32.
I pull off the red ribbon, pocket the box-cutter, but don’t head inside. Not yet.
There’s a place in Hoboken where I like to go to when I need a moment to think. The door says SOCIAL CLUB, but really it’s just a bunch of old guys playing cards who know how to make you feel unwelcome. My first visit, they shunned me like they were Amish farmers and I was selling electric razors door-to-door. By visit three, I was getting good at shooting my own withering looks at any hapless strays who happened to stumble in. It’s the kind of place where an espresso appears at your elbow without asking and fistfights break out over checkers. Just try opening up a chess board, you’ll get cuffed upside your brainiac noodle.
So after Milgram drops me off, I decide to make a detour.
Sit a bit and think about that motorman.
Espresso appears. Without asking.
I nod a thank-you to the waiter.
He nods back.
Puts down a second cup.
I’ve never told anyone about this place, not Mark, not Rick, not anyone, so imagine my surprise when Simon the Magician pulls out the chair opposite mine.
Chair legs scrape the tile floor with a squeal.
Canasta players frown.
Ta-da.
He sits down, folds his hands in front of him, and sighs, like he’s come to break up with me. Then he opens his hands.
You want to go somewhere, get something to eat? Maybe pancakes?
I’m more of a waffle man.
Of course. Well then, let me cut right to it. I know you just met with Milgram. I know what he offered you.
Okay.
Let me offer something better.
I’m all ears.
You keep the girl. I give you Harrow.
I lean in, so as to not be overheard.
To be truthful, given what you did to my friend, I’m inclined to just come across this table right now and cut your face and keep cutting until I hit something hard.
He scratches at his beard.
Ah yes. Your friend. Ugly but necessary.
Really? Why’s that?
He gestures between us, like now we’re connected.
You have him, you don’t need me. Now you need me.
Maybe we should continue this discussion outside.
We can do that, sure. But we tried that once and I don’t remember it ending too well for you.
That was a dream. This is the nuts-and-bolts world. I do better out here.
Simon watches me. His fingertips drumroll the tabletop.
Spademan, let me invite you to take the long view for once. Your gizmo buddy is dead. Respiratory issues.
Don’t be cute.
In any case. He’s gone on to his earthly reward. Without him, your whole plan falls apart. You still want Harrow, but you know you won’t get within fifty yards of him with anything like a weapon in your hand. And he still wants the girl, and he still has me, and I’m still very good at my job.
He pauses, rubs his palms together, like he’s considering whether or not to betray a confidence. Then he leans in. Voice low.
But this is where I can help you. Or I can get up right now and disappear from your life. At least temporarily. Your call.
Leans back. Having finished his pitch.
I shrug.
Truth is, Simon, you’re too late. She already bolted. Right after you sent one of your cronies to kill her.
My crony?
Sure. Turncoat doorman. He’s uptown right now, doing the backstroke in his own blood. Her work, not mine.
Simon grins.
Backstroke, huh?
Maybe more of a dead man’s float.
Simon pats his pockets. While he does this he says:
But I thought you were supposed to protect her, Spademan.
Yeah, well, so did she.
He pulls a cellphone from his pocket.
Lucky for you, I can help you with that too.
Tosses the phone on the table. Phone spins like spin-the-bottle. Stops at me.
I watch him. He seems like that rare, enviable man completely content in the world. I feel an angry urge welling up to toss the table aside, I could be on him in a second, I’d have a moment or two to leave a permanent mark before he recovered. After that, it would just be animal time, two dumb beasts clawing. No one here would say a word, let alone intervene. These old men have seen worse and kept silent. That’s how they all lived to be so old.
But then I think of Mark and temptation. The sword devours one as well as another.
Then I think of Persephone.
And I ask what I shouldn’t ask.
So what will it cost?
Simon’s grin upgraded to a smile.
What does anything cost?
He names his price and just like that, we’re just two merchants haggling, over spices, over fabrics, over slaves, a scene as old as the world.
I have a nest egg. His price isn’t the whole thing, but close enough.
I have to ask him one more thing, though.
What about the motorman?
He pauses. Considers.
What about him?
For starters, does he exist?
Sure. Best as I know.
Where do I find him?
Simon looks me over. Wonders if this is a deal-breaker. I wonder the same thing.
Settle down, chief. One deal at a time.
I want a name, Simon.
Forget that. This isn’t about that. This is about this.
And if there is a time to leave, draw a line, take a stand, this is it. I don’t. Instead I say:
How do I know I can trust you?
He holds his hands out.
Nothing up my sleeve.
What you did. I don’t forgive you.
I don’t expect that you would.
Last question. Why?
You familiar with the term simony?
No. I do know Judas, though.
He sips his coffee.
Well, then, you get the drift.
Black Judas.
Says to me:
Do you remember that old game show where they put someone in a plastic booth, turn the fans on, and dollar bills start swirling? You had to grab all the money you could?
Sure.
I always thought that would be a much more interesting game if they put two people in the booth. Let them fight it out.
He backs his chair up.
More like life.
He stands.
Also, Harrow is old. And his empire is vast. And, like nature, I also abhor a vacuum.
He reaches out his hand. No more wrecking ball of bone. Just a hand.
I want to say deal with the devil, and it is, but that’s not all it is.
Dumb luck.
Sometimes you have to hope it comes when you need it.
We shake.
Okay, Simon. Now how do I find her?
Simon points to the phone.
First number on speed-dial.
And why on earth do you think Persephone would answer a phone call from you?
Trust me. She’ll pick up.