Clutching my garbageman gloves.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the waiting room.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
With all the other expectant dads.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Pass me not O gentle Savior,<lb/>
Hear my humble cry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whilst on others thou art calling,<lb/>
Do not pass me by.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Street-corner church service. Soap box preacher. Big crowd.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
More popular in these end times.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone’s news put me back on my heels.<lb/>
I don’t like to be back on my heels.<lb/>
First response, usually, is extend my box-cutter, find<lb/>
someone to apply it to.<lb/>
But that will not help in this situation. Much.<lb/>
What I need is information. So I call my newspaper buddy.<lb/>
Rockwell.<lb/>
The one who says I’m always burying the lede.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I leave Persephone at the apartment, tell her don’t open the<lb/>
door for anyone, no matter what.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then I meet Rockwell at a bar on Washington. Main ar-<lb/>
tery in the proud heart of Hoboken. This bar opens early on<lb/>
Sunday. Most do. It’s not crowded inside, but it’s not empty<lb/>
either. A different kind of communion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bartender’s the owner. My poet-quoting friend, Sebas-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tian, from the Dominican. Named for the saint. So he says.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="38"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
68 ADAM STERNBERGH SHOVEL READY 69<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sets us up with two shots. I guess so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rockwell used to work for the Times, then he got fired. As for political clout, Harrow runs a weekly Washington<lb/>
Turns out he has a lying problem, at work and in life. He once prayer breakfast that’s attended by, like, twelve senators and<lb/>
told me he’s a descendant of the great American painter. forty members of the House. So there’s that. He more or less<lb/>
Luckily I don’t care much either way. got our current president elected, first genuine fire-and-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now he publishes his own paper. The Rockwell Report. Gon- primstone Bible-thumper in the White House. So there’s<lb/>
spiracies and cover-ups. He’s the sole reporter. You can pick that. And then he’s got this new thing. Paved With Gold.<lb/>
it up on any street corner. Literally. From a big pile. He leaves This is good. This is useful. This is enough to buy Rock-<lb/>
them there. For free. well another round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Also runs a website, of course, on the old-fashioned Inter- Sebastian sets them down.<lb/>
net. But he likes the feel of paper, the stink of ink, so he says. Paved With Gold. What's that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Salvaged two copy machines from a bombed-out Staples It’s this limnosphere thing. Signs up converts. Promises<lb/>
near Times Square. Ran the Geiger counter over them. Only - them heaven right now, here on Earth. Why wait, that’s the<lb/>
clicked a little bit, he claims. pitch. Gold mansions. Endless happiness. Harp-playing-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Plus he wears horn-rims. So at least he looks like a re- fucking-angels. All that stuff. Paved With Gold. You know, |<lb/>
porter. like the streets of Glory.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
\<lb/>
|<lb/>
|<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I thought the road to hell was paved with gold.<lb/>
Tell me about T. K. Harrow. No. That’s good intentions.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What do you want to know that you don't already know? But how do people afford it? A bed alone is a fortune. Not to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just empty the file. mention monthly tap-in fees, feed-bags—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. Well, he runs that big church down South that sounds Harrow subsidizes. He’s got a camp somewhere down<lb/>
like a country singer. Hope Baptist. Hallelujah Hall. Some- _ South. Rows and rows of beds. So they say. Limited space,<lb/>
thing like that. Wait. Crystal Corral. That's it. So there’s that. so he can only accept the elect. How he chooses, God only<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What else? knows. It’s his earthly mission, he claims. Reason God put<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The TV. That’s where it all started. And it’s lucrative. him here. Deliver his people from the torments of this bodily<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That many people still watch TV? world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. You should get out of the city more often, you'd be Rockwell empties shot two. For him, two shots is just the<lb/>
surprised how many rabbit ears you still see. Not everyone's stretching before the marathon.<lb/>
ready to jam an IV tube in their arm every time they want So how big is his ministry?<lb/>
to escape, you know? Plus TV’s basically free—at least, be- How big? The biggest. When you can convince half the US<lb/>
sides the money you send to your favorite evangelist ina little government to get up at dawn to listen to you tell them what<lb/>
white envelope every week. Which adds up. fucked-up sinners they are, that’s pretty big. I don’t know<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="39"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
70 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
much about this fake heaven of his, but he’s already amassed<lb/>
enough gold here on Earth to pave plenty of streets. Plus the<lb/>
political pull. He’s got the president’s ear. All that stuff. The<lb/>
only ripples on his pond I ever heard about are his kids. He has<lb/>
trouble with his daughters. So I hear. The oldest one suppos-<lb/>
edly went AWOL. Can't remember her name. Grace something.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Chastity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rockwell gives me a look.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now why in the world would you know that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lucky guess. Figure it’s got to be one of those virtues. You<lb/>
know. Constance. Charity. |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Funny. Those are his other daughters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So why'd she run?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Who knows with kids these days? Broke her curfew?<lb/>
Daddy wouldn't let her go to prom? Probably got knocked up<lb/>
by her boyfriend and decided to find some sugar daddy, try<lb/>
out the trailer life for a little while. No doubt she’ll be back<lb/>
knocking at heaven's gates soon enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So where do I find him?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The South?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seriously.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think the main Paved With Gold camp is in a Carolina.<lb/>
North or South—can’t remember which. Same with the Crys-<lb/>
tal Corral, the church you see on TV. But he’s got satellite<lb/>
churches everywhere. There’s even one in Times Square, or<lb/>
used to be. If you're looking to convert.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I just want to talk to him. About a job.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, if you'd like to meet the man in the flesh, you don't<lb/>
have to wait too long. He’s headed here, to the city. I figured<lb/>
that’s why you were asking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What for?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Big crusade. Madison Square Garden. He’s even paying to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 71<lb/>
</p>
<p>
get it cleaned up. Initiative with the mayor. You know, I hear<lb/>
the place is more lovely since the roof caved in. Supposedly<lb/>
you look up, you see stars.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And if it rains?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fuck if I know. Tarps?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When is it? This crusade?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dude, you've really got to get yourself a computer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Downs his third.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I follow suit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So this Harrow. Does he employ muscle?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Everyone employs muscle, Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. But I have you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rockwell pulls out a notepad. Starts riffling pages.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I do know of this one guy who works for Harrow. Suppos-<lb/>
edly avery scary dude.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know the one you mean. Southern guy. Call him Pilot.<lb/>
Wears aviators. Big on hand-washing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No, that’s not him. This guy’s black. Bearded. Name of<lb/>
Simon, I think.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Keeps riffling. Then stashes it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Must be in my other notebook.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're both on empty, so I signal Sebastian. Set us up again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The dread pre-noon nightcap.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bar's cleared out a bit. Brief lull between the first-thing-<lb/>
in-the-a.m. crowd and the afternoon-ennui rush.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ennui. That’s Rockwell’s word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Claims it’s French.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just two good buddies on the Lord’s day, enjoying a Sab-<lb/>
bath drink.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bellied up to the bar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Backs to the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="40"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
72 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pilot walks in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Picks wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Broken horn-rims skid in the spatter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rockwell’s forehead hits the bar. Exit wound swallows the<lb/>
shot glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I drop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sebastian grabs the sawed-off he stores by the Bushmills.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The shotgun speaks. Barroom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Troll.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sebastian martyred by bullets, not arrows, this time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I scamper to the men’s room to solemnly reconsider my<lb/>
predilection for box-cutters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Predilection. Another Rockwell word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lock the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Men’s room looks out over an alleyway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lucky.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
By the time Pilot puts two new peepholes in the locked<lb/>
door with his revolver, I’m down the alley, cut right, right<lb/>
again, circle back to the bar’s entrance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Score one for the local boy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Box-cutter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I peek in the open door. Carefully.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bar's dark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pilot comes back from the men’s room.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aviators look left. Right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reflect emptiness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Walks back behind the bar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Steps over broken bottles. Over Sebastian.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stows his revolver in a shoulder holster.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stops at the sink.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Washes his hands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 73<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Halfa block away, two patrolmen watch the action like Heckle<lb/>
and Jeckle on a wire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Jersey's Finest.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like most cops, like the whole of the NYPD, they’re cash-<lb/>
strapped and half-privatized now, their salaries buoyed by<lb/>
moneyed interests with the city crying poor. So their main<lb/>
job is to stand watch and make sure the dreamers on the<lb/>
upper floors aren't disturbed. As for us carcasses down here,<lb/>
down in the grimy urban mosh pit, they don't much care what<lb/>
we do to each other.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I approach.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You've got shots fired at that bar on the corner.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We heard. Called it in. Waiting on backup.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I eye the pistol on one cop’s belt. His hand instinctively<lb/>
hovers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I reach in my pocket. Pull out my slush fund. Peel off a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
thousand cash. Then another.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hoping I've guessed his caliber.<lb/>
Mind if I rent your firearm? I’d like to make a citizen's<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
arrest.<lb/>
Cop looks at me. Looks at his partner.<lb/>
I feed them their story.<lb/>
There were ten of them. They overtook you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Partner shrugs.<lb/>
Seems fair to me. So long as you plan to split that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stride back through the bar's front door, unloading half the<lb/>
magazine as a herald.<lb/>
Do serious damage to what's left of the liquor bottles be-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hind the bar.<lb/>
Seven shots echo. No one’s shooting in here but me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="41"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
74 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And Pilot’s gone.<lb/>
Fuck.<lb/>
I fire off three more shots. Bottles fall like fainting ladies.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Run back to the apartment, cop’s Glock in my waistband.<lb/>
We'll have to extend this to an all-day rental.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, I have my own gun at home. Somewhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thing about guns, in this line of work, they're not all that<lb/>
useful. Everyone has guns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So they kind of cancel each other out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Home. Secret knock. No answer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Unlock the door. Shoulder it open. Slow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gun drawn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone on the sofa. Her back to me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Huge headphones on her head like she’s communicating<lb/>
with another planet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Head bobbing. Eating ice cream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She turns around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spoons another mound of Rocky Road in her mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I went down to the corner. Hope you don’t mind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Licks the spoon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What’s with the pistolero, Sheriff?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I lock the door behind me. Scan the apartment.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're alone, right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course. What'd you think? I was going to throwa party?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I put the cop’s gun in the drawer of a side table. Figure |<lb/>
can return it next time the department holds a toys-for-guns<lb/>
amnesty campaign.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In other words, I just bought myself a two-thousand-<lb/>
dollar teddy bear.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 75<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pack your stuff.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What stuff?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Your bag. We have to go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oh my God, why? This is heaven. This is the most comfy<lb/>
place I have stayed in weeks. You have a shower! A glorious,<lb/>
hot-water—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We have to go. Now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She holds up her hands, palms out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. Simmer down, Sarge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She stuffs the headphones and balled-up laundry into her<lb/>
backpack. Zips up My Little Pony. Stands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still wearing my sweatshirt dress. And Docs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I frown.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We need to get you some pants.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She slides the knife into her boot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t worry about me. Let's go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Doesn't ask why. Doesn't ask where.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So she trusts me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well that’s good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not sure if it’s smart. But it’s good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I need to stash her with someone I trust, which is a short<lb/>
list. Someone who can protect her, who has no love for the<lb/>
Church, and who I know beyond a shadow won't be tempted<lb/>
to creep up on her in the dark. That list is even shorter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I do know one guy who qualifies. On all counts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark Ray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The only trouble with Mark is that he’s tapped-out daily, a<lb/>
bed-rest junkie. So first you have to find him. Then you have<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to wake him up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="42"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
76 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m paranoid about Pilot, so we skip my boat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hire a gypsy sloop to run us across the river.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Driver shouts over the outboard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Destination?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Canal Street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Canal Street? What for? Haven't you heard? Canal Street’s<lb/>
dead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I drop the conversation and we chop across the waves,<lb/>
Persephone hugs my arm, pressing tight against me. Then<lb/>
again, it’s a small boat, I tell myself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Canal Street. East side.<lb/>
What used to be called Chinatown.<lb/>
Once upon a time, you walked these blocks, you were<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wading waist deep in a river of people. The streets stank<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
oil and ice-melt, dumped at day’s end. And from sun-up to<lb/>
lights-out, these blocks would sing. Shouting, shuffling,<lb/>
haggling, hustling, vendors hawking knock-offs, shopkeep-<lb/>
ers harassing you in Cantonese as you pass like you stole<lb/>
something from them and they wanted it back. Fresh carp<lb/>
sunbathing on wood crates of packed ice. Hot dumpling soup<lb/>
for a dollar. Ducks, plucked and bashful, hung on hooks ina<lb/>
windowpane, like a warning to other outlaw ducks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No more.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Chinatown met the same fate as the city, only more so.<lb/>
Last generation died off. Next generation moved to Jersey. Or<lb/>
upstate New York. Or the Carolinas. Or anywhere but here,<lb/>
downwind from a dirty bomb. Turns out no matter how deep<lb/>
your root system, you can always pull it up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Have ducks, will travel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So Chinatown withered. Went from egg-drop to pin-drop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And the one last viable business in these parts moved in-<lb/>
doors, out of sight, behind peepholes and passwords. And it<lb/>
</p>
<p>
caters to a clientele that is very, very quiet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="43"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
78 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They call them dorms. Quasilegal tap-in flops, a hundred<lb/>
beds to a floor. Not the shiny kind either. Not like Lyman’s,<lb/>
These are jury-rigged beds, not much more than cots and<lb/>
wires. It’s strictly BYOFeedbag. Most people here don’t care<lb/>
too much about food.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s dorm of choice is a spot called Rick’s Place. Run by<lb/>
a guy named Rick. The name’s a Casablanca nod, mistrans-<lb/>
lated.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We head inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick is fortysomething, but he’s smoked himself older.<lb/>
He’s half-Chinese and skinny as a horsewhip. Wears sil-<lb/>
ver skull rings on every finger and both thumbs. His black<lb/>
pompadour is coaxed to an impressively rigid sheen and he’s<lb/>
got four facial tattoos. Chinese characters. Forehead, cheek,<lb/>
cheek, chin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In answer to your next question, I’ve never asked.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He pulls on his cigarette. Cherry flares.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Garbageman. I haven't seen you in a good long while.<lb/>
You decide to get back on the tap?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hello Rick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I tell you what. I’ll give you two-for-one for you and your—<lb/>
girlfriend? Daughter? Sponsor? You know what? Forget I<lb/>
asked.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He gives Persephone a double-take.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I see congratulations are in order. Little litter of Spade-<lb/>
men. Tell you what? Special today. Kids ride for free.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone’s perplexed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How did you—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey, I’m Chinese. I can tell from the soles of your feet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick’s Asian lady-friend, Mina, comes stumbling out<lb/>
from a back room. She’s a tool-head, like Rick, a technician,<lb/>
a gizmo, and likes to call herself Mina Machina. Long black<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 79<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pair and a thousand-yard stare because, unlike Rick, she’s<lb/>
also a serious tapper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We've never really gotten along.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks at me like she’s about to say something, points<lb/>
at me, forgets, then half dozes off while she’s busy forgetting.<lb/>
Spun around, she exits mumbling through a curtained door-<lb/>
way, stumbling off to look for something else she forgot to<lb/>
remember she forgot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick shrugs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What can I say? Soul mates.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick, I’m looking for Mark Ray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He takes another drag. Looses a lanky ghost of smoke.<lb/>
Sure, sure. Of course. Who isn't looking for Mark Ray?<lb/>
Our little angel. And I’m going to guess this is the very first<lb/>
place you looked.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The dorm is dark and drop-dead quiet. A former sweatshop,<lb/>
now a flop-shop, laid out like a battlefield hospital. Rows and<lb/>
rows of cots and a couple of tired-looking Chinese nurses,<lb/>
checking pulses.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A few muffled yelps escape from sleepers here and there.<lb/>
Hard to tell if they’re cries of pleasure or fear. Or both. Two-<lb/>
part harmony.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick leans over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You better let me do this. Mark is a heavy sleeper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He winds through the cots. Spots Mark’s crown of golden<lb/>
curls.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone watches the room, wide-eyed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I whisper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I bet you've never seen anything like this back in Kansas.<lb/>
I'm not from Kansas.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know. But still.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="44"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
80 ADAM STERNBERG<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thave. I have seen this before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still watching the room. Doesn't look at me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is what my father’s camp looks like.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Paved With Gold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then she says something else, in a croak. Half to herself.<lb/>
Like a joke.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In my father's house are many mansions.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I whisper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What's that? Bible verse?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nope. Sales pitch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark Ray used to be a youth pastor at a church in Minnesota.<lb/>
[| met him a few years ago, after someone called me to offer<lb/>
</p>
<p>
mea job.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So how does this work?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[just need a name.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My name?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. I don’t need to know your name. So long as you wire<lb/>
me the money. | just need the other person’s name. The one<lb/>
on the receiving end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that’s it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So. The name?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark Ray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The caller’s Minnesota accent hard to forget.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I tracked Mark Ray down to the Reading Room at the Public<lb/>
Library, the big one, in Bryant Park, with the stone lions out<lb/>
front.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not much reading in the Reading Room anymore. They<lb/>
tore out the shelves and put in server racks. Swapped the<lb/>
tables out, brought in beds. A high-end pit stop, a per-hour<lb/>
place, mostly targeting tourists, back when there were still<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tourists in New York.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="45"/>
<p>
82 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark was walking among the beds, watching people<lb/>
dreaming. Angelic mess of curls on his head.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I walked up behind him. Figure I’d convince him that we<lb/>
should retire to someplace more private.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He turned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you've found me. That was fast.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Same Minnesota accent. Impossible to miss.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We sat on the front steps, watching the lions.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t do suicides.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You want to kill yourself, kill your own damn self. That’s<lb/>
between you and your god.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, I guess it is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Hard to see why he wouldn't want to live.<lb/>
He held his hands flat together, like he was about to break<lb/>
out in prayer.<lb/>
T understand why you have that rule. But my problem is, I<lb/>
can’t do it myself.<lb/>
Why not?<lb/>
Mortal sin.<lb/>
You Catholic?<lb/>
No. Evangelical.<lb/>
Then I don’t think you have to worry.<lb/>
He turned to me.<lb/>
Are youa religious man?<lb/>
No.<lb/>
Never?<lb/>
My parents dumped me at Sunday school a few times when<lb/>
I was young, keep me out of their hair. As for them, they tried<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 83<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to fight less on Sundays. Or at least keep their voices down.<lb/>
That was about the extent of it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I see.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My father worshipped at the church of the New York Jets.<lb/>
Saint Namath and all that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you've never been tempted?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
By religion?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not the kind of temptation I have to worry about.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was a pastor back in Minnesota. I used to teach a les-<lb/>
son on temptation. Or at least that’s what I thought it was<lb/>
about.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what’s the lesson?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you know the story of Bathsheba?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then it happened one evening that David arose from his bed<lb/>
and walked on the roof of the king's house. And from the roof he<lb/>
saw a woman bathing, and the woman was very beautiful to be-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark filled me in. Back in Israel, in Bible times, Bathsheba<lb/>
was a woman who King David spied from his rooftop while<lb/>
she was bathing nude. He saw her and he was gripped with<lb/>
lust.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gripped with lust. Not my words. Mark’s. Or the Bible’s.<lb/>
Or God’s.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gripped with lust.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So David sent for her. He slept with her. And. he impreg-<lb/>
nated her. Trouble is, Bathsheba was already married. To<lb/>
Uriah the Hittite. Who was not only one of David’s trusted<lb/>
friends, but also a soldier in King David’s army. But this<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="46"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
84 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
didn’t give David pause. It gave him an idea. Which he re-<lb/>
layed to the army’s commander.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Set Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, and retreat from<lb/>
him, that he may be struck down and die.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark paused the story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I've been teaching this passage a lot lately to my kids,<lb/>
my students. At first, I taught it the way that I learned it in<lb/>
Bible school. Not as a story of lust, or of corruption, but of<lb/>
temptation. You know, how God puts temptation in front of<lb/>
you. He allows you to feel your own weakness. To confront<lb/>
it. Just as Christ did here on Earth. Satan laid out the whole<lb/>
world to Christ, promised it to him, if only he’d bend a knee<lb/>
to Satan. And he felt it. Christ. He was tempted. But he didn’t<lb/>
succumb. And we feel it too. Whether it’s the apple in Eden.<lb/>
Or the desire to look back over your shoulder and watch<lb/>
Sodom crumble. Or spotting the most beautiful woman in<lb/>
Israel, bathing naked on a rooftop. I’m sure you have some<lb/>
secret temptation. Some secret shame.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I thought of a Ziploc baggie in a Sub-Zero freezer, while<lb/>
Mark waited for an answer that wasn’t coming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. Well, your temptations are your own. I understand.<lb/>
My point is, I always thought that story was a lesson about<lb/>
temptation. This idea that the sin is not in the being tempted,<lb/>
but in giving in to the temptation. That is what God cannot<lb/>
abide. But I was wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not the lesson?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what is it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s a story about wrath. It’s not a parable at all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. It’s a warning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Mark unpaused the story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So on the battlefront, Uriah was slain by archers firing a<lb/>
rain of arrows down from a city’s high walls. And the army's<lb/>
commander sends word back to the king, who he assumes<lb/>
will be crushed at this news. Right? But King David sends<lb/>
this message back to the commander.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do not let this thing displease you, for the sword devours one as<lb/>
well as another.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I interject.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What were David and Bathsheba doing all this time?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They were busy fucking. Pardon my language.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So King David’s managed to pull off the perfect crime.<lb/>
No one suspects him, and even if they did, they'd say noth-<lb/>
ing. Because he’s the king. He is blameless in the eyes of the<lb/>
world. If not in his own heart. Or in the eyes of God. And do<lb/>
you know what the last verse of that passage is?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, yeah. You would imagine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark pounded his palm like a pulpit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the thing. David had done. Displeased. The Lord. That is<lb/>
the lesson of the story. It’s not about temptation. It’s about<lb/>
vengeance. It’s about wrath. It is about God looking down,<lb/>
and seeing what you've done, and being displeased.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And do you know what happens when the Lord is dis-<lb/>
pleased with you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You end up in New York, outside a library, begging some<lb/>
</p>
<p>
stranger to put you in the ground.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="47"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
15;<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark. Persephone. Persephone. Mark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The three of us back on the Chinatown street corner. Mark<lb/>
shies from the sun, still half in the dream. Dreamy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He holds out a hand to Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pleased to meet you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Four letters tattooed across his knuckles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
DAMN.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I first met Mark, farm-fresh from Minnesota, he<lb/>
was not the type to show up with new tattoos. Then again, he<lb/>
also wasn’t the type to tap in for a week at a time. Had never<lb/>
been ina bed before he came to New York.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, I have to ask.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You didn’t have these last time I saw you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He flips his fingers, knuckles up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What? These? Yeah. You like them?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He makes a fist. A letter on each finger.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
DAMN.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Holds up his left hand. Makes a fist.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ABLE.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Holds the two fists together.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
DAMNABLE.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Very nice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He turns his fists back toward his face, admiring them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Right? I rented Night of the Hunter, got inspired. I’ve got a<lb/>
third one, too. Want to see?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
That depends where it is.<lb/>
He peels off his polo shirt. Still ripped despite the bed-<lb/>
rest.<lb/>
Persephone perks up.<lb/>
Mark turns his back to us. The third tattoo in block<lb/>
letters.<lb/>
IRULE.<lb/>
I tell him I don't get it.<lb/>
He flexes his back. Shoulder blades spread like wings. The<lb/>
letters separate.<lb/>
I RULE.<lb/>
Nice. Very subtle.<lb/>
He turns around.<lb/>
It’s more of a limn thing. If you ever tapped in, you'd un-<lb/>
derstand.<lb/>
Persephone chimes in.<lb/>
Well, [like it.<lb/>
Mark slides his shirt back on.<lb/>
So should we head back to my place?<lb/>
Persephone says she wants to grab a few supplies while<lb/>
we're here. Points to her legs. Still pants-less.<lb/>
I peel off two bills. Feel like I’m her dad.<lb/>
She smiles and disappears into a store.<lb/>
Mark pulls his phone out and calls for a car, which seems<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to glide up before he’s even pocketed the phone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark calls shotgun. I hold the rear door for the lady and her<lb/>
shopping bags.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She arches an eyebrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So is this a blind date you've set up for me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not likely. You two look like brother and sister.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know, right? Kinky. You could watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<pb n="48"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
88 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I tell her to watch her arm while I close the door, then<lb/>
lean in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No offense, but you're not his type.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s celibate. By choice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s it? That’s nothing. I know plenty of lapsed celibates.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That so?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You bet. Even lapsed a few myself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We take the livery cab north toward Mark’s apartment at the<lb/>
former Trump Tower off Columbus Circle. Not a Brooklyn<lb/>
livery cab either. This is no rusted-out Crown Victoria. It’s a<lb/>
bulletproof limo, sleek as a sea lion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dashboard Geiger counter starts clicking and the driver<lb/>
steers a wide arc east to avoid Times Square. On these far-<lb/>
east avenues in Manhattan, heading uptown, you could al-<lb/>
most believe the city is just like it was, only less so, cleared<lb/>
out, like how a sleepy summer Sunday used to feel. A few<lb/>
stray pedestrians. The random rogue yellow cab. Bright win-<lb/>
dow signs promising blow-out sales.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But then we cut across midtown, which is a ghost town.<lb/>
Just trash and empty storefronts, long since looted. No more<lb/>
blow-out sales. Just blown out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dashboard Geiger chatters again and the driver cuts<lb/>
north,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The lack of tourists alone leaves it spooky. No one snap-<lb/>
ping photos, wrestling maps, gawking at skyscrapers, wad-<lb/>
dling along in a cluster, clogging the sidewalk, kids trailing<lb/>
behind licking soft-serve ice cream and wearing seven-<lb/>
