3.

Like I said, I don’t like Manhattan.

Like Brooklyn even less.

Personal reasons.

But I don’t like Brooklyn.

Never been to Staten Island. The Bronx only on business.

Queens I could take or leave.

But then, I’m from Jersey. Wrong side of the river. So maybe my aversion is hereditary.

Though to tell the truth, aversion and hereditary are both words my father never would have used. Might have cuffed me if he heard them coming out of my mouth.

He was a garbageman. A real one. The kind with garbage.

Didn’t like pretension.

Didn’t like the word pretension.

But he loved Jersey. That much he gave me.

I even tried to live in Brooklyn once, believe it or not. Didn’t take. But I tried it. Thanks to my wife.

I had a wife.

Believe it or not.

And I was a garbageman too, if you’re interested, a real one. The kind with garbage, like my dad. Left that too. Left most everything eventually.

Whatever hadn’t already been taken away.

Now I kill people.

The end.

People get upset when you say you kill people.

Fair enough.

But wait.

What if I told you I only kill serial killers?

It’s not true, but what if I told you that?

Now what if I told you I only kill child molesters? Or rapists? Or people who really deserve it?

Wavering yet?

Okay, now what if I told you I only kill people who talk loudly in movie theaters? Or block the escalator? Or cut you off in traffic?

Don’t answer. Think it over.

Not so self-righteous now.

I’m just kidding.

There’s no such thing as movie theaters anymore.

Subway, wheezing, barely makes it over the bridge, though I swear I feel that way every time.

The problem in this city used to be too many people. Now it’s not enough. And when only poor people use something, no one takes care of it. Roads, schools, neighborhoods. Subways too.

Rusted-out, empty, watch the track-slats pass as we travel. Moaning drunk curled in a corner, already done for the day. Pissed his pants, and not recently either.

Now to Brooklyn, that victim of tides.

My father took me to the beach once, pointed toward the water, eighty yards out. I thought, No way that ocean ever gets back to here. Two hours later, it was lapping at our ankles. And I thought, stupidly, No way it ever goes back out to there.

Money comes, the people come. Money goes, the people recede. After the blackouts they left, then after the boom they came back, then after the attacks they left again. Not everyone, of course. Just the people who’d tried to turn Brooklyn into the suburbs, got a whiff of a dirty bomb, figured fuck it, and moved to the regular suburbs.

Anyway, tide’s out now.

Brownstones are back to being barren. Concrete blocks where windowpanes went. Concrete blocks are the blind man’s stained glass, someone once told me.

After the attacks, the second ones, the whole borough emptied out. A boom, bust, and bang economy. The squatters and lesser vagrants just moved right back in. Like they were returning from a long vacation.

The Brooklyn camps in Prospect Park are more scattered, less crowded, less refugee pile-up, more Cub Scout jamboree. Tambourines and Hacky Sacks. Come nuclear winter, Hacky Sacks will prevail. A lone sack, being hackyed, on some burnt-out horizon. We’ll know civilization, and jam bands, survived.

I ask around. Same stories. She moved through here, quickly. I could have guessed. Not long for camps. She seems to attract the unwanted element in the open air.

Luckily the next step isn’t too hard to figure. Supposedly she’s headed toward family. And it turns out that her father, T. K. Harrow, the most famous evangelist in America, has a famous financier brother living in Brooklyn.

Yes, I know the word financier. Just don’t ask me to say it out loud.

In my business, the disadvantage of the famous is that they draw more attention. The advantage is that you can find out almost anything you need to know in about fifteen minutes, either online, from public records, or through a few well-placed calls. Because you know who has a good idea of who lives where?

Garbagemen.

They notice. Know addresses. Not everyone. But the notable ones.

So I make a few well-placed calls.

Find out a certain Lyman Harrow lives in a mansion in Brooklyn Heights. Likes to throw things out. Expensive things.

Keepsakes.

People remember.

Which is why I keep a few well-paid contacts who are still in the garbage business. They’re not nosy.

I just tell them I work on missing persons.

Don’t tell them how the persons end up missing.

I don’t care at all, and even I find this house beautiful. Brownstone, limestone, some kind of moneystone. Real stained glass, the kind for people with eyes. And four armed guards, making their hardware visible.

I wait and watch from across the street.

I used to ride this route, back when I lived in Brooklyn, back before Times Square, so I can remember when neighborhoods like these were basically sponges to soak up all the excess cash sloshing over from across the river. All these grand old brownstones, bought up and gutted. Scaffolding like skeletons. Blue tarps like funeral shrouds. Crews of Mexicans tearing out the drywall. Armed with hammers. Wearing dust masks. Eating lunch on the stoops, dusted white.

Haunting these houses like ghosts.

No one ever wanted to keep the insides of these old houses. Just the facades. That’s what they always said about brownstones.

Good bones.

So it was out with the old, in with the expensive-and-new-designed-to-look-like-it’s-old. Gut renovations. The insides torn out and tossed in a dumpster out front.