pointed Statue of Liberty crowns made of sea-green foam.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now there’s plenty of room on the sidewalk for everyone, if<lb/>
</p>
<p>
anyone was out on the sidewalk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 89<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No traffic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Streets are clear.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The brighter side of car bombs, I guess.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They still go off from time to time. The car bombs. Planted<lb/>
by copycats with lesser ambitions. Easy to pull off now that<lb/>
no one’s paying much attention to the streets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just another ongoing inconvenience of life in the big city.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As long as youre not standing too close, I find you flinch a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
little less every time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the end, half stayed, half left.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simple math.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not all who stayed hid in penthouses either. Some still<lb/>
run delis, wash dishes, fold laundry, mop lobbies, ride buses,<lb/>
drive cabs. They either moved backinto Manhattan when the<lb/>
last wave left or they still trundle in on broken trains from<lb/>
the outer boroughs. Too dumb or too poor or too hopeful to<lb/>
pull the plug and pack up and leave like the rest. All those<lb/>
diehards who refuse to let the city die.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No mystery to it. Just basic subtraction.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cut a city in half and youre left with half a city.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But you definitely notice the ones who are gone just as<lb/>
</p>
<p>
much as the ones who stayed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The driver pulls up to the building, idles out front as we head<lb/>
inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Trump Tower. Former hotel and soaring glass eyesore.<lb/>
Named for the Donald of course. Long since dead. First thing<lb/>
the kids did when they pitched their camps in Central Park<lb/>
was lasso his statue, pull it down, put a dress on it. Last I saw<lb/>
it, it was still riding on the roof deck of a double-decker tour-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ist bus, forever looping the park.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="49"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
90 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s apartment’s not the penthouse, but it’s close<lb/>
enough. Not sure how Mark affords it. He’s got some secret<lb/>
deal with some closet benefactor. He’s coy about it and I don’t<lb/>
press.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From his living room, we can see the camps in Central<lb/>
Park. Bonfires dotting the dusk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On the avenues, police cars park, lightbars swirling. A<lb/>
show of force.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s got two drinks in his hands, one liquor, one selt-<lb/>
zer. Liquor’s for me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark sips the seltzer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks like the mayor's decided to finally crack down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now? Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think it’s the Crusade. You must have heard about it.<lb/>
Harrow at the Garden.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You ever met him?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T. K. Harrow? Oh no. But I never really felt like we were in<lb/>
the same business, to be honest.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We watch as the cops lay down bright orange barricades.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What are they doing? Chasing them out?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Sealing them in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone comes out of the bathroom, poured into<lb/>
snakeskin pants.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What do you think? Nice, right? Chinatown special.<lb/>
They're Prada. So cheap! I had to roll the waistband a little<lb/>
to get them on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tunroll the waistband a little.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[hate to tell you this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They're not Prada. They're Prodo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 91<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark agrees to let Persephone bunk for the time being. One<lb/>
thing you can say about Trump Tower, like most high-rises,<lb/>
the security is not lax. Two round-the-clock doormen, well<lb/>
armed, and private plainclothes patrolling the halls. If Pilot<lb/>
wants in here, he'll have to scale the outside of the building<lb/>
with a plunger in each hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I decide to head back to Hoboken. Mark hands mea card.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Give this to the driver. He'll take you. The Holland Tun-<lb/>
nel’s still functional, right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I give Persephone a peck on the forehead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s good people. He’ll take care of you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thanks. So who’s going to take care of you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s what I’m heading back to Jersey to figure out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Truth is, I have no idea what the next step should be. I’ve had<lb/>
jobs get out of hand, but not like this. I was hired to kill her,<lb/>
not adopt her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And to be honest, I would have been happy to put her ona<lb/>
bus, point her north, deal with the fallout with Harrow my-<lb/>
self. But that’s not an option anymore. Not if I know that Har-<lb/>
row has also sent someone like Pilot. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pilot definitely strikes me as a different kind of psycho.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So Persephone’s problem is now my problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which means Persephone is now my problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Though, I confess, it’s more than that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sometimes when people call me, I can tell pretty soon that<lb/>
they don’t want to hire me, they just want to chat. Blow off<lb/>
steam, fantasize, walk up to the edge but not over it. Before I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hang up on them, they always throw out that same question.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="50"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
92 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just tell me: How can you do what you do?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t answer, of course, but if I did, here’s what I’d tell<lb/>
them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s not the doing-it part that’s hard. It’s the justifying-it<lb/>
part. And I don’t do that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm not the decision. I’m just the action.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm just the bullet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I don't need to justify it. Or live with it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s your job.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And there’s one more thing I'd tell them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The world is full of bullets. Sometimes in the form of<lb/>
speeding buses. Or aneurysms that go pop in the night. Or<lb/>
rotted branches that fall in a snowstorm at the exact moment<lb/>
you happen to pass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or exploding subways. Or bombs left in gym bags.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All bullets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We dodge them every day, until one day we don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So if I didn’t hang up, that’s what I'd tell them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s how I do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m just another bullet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But not this time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not for her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I get to the ground floor outside Mark’s building I<lb/>
hand his limo driver the card and tell him to take me home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First, though, we're making a detour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Direct him straight down Broadway and he groans.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Drives as far as Fifty-Third, then pulls over and aye he'll<lb/>
keep the engine running.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can't begrudge a man his fears. So I get out and walk<lb/>
south,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Skirting the edge of Times Square.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 93<lb/>
</p>
<p>
] pass a few bored cops and a few hopeful clickers, decked<lb/>
out in their goggles and Geiger counters, sweeping the side-<lb/>
walks for junk that’s not too poisonous to pocket. Truth is,<lb/>
everything worth scavenging got snatched up years ago. All<lb/>
those toxic souvenirs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I head east at Fiftieth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Follow the faint hum of gospel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It is still Sunday after all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Half-wonder if I'll bump into Pilot. I figure I’m headed to<lb/>
either the last place he’ll look for me, or the first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Street’s dark. Like a cellblock after lights-out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not Radio City, though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Radio City is lit up like it’s opening night.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On the marquee: The Crystal Corral Revival Hour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rockwell was right. Crystal Corral does sound like a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
country singer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I head into the lobby and an usher intercepts me. Smiles and<lb/>
says I haven't missed much.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the seats, maybe a thousand people, all huddled near<lb/>
the stage and singing softly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Onstage, a giant screen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On the screen, a giant preacher.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T. K. Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Head as high as a drive-in movie screen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sunday sermons broadcast on a loop. Free admission.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All welcome.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When Rockwell gave me his rundown, I didn't mention I'd<lb/>
been to this place before. Made a few visits right after Times<lb/>
Square, back when prayer suddenly seemed like a viable op-<lb/>
tion. Churches or beds. Most people sampled.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Congregation sings the chorus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="51"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
94 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I'll cherish the old rugged cross. Till my trophies at last I lay<lb/>
down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow, in close-up, expounds the Word in urgent stac-<lb/>
cato. Sounds a fire-and-brimstone drumbeat under the mel-<lb/>
ody of the hymn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Usher taps me on the shoulder. Can't be older than twenty,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Clean-cut. Cheap suit. But well kept.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hello, brother. Care to join me down front?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No thanks. I’m just browsing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, whatever you're looking for, you won't find it out<lb/>
there. In here, though, that’s a different story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I glance around. Shrug.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Awfully close to Times Square.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s true. This city has a sick heart. But that poison can’t<lb/>
touch you in here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You sure about that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brother, it doesn’t matter, because were headed to a better<lb/>
place.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Of course, there’s just one catch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What’s that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have to die first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He hands mea pamphlet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not necessarily.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Claps my shoulder.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Our door’s always open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He leaves me, drifts toward the front, rejoins the chorus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I will cling to the old rugged cross. And exchange it one day for<lb/>
a crown.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On the pamphlet’s glossy cover, a photo of a rustic barn.<lb/>
Placid countryside. Golden sunshine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Heavenly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 95<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Arrayed over the barn, in bold letters:<lb/>
PAVED WITH GOLD.<lb/>
Under that. Bolder letters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WHY WAIT?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I tap the bulletproof glass, startle the driver.<lb/>
He seems happy when I point him toward Hoboken.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The limo glides down the west side, and for the first time ina<lb/>
long while, I feel a hard ache for the beds. Here in the back-<lb/>
seat, it’s almost like being on bed-rest: silent, safe, the low<lb/>
hum of movement with the city sliding by, untouchable, un-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
touched, just lights.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I get back to my apartment I find a padded envelope<lb/>
taped to my apartment door. I pry it loose, rip it open. Shake<lb/>
it out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aviators.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lenses cracked. Blood-dotted.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Interesting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I shake the envelope again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Out comes a note.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Consider these an apology. Or a good-faith gift. Mr Harrow re-<lb/>
grets our misunderstanding and he would very much like to meet<lb/>
with you. We hope to resolve this matter in a timely and amicable<lb/>
fashion. Please contact me directly at the number below. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The signature’s from someone named Milgram.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I palm the note, pocket the shades.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Unlock my door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[like that phrase.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good faith.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="52"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="53"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're in a wheat field.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Belt-high stalks rustle in unison, like a congregation on<lb/>
their knees, whispering prayers. I reach both my hands out<lb/>
to let the stalk tops and wheat flowers tickle at my palms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T. K. Harrow walks beside me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—and the most beautiful thing of it is, we can make of this<lb/>
what we wish. This realm is given to us as a second Eden. God<lb/>
made us once in His image, and now He’s provided us the<lb/>
tools, and the know-how, to remake ourselves in His.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Awhite clapboard church on the crest of a hill.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Steeple bells welcome us.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
See, now this here is exactly the kind of church I grew up<lb/>
in. Small. Cozy. Everyone knew everyone. You couldn't look<lb/>
left or right there wasn’t someone looking back at you, quick<lb/>
with a smile or a steadying word. I mean, don’t get me wrong.<lb/>
Iam thankful for my many blessings. But sometimes I think<lb/>
of what we've built today and wonder what we lost along<lb/>
the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The door is ajar. We enter. Rough-hewn pews on a wide-<lb/>
plank floor. Sunlight spun into stained-glass rainbows.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A vacant crucifix hangs heavy behind the pulpit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Life-sized.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow takes a seat in the front row and motions for me<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to join him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="54"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
100 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sorry we couldn't meet in person. But this is much<lb/>
preferable, don’t you agree?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He could have self-presented in any way he chose. A ser-<lb/>
pent, the angel Gabriel, or simply T. K. Harrow forty years<lb/>
ago, still robust and full of hellfire. But he’s here more or<lb/>
less as you'd find him in life, as he looked on that Radio City<lb/>
screen. Tall, weathered, bristly gray hair, scarecrow thin,<lb/>
a kindly face when it wants to be kind, but one that easily<lb/>
snaps back to rectitude. The only costuming flourish he al-<lb/>
lows himself is that on TV he’s always in a suit. Here he’s in<lb/>
flannels and wool. Work clothes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As for me, I look like me. A garbageman.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow claps me on the shoulder with a hand gnarled by<lb/>
age, his fingers folded up like a wounded bird. Still, his grip<lb/>
is strong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I was a lad, sitting on a pew not much more com-<lb/>
fortable than this one, ina church pretty much just like this,<lb/>
the most terrifying thing to me in the whole wide world was<lb/>
not death, or the wages of wickedness, or the wrath of the Al-<lb/>
mighty Lord. It was the stares of Miss Savonarola.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow chuckles at the memory.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She was our church organist. Tiny woman. Would sit at the<lb/>
electronic organ, right up there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He points a crooked finger toward the altar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She sat facing the congregation. Her eyes could just barely<lb/>
peer over the top of the organ. Yet I remember those eyes like<lb/>
twin glowing moons, hanging low on the horizon. And the<lb/>
funny thing about Miss Savonarola was that, before the ser-<lb/>
vice, she was your favorite person in the world. She'd greet<lb/>
you at the door and slip you sweets from her dress pocket,<lb/>
make you promise not to tell your folks. But during the ser-<lb/>
vice, let me tell you. She changed. You could hide in the back<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 101<lb/>
</p>
<p>
row, crouched out of sight, bury your toy in your lap, didn't<lb/>
matter. You got up to mischief while the pastor was preach-<lb/>
ing, she saw. She'd find you after the service and whap! Rap<lb/>
your wrists with a switch right in front of your parents.<lb/>
Wouldn't even say why, to you or to them. But she knew. And<lb/>
she knew you knew. And I will tell you, Mr Spademan. I am<lb/>
respectful and awed by my Lord in His heaven, but I don't<lb/>
think anyone’s ever kept me in line better than she did. She<lb/>
taught me a few things, I’ll tell you that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can imagine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I understand youre not much one for this spectral world,<lb/>
am I correct?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Have you ever been off-body before?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Long ago. Gave it up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I understand. As with any dream, a lot depends upon the<lb/>
dreamer. Well, you've seen a little of what my dream looks<lb/>
like. But let me lay it out for you. I want to lead my followers<lb/>
here, to this world, a refuge of simplicity and peace. A sanc-<lb/>
tuary of my own devising.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He sweeps his hand over the church. Through the win-<lb/>
dows, sunlight sneaks in, pools in the corners, keeps to it-<lb/>
self.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know what’s become of the world back there, Mr<lb/>
Spademan. You better than anyone. It is not a place to waste<lb/>
your days. How you live in that poisoned swamp of New York<lb/>
City, I will never understand. Not when you could live here.<lb/>
Like this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Harrow, I get that. I do. But why do people need to sign<lb/>
on to your dream? People should dream how they like.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Because I offer them something better. More than the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
dream. I offer them a new life, Mr Spademan. A life after<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="55"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ciated alii<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
102 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
life. With no wait list. Something remarkable. That is what |<lb/>
wanted to show you. Do you have time for a short demonstra-<lb/>
tion?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow gestures to someone unseen. Two girls walk in<lb/>
through a side door. Identical twins, short hair, bright eyes,<lb/>
Persephone’s age or a few years younger. Dressed in match-<lb/>
ing pinafore smocks. Prairie-style.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They stand before us, shoulder to shoulder, like soldiers<lb/>
awaiting inspection.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is Mary and Magdalene. Go ahead, Mr Spademan. |<lb/>
want you to stroke Mary’s cheek. She's the one on the right.<lb/>
Don't worry. She won't bite.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T reach my hand out and pass my knuckles lightly over her<lb/>
downy cheek. Soft. She giggles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Very good. And now Magdalene.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Same thing. Knuckles grazing. On this pass, though, I get<lb/>
alittle charge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The first cheek was like experiencing the memory of<lb/>
something. Like a reminder of a feeling you once had. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The second one is like feeling it for the first time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I settle back into the pew.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What do you think, Mr Spademan? As real as real. And<lb/>
that is my proprietary technology. You can’t get that in any<lb/>
other dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He dismisses the twins. They curtsy and exit, like it’s the<lb/>
end of a school pageant.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m still rubbing my hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s very convincing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That it is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what’s the secret?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just that. A secret.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 103<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well I’m sure it will prove very lucrative.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait. There’s one more person I want you to meet.<lb/>
He stands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You might want to stand up for this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And in she walks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My Stella.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="56"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
17.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My wife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the same dress I last saw her in. She smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brown hair ina bob. That bob I begged her not to get.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks good on her though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I grasp Harrow’s arm. For balance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He gives me the satisfied look of a salesman who’s just un-<lb/>
veiled the luxury model.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lassure you, it’s perfectly safe. It’s not the real, no. But it’s<lb/>
as real as real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I look at her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brown eyes a little too close together. Front teeth a little<lb/>
too far apart. That smile that’s spring-loaded to burst into a<lb/>
laugh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In other words, perfect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't be shy, Mr Spademan. Please give your wife a kiss.<lb/>
This is a place of sanctuary. And I promise to avert my eyes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I turn to Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shut it off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t be afraid.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. This isn’t real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think you'll find, Mr Spademan, that those kinds of dis-<lb/>
tinctions quickly become immaterial.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 105<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I turn back to her. Trembling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tell myself it’s not real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I say this I take her face in my hands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Feel her face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hesitate.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kiss her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like a man drawing breath after years underwater.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pull away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I whisper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'msorry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow lays a gentle hand on my back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You understand now? What I am offering?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My Stella smiles. Her hand trails my face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t worry, Mr Spademan. She will always be here. And<lb/>
I can arrange for you to see her whenever you like. In total<lb/>
privacy. Frankly, if you choose, you can leave that toxic world<lb/>
behind and relocate here, if that’s what pleases you. You won't<lb/>
be the first. I know youre familiar with my farm. I can re-<lb/>
unite you and your wife and I guarantee, after a time, you<lb/>
won't remember that you ever weren't together.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So this is what you're offering?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I’m guessing you'll want something in return.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Only something that is already mine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sounds fair. Just one question.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Anything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not for you. For her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Iturn back to face my Stella. Her look says she longs for me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I choke back something. Then say it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What's my name?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="57"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
106 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I smile back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No, it’s not.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks confused. Says it again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I turn back to Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He waves her away. The sales pitch gone sour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She retreats out the side door. I can’t help but watch her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The door closing behind her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just like that last morning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then she’s gone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I lean on the pew. Struggle to get my balance. Fail.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look at Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tap me out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Spademan—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—I know it can be very overwhelming. It reminds me a bit<lb/>
of that first moment after baptism. When people come up<lb/>
again out of the water. Gasping for air, fighting for balance.<lb/>
But new. Brand-new. Like newborns. Come into a new life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But it’s not real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. But after awhile, I assure you, that hardly matters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He grasps my shoulders to stand me up. Steadies me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right. But first, let me tell you what I want.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His smile exiled.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want my daughter back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t know where she is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He laughs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lying is not an effective tactic in this world. Not with me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you should be wary of breaking commandments. Here,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What road?<lb/>
Breaking things.<lb/>
I can’t do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She is of no consequence to you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Doesn't matter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Spademan, do you understand what I’m offering you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes.<lb/>
And why exactly are you protecting my daughter?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you even know why my daughter ran away?<lb/>
[have some idea.<lb/>
Do you? Well, let me fill in the blanks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow retreats to the pulpit and pulls down the massive<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wipe my mouth, still unsteady. Sit.<lb/>
I’m not in the mood for a parable, Mr Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looks up.<lb/>
That’s not what this is.<lb/>
He turns the book around. Upends it, cradling it in his<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On one page, the usual march of verses under a single il-<lb/>
On the other page, a large photo of Persephone naked.<lb/>
This is my daughter, Grace Chastity. Whom I raised from<lb/>
He flips the page. More Grace Chastity. More naked.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Girls grow up. I understand that. And mine did too. All of<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He flips the page. In each photo, Grace is smiling, posing,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="58"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
108 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
puckering her lips. In most photos there’s a starburst of a<lb/>
cameraphone flash. In each one she is exposed. In some<lb/>
more exposed than others.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My Grace found a boyfriend, as little girls do. They break<lb/>
their fathers’ hearts eventually. But I caught my Grace send-<lb/>
ing these pictures to her boyfriend. Shaming herself. Before<lb/>
him. Before me. Before God.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Flips the page again. A homemade porn mag, starring his<lb/>
daughter. In the next shot, she’s on a bed, legs spread. Fin-<lb/>
gers finding their way inside her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you can imagine, Mr Spademan, that when I found<lb/>
these I was very cross. Very cross indeed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Flip. Next photo. Shot from behind. Displaying a gym-<lb/>
nast’s agility. Among other things.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You don’t have a daughter, do you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But you can understand how this might make you feel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. But she’s eighteen. She’s free to live her own life.<lb/>
Should be, anyway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, she wasn't eighteen when she took these, Mr Spade-<lb/>
man. She was sixteen. And she promised me she'd stop. More<lb/>
recently, she broke that promise to me. Again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Flip. Young Grace Chastity explores sex toys. Makes them<lb/>
disappear.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you know how I found these? A parishioner. A mem-<lb/>
ber of my own congregation. He came to me and told me his<lb/>
son had brought them to him. They'd been circulating. At his<lb/>
school.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He closes the book. Mercifully.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I forbid her from seeing her boyfriend. Forbid her from<lb/>
having a phone. I forbid her from doing just about anything<lb/>
I could think of. And naturally, as young girls do, when the<lb/>
devil has their ear, she ran away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 109<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He replaces the book on the altar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You ll forgive the dramatics of my presentation. I just want<lb/>
to make sure you understand why I want her home. Whatever<lb/>
she’s done to break my heart, break my rules, to humiliate<lb/>
me in public, to taint my congregation and flout God’s com-<lb/>
mandments, I know she will be safer with me, in my care,<lb/>
than rambling around out there, living hand-to-mouth, in<lb/>
the gutters of New York. So I want my daughter back. You've<lb/>
already seen what I can offer in return.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know she’s pregnant.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. Another souvenir of the boyfriend. A worthless sort.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not what she told me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What are you suggesting, Mr Spademan?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That the father is right here in this church.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? An immaculate conception, then?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not exactly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow clutches the sides of the pulpit. Enters full-on<lb/>
preacher mode. His cadence sounds something like Mark<lb/>
Ray, but soulless. The stern father, not the kind shepherd,<lb/>
sowing brimstone, not comfort.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He starts in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow<lb/>
upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart.<lb/>
But ask yourself this, Mr Spademan. How pregnant is my<lb/>
daughter? And when exactly did she run away? Not long ago,<lb/>
correct? A few weeks, maybe? Why, we only just contacted<lb/>
you last week.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He goes on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So in your version of the story, this foul act was commit-<lb/>
ted, and she—what? Lived under my roof for another few<lb/>
months? And then suddenly one day woke up and decided to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
flee? Does that make much sense to you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="59"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s right again. It doesn't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He goes on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, let me provide you with an alternate version. In an<lb/>
act of brash but not uncharacteristic youthful rebellion,<lb/>
prompted by my admittedly severe punishments for her ex-<lb/>
tremely humiliating acts of licentiousness, she had a foolish<lb/>
encounter with her no-good boyfriend. Which she managed<lb/>
to hide from me. For a time. When she could no longer hide<lb/>
it, she ran.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which is when you contacted me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That's correct.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And now you want her back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, I do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hmmm. Well, that does make more sense, I guess.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm glad you're starting to see the whole picture, Mr<lb/>
Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. There’s only one thing I don’t quite get. And you'll<lb/>
have to forgive me. I can be alittle dim sometimes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And what is that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You hired me to kill her, Mr Harrow. Not bring her home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Someday you may know howit feels to bea father. You want<lb/>
to protect them, even from themselves. In any way you can.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yeah. Well. I’m not buying it. But thanks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The plain fact, Mr Spademan, is that someone in my secu-<lb/>
rity department overstepped his authority. That individual<lb/>
has been reprimanded severely, as you know. I believe you<lb/>
received a souvenir of that disciplinary action just recently.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So now you want her back. Like the Prodigal Daughter.<lb/>
Just like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Something changed my mind, Mr Spademan. I saw the<lb/>
light, as it were.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 111<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? What was that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
learned I hada grandchild. That altered my way of seeing<lb/>
things. But I wouldn’t expect you would understand some-<lb/>
thing like that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I would never harm that child. No matter his provenance.<lb/>
Or the circumstances of his conception. | want that child<lb/>
back. I want both my children back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you won't hurt Persephone?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You mean Grace? Of course not. I just want her back in my<lb/>
arms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, that’s a very good sermon, Mr Harrow. And I do<lb/>
thankyou for your time and the tour. And I’m sorry. | am. But<lb/>
I don’t think I can do that. She’s a grown woman and I’m not<lb/>
a truant officer. I only provide one service, and if youre no<lb/>
longer interested in that service, we should probably just go<lb/>
our s€parate ways.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow steps down from the pulpit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Allright. Iunderstand. You clearly see yourself as a man of<lb/>
principle. I respect that. However misguided.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stand up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want out. Now. I’m tapping out. Unplug me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know you are new to the off-body experience, so let me<lb/>
explain how this works. This is my church. My construct.<lb/>