I know, because I used to pick up all the trash.

But then disaster struck and Brooklyn got seedy. Now gangs of men with masks and hammers might still visit your brownstone, but they’re not coming to renovate your kitchen.

Still, a few stubborn holdouts hang on. Wall Street types like Lyman Harrow, who can’t stomach the thought of ever running from anything. Everyone leaves, Lyman Harrow hires security. Everyone scurries, Lyman Harrow hunkers down. Lyman Harrow, his butler, and his four armed guards. And he assumes his money should function like a moat.

Which, in his defense, most of the time, it does.

Wall Street types. Funny to call them that.

Given there’s no such thing as Wall Street anymore either.

A nurse comes. She’s an unusually pretty nurse.

Rings the bell. Butler answers. Honest-to-God butler in white tails and everything.

Disappears behind a heavy door.

This seems straightforward enough.

I ring. Same butler.

I’m here to see Mr Harrow.

Regarding?

It’s about his niece.

Follow me.

The butler leads me inside and up a curved staircase. The whole place is wood, highly polished, like it’s all been carved out from the trunk of one giant dead tree.

At the top of the stairs, the butler motions for me to stop. I glimpse that same pretty nurse disappearing through a different doorway down the hall. Her hands held high. Elbows at an angle. Like she’s prepping for something sterile.

Butler’s short but solid. Brazilian maybe. Built for more than polishing silver. Not a linebacker but definitely the kind of guy who, if you ever find yourself in a cage with him, he’s the one who winds up walking out.

Holds up a white-gloved hand. Asks politely.

Arms out please.

He gives me a quick once-over with a metal-detector wand. Traces my outstretched arms. Brushes my coat pockets.

Wand squeals.

He reaches a white-gloved hand gingerly into my coat pocket and pulls out a metal Zippo lighter. Flicks it open, fires it, then snaps it shut and places it on a silver tray on a table by the door.

Swipes again. Down each inseam. Over my boots.

Wand squeals.

I shrug.

Steel-toe.

He seems satisfied. In any case, he’s mostly just putting on a show. He wants to let me know that, in this house, he’s the last line of defense, and he’s got more skills on his résumé than just answering the door.

Stows the wand back in its stand.

Turns a gold knob the size of a softball.

And in we go.

Lyman Harrow turns from his windows, which look out over Manhattan.

You have a view like this, you don’t give it up. Am I right?

The furniture is mahogany. The smell is old library. The carpets are the expensive kind. With patterns.

He opens his arms. He offers drinks. I decline.

Well, what can I offer you then?

Your niece. Grace Chastity.

You’re too late. She’s already gone. My brother sent you, I assume.

That’s a fair assumption.

It’s the only reason I let you in. Apologies for the security. But you know. The rabble. City is thick with them.

Not a problem.

Harrow’s half-hidden behind a huge desk, which is bare, save for a bottle, half-emptied. He pours himself another cognac, his glass as big as a fish bowl. Overall he has the unkempt air of the weird rich. Gray hair past his collar, slicked back with something greasy. Sweatpants and a crisp tuxedo shirt, untucked and open at the throat. Can’t tell if he’s halfway to getting dressed or just all the way to no longer caring. Then again, it’s a classic tapper uniform. Perfect attire for the beds. And sure enough, he’s got a luxury model tucked away in the corner. Which also explains the nurse I saw.

He sips.

Do you know why my brother sent you?

I hoped you’d tell me.

Well, he’s plenty mad at his daughter, I know that. Mad enough to send her running to me. And to send you after her. And so on. I assume you’ve met Mr Pilot.

Not yet.

Okay. You will. In any case, Grace rang my bell. Came from those dirty encampments. But I haven’t even spoken to T. K. in ten, eleven years. And I haven’t seen Grace since she was a toddler.

Swirls his cognac, which looks expensive even from across the room. Sniffs it.

Glances up at me.

She’s not a toddler now, I can tell you that.

I take it you and T. K. aren’t close.

No. Especially once I made it clear to him I had no interest in the family business.

Which is?

Heaven, of course. At least ten generations of holy men. Harrows were converting seasick sailors on the Mayflower. Then savages in the new world. Then anyone who’d listen. It was a bull market. We Harrows sell heaven, that’s our business.

Another sip.

Or, at least, we sell tickets.

But not you.

My brother and I both grew up to be carnival barkers in the end. We just wound up working in different carnivals. If I’m going to wail and pray and fall to my knees, I prefer to do it at the stock exchange.

And what about your niece?

What about her?

Did you help her?

Oh. No. I’m afraid not.

Why not?

I am among the, I don’t know, five hundred richest men in America. And T. K. is at least twice as rich as I am, and commands an obedient army besides. If he’ll do this to get to her, send you and whoever else might follow, what do you think he’d do to me if I tried to keep her from his clutches?

More cognac.

I don’t need that trouble. Not for a little girl. My only goal was to get her off my hands as quickly as possible. My hands and my conscience.

So then what.

She spent the night. I owed her that much. She’s family after all. Then this morning I introduced her to a couple of men. I found them on the Internet.

What kind of men?

Not the nice kind, I’m afraid. Man with a van, that sort of thing. There were two men, actually. And they did come with a van, as advertised. I think they make it their business to find jobs for little girls.

You know where they went?

I didn’t ask.

What about the van?

Hard to say. It was black. Or blue. Black or blue.

Drains his drink.

No offense, but I don’t generally take to interrogations by my brother’s hired helpers. Not Mr Pilot. Surely to God not that maniac Simon. And while you seem perfectly pleasant, Mr—

Spademan.

Mr Spademan, I can honestly say I don’t think I’d like to see you again.

Understood. Thanks for your time.

And thank you for stopping by. Say hi to Mr Pilot for me, when you do meet him. He can’t be too far behind you. As for me, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to return to my bed.

His unit sits in the corner of the study, tucked away, like a treadmill, though one that obviously gets a lot of use. It, too, looks out over Manhattan. It’s titanium, part coffin, part luge sled.

Yes, I watch luge. The only winter sport worth watching. That and skeleton, which is like headfirst luge for nihilists.

I put on my coat.

With this view, I wouldn’t think you’d need that. The bed I mean.

Well, then you don’t really understand the bed.

He undoes his cuff links, lays them on the desktop. Rolls up his sleeves, gets ready to slip in. Steps out from behind the mahogany desk. Wearing shower slippers. Crazy tycoon toenails, untended. Grown out like talons. Head of a financier. Feet of a gargoyle.

Notices me noticing.

Thomas will show you out. Thanks for coming by, Mr—

Spademan. Like I said.

Of course.

The butler walks me out of the study discreetly, leaves me in the hall, then returns to help Lyman Harrow tap in.

That sure is a top-of-the-line bed.

Yes sir. Thank you for coming by. Good day.

We stand on the moneystone stoop.

Look, if there’s anything you remember about those men who came—

I really should be getting back inside.

—any marks or details.

The butler considers. Looks like he could use a nudge.

Think about this. Mr Harrow’s brother sent me to do the same thing those men are going to do, except I’ll be a lot quicker. With nothing extracurricular.

The butler looks away. Considers. Then holds up one white glove.

Points to the back of his hand.

One of the men. He had a tattoo. Right here.

Do you remember what it looked like?

Like a fishhook. Except twisted. Into the shape of an eight.

I pull a marker and a scrap of paper from my pocket.

Can you draw it?

The butler waves off the paper, uncaps the marker, and sketches it on the back of his own white glove. Holds the glove up again.

Sure enough, like he said. A fishhook, twisted into the shape of an eight.

&.

An ampersand.

He caps the marker and hands it back to me. Then peels off the white glove and hands me that too. Pulls a fresh white replacement from his pocket.

Don’t worry. Mr Harrow gives me plenty of gloves. Likes me to keep my hands as clean as possible.

I would imagine.

I pocket the drawing.

Thank you.

He nods and digs a pack of cigarettes from a breast pocket. I wait while he lights one for himself. Then I point to the pack.

You mind?

He frowns. Then knocks one loose for me. I stick it in my mouth. Smile thanks.

Then curse.

Goddamn it.

Patting pockets.

I forgot my lighter.

Turn my best hangdog to the butler.

Family heirloom. Gift from my grandfather. You mind?

Mr Harrow will not want to be disturbed.

Finger to my pursed lips.

Quiet as a church mouse. Scout’s honor.

The butler’s already started on his cigarette. Considers chucking it. Takes a long drag instead. Nods toward the door.

A thanks-buddy backslap as I head back inside.

Crush the unlit cigarette in my jacket pocket.

Never smoked and I’m not about to start.

Must be the choirboy in me.

Don’t get me wrong. I went to Sunday school for about ten minutes as a kid. Didn’t take. Not the important stuff, anyway.

The core beliefs. Right, wrong, etcetera.

As you might have guessed.

The Zippo’s still sitting on the dainty silver tray. I snatch it up though it’s not like I need it. I have a dozen more just like it in a box back home.

Buy them in bulk.

Turn the gold knob quietly.

In Lyman Harrow’s defense, it’s true that money often functions like a moat.

But not today.

Harrow is already swaddled and gone in the bed. Sedatives, feed-bag, sensors connected. IV tubes in all the IV holes. That nurse really knows what she’s doing.

The bed truly is top-of-the-line. Polished touch screens. Metallic surface I can see my face in.

Harrow dozing lightly.

I lean in.

He’s lost in the dream, eyes fluttering under closed lids. I check to make sure he’s under, which is more than he deserves.

I keep a box-cutter stashed in my steel-toe boot, by the way. It’s enough to set off a metal detector, but then, so is the boot. Not my fault if you don’t double-check.

Pull the box-cutter out, extend it, place it against Harrow’s throat, and pull across, pressing deeply. Hold his forehead down. It works well enough.

Watch him bleed out on the leather. Blood puddles on the touch screens.

Stained glass.