My world. You are my guest. And you'll wake up when I wake<lb/>
you up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The light pooling in the church’s dusty corners dries up.<lb/>
The stained-glass sunbeams snuff out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The church door creaks behind us. All the way open. Then<lb/>
all the way closed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Itold you I learned a lesson from my dear old Miss Savona-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rola, yes? Do you want to know what that lesson was?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="60"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
112 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I glance back over the pews. Three gentlemen approach-<lb/>
ing up the aisle. Two are huge, wear overalls, and look like<lb/>
farmhands who bulk up by eating other farmhands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The third is a black man. Trim build. Trim beard. Shoul-<lb/>
ders as wide as a roadblock.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I look back at Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What was the lesson?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First the sweets. Then the switch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
18.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[’m not much of a brawler and this one’s over ina blink. Har-<lb/>
row's world, Harrow’s rules, so I’m like a twelve-year-old<lb/>
fighting high-school bullies in a wading pool.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After a few good kidney shots, one of the farmboys gets<lb/>
behind me, loops his arms in under mine, kicks my knees<lb/>
out, and bends my arms back like butterfly wings.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pinned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I dangle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The black guy steps to center stage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Spademan, hello. Pleased to meet you. They call me<lb/>
Simon the Magician. I am Mr Harrow’s head of security.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. I’ve heard of you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m going to guess youre not a real magician.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t do card tricks, if that’s what you mean.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He holds up a fist. Shows it to me. No tattoos. Just fist.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Recocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I do have this one nifty trick that I like.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shows me the fist again. Tightens it like he’s crushing<lb/>
coal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The skin starts to grow over the gaps between his fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thumb absorbed into knuckles to make bigger knuckles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His fist reborn as a wrecking ball of bone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His world. His rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="61"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
114 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Magician pulls the fist back. Lets it fly. Like the<lb/>
plunger ina pinball machine. My head’s the pinball.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The left comes right after. Right left right, like a ball be-<lb/>
tween bumpers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[hear ringing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow’s delivering a sermon from the pulpit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon the Magician was a contemporary of Jesus. Also<lb/>
called Simon the Sorcerer, Simon Magus, occasionally Simon<lb/>
the Holy God.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While Harrow goes on with the history lesson, Simon’s<lb/>
namesake lets another loose across my chin. He might be<lb/>
named for some magician, but like Samson, he’s got a thing<lb/>
for jawbones.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow preaches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon the Magician was a miracle-worker. He was consid-<lb/>
ered the most powerful holy man in Samaria. Some thought<lb/>
hima deity. That is, until Jesus came along.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon stands over me, legs spread in a fighting stance.<lb/>
Fists hover like bees outside a hive, looking for the way in.<lb/>
He’s not much for words but he puts his two cents in. Simon<lb/>
says:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I heard about him, I took to him immediately.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Right cross.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon says:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I like to think of him as the alternative Jesus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Left cross.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon says:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know. Black Jesus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Right cross. Ah, the old rugged cross.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow bangs on the pulpit with the flat of his hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And do you know what Simon the Magician did, Mr Spade-<lb/>
man, once he was upstaged by the one true Lord?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 115<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wonder if I’m expected to answer. I was always taught not<lb/>
to talk with my mouth full of teeth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow plows on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He converted. Followed Jesus. A convert, Mr Spademan.<lb/>
Asmart man.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Farmboy lets me drop like a feed sack.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I cough. Dribble blood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You made your point. Wake me up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can’t do that, Mr Spademan. As real as real, am I right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow steps down from the pulpit. Toes me with a work<lb/>
boot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I spit on the boot. Blood-colored polish. Spit-shine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You may as well put your suit back on, Harrow. I’m guess-<lb/>
ing the country charmer portion of the program is over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The pity is, Mr Spademan, that we can’t kill you in here.<lb/>
You can’t die. It’s not possible. Most times that seems like an<lb/>
inconvenient impediment. But sometimes it proves surpris-<lb/>
ingly useful.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon stomps my head. I’m really starting to hate this<lb/>
magic act.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Spademan, when I say we can do this all day, I really do<lb/>
mean it. All day. All night. A whole lifetime.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon stomps my head.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I spit up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow, I came here in good faith.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow laughs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now what would you presume to tell me about faith, good<lb/>
or otherwise?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon stomps my head.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Skulls weren't made for this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow stands over me, supervising like a pit boss watch-<lb/>
ing a card sharp get his comeuppance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want my daughter back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="62"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
116 ADAM STERNBERG sHOVEL READY 117<lb/>
</p>
<p>
mended. Do you know the hair’s on the inside? Anyway. Saint<lb/>
Fidelis. Scourge of heretics. Known to carry—<lb/>
Knock at the church door. And here he bows and presents his weapon to each man<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Some minutes later. Not sure how many. Several stomps’ like a jester proudly showing off his scepter.<lb/>
worth, at least. —a hurlbat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow looks at Simon. Simon looks at Farmboy Number Then Mark stands. Shakes his shoulders out. Regrips.<lb/>
One. Who looks at Farmboy Number Two. Who walks over Crouches once, a quick low bounce in the knees, then sticks<lb/>
and answers the door. the ax into the middle of Farmboy Number Two.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Enter Mark Ray. Timber.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I look up from the wide-plank floor. Taste of plank in my I’'dgive hima standing ovation if I could stand.<lb/>
mouth. Harrow steps forward.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s in some kind of getup. It all matches his blond And who are you?<lb/>
curls nicely. White robe. Sandals. Gold braid belt. I’m just here to pick up my friend.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hurlbat. We're having a word with him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry to interrupt. Did I miss the sermon? So I see. Don't worry. I’m not here to stop the hurting. I’m<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A hurlbat looks like an ax but with two blades, set in op- just here to spread it around a little bit.<lb/>
posite directions, one east, one west. Mark grips it and twirls He takes a quick step left and hacks toward Simon, who<lb/>
it loosely in a batting stance, like a slugger waiting on-deck. feints, snatches the handle, twists, and wrests it free.<lb/>
Farmboy Number One watches mutely. Mark empty-handed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So he gives Farmboy Number One a closer look. Harrow smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Farmboy falls. All right. Now we can talk like civilized folk. May I ask,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark pries the hurlbat free from the farmboy’s face. It and I apologize if this sounds somewhat silly given the situa-<lb/>
takes a couple of good jimmies to pry loose. tion, but how the devil did you manage to get in here?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ax free, Mark walks up the aisle. Funny you should mention that. I know a devil. From<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Since we're telling religious stories, I’ve got a good one. Chinatown. Name’s Rick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Saint Fidelis. Heard of him? German saint. Philosopher. Well. That's all very interesting, Mr—<lb/>
Friar. Wore a hair-shirt. You ever worna hair-shirt? Anyone? Uriel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Farmboy Number Two shrugs. Harrow and Simon stand Apparently Mark’s got anickname.<lb/>
silent, sizing Mark up. Simon's fists turn back into hands. He Mr Uriel. But this is still my construct. Yes? My church.<lb/>
spreads his fingers, cracks newfound knuckles. My rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark continues. That’s true. More or less.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s no fun, I'll you that. A hair-shirt I mean. Not recom- So I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="63"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
118 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow gestures to Simon, who steps up, ax held high,<lb/>
Ready to swing low.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s robe ripples in the back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rips.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s flesh ripples in the back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rips.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark lurches forward.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s a hunchback.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then an angel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wings unfurl.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ax meets air.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s foot meets Simon’s forehead. Hard. From on high.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s airborne. He laughs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turns his sandal into a steel-toe boot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kicks Simon again. Harder.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For unto you is given this day a boot to the head.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon staggers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow waves his hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Allright. Enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He toes me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon, tap out Mr Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow looks up at Mark, who hovers, feathered wings<lb/>
trembling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I imagine you can find your own way out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I’m awake. Ina bed. Ina cathedral.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nota cathedral. A bank.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
An angel hovers over me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not an angel. A nurse.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Behind her, Mr Milgram. He of the note.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The nurse cradles my face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Be still. Let the painkillers work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My jaw and skull throb. Nothing broken but a very con-<lb/>
vincing facsimile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pain. Killers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Two things I’ve been spending way too much time with re-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cently.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're in the financial district, the old Wall Street, where I<lb/>
came to meet Milgram, a neighborhood where abandoned<lb/>
banks abound. This one’s got vaulted ceilings, like a burial<lb/>
vault, built for kings. Paintings on the ceiling. Angels touch-<lb/>
ing men.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram hands mea card.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Harrow would like you to know his offer still stands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram’s a fussy type. Buttoned-down. Looks like he’d<lb/>
enjoy the back room at the Bait & Switch. Though I’m not sure<lb/>
which end of the whip he’d prefer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take the card.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One question.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="64"/>
<p>
<lb/>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
120 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Mr Pilot's job wasn’t to kill her. That was your job. Mr Pj-<lb/>
lot’s job was to kill you. So, as you can see, this has been a rea]<lb/>
cavalcade of incompetence. But rest assured, we plan to set<lb/>
it right.<lb/>
I stash the card.<lb/>
Don't expect a call. [ collect myself and take the 2 train north toward Trump<lb/>
He tries to grin, can't quite make it past a wince. Tower. There are so few passengers at this hour they only<lb/>
Well, I suspect you'll be hearing from us either way. run four cars to a train. And there's no such thing as express<lb/>
anymore. Everything's local. Making all stops. Except Times<lb/>
I stop outside on the stone steps of the bank. Sit on the steps. Square.<lb/>
Catch my breath. We rattle through without braking.<lb/>
Run a palm over the cold pebbled stone, squinting at the Times Square sealed off like a crypt.<lb/>
street, which is all edges and angles and light. |<lb/>
It’s early morning. New day still has that new-day smell, _ The first explosion was small, on the subway, a diversion.<lb/>
Sunlight scrubs away what's left of last night. Tries to, any- Gym bag in the first car of a Manhattan-bound train. In-<lb/>
wey: tended to draw first responders down into the tunnel. Am-<lb/>
I don’t go off-body often and haven't ina long while. ' pulance, EMS, fire crews, which it did.<lb/>
It’s been long enough that I forgot about this part. Then came the second explosion.<lb/>
Bed-resters call it the wake-up call. A painful sensitivity The dirty bomb in Times Square went off about an hour<lb/>
when the simulation’s over and you first come out of it and after that.<lb/>
your senses all come back online. When you're back to using<lb/>
your actual organs, your eyes and ears and nose and nerves _ Chaos opened the door to chaos.<lb/>
all open for business again. Like a burglar sneaking in a side window, then unlocking<lb/>
Light searing your optic nerves. Odors numbing your © _ the front door for his friends. .<lb/>
nose. Sound galloping across your eardrums. It was midmorning, Monday, holiday season. Just starting<lb/>
The wake-up call. to get cold.<lb/>
It’s painful. Everything seems too real for a time. I remember they'd lit the big tree the week before. Local<lb/>
The too-sharp edges of the actual world. weatherman flipped the switch.<lb/>
My Stella always liked to go into Manhattan to see the<lb/>
Christmas windows. She didn’t mind braving the holiday<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="65"/>
<p>
<lb/>
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</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
122 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
crush, standing twenty-deep in a spillover crowd. She had<lb/>
a taste for magic. Silver snowflakes and mechanical elves,<lb/>
shilling name-brand gifts. Santa’s helpers, doing the robot,<lb/>
that was always my joke.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She used to talk about us renting a little flat in the Village.<lb/>
Nothing fancy, but on a pretty street. With trees. The city had<lb/>
a pull on her that I didn’t share. But she'd read all the roman-<lb/>
tic memoirs. The ones about a city rich with artists and poets<lb/>
and dreamers, the old-fashioned kind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In my more sour moods, I’d remind her we were about a<lb/>
hundred years and a million dollars too late.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Irony is, pretty soon we could have had our pick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That morning she watched me empty a pint bottle into the<lb/>
toilet bowl and made me promise it was the last time, for<lb/>
the last time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She thought the drinking had something to do with the<lb/>
baby, or more to the point, the not-baby. Our inconceivable<lb/>
child. We're looking to trade one bottle for another, is how<lb/>
she put it. That was always her joke, when she was in the<lb/>
mood for joking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I poured out the last bottle and swore never again on<lb/>
various graves. Truth was, | just wanted her to leave. I had an<lb/>
appointment to keep that morning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Besides, it was easy enough to kick the bottle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
By that time I’d discovered the beds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They drove it straight down from upstate, down the Henry<lb/>
Hudson, left at Forty-Second, right into Times Square, no<lb/>
stops. Made the whole trip on one tank of gas.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Officials later said if they hadn't blown themselves up they<lb/>
would have died in a few months anyway, just from handling<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 123<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the radioactive waste. Maybe if they'd had second thoughts.<lb/>
Dithered while they withered away in a quiet farmhouse<lb/>
somewhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The world’s first long-term suicide bombers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But they didn’t. They drove it straight into the heart of<lb/>
Manhattan. Like a stake.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A van stuffed with a bomb stuffed with fertilizer salted<lb/>
with waste lifted from a radiotherapy clinic in foreclosure.<lb/>
Enough to poison twenty city blocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Crude stuff. But somehow fitting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Abomb made of shit and someone else’s trash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pulled to a stop outside a TGI Fridays.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whispering a final fevered prayer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Back doors blew open and gave birth to a toxic cloud.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shattered windows. Splattered tourists.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Glass. Blood. Sirens. Smoke. Screams.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hair. Bones. Ashes. Skin. Flesh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Charnel carnage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Almost biblical.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A loosed plague.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We fought that morning, like many mornings, like most. I<lb/>
was back from my leave, back at work but not really, and not<lb/>
often. And she was just starting to realize that Broadway was<lb/>
alot more crowded than a high-school stage in Jersey.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, she went to her classes, and to her auditions, and<lb/>
failed, then came home and we went to bed, and failed at<lb/>
that too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So the rest of the time we fought.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At least that we were good at.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="66"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
124 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
kept telling us the radiation wasn’t that bad. You can eas-<lb/>
ily endure small exposures, they said. No worse than a few<lb/>
X-rays at the dentist.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The city issued handheld Geiger counters for free. Be-<lb/>
came a bit of a hip accessory for a time. Cool young kids<lb/>
clickety-clicking their way through the city, counters slung<lb/>
around their necks like tourists’ cameras. Even turned into q<lb/>
popular pickup line. Approach a young woman. Hold up your<lb/>
Geiger counter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whoa, I think I’ve found a hot spot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Crafty vendors pitched card tables on sidewalks around<lb/>
the city, swapped out I Love New York t-shirts for I Survived<lb/>
Times Square. Set out rows of little plastic glow-in-the-dark<lb/>
Empire State Buildings and Statues of Liberty, a tiny toxic<lb/>
skyline. Funny idea, sick but funny, but there were no tour-<lb/>
ists around to buy them. And no native wanted an I Survived<lb/>
Times Square shirt when you couldn't really be sure yet that<lb/>
you had.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The mayor preached calm. As a stunt, he sat down for din-<lb/>
ner in the middle of empty Times Square, ate a five-course<lb/>
meal with his wife. Silverware, candlesticks, white-coated<lb/>
waiters, white linen tablecloth, violinist, the whole thing.<lb/>
Dabbed his mouth with a napkin, turned to the TV cameras,<lb/>
proudly declared: Tell the world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
New York is open for business.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't matter. The tourists never returned. That’s a hard<lb/>
sell, even with three-for-one specials on hotel suites. All<lb/>
the businesses failed. They were built on selling M&M’s and<lb/>
I Love New York shirts to visitors. Problem was, no one was<lb/>
hungry for candy and no one loved New York anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The violinist came down with a rare sarcoma and died the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
following Easter. The mayor sent an aide to the funeral.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
pirty bomb killed all the dogs in the city too. All of them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No one’s ever figured that one out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The president came. Made a speech from a safe distance.<lb/>
Reminded us that America always rebuilds. Recovers. Rises<lb/>
again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then he rose again. Ina helicopter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Acouple of weeks later, the first car bomb went off. Near<lb/>
the United Nations.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
People watched live on the news and hoped it was just a<lb/>
faulty taxi, burst into flames. That kind of thing used to<lb/>
happen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
People watched and hoped. Until the second one went off.<lb/>
Took out the news crews.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then a few days later, another. Then another.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Over the next few weeks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not often. But often enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The president made another speech, this time from the Oval<lb/>
Office. Preempted football during half-time, sent his con-<lb/>
dolences and ordered in the National Guard. Promised the<lb/>
country was behind us, we'd spare no effort in seeking jus-<lb/>
tice, then signed off with a God Bless America and God Bless<lb/>
New York, just in time for the second-half kickoff.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every day, right before she'd leave to face another parade of<lb/>
smiling rejections, she'd stand and steel herself at the front<lb/>
door, hand poised on the first of the locks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beyond that door was the fiery furnace. We had to trust to-<lb/>
gether that each day we wouldn't be consumed. Burned up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Venture out on faith.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="67"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
126 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like that old Sunday school story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me Shadrach. Her Meshach.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still hoping for an Abednego.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And every day my Stella said the same strange thing,<lb/>
paused there at the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Said it mostly to herself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
See you on the other side.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every day she said that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Even the last one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
yond resuscitation, and the rot spread out in circles from<lb/>
there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But by that point no one cared. It’s not that we didn’t care<lb/>
about the attacks. We were New Yorkers, after all. Battle-<lb/>
scarred. We rattled our swords. We gathered in the streets,<lb/>
held candles, demanded justice. Demanded vengeance. We<lb/>
knew how this worked, we'd done it before. We hounded the<lb/>
brown-faced. Jumped a few Sikhs in our ignorance. A few<lb/>
Brazilians. Gave gay-bashers license once again to work out<lb/>
their issues on swarthy civilians. We were indiscriminate in<lb/>
our discrimination.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It wasn't that we didn’t care about the bombings. We<lb/>
just didn’t care about the city. Not really. Not that part. Not<lb/>
those streets. Most native New Yorkers, to be honest, had<lb/>
abandoned Times Square long ago. Thought of it mostly as<lb/>
a tourist preserve. Cursed the bright neon signs, the Naked<lb/>
Cowboy, and whatever errands might bring you there on a<lb/>
crowded Saturday to fight through the sluggish global herd.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It wasn't long before native New Yorkers were all making<lb/>
the same grim jokes. Times Square? Roach bomb. Ha-ha-ha.<lb/>
Or, Times Square? I’ve heard it really glows at night. Or,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 127<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Times Square? They finally figured out a way to get a tour-<lb/>
jst to step aside on the sidewalk. Or, Times Square? They<lb/>
pombed it? Well, who among us hasn't thought of doing that<lb/>
at least once?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the reality was that the walls had been breached and<lb/>
the tourists stopped coming and the streets emptied out and<lb/>
soon the rest of the people started packing up too. Some sky-<lb/>
ward, to glass penthouses and the lure of the limnosphere.<lb/>
Most just outward, to some other city without a toxic tumor<lb/>
inits midsection.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The car bombs didn't help.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
America’s big, and the long recession had hollowed out<lb/>
most of the rest of the East Coast, so it wasn't that hard to<lb/>
up and move, to find another house, on another block, in<lb/>
another neighborhood, another job, another chance, in an-<lb/>
other city that wasn’t suddenly halfway poisonous. Where<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
from your doorway and try to gauge just how much death<lb/>
you could smell in the air, and whether today it was blowing<lb/>
</p>
<p>
toward you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
“Incremental Apocalypse” became the term of choice. Coined<lb/>
by some newspaper columnist, in an angry rant about the<lb/>
city quietly dying.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No zombie overrun. No alien armada. No swallowing tsu-<lb/>
nami. No catastrophic quake.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just the gradual erosion of the will to stick it out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A trickle became a stream became a torrent became an<lb/>
exodus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So, sure, Times Square?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Times Square didn’t kill too many New Yorkers.<lb/>
But it killed New York.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="68"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
128 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The day it happened, I was in Chinatown sleeping.<lb/>
Deep ina custom-made dream.<lb/>
Stooped over, wringing my hands ina waiting room.<lb/>
Then slapping backs and unwrapping cigars.<lb/>
Bright blue balloons kissing the ceiling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Congratulations all around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My wife died in that first one, the one on the subway. The<lb/>
small one.<lb/>
The diversion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On her way to acting class.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the months after I could only hope she was riding in the<lb/>
first car. I hope she was standing right next to the bomb. I<lb/>
hope she picked up that damned gym bag, unzipped it, poked<lb/>
her head in, right before it detonated.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hope it blew her to dust.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hope that she didn’t lay wounded, twisted, in the dark-<lb/>
ness of that tunnel, waiting for sirens, waiting for help,<lb/>
hearing them carefully make their way down, advancing<lb/>
step-by-step through the wreckage, then die in the second<lb/>
explosion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Everyone who was left died in the second explosion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
T hope she died in the first one. The diversion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s what passes for hope these days.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
21.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On my way back to Mark’s I make a detour to Hell’s Kitchen.<lb/>
Radio City’s too expensive to rent out on anything but Sun-<lb/>
days, SO Harrow has a Paved With Gold outreach center here,<lb/>
set up in a tidy storefront which is yawning awake just as I<lb/>
arrive. Strapping gents set out the pamphlet rack, while a<lb/>
wholesome blonde in a knee-length skirt sparks up the cof-<lb/>
feemaker. Everyone has the whiff of missionary. Look too<lb/>
healthy to have been in New York for long.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I spot the clean-cut usher from the other night. Not in his<lb/>
suit now. Sharp slacks and a flowered Hawaiian. Looks like a<lb/>
Beach Boy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I sit down ina folding chair opposite his desk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Uncrease my brochure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tell me more.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I get the full pitch:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fully subsidized dreaming on a pastoral country cam-<lb/>
pus, a hundred acres, wholly owned and maintained by<lb/>
Crystal Corral Ministries. In essence, you sign on to serve<lb/>
the church, maybe do a tour of service in an urban outreach<lb/>
center like this one, maybe work some time doing labor on<lb/>
the Paved With Gold farm. For example, he says, he’s from<lb/>
out west, California, and after this month-long stint in our<lb/>
fair city he’s heading straight to Paved With Gold to tap in for<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the first time. Moreover, he assures me, the tours of duty are<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="69"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do Not Pass Go, etcetera.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tion it. Plead poor.<lb/>
I’m just a garbageman.<lb/>
He laughs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Leans in again.<lb/>
There is no cost.<lb/>
How can that be?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the pitch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Beach Boy continues.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tor Harrow also.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
130 ADAM STERNBERGY SHOVEL READY 131<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
up in Glory Land.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
The Crystal Corral compound. South Carolina. Beautiful<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
When you make up your mind, we'll be here. Maybe not<lb/>
me, but definitely someone who can help you. But I'll be gone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I've got an appointment to keep.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I figure the Beach Boy for a greenhorn. Another round of<lb/>
soothing hallelujahs and he might have closed this sale. You<lb/>
</p>
<p>
let me wriggle off the hook too easy, rookie.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
waiting for my spot in the chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="70"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
By the time I get back to Trump Tower, Rick the tech-head<lb/>
</p>
<p>
is long gone and Mark’s up and around, out of his bed, un-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
plugged, wearing a robe, drinking a coffee. He pours me one<lb/>
‘and offers mea bagel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good morning, Spademan. I believe the last time I saw<lb/>
you, it was ina country church where you were moonlighting<lb/>
as a doormat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Very funny. Thanks for that, though. I mean it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, Rick and I figured you might need a cavalry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You two do that often? Crash other people’s private<lb/>
meetings?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Notas arule. But if you ever need to do it, Rick is definitely<lb/>
the best. Knows how to find the seams and how to slip you<lb/>
through them. I did enjoy the look of surprise on their faces.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You mean the faces you didn't bury your little toy ax in?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark shrugs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey, I may not be much help in this world, but when you<lb/>
spend enough time on bed-rest, you tend to pick up a few<lb/>
party tricks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So that’s what you do in there all day? Fly around and hack<lb/>
people to pieces?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. That was special for you. Though I do like to spread my<lb/>
wings once in awhile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I nod toward Mark’s bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Luxury liner like that, why the hell do you ever go all the<lb/>
way down to Chinatown?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
You know me. I like congregations. The comforts of a like-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
minded crowd.<lb/>
Persephone pads out of the bedroom. Wearing sweat-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Good morning. What I miss?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eyes my bagel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
God, I’m starving. Is there one of those for me?<lb/>
I hand it over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nice sweatpants. What happened to snakeskin?<lb/>
She frowns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They split.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Given that I can now be fairly sure there are no profes-<lb/>
sional killers actively stalking us, at least not in the nuts-<lb/>
and-bolts world, I decide to be nice and treat everyone to a<lb/>
proper lunch. Mark suggests we head to the shopping mall<lb/>
next door. It was built as a sparkling lure, baited with luxury<lb/>
goods, but it’s not so luxurious anymore and no one’s biting.<lb/>
A few fancy restaurants still survive, catering to the dream-<lb/>
ers upstairs, sending up five-star takeout, but the stores have<lb/>
all shuttered, most of the mall’s abandoned, and all that’s left<lb/>
of the jewelry boutiques and clothing stores are faded poster<lb/>
ads, peeling behind glass, selling shiny stuff you can no lon-<lb/>
ger buy at shops that are no longer there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In their place, now there’s squatters’ stalls mostly, set up<lb/>
illegally, lining the mall in long rows in front of the emptied-<lb/>
out stores. Mall owners turna blind eye, collect payments in<lb/>
cash, figure at least the street market keeps foot traffic up,<lb/>
wards off squatters who come in from the park. Figure all<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
ground. Let the nomads move in, pitch a tent. Planta flag.<lb/>
Many different flags, actually.<lb/>
Vendors shout for attention as we pass, hawking wares,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="71"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
134 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
stalls stacked with everything from dried spices to saris to<lb/>
sjamboks, those leather African half-whips, made as snake-<lb/>
killers and crafted from rhino hides, sold here for self-<lb/>
defense. That’s the pitch anyway. Salesman demonstrates,<lb/>
slicing the air with a whistle as we walk. Cuts close to Per-<lb/>
sephone. She jumps, then curses. Salesman looses a goofy<lb/>
grin. She flips him double birds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then we head to the food court, which is just a cluster<lb/>
of food carts, run by guys who broke in the back way. Carts<lb/>
serve up dishes for a dollar, curries and dosas and kebabs.<lb/>
Flaming grills and sizzling griddles. The tempting scents of<lb/>
spiced steam. Everything looks delicious, though a few carts<lb/>
offer meats you wouldn't want to know the family tree of.<lb/>
Luckily all the vendors have the same strict food policy: No<lb/>
Questions Answered.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We retire to a bench in the mall with hot meals on our laps,<lb/>
not a utensil between us, a war council with paper plates. I go<lb/>
to dig in when Mark bows his head to say grace. Persephone<lb/>
follows. I succumb to peer pressure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark with his eyes closed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lord we thank you for this bounty we are about to receive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At first I think he’s making a joke.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Apparently not.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lord and thank you for watching over us and keeping us<lb/>
safe so far. Let our actions on this day as on every day glorify<lb/>
your name in every way. Amen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Amen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Amen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take a bite and ask the obvious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay, Harrow’s shown his hand. So what’s our brilliant<lb/>
plan?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark eyes Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 135<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She shouldn't be here for this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s okay. She can hear this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark shoots me a look. This is the look that says he’s prob-<lb/>
ably a little more qualified than me in the arena of emotional<lb/>
counseling. He’s right. But I don't budge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She can hear this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He frowns. Then proceeds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right. Well. There’s three potential outcomes, as I see<lb/>
it. You give him what he wants. You kill him. He kills you.<lb/>
Those are the only options.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone pipes up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or I can run. I’ve been running. You don’t even need to<lb/>
know which direction I went.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark wipes his mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not an outcome. That’s a delaying tactic. Eventually<lb/>
this ends. In one of those three ways.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looks to me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You a baseball fan?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. Jets fan. Not by choice. By blood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, in baseball there’s this thing the statisticians call<lb/>
the three true outcomes. It’s the three possible outcomes of<lb/>
an at-bat that only involve the actions of the pitcher and the<lb/>
hitter, and none of the other players on the field. So they're<lb/>
considered the purest possibilities.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. And they are?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark counts them out on his fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Awalk. A strikeout. A home run. That’s it. The three true<lb/>
outcomes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think of lesson two of hauling garbage. You discard it. It<lb/>
discards you. Or you die.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Three true outcomes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. I got it. So?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="72"/>
<p>
</p>
<p>
a<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
136 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark pauses, then gives me a look. This is the look that<lb/>
says he’s about to tell me something he doesn’t want to tell me,<lb/>
Go on, tell me.<lb/>
There’s another factor.<lb/>
What’s that?<lb/>
This Simon. The Magician.<lb/>
What about him?<lb/>
He’s a factor.<lb/>
Because?<lb/>
For starters, he’s between you and Harrow.<lb/>
I can take care of him.<lb/>
Like you did in that church?<lb/>
That’s not fair. That was in there. That’s the dream. We're<lb/>
out here now.<lb/>
Even so.<lb/>
’m on better footing out here.<lb/>
Still. I’m just saying. He’s a factor.<lb/>
You don’t even know what he can do out here. Or who he<lb/>
really is. He could be eighty years old, for fuck’s sake.<lb/>
My guess? He’s not.<lb/>
So I turn to Persephone.<lb/>
What do you know about him?<lb/>
Simon? You saw him.<lb/>
And?<lb/>
He is what you think he is.<lb/>
Meaning?<lb/>
He’s that bad. He’s worse. Out here? He’s worse.<lb/>
Mark chimes in.<lb/>
What about money? Can he be bought?<lb/>
She laughs.<lb/>
Ifyou're planning to outbid my father, that’s not an auction<lb/>
we're going to win.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 137<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I press her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. So what is he not good at?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[ don't know. Whatever it is, I haven't seen it. He’s ruth-<lb/>
less. He’s smart. And he’s not someone you can reason with.<lb/>
And don’t expect any sympathy. Or mercy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right. No reason. No sympathy. No mercy. That nar-<lb/>
rows our options, at least.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone runs both hands through her unkempt curls.<lb/>
Tugs at tangles that refuse to untangle. Looks down at her<lb/>
feet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then tells us something more.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was my bodyguard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For how long?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Until I ran.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So he’s not a great bodyguard. At least there’s that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It wasn’t his fault. He was supposed to protect me. He<lb/>
wasn't my babysitter. And I wasn't his prisoner.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And he did a good job? Of protecting you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. From everyone but my father.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark reaches out, takes her hands in his. Mark the former<lb/>
pastor. Knows ways to balm wounds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I say to Mark:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I still want to hear your three true outcomes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Yes. Three true outcomes, like I said. You give him<lb/>
the girl, he kills you, you kill him. Walk, strikeout, home<lb/>
‘run. Only the pitcher and the batter have a say in it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In this case, Harrow’s the pitcher. You're the batter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He motions to Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're just the fielders.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Meaning ultimately you have to decide.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="73"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
138 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. In that case, I choose the home run.<lb/>
All right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait. So which one is that again?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Very funny.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I put my hand on Persephone’s, lightly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But that means you and I need to have a conversation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s apartment, an hour later. Two chairs pulled up by the<lb/>
picture window. Mark’s run off to Chinatown, day trip to the<lb/>
land of Nod.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She and I watch the campers in the park.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Weird to think I was down there with them a few days ago.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Didn't sound like it was too much fun.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It had its ups and downs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know them. You lived with them. You think they'll last<lb/>
long in there? Police have it locked down. Nothing in, noth-<lb/>
ing out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They'll last.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The thing I don't understand is, what exactly are they pro-<lb/>
testing?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They're not protesting anything. They just want to live in<lb/>
a different kind of world. Figured you have to start building<lb/>
it somewhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure, but why Central Park? Why not Woodstock? Or Utah?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Take a look at the park. At this city. At this moment. It’s all<lb/>
kind of up for grabs, don’t you think?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you know what this means.<lb/>
Yes.<lb/>
You okay with it?<lb/>
Time was, I thought I might do it myself. Dreamt about it.<lb/>
Nothing happens unless you say it can happen.<lb/>
I know. Thank you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 139<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She folds her hands over her belly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
| didn’t think it would end like this. I just wanted to get<lb/>
away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, what he did, that’s going to follow you. He's going to<lb/>
follow you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And it’s not like he'll give you up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before this goes any further, I need to get something<lb/>
straight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I saw your father, he showed me pictures.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Said you took them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I did.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Said you sent them to your boyfriend.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I did. They weren't meant for public consumption, ob-<lb/>
viously. But you know teenagers. We're stupid sometimes.<lb/>
Trust the wrong people.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We all do that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Did he tell you where he found them?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He said someone from the congregation brought them<lb/>
forward.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hmmm. Well, that’s bullshit. My father trolls for that<lb/>
trash all the time on the Internet. Just so happened, one day,<lb/>
he clicked a link, saw his own daughter. In among all the<lb/>
usual naked jailbait he prefers. Just bad luck, really. For me,<lb/>
anyway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He also told me something else. That your boyfriend is the<lb/>
father. |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A dry laugh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="74"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
140 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. That asshole fucked me over plenty, but not in that Way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Your father says it isn’t his.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, what do you expect him to say?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I just mean that, if you're running for some other reason,<lb/>
whatever it might be, I need to know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She straightens. If any of this is acting, her look right now<lb/>
would win the Oscar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait, what are you saying? You want to send me back to<lb/>
him?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I need to know what made you run. Because you didn’t run<lb/>
at first. When you found out about the baby. You waited. Fora<lb/>
few months at least.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was scared. My father has a long reach. As you know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But then something made you leave.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. That’s true.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gnaws her lip. Says to me, her voice catching:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just tell me you'll protect me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lll protect you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Say it again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pl protect you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Say it again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lll protect you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She turns. Tears poised on her lower lids, peering over the<lb/>
edge, like jumpers ona ledge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yep. Just what I thought. Sounds just the same coming out<lb/>
of your mouth as it does out of everyone else’s.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Grace—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I will. I swear. I’ll protect you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Jumpers teeter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
If what you told me is true—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sHOVEL READY 141<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s true.<lb/>
_well, then, I don’t think your father can be forgiven. At<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Jeast not by anyone he’s bound to meet on this Earth. Cer-<lb/>
tainly not by me. And not by you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks back out over-the park.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You're right. When I found out, I stayed. I thought maybe<lb/>
he would forgive me. He would still love me, love us, if I<lb/>
stayed. So that wasn’t why I ran away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Jumpers jump. Free fall. Straight plummet down her<lb/>
cheek. Followed quick by more jumpers. They're all jumping<lb/>
now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks at me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. And it’s not the most unforgivable thing he’s ever<lb/>
</p>
<p>
done.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="75"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
25,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So at first the rough plan was, we hold tight until Harrow<lb/>
arrives in Manhattan, when we know he’ll be here, he’ll be<lb/>
tapped out, and he’ll be walking among the living. Grace told<lb/>
me that on his New York trips, he likes to meet with his top<lb/>
donors, the ones he calls the Deacons’ Circle, show them a<lb/>
little Christian love. Then, of course, there’s the Crusade it-<lb/>
self, with Harrow preaching in public to an overflow crowd.<lb/>
Yes, there will be a hundred bodyguards and twenty thou-<lb/>
sand witnesses.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I said it was a plan. I didn’t say it was a good plan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But we thought, maybe a sniper shot. Sideswipe the mo-<lb/>
torcade. Finagle a face-to-face, rush the podium, take him<lb/>
down ina kamikaze tumble.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was the plan, such as it was. Until Persephone told<lb/>
me her story.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The rest of it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The part she hadn't told to anyone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So Persephone had a best friend. Rachel.<lb/>
She was a few years younger than Persephone. More beau-<lb/>
tiful than Persephone too, at least to hear Persephone tell it.<lb/>
Troubled girl. Lost her parents young.<lb/>
Came to church with an aunt and uncle.<lb/>
Caught Harrow’s eye. A long while back.<lb/>
He took an interest.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 143<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When Rachel was young, maybe ten, Harrow hecime a kind<lb/>
of surrogate father. He wasn’t around much, given his sched-<lb/>
ule, but he provided for her. Showed her favor. She ou over<lb/>
at the house enough that she and Grace became like ad<lb/>
more or less. They always joked that Grace was like Heidi,<lb/>
living carefree in the Alps, and Rachel was like Clara, the<lb/>
sickly cousin come to take the mountain air.<lb/>
They grew up together. They got older.<lb/>
: She even warned Grace against dating that boy who asked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
for the photographs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One night Harrow called Rachel into his study. She thought<lb/>
maybe he was going to talk to her about offering to help her<lb/>
with college. He’d always been so generous. Even so, that was<lb/>
still a few years away. 7<lb/>
Instead he told her about this marvelous new ministry.<lb/>
Paved With Gold. .<lb/>
I want you to be one of my very first angels, is how he put it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He personally escorted her to the camp. She could barely be-<lb/>
lieve it. The famous T. K. Harrow, with her on his arm. She<lb/>
never went to prom so this felt to her like prom night.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He delivered her to the doorstep and said he couldn't wait<lb/>
for her to come back and tell him just how real the new heaven<lb/>
he was building felt.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She entered the camp’s main building, which was built to<lb/>
look like a barn. Sodium lamps floated in the dark rafters.<lb/>
Beneath them there lay a checkerboard of hundreds of white-<lb/>
sheeted cots. But only a dozen dreamers so far, tapped in here<lb/>
and there. My pilgrims, Harrow had called them. When she<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="76"/>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
144 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
walked in, the nurses stood to applaud her. She’d worn the<lb/>
best dress she had.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ironed it twice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The empty beds laid out so lovingly. Kindly nurses to tuck<lb/>
youin under sheets that smelled like spring. A scent that was<lb/>
hard to place, maybe gardenias.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The tube slides in painlessly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The nurse leans over and you say a prayer together. She<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
nurse. She kisses your forehead. You assure her you'll see her<lb/>
again soon and tell her all about it. She says she sure hopes<lb/>
so, but she also tells you that, for a lot of people, when they get<lb/>
to heaven, they don’t ever want to tap out again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You smile, and get drowsy, your eyelids drop like a heavy<lb/>
curtain at the end of a play. And you swear to yourself in that<lb/>
last waking moment, even as you still feel the loosening grip<lb/>
of the nurse’s hand slip away, that you hear the distant lullaby<lb/>
of harps, you're absolutely sure that you can.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At Harrow’s personal orders they tapped her out temporar-<lb/>
ily and put her under quarantine in an adjacent infirmary,,<lb/>
where Rachel lay for a few hours in locked restraints ina sick<lb/>
bed, wondering exactly which of these two worlds she was<lb/>
torn between was the horrible dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Normally no one would have been allowed to see her, but she<lb/>
got word out to Grace Chastity through a junior pastor who'd<lb/>
long harbored a crush on her. Grace Chastity still had some<lb/>
special privileges also, daughter of the minister and all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At this point, Grace wasn’t showing yet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So when she got word she came to Rachel’s room at night<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 145<lb/>
</p>
<p>
and visited Rachel and Rachel said nothing. She just smiled<lb/>
and strained against her cuffs as Grace stroked her cheek and<lb/>
she cried.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then Rachel asked Grace if she still carried that knife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What are you talking about?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Please don’t ask me anything. Just help me get out of here.<lb/>
Don't ask me why just please help me get out of here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So Grace tugged at the locked restraining strap and then,<lb/>
thwarted, pulled from her boot the five-inch knife which<lb/>
she'd been carrying every day since that night when her fa-<lb/>
ther thundered drunkenly into her room, waving a tablet,<lb/>
bright with pictures of her, like he was Moses catching the<lb/>
fallen praying to the golden calf. The night that she’d reflex-<lb/>
ively clutched the covers to her chin, as though they offered<lb/>
some protection, rather than simply something else for him<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to strip away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Grace sawed through the first restraint.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rachel’s right hand sprang free.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then Grace circled the bed to cut free her other arm but<lb/>
she couldn't get the angle right on the restraint and Rachel<lb/>
said here let me have it I can reach it better than you can so<lb/>
Grace in a thoughtless moment gave her the blade.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And Rachel without hesitation slashed it brightly across<lb/>
her bound left wrist then plunged it into her chest, plunging<lb/>
and plunging, smiling at Grace Chastity and saying good-bye<lb/>
good-bye I love you I love you I hope I will see you again one<lb/>
day.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What Grace would clearly remember forever is how she<lb/>
plunged with such anger, as though to drive something out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Saying let this blood wash me clean oh Lord please Lord<lb/>
as she bled red widely on the stiff white sheets, until her<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="77"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
146 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
stain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And Persephone stood over her, and she took back the blade,<lb/>
and she kissed her friend on the forehead, and wiped the<lb/>
blade clean, and then she ran.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take the brochure from my pocket, unfold it, lay it out flat<lb/>
on the coffee table.<lb/>
PAVED WITH GOLD.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
WHY WAIT?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Change of plan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No sniper shot. No side-on suicide motorcade collision.<lb/>
No kamikaze attacks, no stealthy slit from the shadows.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No surprises. No sudden oblivion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Because Harrow needs to know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He needs to know who. And he needs to know why.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I fold the brochure and hide it in my pocket and don’t tell<lb/>
anyone this as we sit in Rick’s Chinatown flat, his sofa as<lb/>
shapeless as a deflating dinghy, and the three of us, me, Rick,<lb/>
and Mark Ray, all trapped on it together like survivors on the<lb/>
first day of month number two, adrift at sea.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone’s pregnant. Persephone gets a chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina Machina, Rick’s live-in, comes slouching out of the<lb/>
kitchen, slurping at something steaming in a bowl. She’s got<lb/>
long hair and she’s alarmingly skinny, so she looks like a<lb/>
long wooden stand built to hold up a black wig. The wig could<lb/>
use a brushing too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She giggles at something only she hears or understands,<lb/>
then lets the hot bowl slip and spill with a clatter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="78"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
148 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Classic tapper. Still dreaming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She retrieves, then wrestles with, a mop, which in her<lb/>
hands looks like an identical twin held upside-down, hair<lb/>
shocked white.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lignore her and lay out the plan to the room.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We need to find a way to get to Harrow while he’s here in<lb/>
New York for his crusade. As Mark said, there’s only two ways<lb/>
this ends. We either hand over Persephone or we convince<lb/>
Harrow to stop asking. We're going to go with the second one.<lb/>
I'll handle that part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark shoots me a look. This is the look that says I’m lying,<lb/>
because he actually said there were three ways this could<lb/>
end. But I figured I'd leave out the outcome where Harrow<lb/>
kills me. In any case, that’s for me to worry about.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I continue. Lay out phase two. The post-Rachel part of the<lb/>
plan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick, we also need to find a way to gate-crash Paved With<lb/>
Gold. We need to get into Harrow’s heaven and get everyone<lb/>
out. Everyone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick looks perplexed. Sparks a cigarette.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You want to crash heaven and then send everyone home?<lb/>
Why do you want to shit on the picnic?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wave the smoke away. Nod to Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We've got a pregnant lady here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick looks at her. Looks at me. Really was hoping to finish<lb/>
that cigarette.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stubs it out. Doesn’t matter where. The whole apartment’s<lb/>
an ashtray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry. My bad.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just tell me if it’s possible. Like what you did with Mark<lb/>
when I was tapped in with Harrow before. Slide someone in,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
uninvited.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 149<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure, crashing in one person is easy enough. Tapping out<lb/>
everyone else who's also in that construct? All at once? That’s<lb/>
trickier.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t care if it’s tricky. I want to know if it’s possible.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick rubs his palms on his thighs. Looks lost without his<lb/>
cigarette. Then shrugs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Anything's possible. Sort of.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And what do you need from us?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I need someone inside. I can tap people out one by one<lb/>
from out here. It’s slow going. You have to find them and then<lb/>
sever the link. And it’s a lot easier if the people inside know<lb/>
what’s happening.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Meaning what?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Meaning I need someone in there to give them a nudge.<lb/>
You know, pinch me, I’m dreaming, that kind of thing. Also,<lb/>
it helps a lot if they actually want to leave.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t think we'll have to worry about that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I turn to Mark Ray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. So that’s you and me, Mr Angel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark extends a consoling pastor’s hand to squeeze my<lb/>
shoulder, like I’ve come to him for advice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hate to say this, friend, but last time we tried this, you<lb/>
flailed around in there like a fat kid in water wings drowning<lb/>
in the shallow end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then Mark pivots to Rick, like it’s time for the grown-ups<lb/>
to talk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'll go in. I can handle that part. But are you sure you can<lb/>
crash me into Paved With Gold? That thing’s got to be a vault.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick winces, wrinkling Chinese tattoos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hard to say. When I crashed that country church, I learned<lb/>
a lot about their protocols, and those tend to be consistent<lb/>
across the board. That’s the good news. The bad news is, last<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="79"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
150 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
time they weren't expecting us. I’m guessing that won't be the<lb/>
case this time around. Also, that country-church construct?<lb/>
That was a quickie one-off, whipped up for your meeting. De-<lb/>
signed for guests, so it was easy to crash. This heaven place is<lb/>
guaranteed to be a much more complicated construct. More<lb/>
secure. Walls are much higher, so to speak.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina, still waltzing with the mop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You gotta piggyback.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ricks waves her off. Like a bad smell.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She repeats.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
An octave higher.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You gotta piggyback.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m interested. So I ask Rick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What’s that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick rubs his temples like he just got hit by the nastiest<lb/>
migraine ever, and that headache is now dancing with a mop<lb/>
in his kitchen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then he spreads out his thin fingers, covered in silver<lb/>
skull rings. One skull per finger, thumbs too. Sterling grave-<lb/>
yard. Then he lays it out. In laymen’s terms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Despite what my beautiful life partner says, piggybacking<lb/>
is just a fucking stunt. Look, I’m a cocky asshole gizmo dare-<lb/>
devil and even I don’t do it anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. But what is it?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You slide someone in on someone else’s dream, someone<lb/>
who's been invited into the construct. Basically slip them in<lb/>
before the door closes. But it’s avery dumb thing to do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why’s that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You ever see kids on skateboards hitch rides on the back of<lb/>
buses? It’s kind of like that, except with your consciousness.<lb/>
You fuck it up, you will skin your knee. Badly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How badly?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 151<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Come by my place, I'll show you the room where I keep<lb/>
those people. They don’t mix too well with the general popu-<lb/>
Jace anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tugs at a skull ring. Twists it. Continues.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Besides, definitely no one’s going to invite either of you<lb/>
two into their heavenly clubhouse, so it’s a nonstarter, since<lb/>
there’s no one to piggyback in on—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone speaks up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can do that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They'll invite me in. If] ask to meet my father—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I interject.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Absolutely not.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark looks at me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s not a terrible idea.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Let’s set the bar for ideas a little higher than not terrible.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark persists.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look, she can’t get hurt in there. Not really—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There are a lot of things they can do to her. Even in there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—but I'll go in with her, to protect her. Ill be the one to<lb/>
piggyback in. Rick—I mean, you can do that, right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick thinks. Twists a silver skull. Then nods.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark turns back to me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You've seen me in there. You know I can handle myself.<lb/>
Better than you can, in there. And she’s the only one of us<lb/>
who can possibly convince Harrow to tap in for a meeting.<lb/>
And if the goal is to tap everyone out, people in there will<lb/>
trust her a lot more readily than they'll trust me. Harrow’s<lb/>
daughter? They'll follow her out. Familiar face and all—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Familiar face of a disgraced runaway—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan, think about it. She lures Harrow in for a meet-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ing. I follow her in and we take care of everyone in there. You<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="80"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
152 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
find Harrow in his bed and take care of him out here. It’s the<lb/>
only way this works—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No, Mark. I said absolutely—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone cuts me off. Fiercely.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look, I am very grateful for all that you've done for me, but<lb/>
I'm not your fucking daughter. I’ll do what I want. And I’m<lb/>
doing this. I need to.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is a long silence. During which we all listen to the<lb/>
stillness of Chinatown.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Broken finally by Mina’s best Axl Rose falsetto.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mop becomes a mike stand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Knock knock knocking on heaven's door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I figure it’s time to call the meeting to a close.<lb/>
So. New plan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We break into heaven, set everyone free, lure in Harrow him-<lb/>
self by dangling his runaway daughter, secretly slip Mark in<lb/>
behind her somehow, using some technique that Rick, the<lb/>
cockiest gizmo in Chinatown, isn’t even sure is possible,<lb/>
they give Harrow a good talking-to, make him see the error<lb/>
of his wicked ways, perhaps offer up an apology to the daugh-<lb/>
ter he fucked and maybe probably knocked up, all while I'm<lb/>
out here tracking down his flesh-and-bone body in the nuts<lb/>
and bolts, somehow sidestepping Simon and the rest of his<lb/>
security so I can get close enough to dispatch the holy man to<lb/>
actual heaven, where he'll be free to compare his ginned-up<lb/>
version to the real thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seems simple enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have no doubt he'll end up there either. His heavenly re-<lb/>
ward, I mean. I long ago stopped believing that we're sorted<lb/>
into groups for our eternal retribution, or that there’s any<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
door, or pearly gate, that you can't pry open, given enough<lb/>
</p>
<p>
old. .<lb/>
: ] may have once had some thin faith in something like<lb/>
</p>
<p>
cosmic justice, but now I believe in box-cutters.<lb/>
Everything else I left buried in a tunnel along with the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
number 2 train.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="81"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
25.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We'll also need a nurse so I contact Margo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo was my mother’s roommate in nursing school, best<lb/>
friend for life after that. When I was akid she used to sit at our<lb/>
kitchen table, blowing smoke out her nostrils like an angry<lb/>
bull. Nicest woman in the world though. A laugh that could<lb/>
swallow a room. I haven’t seen her since my mother passed.<lb/>
My mother didn’t last much longer after that incident with<lb/>
the tardy ambulance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I catch a bus out to the Jersey suburbs, an hour ride to<lb/>
Hackensack. As the city peels away, it feels much saner. Sub-<lb/>
urban. Almost like life as it was. From the bus you can see<lb/>
into people’s lit-up living rooms. The houses out here aren't<lb/>
full of tappers in their silver torpedoes, just people on flow-<lb/>
ered sofas, planted in front of TVs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, they still make TV shows somewhere. The rest of the<lb/>
country is still pretty shiny, from what I hear. Apparently the<lb/>
West Coast is more or less the same. Sunshine. Palm trees.<lb/>
Beautiful women in drop-top convertibles. Singing surfers.<lb/>
Moral rot. The whole enchilada, in the shape of California.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wouldn't know. I’ve never been. At one time I thought of<lb/>
relocating, right after Times Square. Figured they've got to<lb/>
have garbage out there too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Very same thought made me stay in the end. A country<lb/>
buried in trash from coast to coast.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As for the rest of it, the in-between part, I hear it’s rela-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 155<lb/>
</p>
<p>
store. No longer the land of milk and honey, maybe, but at<lb/>
least you can still get high-grade pharmaceuticals on every<lb/>
street corner on the cheap. Most places, they call it the Tooth-<lb/>
less Tap-In. A dream you huff out of a paper bag.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really, it’s just New York that got nuked, cordoned off, shut<lb/>
down, shunned. Capital of the world, cut loose to drift into<lb/>
the sea.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The country’s soul, ona funeral pyre.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo’s ina low-rise. Lots of buildings out here are basically<lb/>
just dorms for support staff, the servant class, who ride in<lb/>
daily to the city to fidget with breathing tubes, feed tubes,<lb/>
shit tubes, piss tubes. Tubes that run in and out like high-<lb/>
ways for all the rush-hour traffic of the human body. Then all<lb/>
the Margos of the world ride the bus back home to catch the<lb/>
day's events on the TV. Or escape the day’s events. _<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thing about Margo, she’s the unhealthiest nurse ever.<lb/>
Chain smokes, obese, has to stop to catch her breath while<lb/>
she’s catching her breath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then again, as she likes to say, what does health have to do<lb/>
with being a nurse anymore?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She opens a beer for her, then one for me, puts them on<lb/>
the coffee table between us like we're playing chess with only<lb/>
two pieces. I notice there’s already several empties stand-<lb/>
ing at attention in the sink. Don’t imagine she’s had a dinner<lb/>
party lately either.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She follows my eyes to the empties.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So my recycling box is full. What brings you out to Hack-<lb/>
ensack?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just wanted to check in on you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s a funny sentiment to suddenly swell up after eight<lb/>
years.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sorry. I got busy. You know the city.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="82"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
156 ADAM STERNBERG<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? What are you busy with?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just the city. It keeps me busy enough.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, it’s good to see you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo, you ever think of moving closer? Plenty of room in<lb/>
Hoboken. Or Park Avenue, for that matter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks at me like I just asked her if she’s ever thought of<lb/>
giving up plumbing and moving right into the sewer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I skip to the next question.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
How are you keeping? I’m sorry I haven’t been out sooner<lb/>
to see you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, if you had come out, I could have told you, I was very<lb/>
sorry to hear about your wife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thank you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We clink longnecks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She was a beautiful girl. Such a shame. What they did.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I appreciate it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shame what happened to this country.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
With Margo, youre never far from a tirade. She's not quite<lb/>
the happy snorting bull I remember from my kitchen-table<lb/>
days. She's bigger than ever, but seems deflated. I always fig-<lb/>
ured that one day she'd work her way through every last per-<lb/>
son in the world to be angry at, and that would leave only her,<lb/>
and then that would be it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
[listen to her for a bit, let her wind down. Then I explain I<lb/>
need to hire a nurse for a job, and she cuts me off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Does it involve changing a rich man’s diapers while he<lb/>
dreams?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No.<lb/>
She swigs.<lb/>
Okay then. I’m in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 157<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo offers me the couch but I tell her I've got business to<lb/>
get back to in the city. I say goodnight, catch the late-night<lb/>
pus, bound for Port Authority.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then, a few stops later, hop off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Plot a detour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hoping to clear my head.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So the Crusade is coming in less than a week. It’s set to kick<lb/>
off on Sunday night. The mayor has sworn they'll have the<lb/>
camps swept clean by then. Proudly points to news footage of<lb/>
skinny stragglers stumbling out of Central Park, begging for<lb/>
scraps, getting pelted by onlookers, then cuffed and carted<lb/>
away. No one’s sure what they're charged with or where they<lb/>
end up. Some rumors say upstate. Some rumors say Fresh<lb/>
Kills. Some rumors say it’s best not to listen to rumors, un-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
less you want to find out firsthand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Second bus unloads me in Hoboken.<lb/>
Certain times, times like these, I have a few rituals.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reminders, really.<lb/>
Of things I need to be reminded of. From time to time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not meant for anyone else. Just for me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Unlock my apartment. Leave the lights out.<lb/>
Head to the kitchen. Open the icebox.<lb/>
Stand and stare into the freezer. Where I keep my parceled<lb/>
</p>
<p>
souvenir.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Actually, reminder’s not the right word.<lb/>
Relic’s better.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Freezer’s cold curls out, licks my face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="83"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
26.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was a lawyer.<lb/>
He wasn't the first one.<lb/>
He was the third.<lb/>
The first one was an accident. Maybe.<lb/>
That's what I told myself at the time, anyway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The first one:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
An old trash-duty buddy heard I was ina bad place, bouncing<lb/>
from bed to bar to bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This was in the first few months after Times Square.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
City still reeling. My apartment still empty. My Stella’s<lb/>
clothes still hanging undisturbed in the closet. Waiting in<lb/>
vain to be worn again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So this old trash-duty buddy tracked me down to this bar I<lb/>
liked on the boardwalk of Coney Island, where the front side<lb/>
opened out to the ocean and the seagulls loitered and chat-<lb/>
tered like barflies. I’d make the long trip out because I liked<lb/>
to smell the sea.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Smelled sour. Like garbage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I found that comforting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He tracked me down and instead of offering condolences,<lb/>
he offered me cash. A dispute had turned ugly and he wanted<lb/>
me to talk to the guy. Just talk. I guess he asked me because<lb/>
I'd recently developed a local reputation as someone who was<lb/>
long past issues of personal concern.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 159<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’d had some argument over money or property or some-<lb/>
thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To be honest, I don’t remember the details.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t even think I knew them back then.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I was alone and out of work and bed-hopping and<lb/>
purning through what little cash I had left. Rick had cut mea<lb/>
deal and set me up ona discount trip, where I didn’t tap into<lb/>
any dream, I just tapped into nothing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just a void.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Until my hour was up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So my old trash buddy sidled up on a barstool and asked me<lb/>
to do him a solid.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which I did.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Caught the guy outside his apartment one night. Startled<lb/>
him while he searched for his keys.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Big guy. Cocky.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Conversation moved to an alleyway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He threw the first punch. I’m sure of that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or pretty sure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case, it got ugly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I still carried my box-cutter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The one I’d used to slice open that garbage bag.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My reluctant surgeon's tool.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wasn't nearly so careful on him.<lb/>
Hands were steadier, though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So. Problem disappeared. So did the guy.<lb/>
When you work in garbage, you have access to incineration.<lb/>
And instead of calling the cops, my friend paid me a<lb/>
bonus. Then lost my phone number for good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But not before passing it on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="84"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
160 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was number one.<lb/>
The lawyer was number three.<lb/>
His jilted wife had hired me.<lb/>
She came to me ina dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was tapped in at Rick’s to the darkness, to nothing, and then<lb/>
there she was, like an angel, before me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beautiful woman, oddly outlined in light. Face aged by<lb/>
abuse.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not the kind that comes from belt straps and backhands.<lb/>
That’s too downmarket. Too hands-on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This was just the abuse of pills, neglect, and pain, all<lb/>
etched in her face over time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She'd bribed Rick to let her slip into my dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then she led me out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This angel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We went for bubble tea. Her choice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Chinatown still bustling back then.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She said she thought her husband was cheating. But not<lb/>
out here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s why she bribed Rick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She'd never been off-body and she wanted to see what the<lb/>
limnosphere offered him that their life together couldn't<lb/>
match.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To her surprise, in my dream, it offered nothing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I assured her that my setup was not typical. Most peo-<lb/>
ple prefer some frills and thrills to spice up their oblivion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not many people order the abyss, straight up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 161<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She'd lost him, she said. He’d gone in for a business trip but<lb/>
now he was limning ten, fifteen hours a day. He'd left his job,<lb/>
cashed out his securities. She knew he’d met someone in<lb/>
there, some hussy, and now he wouldn't come out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hussy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They'd fought. He’d frozen her assets. Forced her to move<lb/>
out. He was tapped in while the moving company carted away<lb/>
her things. The last remnants of their life together. Boxed<lb/>
and bagged like crime-scene evidence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She said good-bye to him while he lay silently dreaming.<lb/>
Their marriage long dead, now her at his side, mourning it,<lb/>
like an open-casket funeral.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’d already changed all the passcodes to the bank ac-<lb/>
counts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But not to the apartment.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You might recognize him, she said, as we finished our tea,<lb/>
almost as an afterthought.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was all over the news for awhile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? For what?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He survived Times Square. Big story. Local news ran wild<lb/>
with it. Front-page of the Post, three days running.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I didn’t look at the papers after Times Square.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you don't remember the Lucky Passenger?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I wasa kid, my father was never religious. He saved his<lb/>
Sundays for football and quiet communion at the altar of the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
couch. No wine, no wafers, just beer and Pringles. He worked<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="85"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
162 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
hard all week, he said, and if the Lord set Sunday aside as a<lb/>
day of rest, well, who was he to argue with the Lord?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So on Sundays, he rested. And prayed. For the Jets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My mother’s family was more observant. Roman Catho-<lb/>
lics, many generations back. Her own grandmother was a<lb/>
black-cowled, hunched-over husk of a woman, whispering<lb/>
over her rosary, haunted by the unseen, sputtering curses<lb/>
and prayers. When my mother broke with her family and<lb/>
went to school to be a nurse, not a nun, it broke her grand-<lb/>
mother’s heart. When I was a kid, my mother never made<lb/>
church a weekly habit. But she did keep her grandmother's<lb/>
rosary hanging from the vanity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My father she could drag to Mass maybe twice a year. Eas-<lb/>
ter and Christmas. Home in time for kickoff.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
_But me she was worried about.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe she was right to be.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Either way, for awhile, every week, she’d drop me off for<lb/>
Sunday school. Car pulled to the curb. Hair up in curlers.<lb/>
Lean across the front seat to kiss me on the cheek and prom-<lb/>
ise to pick me up at this exact same spot when Sunday school<lb/>
let out. I could tell her all about what I'd learned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Figured I’d memorize a few verses. Say a few Hail Marys.<lb/>
Take First Communion. What could it hurt?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
None of it stuck, though. And once I got old enough to out-<lb/>
grow my First Communion suit, I found other ways to occupy<lb/>
my Sundays, and my parents didn’t complain too loudly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I don’t remember much of church. A few stories. The<lb/>
odd parable.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The oily smell of incense, swung from the end of a chain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But there was one thing that left an impression.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ornate box they kept at the front. By the altar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reliquary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 163<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was the easiest thing in the world, like delivering takeout.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The apartment was empty, as advertised, save for him<lb/>
sleeping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sensors purring. Monitors cooing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fresh feed-bag on an IV.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not too old, maybe late thirties, well-built guy and as<lb/>
handsome as his wife was pretty. Impeccably suited, down to<lb/>
the silk pocket square that he paid someone to fluff for him<lb/>
each day.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Palatial apartment, tastefully furnished, top floor, pan-<lb/>
oramic river views.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Realtor’s fantasy. Only a wish for most anyone else.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yet here he was. Lost in the dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Framed photos of the happy couple still propped up every-<lb/>
where as mementoes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And on the walls, front pages. Framed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mounted like trophies.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Post. Daily News. Times. USA Today.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The lawyer, smiling broadly, holding up his right hand.<lb/>
Fingers wide.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Headlines trumpeting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
FORTUNE SPARES THE LUCKY PASSENGER.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The lawyer's name, I learned from the articles, was Charles<lb/>
Pierce.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Come to think of it, I did remember him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not from headlines, though. From billboards.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Lucky Passenger and his famous lucky fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="86"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
164 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The reliquary was treated with a special reverence. Carefully<lb/>
maintained. Never opened, no matter what. Even if you in-<lb/>
quired politely for a peek.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So one day I asked my Sunday school teacher what the big<lb/>
deal was.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looked at me. Got serious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That box contains the dust of the bones of saints.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What? Like a coffin?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not exactly. It’s a holy place to keep that which has been<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
its power.<lb/>
So like souvenirs, I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not souvenirs, he said. Relics.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Charles Pierce had scrambled down the stairs at Wall Street<lb/>
station to catch the uptown 2 train express.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Got snared in the entranceway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turnstile jammed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Swiped his subway card once. Twice. Again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Subway waiting. Doors gaping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN AT THIS TURNSTILE.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stupid card keeps—can’t get the—doesn't anything work<lb/>
right in this fucking—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Two-tone signal as the subway doors slide shut.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Charles Pierce swiping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cursing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Top of his lungs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—GODDAMN THIS FUCKING CITY—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turnstile never budged.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Charles Pierce stands chewing out the bored-looking<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 165<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pooth attendant, finger jabbing the Plexiglas as the uptown<lb/>
express slips from the station.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Red taillights recede into the darkness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s still steaming, silently fuming, on the platform when<lb/>
the ground lurches and the tunnel emits a dull bored faraway<lb/>
</p>
<p>
roar.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
THE LUCKY PASSENGER.<lb/>
Allthe headlines proclaimed it.<lb/>
ONE SWIPE FROM DEATH.<lb/>
Who knows why God chose to spare me, of all people?<lb/>
Said again and again with a newly sainted shrug.<lb/>
Repeated in story after story. Quote after quote.<lb/>
On the couch of the Today show.<lb/>
[honestly can’t say why God chose me, Lorelei.<lb/>
The host nods sympathetically. Recrosses long legs.<lb/>
He holds up his right hand.<lb/>
This hand—I was holding the swipe card in this hand—<lb/>
Chokes up. A well-rehearsed act. Voice hitching on the<lb/>
same word—special—every time.<lb/>
I don’t know why God spared me, Lorelei. But I have to be-<lb/>
lieve it’s because He has something special in store for me.<lb/>
Lorelei nods. Her hand on his knee.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cut to commercial.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He wasn’t the only one that day with a story like that, of<lb/>
course. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lots of people died. Lots didn't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s just the one who was smart enough to tell his story to<lb/>
anyone who'd listen. Tell it, then sell it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First to sell newspapers. Then lotto tickets. Then tooth-<lb/>
paste. Then anything he could point at with his famous lucky<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fucking fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="87"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
166 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Charles Pierce on a billboard, arms outstretched.<lb/>
LET’S SEE WHAT BARGAIN MY LUCKY FINGERS HAVE PICKED OUT<lb/>
</p>
<p>
FOR YOU TODAY!<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After that, her husband was never quite the same, his wife<lb/>
told me over bubble tea. It became clear, with all that atten-<lb/>
tion, her meager devotion was no longer going to be enough.<lb/>
He'd been spared for some higher purpose, he truly believed<lb/>
that. And apparently that higher purpose was selling six-<lb/>
inch submarine sandwiches, among other things.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Half a hoagie grasped in those famous fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Smile to the camera.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lucky me!<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So why should he go back to the normal life? he told her.<lb/>
The one he’d left behind?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the fame began to drag on him. The constant nagging<lb/>
for handshakes and autographs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then he’d started tapping in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that’s when she'd lost him, she said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There are three types of relics.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know. I Googled it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First order of relic. The physical body of a saint.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Second order of relic. An object the saint once had in his<lb/>
or her possession.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Third order of relic. An object that’s come in contact with<lb/>
the first order of relic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Three orders. Like three outcomes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that’s it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The first order, of course, is the holiest. Physical rem-<lb/>
nants. Which come in many varieties. All with Latin names.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ex capillus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 167<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ex ossibus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ex cineribus.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ex pelle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ex carne.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From the hair.<lb/>
From the bones.<lb/>
From the ashes.<lb/>
From the skin.<lb/>
From the flesh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He lay asleep in an apartment littered with pictures from a<lb/>
life he no longer wanted. Of a wife he had no use for.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aroomful of souvenirs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seemed senseless, this flesh-and-blood body just lying<lb/>
there, like a discarded husk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Body slowly shriveling under a ten-thousand-dollar suit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He still had everything I'd lost. Everything Id die to get<lb/>
back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yet he still checked out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hard not to see it that way, anyway, as I stood there, hold-<lb/>
ing my box-cutter, watching him drift ina dream.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Surrounded by all those photos.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One swipe from death.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And me thinking.<lb/>
I don’t know why God chose you either.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But here we are.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Should have left him there. Left it at that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dead lawyer in a bed. Hard to imagine a surplus of ques-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="88"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
168 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Instead I carted his body out in a mover’s box on a dolly.<lb/>
Wore an old pair of coveralls and a painter’s cap tugged low.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Took his body to the usual place. To burn it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No doubt security cams at his building caught me coming<lb/>
and going. The whole operation sloppy enough that I figured<lb/>
eventually someone would come looking for us both. To be<lb/>
honest, I didn’t much worry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe welcomed it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Felt the whole world was already spinning the wrong way<lb/>
on its axis.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So let them come for me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But no one did.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I guess law enforcement had its hands full, what with the<lb/>
city still exploding.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And it turned out there was no one else left in his life to<lb/>
raise a finger in complaint.<lb/>
Not even a lucky one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The most holy relic, by the way, is the Eucharist. The com-<lb/>
munion wafer that’s the literal flesh of Christ, transmuted<lb/>
the moment you receive it on your tongue.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like I told you, I took First Communion.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ifyou believe in that sort of thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Edible flesh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The holiest ritual.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But don’t worry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I didn’t eat the lawyer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I did take some souvenirs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just four.<lb/>
Left the thumb.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Box-cutter wouldn’t cut it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
So I used a linoleum knife instead.<lb/>
Curved blade. Have to be careful.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Those things are extra-sharp.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Packed a Ziploc with ice.<lb/>
Wrapped them up in butcher's paper.<lb/>
Stashed the whole thing in a duffel bag.<lb/>
Incinerated the rest of him.<lb/>
Souvenirs are always a bad idea.<lb/>
But these aren't souvenirs.<lb/>
They're relics.<lb/>
Ex carne.<lb/>
From the flesh.<lb/>
Duffel bag dripping on the subway ride home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I met his wife again, she paid the back half and thanked<lb/>
me then sat and cried in that same bubble-tea café.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At first I thought she was regretting what she’d done.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then she told me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She hadn't been entirely straight with me. She’d known<lb/>
what he was doing in there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She'd hired someone to tail him into his dream. It’s hard<lb/>
to do, but not impossible, if you're technically proficient and<lb/>
ethically flexible. It’s one of many services offered by Rick,<lb/>
for example.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So the tail trailed him into his personal construct. The<lb/>
dream he’d built for himself. Abandoned his life for. Aban-<lb/>
doned her for.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Came back with a full report.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’d expected a lavish hotel with some hooker or high-<lb/>
school sweetheart. Or perhaps some more unspeakable de-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
pravity. Some secret shameful desire he could never share.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="89"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
170 ADAM STERNBERGH SHOVEL READY 171<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or laid down ina bed.<lb/>
Until my meeting with Harrow in the wheat field.<lb/>
As I left the café that day I stuffed her money into a deep<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But that wasn’t it at all.<lb/>
It was just their life, exactly re-created. To the last detail.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Same apartment. Same suits. Same view of the city.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Same celebrity endorsements. pocket. .<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All of it identical. Apparently I’d taken to calling them clients now.<lb/>
Except without her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’d been erased.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So she returned the favor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stand in Hoboken. Stare into the icebox.<lb/>
My reliquary.<lb/>
Take a moment.<lb/>
Feel the cold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I don’t feel it anymore, I close the door.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s the lesson.<lb/>
The gospel truth taught to me by my personal patron saint.<lb/>
No matter what you have, or how lucky you think you are,<lb/>
there’s nothing in this world you can hold on to so tightly that<lb/>
it can't be taken from you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His wife sobbed.<lb/>
Why would he—<lb/>
I stopped her.<lb/>
Took the money.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stood up.<lb/>
Explained to her.<lb/>
I don’t care.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And realized only then that it was true.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And that was the last time I listened to a backstory.<lb/>
Or let anyone pay in installments. Or met with a client<lb/>
face-to-face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="90"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
27<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick makes a good living running Rick’s Place in China-<lb/>
town, catering to a reliable stream of tappers, but to make<lb/>
extra cash he takes the occasional off-hours private tap-in<lb/>
job, which he scrounges up on the seedy old Internet. Ser-<lb/>
vicing nervous dreamers who want to crash some porny con-<lb/>
struct they're too embarrassed to ask for by name in the light<lb/>
of day. So Rick’s like the kid who opens the back exit to the<lb/>
movie theater, lets you sneak in and sit in the front row for<lb/>
free. Minus his fee, of course. He taps you in, takes his fat<lb/>
envelope, and quietly lets himself out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina is convinced Rick’s cheating on her, which he is, so<lb/>
she tries to follow him to these jobs and spy on him, which<lb/>
she can't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Take tonight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick’s on his third house-call when he decides to shake<lb/>
her, which isn’t too hard, given that if you stood across the<lb/>
room from her and asked her to walk toward you ina straight<lb/>
line, about half the time she’d get lost on the way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Compared to that, the back alleys of the Lower East Side<lb/>
are a labyrinth. Rick doubles back a few times, then pops<lb/>
loose, free of his tail, a block from his destination address.<lb/>
He’s way south of Rivington, in the crummiest part of a<lb/>
crummy neighborhood. Tired tenements slump by the side-<lb/>
walk, black-iron fire escapes stitched down their bellies like<lb/>
ugly sutures.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 173<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He heads into a walk-up with an apartment number on<lb/>
a scrap. Finds the door open so he lets himself in. He has<lb/>
enough time to register that the apartment is dark and en-<lb/>
tirely bare, save for a wooden rocking chair. But not enough<lb/>
time to turn around before Simon the Magician steps out of<lb/>
the darkness and slashes a sjambok across the back of his<lb/>
knees, which feels to Rick roughly like getting horsewhipped<lb/>
with a live high-voltage wire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Another nifty trick. Most magicians disappear.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon appears.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick half-turns and manages to get his hands up this time<lb/>
but that only makes it worse. The sjambok is like a bullwhip<lb/>
that’s all handle, no whip, and on the second pass it slices a<lb/>
whistling gash across both of Rick’s upheld palms, the skin<lb/>
splitting raggedly, as though gasping in surprise.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon then calmly bull-rushes him, sjambok held length-<lb/>
wise up against his neck and arms, Rick stuttering backward<lb/>
until he slams into drywall.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The cheap wall shudders.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon gets to the gun in Rick’s belt before Rick does.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Steps backward.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bounces the pistol lightly in his palm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s a snub-nose, for self-protection. Ironic.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks like a padlock with a tumor on it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He waves Rick over to the rocking chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Once Rick’s hands are bound behind him with plastic cuffs,<lb/>
Simon commences the speech-making.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
See, for me? I don’t trust guns. Too messy. All forensics<lb/>
and fingerprints. It’s much too easy to connect a body to a<lb/>
bullet, and a bullet to a gun, anda gun toa man.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He turns the gun over, studying it, like it’s an heirloom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="91"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
174 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not that anyone bothers about that sort of thing anymore,<lb/>
am I right? These days you pop someone in cold blood in<lb/>
broad daylight, FedEx the murder weapon to the cops, it will<lb/>
end up ina folder ona pile somewhere, shrugged off as some-<lb/>
one else’s problem. But still.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He pockets the pistol.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Old habits. You understand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He hefts the sjambok.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now this—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sends its tip whistling across Rick’s face. Tip bites. Halves<lb/>
atattoo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—this is more my kind of firepower. They were made to kill<lb/>
snakes. Most are flexible, like a whip. Made of rhino hide,<lb/>
just leather wrapped on leather. This one’s custom though—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bends it. Bounces back to attention. Sounds a metallic<lb/>
twang.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—got a little something extra inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whip whistles back the way it came. Matching slice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick sputters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait—I can—don't you know—just talk to Milgram—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One last slash to shut Rick up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry. We're long past the let’s-make-a-deal phase.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shakes the sjambok slightly, held upright. Watches it<lb/>
wobble.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then puts it down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Retrieves a duffel bag. Pulls out a roll of duct tape. Tears<lb/>
off a piece. Mouth-sized.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I said, I don’t trust guns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lays the tape over Rick’s mouth. Tape edges grip his<lb/>
cheeks where the cuts are. Tugs them wider.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m more of a non-lethal man myself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pulls out a penknife. Opens it. Cuts a slit in the tape. Sec-<lb/>
ond mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 175<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then he pulls a can of pepper spray from the gym bag.<lb/>
Jumbo-size. For crowd control.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
See, this? This you can buy on the Internet. Get it sent to<lb/>
a PO box. No names, ID, nothing. Legal. Untraceable. And<lb/>
non-lethal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He shakes the can.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For the most part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rests the toe of his boot on the chair’s rocker. Tilts it for-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Tips Rick’s chin up with the nozzle.<lb/>
Of course, this is the kind of thing that’s used to disperse<lb/>
riots. Entirely safe and more or less harmless when used on<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Simon stoops and pulls a pair of plastic goggles from the<lb/>
duffel bag. Straps them over his eyes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then slowly works the nozzle of the pepper-spray can into<lb/>
the slit in the tape over Rick’s mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rick’s legs kick, trying to topple the chair backward, but it<lb/>
doesn’t topple. Just rocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon’s boot stills the rocker.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But you know what I've discovered?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Works the nozzle further into Rick’s mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Best way to make a non-lethal weapon lethal?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One last jam. Rick gags.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just treat the man like a crowd.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The hissing of the spray goes on long enough that the neigh-<lb/>
bors assume it’s the roach-guy making his regular visit. At<lb/>
</p>
<p>
least until their own eyes start to water.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When Mina catches up to him, Rick is bent double on the<lb/>
floor, toppled, still bound to the chair, coughing up foamy<lb/>
blood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="92"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
176 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not coughing. Coughed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She falls and cradles his head until her palms burn. Eyes<lb/>
raw. She coughs, cries.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon stands over her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gives the empty can one last rattle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Death rattle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then dumps it in the duffel bag.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stows the goggles too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then retrieves a knife that’s nasty enough to have no other<lb/>
use than cutting people.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks up at him, eyes swollen, welling, and spits.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The fuck are you. Fuck you. I’ll fucking kill you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He stands her up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His own eyes puffy and raw at the rims, in some parody of<lb/>
mourning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t worry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She spits again. Not words this time.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He puts his meaty hand behind her head and clutches her<lb/>
skull. Then with his right hand he presses the long blade<lb/>
vertically against the thin skin of her forehead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She barely squirms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rotates the blade counter-clockwise.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Presses again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sign of the cross.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Leans in. Whispers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Go tell them what I've done.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On his way out, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, Simon<lb/>
stops briefly on the street to berate himself, like a man on his<lb/>
way home who forgot to buy milk..<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Damn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Meanwhile at Trump Tower.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone’s alone, reading. A book. Middlemarch. Al-<lb/>
most done.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark’s off trawling Chinatown, again, looking for a cheap<lb/>
bed for an hour. Maybe two.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m in Hoboken staring into an icebox.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone curls up in the leather chair.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Knock at the door. A voice calls.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey. It’s Dave the doorman. From downstairs. Got a deliv-<lb/>
ery for Mark Ray.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She puts the book down, perturbed. Calls back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry. Can’t open up for anyone. Doctor's orders.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Come on. It’s me, Dave. From downstairs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No can do, Dave from downstairs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seriously, it’s me. Take a look in the peephole.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She tips up on tiptoes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dave’s face all funny. Dave the bug.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Flat-footed again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sorry, Dave from downstairs. Can't do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He knocks three times on the door witha gun.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shots echo. Door dimples. Three fresh pimples like a teen<lb/>
before prom.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She calls out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dave the dumbass. It’s steel-reinforced. Don’tyouknow that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Knob turns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="93"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
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<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
178 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Door opens.<lb/>
Dave invites himself in.<lb/>
Then I guess I should use the master key, huh?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But she’s gone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He closes the door quietly and locks it behind him. Not a<lb/>
huge apartment, and there’s only one way out, unless you<lb/>
plan to rappel.<lb/>
Pistol pokes its nose into the kitchen. Dave follows.<lb/>
Still in his Sergeant Pepper's uniform. Brocade at the<lb/>
shoulders.<lb/>
Epaulets. Captain’s hat.<lb/>
God, he’s always hated this thing.<lb/>
Snaps the kitchen lights on. Empty, and from what he can<lb/>
tell, all knives accounted for in the wooden block.<lb/>
Silly girl.<lb/>
Hot, though. Very hot.<lb/>
She should try wearing something other than sweatpants.<lb/>
Out to the living room. Picture window hung like a mas-<lb/>
terpiece.<lb/>
The sparkling city.<lb/>
Now, a view like that, he would kill for.<lb/>
Actually, that’s kind of what he’s doing right now.<lb/>
Taps the bathroom door open with the gun snout. Yanks<lb/>
the shower curtain back, Psycho-style.<lb/>
Rings rattle.<lb/>
Not in there. Not that dumb.<lb/>
And so into the bedroom.<lb/>
Appropriate, he thinks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Convenient too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 179<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She knows Dave the doorman. She knows all the doormen<lb/>
by now, of course, but she remembers him in particular,<lb/>
because of the way he looks at her. It’s the same look she re-<lb/>
members from certain older men in her congregation. Men<lb/>
in the subway. Boys in the tents. Two men in avan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
From her father, that one night.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s seen plenty of looks in her life, learned them all,<lb/>
catalogued them, kept mental index cards on all their alarm-<lb/>
ing variety. I want you. I want to love you. I want to fuck you.<lb/>
I want to hurt you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want you to know I want to hurt you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Some people undress you with their eyes. Some people go<lb/>
alot further than that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dave does, often.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So maybe, just maybe, this will work.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dave the doorman leaves the lights out in the bedroom.<lb/>
Stands framed in the doorway. A square splash of city light<lb/>
falls on the bed, so he spots them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bra. Panties. Discarded.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And, from what he can tell, recently worn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t tell me I caught her in the middle of a shower.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Better yet. Bubble bath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He steps in gingerly, makes the here-kitty-kitty noise,<lb/>
like in a movie. Not too many more places left where she<lb/>
could be. Maybe the closet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe she’s in the closet watching him right now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He prods the panties with the gun muzzle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Scoops them up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Retrieves them from the end of the pistol, like a fresh-<lb/>
caught fish on a hook.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Balls them up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Inhales them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="94"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
A perfumer’s inhale.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eyes slip closed for a second.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her hand joins his from behind, her body up against his,<lb/>
breasts pooled against his back, and he almost thinks, for a<lb/>
second, that he conjured her. Her hand is clutching his hand<lb/>
that’s clutching the panties and now she’s pushing them into<lb/>
his mouth. Panty taste.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her other hand takes its best educated guess at where his<lb/>
kidney is and slides the knife in, searching.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Twists it twice, a full rotation. Like working ona stubborn<lb/>
screw.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To leave a more raggedy wound.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He struggles to shrug her off but she’s already disarming<lb/>
him. Funny what you can pick up after a few weeks living in<lb/>
tents.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gun falls softly to the plush carpet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He follows. Less softly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She straddles him. Improvises on his neck with the blade.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s not a medical student, after all. But more or less any-<lb/>
thing that’s there to be cut, she cuts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The plush soaks up most of what pumps out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She has discovered a streak inside herself of late that she<lb/>
does not recognize. She tries to credit it to carrying the baby.<lb/>
If credit is the word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Something instinctual, born of being a mother. Some new<lb/>
primal drive to protect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Though that doesn’t quite explain it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Those two guys in Red Hook, for example. She lingered<lb/>
long after she should have left them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Working. Slowly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And now here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Dave the doorman. In his sad little epaulets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She wonders where it comes from. Or ifit was always there.<lb/>
Latent.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe her father saw it in her all along.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He kept a claw-foot tub in the basement for one purpose.<lb/>
Called it the Baptismal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bare lightbulb jumped when he yanked the chain. Black<lb/>
shadows danced like a campfire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Started back before she could remember, really. Became<lb/>
a weekly ritual. Saturday nights. Her mother standing silent<lb/>
as he marched her down the stairs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Faucet roared, openmouthed, until the tub filled to<lb/>
the top.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then the timid mouse-squeak as he twisted the spigot<lb/>
shut.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Last drop trembling on the mouth of the faucet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Drip. s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He made her strip down. Kneel naked on a stepstool. Curl<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
One. Two. Three.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pull her up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One. Two. Three.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pull her up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All the while reciting scripture.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her long hair, her mother’s pride, never cut, left a wet<lb/>
slash on the wide wooden boards of the wall as he yanked her<lb/>
up quickly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then dunked her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One. Two. Three.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Four. Five.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If she'd been especially bad.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="95"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
182 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then he handed back her flannel nightie, folded neatly.<lb/>
Freshly laundered.<lb/>
Told her, Now you are clean.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her mother never once mentioned it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not once, and then she died.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The weekly ritual. She almost came to—what? Not en-<lb/>
joy it exactly. But rely on it? Maybe that’s it. This weekly<lb/>
cleansing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The comforting consistency of rules.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It let her know that, whatever she did, she could be exon-<lb/>
erated.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Washed clean.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Through this weekly reminder of her father’s unwavering<lb/>
love.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Though as a teenager, she started to feel rightly more<lb/>
ashamed to remove her nightgown.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And her father had to find a sturdier stepstool.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still. Nothing happened. Not of that sort.<lb/>
Maybe to Rachel.<lb/>
But not to her.<lb/>
Not to her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Until he saw those pictures.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He exploded into her bedroom wielding the glowing tablet.<lb/>
The light from the tablet lit his furious face.<lb/>
Slapped her with a bony backhand.<lb/>
First time he’d ever hit her.<lb/>
Drew blood. Just a trickle though.<lb/>
Then he marched her downstairs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She accepted it meekly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 183<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stripped. Knelt. Prayed.<lb/>
As he held her under.<lb/>
One. Two. Three.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Four. Five.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Six. Seven.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nine.<lb/>
Long enough for her to worry this was more than punish-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ment.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still under.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Every muscle tensed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tendrils of blood curled and sniffed around her face like a<lb/>
school of curious fish.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She gasped and breathed water.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She had to breathe something.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He pulled her up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She spat and sputtered and tasted something salty and<lb/>
metallic and then he pushed her under again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One. Two. Five. Eleven. Nineteen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She lost count.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
She was curled over, on her knees, naked.<lb/>
With one hand he held her head under.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His other hand went wandering.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sounds of the room muted.<lb/>
He was saying something. Not scripture.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her eyes open underwater.<lb/>
Sick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="96"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Feeling a fullness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Edges of her sight blacking out—<lb/>
—like a curtain falling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He pulled her up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fingers still in her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The next time under she just let go.<lb/>
Stopped struggling. Started to float.<lb/>
Loosed her breath ina school of lazy bubbles.<lb/>
Perhaps she'd always deserved this.<lb/>
One last bubble, like a hiccup.<lb/>
The room so faraway and quiet.<lb/>
Calming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She only felt a joyful sinking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fringed in black.<lb/>
Black bubbles. Arriving to carry her upwards.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To whatever reward awaited her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then a last rude yanking and a gasp and one last watery<lb/>
slash painted on the wide-plank wall, crude calligraphy left<lb/>
by the wet brush of her long hair, never cut, her mother’s<lb/>
pride.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And now here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dave the doorman. In his sad little epaulets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Painting his own wet slashes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He long ago stopped spasming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yet these dirty fucking panties still won't fit all the way in<lb/>
his mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So she cuts him a wider smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 185<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
That's what she likes to think.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mother's pride.<lb/>
Then she likes to stop thinking, and that helps, for awhile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="97"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
188 ADAM STERNBERG<lb/>
</p>
<p>
fight out here, in the nuts and bolts, realistically, you're on<lb/>
your own.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seems so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I don’t know what you may have in mind, but I can’t<lb/>
see a way for you to pull this off cleanly by yourself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me neither.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So there you go. There aren't three outcomes anymore,<lb/>
Spademan. Only two. Maybe not even two. Just one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which is?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He kills you. He kills her. He kills us all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s a terrible outcome.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No kidding.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark slumps back on the leather sofa. Knees bobbing.<lb/>
Cant sit still. I can tell he wants badly to puzzle this out. I can<lb/>
also tell he can barely wait to tap back in and be rid of this<lb/>
puzzling world. But he won't abandon me. I like him for that,<lb/>
He also doesn't have his answer yet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I do. So I tell him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You're wrong, Mark. There are still three outcomes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? Are you planning on sharing them with me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. Three outcomes. He kills me. I kill him. Or both.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark stares me down. Silent for a moment. Then scoffs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Back to the kamikaze plan. Brilliant.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You said yourself, no way we get close enough to Harrow<lb/>
out here and still get out alive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, but youre missing the most important part of that<lb/>
statement, which is the getting-out-alive part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You and I both know she’s out there right now, running.<lb/>
Alone. Thanks to us. Thanks to me. And Harrow won't stop<lb/>
until he finds her, Mark. You know that. Which he will.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan, stop it. It’s suicide.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I shrug.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 189<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have a better idea?<lb/>
Come on. It’s not an option.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was for you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Here’s the part I can’t explain to Mark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s been a long time since I needed to do something.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’ve done a lot of things, but not out of need.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I’ve learned there are a lot of ways, and ugly places,<lb/>
where things can end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Backyards. Garbage bags. Subway trains.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Most people don't get to choose.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We don’t discuss it further. Watch football instead.<lb/>
While Mark works on acquiring a taste for beer.<lb/>
Overtime. Fumble.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Miami scores.<lb/>
I flip the channel.<lb/>
Fucking Jets.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Another note.<lb/>
This one hand-delivered.<lb/>
Slides under the door like a base-runner stealing home.<lb/>
By the time I get the door open, hallway’s empty.<lb/>
They just want us to know that they know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Note’s from Milgram.<lb/>
I believe I mentioned we'd be getting back in touch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="98"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
30.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram meets me the next day at dawn at the Hoboken wa-<lb/>
terfront in a stretch limo. Morning air is just cold enough<lb/>
that you can barely see your breath. The sun’s rising across<lb/>
the river, over the city, peeking through the curtain of towers<lb/>
like a shy actress on opening night.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lights come up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A farmboy, this one in khakis and a button-down, frisks<lb/>
me with impressive inventiveness. Makes certain not a<lb/>
square inch goes unfondled. Finds a few hollows I'd forgot-<lb/>
ten existed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This Harrow fellow. Real hands-on operation. At all levels.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Farmboy pockets the box-cutter he finds hidden in my<lb/>
boot. Left there more as a test than anything else.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram dismisses the muscle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just the two of us in the backseat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He knocks twice on the dark glass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We drive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram gestures at Manhattan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s a bit of a cliché, I know, this meeting in the limo. But<lb/>
it’s quiet, it’s private, and it’s a great way to see the city.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The skyline passes. Actually, it doesn’t pass. We pass.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Amazing, isn't it? After all that’s happened? The city still<lb/>
has a grandeur, don't you think?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I tend to favor this side of the river.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, why not? Over there, they have to look at sunset over<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 191<lb/>
</p>
<p>
New Jersey. You get to watch the sun rise over New York. Pas-<lb/>
tor Harrow doesn't understand the allure of this city, frankly.<lb/>
Sees it as acesspool, akind of new Sodom. But I get it, though.<lb/>
[ do. New York. The greatest concentration of human poten-<lb/>
tial in the history of the world. So much so that they had to<lb/>
start piling the people one on top of the other. An island so<lb/>
crowded it had nowhere to go but up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yeah, well, it’s not so crowded anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m amazed you stayed, all these years. After what hap-<lb/>
pened. So many people vacated.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. But most. And many of those who stayed simply<lb/>
dropped out of life, holed up in their metallic cocoons. Well—<lb/>
look at this woman. That’s curious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A jogger huffs up the waterfront, trailing steam clouds,<lb/>
like a locomotive. I’ll admit, it’s a strange sight. I haven't seen<lb/>
a jogger in years.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now that’s hopeful, isn’t it? People out again. Out in their<lb/>
bodies again. That’s what our crusade is all about, Mr Spade-<lb/>
man. New York. Reborn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I understand you have some other business in the city<lb/>
while youre here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He forges on. A salesman. Knows when to engage. When<lb/>
to ignore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s an enticing idea, isn't it? Rebirth. Especially for aman<lb/>
like yourself. What you went through. I would think—well,<lb/>
you know. Memories. Regrets. They can form a toxic cloud of<lb/>
their own. A different kind of fallout, I imagine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram’s dressed in a navy suit. Red tie. Perfect knot.<lb/>
A politician’s uniform. He flicks at his lapel, brushing away<lb/>
some blemish only he can see. Wears a lapel pin. A tiny silver<lb/>
cross. Readjusts it. Turns back to me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You must wonder from time to time. What if someone’s<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="99"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
192 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
wife had missed her train? Or what if her teacher had called<lb/>
in sick and the acting class was cancelled? Or—and these<lb/>
are just hypotheticals, mind you—what if her husband calls<lb/>
her back for one more good-bye kiss in the doorway of their<lb/>
apartment? So she sets off five minutes later. These trou-<lb/>
bling questions of timing—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram, I’m going to cut you off right there—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I just mean it can all feel so random, so meaningless.<lb/>
That’s all we try to do, Mr Spademan. Bring meaning to peo-<lb/>
ple’s lives. Order.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone told me what you like to do. For example, to<lb/>
her friend.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rachel? Yes. A troubled girl.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram looks away, out the window, like a shy little boy<lb/>
caught ina lie.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I like to believe she’s in a better place now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sure you like to believe that. Let me interrupt the sales<lb/>
pitch, Milgram. You, me, Harrow, we're all of us a little bit<lb/>
sick. Some of us sicker than others. And I don’t see a way that<lb/>
any of us are getting out of this alive.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, that’s a very dark view of the world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not dark. Just a view.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, let me offer you an alternate view. We have asked<lb/>
something of you. To give us someone. We've made an offer in<lb/>
return, and it’s a good offer, and that offer stands. But let me<lb/>
add one more thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t need a sweetener.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hear me out. We have something else we can offer to you.<lb/>
Someone, actually.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like I said—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you recall how many people were involved in the at-<lb/>
tacks that day?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 193<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I never read the papers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There were six. That they know of. That they caught or were<lb/>
killed. The two in the van. The two they caught in Brooklyn<lb/>
who helped build the bombs. The one who supposedly left the<lb/>
first bag on the train. And the money man. The elderly one.<lb/>
So that’s six. The Dirty Half-Dozen, as they dubbed them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then of course whoever coordinated those car bombs<lb/>
that came after.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They never proved those were related.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All chaos is related, don’t you think? In any case. Our<lb/>
Dirty Half-Dozen. The Times Square bombers. Do you know<lb/>
what always fascinated me about their plan?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The precision of it. I mean, you really have to marvel. A<lb/>
subway bomb, then a second one, precisely timed, and then<lb/>
avan that drives down to Times Square all the way from up-<lb/>
state.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Very impressive. Gold star.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But do you truly believe that, in an operation that well-<lb/>
executed, that precise, you d leave a bag to ride unattended on<lb/>
a train for—what? Half an hour? From borough to borough?<lb/>
Hoping no one spots it? No one gets suspicious? No one sees<lb/>
something, says something, as they used to say?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t really care about logistics. Especially in hindsight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They say the bag with the bomb on the train rode in alone<lb/>
all the way from Brooklyn. Just like your wife, Mr Spademan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Your point?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There was a seventh man.<lb/>
That’s bullshit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A motorman.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not true.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="100"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
194 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He worked for the MTA. Begged off his shift at the station<lb/>
right before the explosion. A half hour earlier than sched-<lb/>
uled. Called ahead. Claimed to be nauseous.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So there is one place you could leave a bag and no one would<lb/>
notice. Right at the front of the train. The motorman’s car.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. But who would—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You leave the bag, radio ahead, complain that you’e ill,<lb/>
Replacement driver meets you, takes over, spots the bag, fig-<lb/>
ures you left it, figures he'll drop it off for you at the next stop.<lb/>
But there was no next stop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ifthat’s true, if it’s even half-true, how come no one knows<lb/>
about it? How come the police never tracked this guy down?<lb/>
They put every fucking speck of every person from that day<lb/>
under a magnifying glass. Trust me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don't know. What I do know, Mr Spademan, is that this<lb/>
motorman is out there. And no one’s asked him these ques-<lb/>
tions yet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He puts a hand on my arm. Pale as soap. Perfect manicure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We thought you might be interested in asking him your-<lb/>
self.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay, Milgram. But why tell me now? Why not before?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For most men, the promise of the dream is enough. More<lb/>
than enough. They'll happily make that bargain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram works past his habitual wince to an actual smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We understand that you're different. Persistent. And ruth-<lb/>
less. I must say, I thought we had you cornered. But what you<lb/>
did to the Chinaman? I almost admire it. I’m not even sure<lb/>
how you knew he'd turned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You mean Rick? You fuckers killed him. Sent your errand<lb/>
boy Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram squints, as though I’ve just told him a joke he<lb/>
doesn't understand. Then continues.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 195<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case, Mr Spademan, here is our proposal. You give<lb/>
her to us, we give him to you. I will drop you on his doorstep<lb/>
personally. Hand-delivered. Give you two a little privacy.<lb/>
Maybe you get to put that box-cutter to use after all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram’s presentation is over. He’s clearly pleased with<lb/>
himself. Folds his pearly hands in his lap. Leaves me to pon-<lb/>
der. We ride in silence while I consider what he’s told me. No<lb/>
real reason to trust him, but then, this is too big a lie to be<lb/>
a lie. He’d never dangle this if he couldn't deliver. Conse-<lb/>
quences would be far too grave.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aseventh man. Out there. Unpunished.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There’s no way I'll ever give Milgram anything he wants.<lb/>
But I’ll admit it. I feel it. Temptation, I mean. Years ago, Mark<lb/>
Ray asked me if I'd ever been tempted by religion, and I told<lb/>
him that’s not the kind of temptation I have to worry about.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The limo’s circled back to my block. Milgram drops me at<lb/>
my door. A considerate date.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I get out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Let me think about it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He leans across the expanse of black leather.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Please do. Pastor Harrow’s in the city this weekend, as you<lb/>
know. He’d be happy to meet with you. In person this time.<lb/>
Assuming we can work something out. You have my card.<lb/>
Until then.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The limo drives off. I turn to head home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On my doorstep, my box-cutter. The one they confiscated.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Red ribbon tied around it, like a gift.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="101"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
31.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sitting with Mark Ray on the front steps of the library.<lb/>
Watching the lions watch the city.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is the first day we met.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s finishing his story. The one about temptation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark had two friends. Beth and David.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beth he’d known since middle school. David since dia-<lb/>
pers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They grew up inthe church together. Sunday school. Youth<lb/>
choir. Easter pageant. Wednesday-night volleyball, followed<lb/>
by prayer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In their teens, Beth and David started dating. It seemed<lb/>
natural enough. Beth had blossomed into the belle of the<lb/>
congregation. Brunette. Hourglass. David plenty handsome<lb/>
too. Sandy-haired and smiling. They swapped chastity vows<lb/>
and promise rings.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Perfect couple. A billboard for God’s good bounty, be-<lb/>
stowed on those He loves. On those who obey. They looked<lb/>
like Adam and Eve strolling Eden, pre-serpent.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Everyone said so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Save Mark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He couldn't help himself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was gripped with lust.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 197<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He hoped Bible school would quell it. He got accepted to all of<lb/>
them, and chose the one farthest away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At Bible school he walked the ring road on campus with<lb/>
other women, in among the chastely courting couples.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
On your third walk around the ring road, you were allowed<lb/>
to hold hands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, at night, alone, the lust found him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gripped him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He lay in bed after lights-out. Gripped himself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then stopped himself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Prayed instead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For some kind of release.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He heard on Facebook that David and Beth had split up. Saw<lb/>
Beth’s status changed to single.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Started waking up joyful for the first time in months.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Put in for a job at his old church. Youth pastor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Prodigal returns. A fisher of men.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His first day back, unpacking books in his new office, Beth<lb/>
and David stopped in to surprise him with a welcome-home<lb/>
basket. Warm socks and hot cocoa. His favorite treat, or so<lb/>
she remembered. He used to clutch hot cups of cocoa on the<lb/>
sidelines when the youth group went ice-skating at the pond.<lb/>
Watching the two of them skate in lazy circles, oblivious to<lb/>
anyone else.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She didn’t know it had just been something to hold on to.<lb/>
An excuse to sit it out. Hot cocoa, slowly going cold. He al-<lb/>
ways poured it out into a snowbank when it was time to head<lb/>
home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They handed him the basket.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Standing hand in hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="102"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
198 ADAM STERNBERGH MMMM SHOVEL READY 199<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Welcome back. Later, alone, David asked Mark to be the best man.<lb/>
He smiled. He said he’d be honored, of course.<lb/>
We patched things up. I wouldn’t think of asking anyone else.<lb/>
He smiled wider. You're a lucky man. She’s a catch.<lb/>
Great news.<lb/>
Asmile he'd practiced for years and would eventually per- Ayear later they stopped by his office again.<lb/>
fect. He looked up from his lesson plan. The story of Bath-<lb/>
sheba.<lb/>
He worked with the teens, the youth. Went from Wednesday- What now? Pregnant?<lb/>
night volleyball star to referee. Whistle at his lips. Later led No smiles. Beth’s eyes red.<lb/>
the prayers. We need to ask your advice.<lb/>
All the girls formed crushes, naturally. Ray of Sunshine, By all means. Have a seat.<lb/>
they called him. Ray of Light. Told him he looked like that<lb/>
guy from the old TV show. The Greatest American Hero. David was considering a missions trip to Mexico.<lb/>
I’m no hero, he told them, American or otherwise. Mark grimaced. The only news from that region was of<lb/>
The older girls liked to sneak up behind him, finger his drug tensions and body counts. Both rising.<lb/>
curls playfully and in mock wonder, until he brushed them Not the safest spot on the globe.<lb/>
off like horseflies, told them to cut it out. They also liked David nods.<lb/>
to linger a little too long in the passenger seat of the car You go where youre called to go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
when he gave them rides home. Engine idling. Pregnant mo- Beth speaks up.<lb/>
ment. We're also talking about starting a family.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nothing happened. I see.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He was pure. An excellent pastor. David shrugs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’d drop them off and drive home alone. Stay up late But that means if I’m ever going to go on a missions trip,<lb/>
reading in the lamplight. But it always found him. the time is now. And it’s only a year.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Home, at school, back home, it didn’t matter. She swats him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gripped with lust. Only?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He turned out the lamp. Smiling. But nervous. Sick over this.<lb/>
She’s grown into such a beautiful woman.<lb/>
One day Beth and David stopped back at his office. Mark clicks his pen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hand in hand. Recalls school. The nights, mostly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good news. We got engaged. Clicks the pen again. Clickety-click.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="103"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
200 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Embossed on the side of the pen: the cross.<lb/>
The old rugged cross.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Clickety-click.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Puts the pen down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks David square in the eye.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Best friends since childhood.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Go.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark leaned forward. Elbows on knees. Hands gripped to<lb/>
whiteness.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Watching the lions. Watching New York. Where he wound<lb/>
up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Confessing to a stranger on cold stone steps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
David never even made it to the guesthouse. The flight<lb/>
hit bad weather, got delayed, arrived past dark. They de-<lb/>
cided to risk it, which was stupid, of course. The stubborn<lb/>
gumption of the faithful, as my grandfather liked to say.<lb/>
Hit a road block. No doubt he tried to convert them, even<lb/>
to the end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm sorry.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s not a story about temptation at all. Don’t you see? Not<lb/>
about lust, or love, but punishment. God’s wrath. How it fol-<lb/>
lows you. When the Lord is displeased.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He rubbed his hands like he was trying, and failing, to get<lb/>
warm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Said it like something he’d only just remembered.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the thing David had done displeased the Lord.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sounds to me like you're mostly punishing yourself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look at me. Playing shrink.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, if that’s true, I’m doing a terrible job. That’s why I<lb/>
called you. Failed even at that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what happened with her?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 201<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beth? She was crushed, of course. Broken, really. Incon-<lb/>
solable.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You didn’t try? To comfort her?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. I couldn’t even look at her. Not after that. So I ran.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But you loved her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He looked at me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not her. Him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="104"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
32.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pull offthe red ribbon, pocket the box-cutter, but don’t head<lb/>
inside. Not yet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There’s a place in Hoboken where | like to go to when I need<lb/>
a moment to think. The door says soctat civ, but really it’s<lb/>
just a bunch of old guys playing cards who know how to make<lb/>
you feel unwelcome. My first visit, they shunned me like they<lb/>
were Amish farmers and I was selling electric razors door-<lb/>
to-door. By visit three, I was getting good at shooting my own<lb/>
withering looks at any hapless strays who happened to stum-<lb/>
ble in. It’s the kind of place where an espresso appears at your<lb/>
elbow without asking and fistfights break out over checkers.<lb/>
Just try opening up a chess board, you'll get cuffed upside<lb/>
your brainiac noodle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So after Milgram drops me off, I decide to make a detour.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sit a bit and think about that motorman.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Espresso appears. Without asking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I nod a thank-you to the waiter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He nods back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Puts down a second cup.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I've never told anyone about this place, not Mark, not Rick,<lb/>
not anyone, so imagine my surprise when Simon the Magi-<lb/>
cian pulls out the chair opposite mine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Chair legs scrape the tile floor with a squeal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Canasta players frown.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 203<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon the Magician.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ta-da.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He sits down, folds his hands in front of him, and sighs,<lb/>
like he’s come to break up with me. Then he opens his hands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You want to go somewhere, get something to eat? Maybe<lb/>
pancakes?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m more of a waffle man.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course. Well then, let me cut right to it. I know you just<lb/>
met with Milgram. I know what he offered you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Let me offer something better.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m all ears.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You keep the girl. I give you Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I lean in, so as to not be overheard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To be truthful, given what you did to my friend, I’m in-<lb/>
clined to just come across this table right now and cut your<lb/>
face and keep cutting until I hit something hard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He scratches at his beard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ahyes. Your friend. Ugly but necessary.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? Why’s that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He gestures between us, like now were connected.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You have him, you don’t need me. Now you need me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe we should continue this discussion outside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We can do that, sure. But we tried that once and I don't re-<lb/>
member it ending too well for you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was a dream. This is the nuts-and-bolts world. I do<lb/>
better out here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon watches me. His fingertips drumroll the tabletop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spademan, let me invite you to take the long view for once.<lb/>
Your gizmo buddy is dead. Respiratory issues.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t be cute.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case. He’s gone on to his earthly reward. Without<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="105"/>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
204 ADAM STERNBERGY : SHOVEL READY 205<lb/>
</p>
<p>
him, your whole plan falls apart. You still want Harrow, but yene. These old men have seen worse and kept silent. That's<lb/>
you know you won't get within fifty yards of him with any- how they all lived to be so old.<lb/>
thing like a weapon in your hand. And he still wants the gir], But then I think of Mark and temptation. The sword devours<lb/>
and he still has me, and I’m still very good at my job. one as wellas another.<lb/>
He pauses, rubs his palms together, like he’s consider- Then I think of Persephone.<lb/>
ing whether or not to betray a confidence. Then he leans in. And | ask what I shouldn't ask.<lb/>
Voice low. So what will it cost?<lb/>
But this is where I can help you. Or I can get up right now Simon’s grin upgraded to a smile.<lb/>
and disappear from your life. At least temporarily. Your call. What does anything cost?<lb/>
Leans back. Having finished his pitch. He names his price and just like that, we're just two mer-<lb/>
Ishrug. chants haggling, over spices, over fabrics, over slaves, a<lb/>
Truth is, Simon, youre too late. She already bolted. Right f scene as old as the world.<lb/>
after you sent one of your cronies to kill her. I have a nest egg. His price isn't the whole thing, but close<lb/>
My crony? enough.<lb/>
Sure. Turncoat doorman. He’s uptown right now, doing I have to ask him one more thing, though.<lb/>
the backstroke in his own blood. Her work, not mine. What about the motorman?<lb/>
Simon grins. He pauses. Considers.<lb/>
Backstroke, huh? What about him?<lb/>
Maybe more of a dead man’s float. For starters, does he exist?<lb/>
Simon pats his pockets. While he does this he says: Sure. Best as I know.<lb/>
But I thought you were supposed to protect her, Spademan. Where do I find him?<lb/>
Yeah, well, so did she. | Simon looks me over. Wonders if this is a deal-breaker. I<lb/>
He pulls a cellphone from his pocket. wonder the same thing.<lb/>
Lucky for you, I can help you with that too. Settle down, chief. One deal at a time.<lb/>
Tosses the phone on the table. Phone spins like spin-the- I want a name, Simon.<lb/>
bottle. Stops at me. Forget that. This isn’t about that. This is about this.<lb/>
I watch him. He seems like that rare, enviable man com- ‘ And if there is a time to leave, draw a line, take a stand,<lb/>
pletely content in the world. I feel an angry urge welling up this is it. I don’t. Instead I say:<lb/>
to toss the table aside, I could be on him ina second, I’d have How do I know I can trust you?<lb/>
a moment or two to leave a permanent mark before he re- He holds his hands out.<lb/>
covered. After that, it would just be animal time, two dumb Nothing up my sleeve.<lb/>
beasts clawing. No one here would say a word, let alone inter- What you did. I don’t forgive you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="106"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
206 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don't expect that you would.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Last question. Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You familiar with the term simony?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. I do know Judas, though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He sips his coffee.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, then, you get the drift.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Black Judas.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Says to me:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you remember that old game show where they put<lb/>
someone ina plastic booth, turn the fans on, and dollar bills<lb/>
start swirling? You had to grab all the money you could?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
game if they put two people in the booth. Let them fight it out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He backs his chair up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
More like life.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He stands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Also, Harrow is old. And his empire is vast. And, like na-<lb/>
ture, I also abhor a vacuum.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He reaches out his hand. No more wrecking ball of bone.<lb/>
Just a hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want to say deal with the devil, and it is, but that’s not all<lb/>
it is.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dumb luck.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sometimes you have to hope it comes when you need it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We shake.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay, Simon. Now how do I find her?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon points to the phone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
First number on speed-dial.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And why on earth do you think Persephone would answer<lb/>
a phone call from you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Trust me. She'll pick up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
oo”<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This time, she finds me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I get back to my apartment and she’s already there wait-<lb/>
ing, dressed in her hoodie, Docs laced over sweatpants, like<lb/>
a soldier.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Chatting with Mark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seems happy to see me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hey. You came back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yep. And I brought friends.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eight mangy stragglers, refugees from the camps. Hard to<lb/>
tell the boys from the girls. Too much grime and everyone's<lb/>
got dreadlocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hate dreadlocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I spot the one guy with the sliced-up forehead. I guess he<lb/>
and Persephone patched things up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They're all hungry, too, siege-starved, haven't eaten in a<lb/>
week. Spent the last of their energy dodging nightsticks and<lb/>
paddy wagons. Tossed every trash can they passed for food on<lb/>
their way here, found nothing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There aren't a lot of pedestrians in the city anymore. So<lb/>
no trash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No real use for garbagemen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I order a tower of pizzas from the one place in Hoboken that<lb/>
</p>
<p>
still delivers. Hurricanes, blackouts, bombs spewing toxic<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="107"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
208 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
waste, you call their number, they never don’t answer. I like<lb/>
that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fresh and hot in twenty minutes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Plus, the name of the joint is the Last Slice.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I like that too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My kind of place.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While we're waiting, one hungry kid wanders off and starts<lb/>
rooting through my barren fridge. Finds nothing but bottled<lb/>
water and waffle batter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So he opens the freezer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just a Ziploc.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Takes it out. Shakes it. Thinks maybe he’s found my secret<lb/>
stash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which he has, sort of.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gropes the baggie. Squeezes the paper-wrapped package.<lb/>
Feels four stiff cylinders.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Dude. This is some serious spliffage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I take the Ziploc from him. Politely. Place it back inside<lb/>
the freezer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Trust me. It’s too much for you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bummer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Close the freezer door sharply while his hand still lingers<lb/>
on the opening.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He snatches his hand away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I give hima smile of my own.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tell him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Watch your fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eighteen minutes later. Doorbell.<lb/>
Pizza’s here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 209<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They have a kind of party, finish off the last of Mark’s beer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I sit with Persephone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was worried.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'm okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t run away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t leave me alone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fair enough. ;<lb/>
We sit a minute more, wait for the city to make the next<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sound.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then she says:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you met Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the flesh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And he'll help us?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We'll see.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She reaches out, rubs my arm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I heard about Rick. I’m sorry.<lb/>
-Thankyou.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If he’s out, does that mean we're screwed?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Maybe. Maybe not. I may have found us a replacement.<lb/>
Okay. So what’s next?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Honestly, that’s between me and your father.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She pulls her hand back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not exactly. I had a day to think about it. Which I did.<lb/>
And?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I have an idea.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good. Me too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She looks at me. All business.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m pretty sure you'll like my idea better.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="108"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
210 ADAM STERNBERG<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark and Persephone escort the gang of carcasses out for a<lb/>
field trip to the riverfront. Fresh air. Sunshine. I tell Mark to<lb/>
maybe throw a few in, for a bath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Truth be told, I’d asked for privacy. Miracle of miracles, |<lb/>
got it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I finger the business card.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then call Milgram.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She wants to talk to him first. Alone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Naturally.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not here. In there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s scared. Understandably. This way is more comfort-<lb/>
able for her. She needs to clear the air.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We can arrange that. Not a problem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I want to meet with him. In person. To hand her<lb/>
over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Of course.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I want the motorman.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He will be delivered to you. After you deliver her to us. Un-<lb/>
derstood?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. I’ll deliver her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hang up. Turn to Mina.<lb/>
White cross of bandage on her forehead.<lb/>
Red cross, etched in blood, seeping through. j<lb/>
Black cross, underneath, stitched in sutures.<lb/>
You sure you can do this?<lb/>
Look. I was his girl, not his fucking apprentice. But I do<lb/>
know my way around a bed. And I am plenty fucking moti-<lb/>
vated, I will tell you that.<lb/>
T hope so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 211<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If I wasn’t, would I have tracked your ass all the way here?<lb/>
To fucking New Jersey?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Skinny Mina. Mina saves the day. Maybe.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina Machina.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="109"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sunday.<lb/>
New York Reborn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Madison Square Garden jammed to the rafters, if it still had<lb/>
rafters anymore.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A gospel choir kicks it off. A thunderstorm of tam-<lb/>
bourines. Across the stadium, fifty thousand hands clap in<lb/>
unison.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then a warm-up sermon. Opening slot. Light the fire,<lb/>
stoke the brimstone. Local preacher, made good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then T. K. Harrow appears.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Angelic. Faintly glowing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Waves left. Waves right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hosannas rain down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His image wobbles a little, then corrects.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hologram.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Most know. Few care.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All cheer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m down in the financial district, back at that same aban-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
doned bank. Hike the stone steps and enter. My footfalls<lb/>
</p>
<p>
echo in the lobby. Farmboy heads me off at the pass.<lb/>
Farmboy is just as good at frisking as I remember. Finds<lb/>
</p>
<p>
the box-cutter in my boot and a pistol besides.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 213<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My gun. I finally dug it up.<lb/>
He confiscates both.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ushers me in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Chinatown, Mina in darkness hovers over two beds. Mark<lb/>
in one, Persephone in the other, side by side, like a blood<lb/>
transfusion about to begin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tubes and wires strung in between. Mina lit by the blue<lb/>
glow of her laptop. Whole thing rigged like she’s trying to<lb/>
jumpstart a car that’s been dead for a century.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo the nurse sits behind her, smoking.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You sure you can do this?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina, cranky.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You worry about the vital signs. This part I got.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark and Persephone already gone into the limnosphere.<lb/>
Eyeballs shiver under closed lids. Off to see the wizard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina, crankier.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This chick is pregnant, you know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So you shouldn't smoke.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo blows fumes out her nose like a bull about to charge.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t worry. It’s okay. I’m a nurse.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the dream.<lb/>
Persephone, alone.<lb/>
Barefoot.<lb/>
She’s dressed in her baptismal dress. Father's favorite.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Floral pattern. Matches the pastures that stretch out on ei-<lb/>
ther side of the path before her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The cobblestones cool underfoot.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Radiant.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Catch the sun and amplify it back at her.<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="110"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
214 ADAM STERNBERGY<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She squints.<lb/>
Wow, he wasn't kidding.<lb/>
Paved with gold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram greets me with a handshake like I’m here to apply<lb/>
fora loan.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His smile tells me I’m not going to get it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mr Harrow will be with us shortly. He’s just finishing up<lb/>
his meeting. With her. Hopefully all will go well.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No worries. I can wait. Between here, heaven, and Madi-<lb/>
son Square Garden, Mr Harrow isa busy man today.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The frisking farmboy is joined by three more farmboys.<lb/>
Muscles bulge under shirts. Guns bulge under jackets. They<lb/>
forma loose semicircle around me and Milgram, like he’s the<lb/>
cowboy and I’ma skittish calf that might bolt. The frisking<lb/>
farmboy hovers directly behind me like he’s daydreaming of<lb/>
all the different parts of me he could break, once he’s given<lb/>
the go-ahead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram folds his arms.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And they say you can’t be everywhere at once.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I shrug.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Miracles of the modern world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram nods.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Indeed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo, still smoking. Having cracked pack number two.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That cut on your forehead looks nasty. You get that<lb/>
looked at?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s fine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina stroking, then coaxing, then cursing her keyboard.<lb/>
Mutters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now where did you get to?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 215<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What happened?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Seriously, I need quiet right now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Long suck on a cigarette. Paper sizzles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You didn’t lose her, did you? Somewhere in there?<lb/>
No.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. I didn't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay, good.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina scours the screen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not her. Him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She follows the path through the pasture. Butterflies flutter<lb/>
and land on her softly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The path ends at a temple.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
End of the yellow brick road.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The temple is columned, like in Roman times. Or some-<lb/>
one’s idea of Roman times.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She climbs the stairs to the towering oaken doors.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Each one as tall as a building in its own right. Round iron<lb/>
knockers, big as hula hoops, for giants, she guesses.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The rest of the temple made of gold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Two farmboys, strapping lads, stand sentry. Dressed as<lb/>
centurions. They stay silent.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The doors swing open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Inside, a courtyard.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Statues.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fountains.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At the far end, a throne.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her father stands.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram kills time by giving me a tour, like were in a mu-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
seum.<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="111"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
216 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
At one time, banks were thought of almost like churches.<lb/>
I mean, look at this structure. It’s magnificent. The painting<lb/>
on the ceiling alone would have taken months to complete,<lb/>
And the vault. Breathtaking, no? A kind of holy of holies in<lb/>
its own right. It’s sad to think it’s all moved online now. Data<lb/>
zipping hither and yon. All so ephemeral. Nothing left to<lb/>
stain your fingers with.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While he prattles I think of what Persephone told me.<lb/>
About the dream. About Paved With Gold.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
About Rachel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram was the mastermind.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You look beautiful, Grace.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her father, in a rippling white robe. Majestic. Imperial.<lb/>
Laurel wreath on his brow. His obsession with emperors. He<lb/>
can name the succession by heart. Augustus. Tiberius. Ca-<lb/>
ligula. Claudius.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So much for the footsteps of the humble carpenter, huh,<lb/>
Dad?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know it’s all a bit over-the-top, Grace. But you know, ren-<lb/>
der unto Caesar and so on. And don't forget, this is heaven.<lb/>
Or as close as most people will ever get. And when we all get<lb/>
to heaven, we do want it to look a little bit like heaven.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He descends the few stairs that lead down from the throne.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I was so worried about you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't ever run away from me again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I didn’t think I was safe with you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, we have a mutual interest in your safety now,<lb/>
don’t we?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He reaches out to touch her belly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She bats his hand away. Maternal instinct.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 217<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why do I have to learn about these things from other peo-<lb/>
ple, Grace? It leads to all sorts of misunderstandings. But you<lb/>
should have known I'd never let a grandchild of mine come<lb/>
to harm. Whatever his provenance.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He reaches out. Grazes her cheek with a knuckle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She flinches. Can't help it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But she hates that she flinches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His hand flush on her cheek now.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Welcome home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brushes a curl back from her forehead.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His knuckle on her skin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her skin against his knuckle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She knows that touch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As real as real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram developed the technology. He was convinced there<lb/>
was a way to make off-body even better.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When you tap in, you're in a computer construct. Could be<lb/>
open to anyone, could be limited access, or could be some-<lb/>
thing private by request. You might go in alone, you might<lb/>
bring a few friends who tap in by your invitation. Medieval<lb/>
feast, a sultan’s harem, Old West cathouse, whatever. But ev-<lb/>
erything else besides you in that world, the horses, the harem<lb/>
girls, the frontier whores, the beds, the feast, the clothes, the<lb/>
props, they're all part of the construct. Just the computer fill-<lb/>
ing in the blanks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Take the farmboys back at the country church. Me, Har-<lb/>
row, Simon, Mark, we're all people, comatose in our beds<lb/>
somewhere. The farmboys were computer code. Just part of<lb/>
the program, like the pews.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So if a farmboy hits me, I feel pain, because I’m a real<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="112"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
218 ADAM STERNBERGY SHOVEL READY 219<lb/>
</p>
<p>
person. And if I hit a farmboy, the punch feels plenty real to one’s already thought it and done it. And someone else<lb/>
me, but the farmboy only simulates a pain reaction. It’s the watched it. And someone else heard about it and wanted to<lb/>
computer’s best guess at pain. go and do likewise.<lb/>
The best guess, for most people, is convincing enough. In fact, one of the whispered selling points of the limno-<lb/>
But not for everyone. sphere, at first, was that it would let people like that burn off<lb/>
that sick energy. At first.<lb/>
Mina spits on her laptop. Problem is, to that kind of person, the computer's best<lb/>
Cheap Chinese piece of shit. guess was never quite good enough.<lb/>
Mark’s eyes jitterbug under his lids, like they're searching So that was the first thing Milgram figured out.<lb/>
for the exit. The other thing he figured out was something no one else<lb/>
Margo can't tell if he’s dreaming or drowning. had thought of. Or if they'd thought it, they didn’t put it into<lb/>
I thought you said you piggyback people all the time. practice. They didn’t dare.<lb/>
Not all the time. Sometimes. He figured out that it makes a difference to have a real<lb/>
So what’s the problem? person on the other end. A real person reacting to you. Giv-<lb/>
There’s no problem. ing you feedback.<lb/>
Margo stubs out her butt. Take Mary and Magdalene, the church twins. The heart<lb/>
I’m bringing him up. of Harrow’s big demonstration. The first one, Mary, was just<lb/>
Give me a second. the computer’s idea of a girl. The computer's idea of a downy<lb/>
Both bony hands now free of the keyboard, Mina clutches cheek. The computer’s idea of a blush.<lb/>
instead at her wild witch’s nest of black hair. The second one, Magdalene, was a real girl, tapped into a<lb/>
Goddammit. Where are you? bed somewhere, feeling everything on the other end. React-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I thought he was riding in with her? You know, like a ing to my touch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
skateboarder grabbing a bus? That's what you said, right? So, too, was my wife. My Stella.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. Someone was playing her part.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So where is he? Feeling my hands on her face somewhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think he let go of the bus. Feeling my kiss.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s the only way to make it feel that real.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
There is a certain kind of off-body customer who wants to, So what Milgram figured out was that you can tap people<lb/>
say, humiliate someone sexually. Harbors a dark rape fan- in, doesn’t matter who they are, what they look like out here,<lb/>
tasy. Fuck you with a knife to your throat, get off on your once they're off-body you can basically pour them into an<lb/>
screams, that kind of shit. Fear and pain as aphrodisiacs. empty vessel in the construct, use them as you will. And once<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brands, whips, blades, etcetera. If you can think it, some- they're tapped in, they're prisoners. They can’t tap out and<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="113"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
220 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
just provide the feedback. The emotional underpinnings to<lb/>
the simulation. Give it that extra juice that only comes from<lb/>
real pleasure. Or real pain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bigger market for that second one, it turns out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That was Milgram’s innovation. New wine, old bottles,<lb/>
that sort of thing, except in this case, it’s the other way<lb/>
around. Old wine. New bottles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bottles made to be broken.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what you do is, you conjure up a made-to-order night-<lb/>
mare. Then cast these people as unwitting extras.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or, in some cases, as the star.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rachel was a star.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram’s tour is done. Now were just waiting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram tries to grin, winces, bobs on the balls of his feet.<lb/>
Like we're two businessmen at a convention, waiting for an<lb/>
elevator.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pipe up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want to see him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He should be with us momentarily.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. I want to see him now. See that he’s actually here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But he’s in his bed. He won't want to be disturbed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't worry. I won't wake him up. Scout's honor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram glances at his farmboys.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right. Follow me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nods his head at Farmboy Number One. The frisky one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And he leads us both to the back of the bank.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To the vault.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What do you want from me?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I want you to come home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 221<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why would I do that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Because it’s where you belong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They stroll a golden path together through the garden in<lb/>
the courtyard, enfolded in birdsong and blossoms. An im-<lb/>
possible breeze, originating nowhere, ripples the emerald<lb/>
grass. Blades sway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But you hurt me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I punished you. I’m your father. That’s what fathers do.<lb/>
They punish. Because they love you. No matter what you've<lb/>
done.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I thought that was God’s job.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Which part?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The punishment. And the love.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Father. God. At some point, Grace, we're really saying the<lb/>
</p>
<p>
same thing.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They only tapped Rachel out because someone had heard<lb/>
about her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Requested her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her reactions were said to be extraordinarily—what’s the<lb/>
word.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nuanced.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She was suddenly in high demand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
An out-of-state donor wanted a test-drive. Called and<lb/>
talked to Harrow personally. Harrow explained he would ar-<lb/>
range to tap in the donor and put Rachel at his disposal.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the donor wanted to meet her. Just for a moment. Out<lb/>
here.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the flesh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Call me old-fashioned, he'd said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow outlined the risks of bringing someone back. Of<lb/>
bringing her back. If she spoke a word of what she'd seen to<lb/>
</p>
<p>
anyone.<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="114"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
222 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The donor reminded Harrow that he had been habitually<lb/>
generous to Crystal Corral. Then he offered to up the dona-<lb/>
tion. Treble it. He was one of Harrow’s closest associates.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The Deacons’ Circle, Harrow called them.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They had a special room, special black paycards, special<lb/>
beds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Special requests.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So, against his better judgment, Harrow agreed. Arranged<lb/>
the meeting. Set a time. Had Rachel tapped out and sent to<lb/>
the infirmary. Under medication. Under restraints. Under<lb/>
watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But the donor’s private jet was delayed an hour on the tar-<lb/>
mac. Stranded by a sudden thunderstorm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just long enough for Rachel to get word out to Grace.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Plane grounded. Donor fuming. Storm pounding.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The bright sky furious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aviolent squall that just seemed to blow up out of nowhere.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Act of God, all the weathermen said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The vault stands open. The door is three feet thick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Inside, a high-end bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the bed, a body.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wears a suit, like he’s been dressed for the occasion by an<lb/>
undertaker.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Silky white hair in a halo around his pale skull.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Gauges gauge. Monitors beep. Respirator hisses.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram dismisses the nurse with a nod. She leaves to<lb/>
linger just outside the vault doorway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We stand around the bed, me, Milgram, and the farmboy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Three wise men at the manger.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow’s body seems deflated. Each breath an awful<lb/>
</p>
<p>
rasp.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 223<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So delicate-looking I feel like he might crumble if you<lb/>
touched him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He is an old man, after all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Made older by all his dreaming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Chinatown, needles wobble. A steady beep becomes a<lb/>
frantic SOS.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Margo frowns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I don’t like this. We should wake him up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina waves her off.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
If you do, she’ll be left in there alone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s in there alone now. And from what I’ve heard about<lb/>
her, I get the feeling she can take care of herself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. Not in there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark jerks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We have to wake him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We can't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I said I can’t.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why not?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I have to find him first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The three other farmboys slowly drift within spitting dis-<lb/>
tance of the open vault. Just to remind me they're there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The frisky farmboy stands guard inside the doorway.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Looks impatient for the breaking-things to start.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He shoots a glance at Milgram.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram sends back a tight little smile, like a telegram<lb/>
that reads, You'll get your turn. Stop.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I make small talk.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So where’s your friend? The Magician?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon? He’s in there too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="115"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
224 ADAM STERNBERGH SHOVEL READY 225<lb/>
Where’s his bed? his weight slightly, and curling his gnarled wounded bird ofa<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He’s ina separate location. Security protocol. Pastor Har- hand into an even more gnarled fist, which he sends with all<lb/>
</p>
<p>
row never goes off-body unescorted. his heaven-assisted fury into the soft center of Grace’s baby-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s not what we talked about. She wanted to meet with swollen belly.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
her father alone. She cries out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is just a formality. Don't worry. They'll all be back<lb/>
</p>
<p>
soon. How close is she? Bodily, I mean?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Acry that carries across pastures, statues, fountains.<lb/>
Acry seeded, like a storm cloud, with sobs.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Siete clone: Harrow leans in to whisper. Sweet intimacy in her ear.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And you have people with her? To bring her here?<lb/>
Yes. And don’t forget the motorman.<lb/>
No, of course not. You see, Mr Spademan? There are other<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don’t worry. He’s fine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then straightens himself. Laurel wreath askew.<lb/>
I have a strong feeling it’s a he.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Uncurls his hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ways to resolve things that don't involve spilling blood.<lb/>
Grace, why did you thinkyou could hide him from me? For<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Sure. Or, at least not ours. Right?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He squints. Nods. Tries to laugh like he’s in on the joke. A whatsoever you have, I gave unto you. And whatsoever I gave,<lb/>
</p>
<p>
reaction he must have seen somewhere and sporadically tries I can take away. So sayeth the Lord.<lb/>
No Bible verse she ever learned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to re-create.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He nods to Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now, I’m going to leave you two alone for awhile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her short sobs betray her. She struggles to swallow them.<lb/>
Dad, wait. Don’t. Wait. Dad, don’t you remember the story<lb/>
</p>
<p>
of the Prodigal Daughter? The story you taught me when I<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Grace, you remember Simon.<lb/>
Simon joins them on the golden path.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hadn't been there a moment before.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now you don’t see him, now you do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow turns to her and grips her shoulders, like he’s<lb/>
sending her off on a dangerous but necessary journey.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m so glad to have you back, Grace. But actions have con-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
was a girl? How she returns home and all is forgiven?<lb/>
Oh Grace. Of course I do. But you know me. I've always<lb/>
</p>
<p>
been more of an Old Testament man at heart.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
sequences, my love.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon slips behind her. Grabs her arms from behind. [ask Milgram, because I’m genuinely curious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You ever go off-body? Visit heaven? That you created?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me? No. Unlike many people, I still feel that there’s value<lb/>
in the physical world. That it is a blessing to have a body. I<lb/>
believe that’s as God intended it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To retreat to some dream, it’s wickedness. A temptation.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her father consoles her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just remember, nothing that happens in here can hurtyou.<lb/>
Not really. Not in heaven. No matter how real it may seem.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow seems to pause for a second, as though search-<lb/>
ing for a thought, the addled mind of an old man, not what<lb/>
it used to be, but that’s not it at all, in fact he’s only shifting<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="116"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
226 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To embrace the spectral world. And the people who flock to<lb/>
it—well, they seek easy escapes. It’s a weakness. Pastor Har-<lb/>
row doesn't see it that way, of course. But to me, bodies are<lb/>
glorious. To be alive is glorious. That is the gift from God. To<lb/>
turn your back on that—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes, it’s true. Bodies are glorious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I check my watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram frowns.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you have somewhere to be?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No. Just something to do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He glances at the farmboy, who takes a half-step to-<lb/>
ward me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
lignore him. Stare down Milgram.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I've always had one question about bodies though. A ques-<lb/>
tion for God, I guess.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Really? What is that? Perhaps I can help you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Why exactly did He make them so fragile?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Go easy on her, Simon. She is my daughter, after all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon steps around her, then turns sharply to Harrow,<lb/>
like a soldier about to salute.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reaches up with both hands and grabs Harrow’s face.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Kisses him on the cheek.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then steps back and snaps his fingers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Presto.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Asilver coin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Atrick.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon shows it to Harrow. Then palms it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Snaps again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Another coin.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He holds them both out, one in each palm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then brings his hands together.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 227<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Shakes them. Coins rattle.<lb/>
Reproduce.<lb/>
He opens his hands to show Harrow the bounty.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Thirty silver pieces in all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So here’s the thing about a box-cutter blade.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You can take it out of the box-cutter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The blade itself is very thin, like a razor blade, only longer.<lb/>
And it’s flat enough to, say, tape to the inside of your forearm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or on your chest, under your shirt, over your heart.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Frisk-proof.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I work on the farmboy first. The frisky one.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Nothing lethal. Just something quick. And distracting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
While he’s on his knees trying to keep what's left of his<lb/>
eyes from dribbling out onto the floor, I pull the vault door<lb/>
closed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s a heavy fucker. Tug-of-war, and I’m the anchor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Beat the other farmboys by a half-step.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They pound with their pistols. Gunshots muffled on the<lb/>
other side.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I give the kneeling farmboy a last meaningful slice across<lb/>
the throat, and he slumps like a split bag of garbage, spilling<lb/>
its wet load onto the floor.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now it’s just me and Milgram.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mina’s white bandage throbs in the light of the laptop like a<lb/>
neon cross at night.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She searches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She searches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She searches.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fucking finally.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="117"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
228 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Oaken doors creak and Mark rushes in and up the path like<lb/>
he’s late for a party.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
language.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Brushes his hands off. Stands shirtless. Golden curls.<lb/>
White raiment swaddling his loins. Gladiator sandals with<lb/>
straps wrapped to the knees.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon smiles.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow’s face ashen.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark looks himself up and down.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What? Too gay?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Rolls his shoulders like he’s prepping for a prize fight.<lb/>
Bounces. Flexes his back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spreads the I RULE tattoo.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Letters reassemble.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
URIEL.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That's better.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Boxes the air. A one-two jab.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now, if you'll excuse me one moment.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He bends double. Grunts.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Stands erect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Grunts again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fists clenched.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then roars.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wings unfurl.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I know what you did.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Milgram stands steady. Still smiling that unconvincing<lb/>
smile.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 229<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Iam blameless in God’s sight. None but He can judge me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That may well be so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I step toward him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He smiles. Sweats.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So what are you going to do?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think you know.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What? Kill me, and then—live in this vault forever? There<lb/>
are three armed men out there, waiting for you, and what do<lb/>
you have? A razor blade?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s a box-cutter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know you can’t get out of here alive, not without me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I pause.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He eyes me. Spots weakness. Crack of daylight. Heads<lb/>
straight for it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m telling you, you do this, and we both die.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I stroke my chin, then take my chin-stroking hand and<lb/>
grab the back of his head. Yank him toward me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For the first time, he squeals.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I whisper.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fair enough. You first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I work on his throat, nothing fancy. But with gusto.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Like ripping at a Christmas gift you can’t wait to get open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We're alone in the vault so there’s no rush.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When I let him go he falls to his knees.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Penitent.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Having seen the light. And the dying of the light.<lb/>
His windpipe whistling.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Exit music.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He plays himself offstage.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow calls for someone to tap him out.<lb/>
No one’s listening.<lb/>
Simon stands by, arms crossed, like a guy at a bus stop<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="118"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
to play out.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark hovers.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone holds out a knife in a stained leather sheath,<lb/>
Asks her father.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Do you remember this?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. I gave it to you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
That’s right. For what purpose?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To protect yourself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Right again. But from what?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The evils of this world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And they are many, Grace Chastity. They are many. And I<lb/>
did my best to prepare you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. They are many.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And to protect you. I tried to. And to teach you to protect<lb/>
yourself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. But I didn't do a very good job of that, did I? Not when<lb/>
it counted.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tonly wanted the best for you. When you cried, I comforted<lb/>
you. When you faltered, I picked you up. When you strayed, I<lb/>
corrected your path. That’s all.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. And you taught me to protect myself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hope so.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And my baby. I have a baby to protect now too.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I can harbor you both.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She slides the knife from the sheath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No, I think I can do this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Checks her watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I think I’ve learned all I need to learn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
I stand alone in the vault. Me, and two bodies. Three, count-<lb/>
ing Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His sandpaper breath.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still oblivious.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The box-cutter blade is too slow for my purposes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And, by now, too dull.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I check under the bed. Find a gym bag, tucked out of sight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I was told to expect.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
To be honest, I’m kind of surprised.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Unzip.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Check the contents.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ahandgun. A hammer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Aspike.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Asecond spike, for the heart, as a failsafe.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All accounted for.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Six-inch railroad spikes. Further sharpened.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One thing left to do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Check my watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Grace Chastity, I raised you from a little girl.<lb/>
I know. I remember. I was there.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Look around you. I can offer you everything.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Alll see here is a frightened old man.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m not frightened, Grace Chastity. I am saddened. To see<lb/>
what you have become.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. I’ma little saddened myself.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
These cheap theatrics don’t suit you, Grace Chastity. And<lb/>
despite what you might think, all of this? It’s just for show.<lb/>
You can’t hurt me in here, don’t you understand that? You<lb/>
cannot hurt me. You foolish, stupid little girl. Anything you<lb/>
do in here has no meaning in the actual world. And when |<lb/>
</p>
<p>
find you there, I will reap this pain on you a thousandfold.<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="119"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
232 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All right.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You know I can do it, Grace Chastity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes. I do.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Checks her watch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s true I can’t hurt you in here. Not really.<lb/>
Watch beeps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But I can give you something to remember me by.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
My watch beeps and I hammer the spike in. It takes fewer<lb/>
blows than I would have thought.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'd etched a cross in his forehead with the box-cutter be-<lb/>
forehand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As a target.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then held the spike steady.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Waiting for my cue.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Just two blows. Straight through.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fragile. Like I said.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the dream, Harrow gasps, shocked, a sharp intake, less in<lb/>
pain than in simple surprise.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then he smiles. Even looks a little embarrassed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The emperor dethroned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Glances down at his chest, where she’s still twisting.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Blood spreading in a swallowing stain.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This is the moment he will live in forever. Looped. Like a<lb/>
record skipping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His knife.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her hand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His heart.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s an old bank, but the vault was retrofitted more recently,<lb/>
the security precautions updated after an employee got locked<lb/>
in overnight.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 233<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I search for the emergency release.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Luckily I knew about all this beforehand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A little bird told me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
After all, there’s really no reason to try and stop people<lb/>
from breaking out of your vault.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I find the lever and pull it, and shove the door open slowly,<lb/>
and since they're expecting a guy frisked clean with nothing<lb/>
but a razor blade, I get off five clean shots before they even<lb/>
return fire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Guns. They do have their uses sometimes.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Three shots hit, two with authority.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And the last farmboy standing has lousy aim.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Lucky.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When he falls I distribute the last half of the magazine<lb/>
more or less equally between them. For closure.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The nurse has, for some reason, stuck around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She’s paralyzed ina corner until I wave her toward the exit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Crepe soles soundless on the marble floor. Until she hits<lb/>
the puddle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Keeps running.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tracks blood right out onto Wall Street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I start searching the extra rooms for Simon’s bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark lands lightly, looking slightly disappointed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You hardly needed me. Of course, there’s still him.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon, prepping his exit.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sorry, but I really have to run.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark steps up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You and I started a conversation earlier, back at that coun-<lb/>
try church. We should finish it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon straightens.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Happy to.<lb/>
Persephone grabs Mark’s arm.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="120"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon smiles. Looks her over.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good to see you. You look well.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She wipes her blade on her dress. Bloodies the flowers.<lb/>
Just tell us which way.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Simon looks to Mark. Back to her. Then points.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She says to Simon:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Okay. Now go. Fast. I mean it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then she gestures to Mark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Follow me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I find Simon’s bed in the old bank manager's office, but no<lb/>
Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Now you see him, now you don't.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Too bad, because I have that second spike.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I do find another room though.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Six beds.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Six old men.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All tapped in. All dreaming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Arranged in the round.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Deacons’ Circle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She leads Mark to a different doorway, hidden behind creep-<lb/>
ing ivy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
When they first walk through, they actually do hear harps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harps, then the screaming.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The far-off hopeless cries of the long-since damned.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The room is pitch-black, with only flickering flames to<lb/>
light it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
They wait in the doorway, their eyes straining against the<lb/>
dark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Their pupils dilate, hungry to let the light in.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Then regret it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
For Mark, the only reference is paintings. Blake. Bosch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
Persephone recalls something different.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Ayoung woman stabbing herself in a hospital bed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone speaks first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'll need something.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark hands her the hurlbat.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She hefts it, one-handed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
What about you?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I keep something handy for special occasions.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In his hands, suddenly, a sword aflame.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Uriel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In the Bible, the flaming sword is mentioned only once.<lb/>
Held in the hands of the angel Uriel who banished Adam<lb/>
and Eve from Eden. Some scholars read the flaming sword<lb/>
as a metaphor for lightning. Mark is somewhat more literal-<lb/>
minded.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone lit white by the heatless fire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wait, how come you get the flaming sword?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't forget, I taught Sunday school. And I have a good<lb/>
imagination.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She heads right. He heads left.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Cut their way back toward each other, like explorers clear-<lb/>
</p>
<p>
ing brush.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I watch the deacons sleeping. Leave them undisturbed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Head outside to the bank steps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Greet Wall Street.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Fresh air. Bright sun.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Wolf whistle.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Eight mangy stragglers assemble. Still way too many<lb/>
dreadlocks.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Remind myself to institute a shaved-heads-only policy.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="121"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
236 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
For now, though, let them work off some of the anger that<lb/>
built up back in the park, over a week of siege and beatings.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Resentment toward society and so on.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Pass out six box-cutters.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One per deacon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Point the way inside.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Outside the barn, crickets chatter.<lb/>
Inside, a nurse flips through a magazine.<lb/>
Someone ina bed murmurs. Awakes. Bolts upright.<lb/>
Ascream.<lb/>
Then another.<lb/>
The nurse puts down her magazine.<lb/>
At Paved With Gold, in every bed, someone’s gasping.<lb/>
Awakened.<lb/>
Eyes blinking like a newborn.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Born again.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
35:<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The city’s quiet.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I leave Persephone, Mark, and the Mangy Eight at my place<lb/>
and take my boat across the river. It’s the first truly cold day<lb/>
</p>
<p>
</p>
<p>
creeping up the river to tap the city on the shoulder. I dock<lb/>
in Tribeca, walk east among the castles, rough cobblestones<lb/>
underfoot. These ones aren't made of gold, just cobble.<lb/>
Brought over in the bellies of empty cargo ships as ballast,<lb/>
then unpacked here and used to pave a new world.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In Chinatown the first of the last remaining shops roll up<lb/>
their iron shutters and open.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'd helped the Mangy Eight ditch their bloody clothes<lb/>
and took care of the Deacons and the farmboys and Dave the<lb/>
doorman too. Remember, | used to work as a garbageman.<lb/>
I have access to incineration. I'd say ashes to ashes but that<lb/>
never made sense to me. None of us start out as ash.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
In any case, those gents are all now traveling the city as<lb/>
weightless tourists, floating bird’s-eye over the streets,<lb/>
burnt to soot-flecks and swirling on the fresh gusts herald-<lb/>
ing winter.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
May well land by accident on somebody's outstretched<lb/>
tongue.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Reverse snowflake.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
This city does leave a taste in your mouth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="122"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
238 ADAM. STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I head into a knock-off emporium on Canal Street and pull<lb/>
out what’s left of my nest egg. Thanks to recent develop-<lb/>
ments, my slush fund is all slush, no fund. Still, I have just<lb/>
enough for a Chinatown shopping spree, to outfit my new<lb/>
naked brood back home.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hand over the last few bills.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Prodo for everyone.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
As I’m walking out, my phone rings.<lb/>
Unknown number.<lb/>
Though I know.<lb/>
Hello Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'd never told anyone about that place, the Social Club in<lb/>
Hoboken, not Mark, not Rick, not anyone, so imagine my<lb/>
surprise that morning when Simon the Magician pulled out<lb/>
the chair opposite mine.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Made me an offer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Laid his cellphone on the table.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Trust me. She’ll pick up.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hello Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, I'd say that went off without a hitch.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Almost. I'd really hoped to find you in that bank. Give you<lb/>
a proper good-bye.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I thought you might. But I had to jet. Some other time, per-<lb/>
haps.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spit-crackle of a bad connection. I blink first.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
You got your money. So what’s next?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I wait. Manage the crisis. Then fill the void.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 239<lb/>
</p>
<p>
No, I mean what's next for her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I'll make sure she’s taken care of.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And how are you planning to do that?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Well, for starters, I have you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Whatever arrangement you have with her is between the<lb/>
two of you. But let’s be clear. If I ever see you—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Don't worry. I don’t intend to be involved. At least not right<lb/>
away.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And I almost hung up then and there. I should have. But<lb/>
it gnawed.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So I said it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One last thing, Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Yes?<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Congratulations.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He laughs. That laugh.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So she told you.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Not until this morning.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Secrets are so hard to keep. It’s a wonder they even call<lb/>
them secrets. Though I guess this one would have come out<lb/>
eventually. So to speak. Listen, Spademan—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Good-bye Simon.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
He starts to say something else but before I hear it I pull<lb/>
out the SIM card and drop the handset in the sewer.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Hear his laughing voice echoing all the way down as he<lb/>
</p>
<p>
tumbles to the underworld.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It wasn’t Harrow.<lb/>
It wasn’t her boyfriend.<lb/>
It was Simon.<lb/>
Simon the Magician.<lb/>
Head of Security.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow never knew.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="123"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
240 ADAM STERNBERGH<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow would have killed them both if he had, of course.<lb/>
Killed all three of them—man, woman, and child. Probably<lb/>
killed some other people besides, just for being in the same<lb/>
vicinity.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Harrow had appointed Simon to be personally responsi-<lb/>
ble for his eldest daughter’s security.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
His job was to watch her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
So he watched her.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
One day, she watched him back.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was a short affair with only one lasting consequence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
A secret with an expiry date.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Or, rather, a due date.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She'd caught me on my way out this morning. Everyone else<lb/>
in the house still asleep. Led me by the hand to a bench by the<lb/>
waterfront.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The baby wasn’t the reason she ran. I was right about that,<lb/>
she said. She actually thought that maybe she could stay. In<lb/>
her home. With her family. With her father. That somehow<lb/>
he’d understand.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before she’d thought that.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Before Rachel.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But not after.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She cried as she told me this.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She'd gone to Simon first. Spilled everything. About her<lb/>
father, about the farm, about Rachel. About what they’d done<lb/>
to her. Hoped Simon would help her. Hoped together they<lb/>
could halt it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turned out he knew all along.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 241<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Winter wind in arush up the Hudson.<lb/>
Hugged her knees to her belly on the bench.<lb/>
Watching the water.<lb/>
A posture of protection.<lb/>
Belly getting bigger every day.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’m sorry I lied. I was scared—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s okay—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—first of you. Then of my father. And I knew I'd need help—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s okay. He had plenty of sins to atone for.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
—to stop him. Once I knew. I had to stop him. I didn't<lb/>
know how.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And then Simon—<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Tugged her close.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It’s okay.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
And when said it that last time, I think she finally started<lb/>
</p>
<p>
to believe me.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It all made sense now, of course. Simon’s intercession. The<lb/>
Judas betrayal. But when I shook his hand in the Social Club,<lb/>
I didn’t know any of this, and I can’t change that, or deny it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
It was a deal with the devil and I took it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Figured that’s what passes for hope these days.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
But maybe I’m wrong.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I hope Iam.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
She and I sat for a bit by the river. On the Jersey side.<lb/>
Witnessed the sun resurrect itself over the Hudson. Ris-<lb/>
ing up from its nightly tomb.<lb/>
That daily miracle.<lb/>
The once-mighty skyline cast in shadow asa consequence.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<pb n="124"/>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
36.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
All the cemeteries have long since filled up.<lb/>
No one gets to be buried anymore.<lb/>
Government mandate. Last thing we all have in common.<lb/>
Rich, poor, sleeper, servant, preacher, heretic. Everyone<lb/>
goes in the fire.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Except Harrow.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I’d wanted to take Harrow’s body along with the others to the<lb/>
incinerator but Persephone wouldn't allow it.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Turns out Harrow has a family plot ina churchyard in Ver-<lb/>
mont.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Bought a generation ago, next to nine dead generations be-<lb/>
fore that, long before the Harrow clan pulled up the stakes of<lb/>
their revival tents and headed south to build a crystal church.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Burial plot. The last luxury item on Earth.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
The plot of ground he’d bought by plundering people’s<lb/>
souls.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Persephone insisted.<lb/>
Can't say I understood but it wasn’t mine to understand.<lb/>
So we rented a U-Haul van, backed it up to the bank steps,<lb/>
and packed Harrow’s long body ina cardboard box. The kind<lb/>
that cheap beds come in. Body-length. Rick had a million of<lb/>
those lying around.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Still, Harrow was tall. His shoes stuck out the end.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
SHOVEL READY 243<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We slid him in, closed the van doors, and drove all night<lb/>
to Vermont.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Me, her, Mark.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Her in the back with the box.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Moonlit night. Vermont churchyard.<lb/>
Once you get out of the city, you can see so many stars.<lb/>
Nine generations of Harrows lay side by side, under stone<lb/>
markers.<lb/>
Number Ten ina cardboard box.<lb/>
Number Eleven stood by the graveside, weeping.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Number Twelve asleep in her womb.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We didn’t bother with paperwork. Just showed up with a<lb/>
shovel and a body.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Work in the light of the highbeams.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
I dig the hole.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Spadework.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
Mark says a prayer.<lb/>
I wish I could recount it, but I don’t remember it exactly.<lb/>
Something about our souls, in this world and the next.<lb/>
Then we lift the box together.<lb/>
Aim for the fresh scar we'd just cut in the earth.<lb/>
Harrow always said that he hoped to build a heaven.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
We send him six feet in the opposite direction.<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
<p>
<lb/>
</p>
</body>
</text>
</TEI>