Augustus pulls up the beginning of a police report and a printer somewhere under the table, beneath layers of wiring and junk, springs to life.
“Here’s Fox’s rap sheet. Henry Fox has been charged and acquitted of almost every crime a human can commit. He was indicted about nine years ago for fraud, perjury, and withholding evidence in a case against Jimmy D'Andrea. Given four years in prison, served less than three months. Since then, he’s been at the same game with the same results. Charged four years ago with conspiracy and racketeering, acquitted. Last year he was charged with drug trafficking but…charges were dropped due to a lack of evidence.”
Without looking, Augustus reaches over a hand and places his fingers on the picture of Sinto, the scarred Asian man with multi-colored eyebrows.
“This man…in my gut, I know – I’m certain…this is your threat. The other man is powerful but it’s this man that you need to worry about. Call it a hunch backed up with as much info,” he reaches down and hands me two dozen pages of police reports, “as I could find.”
I nod.
“You got a meeting with Charne on Sunday,” Augustus says with a smirk.
“Good. Where?” I ask, anticipating bad news.
“Um, it’s a hike. You’re gonna have to catch a Saturday redeye out.”
“Fine. Where am I meeting her?”
“Good old Jo-burg, South A.”
I sigh but it’s what I expected.
“Also, that police Chief you asked me about. He doesn’t seem to have anything concrete linking you to the attack on Roger Dupont. Dupont said your name and there were potential footprints at the scene that got trampled by first response. Doesn’t matter – even if they have his confession and all the evidence in the world, it’d only equate to an aggravated assault charge.”
Again, I sigh.
“Roger Dupont is alive and well at St. Peter’s Hospital?”
“Alive. Well. Anonymous tip called almost immediately after the incident. Poisoned, his heart stopped, but they brought him back. He gonna talk when he wakes?”
“He’s not going to say anything to anyone,” I assure him. “And I can’t say much more to you in this horrid fucking heat. I’m going to go to my room but you and I need to finish the conversation we started last night, and you need to tell me why you lied about knowing Roger Dupont.”
WHY AUGUSTUS LIED
Stop sayin’ I lied.
This Dupont was puttin’ together a team a fortnight before you called me—
Fortnight?
Fuck off.
This guy was tryin’ to put a team up but he was struggling. He didn’t have the resources but he was around. I got an offer, so did one of my…contemporaries. We turned him down. No money, no backing, no affiliation, nothing. Didn’t seem worth the risk.
Word on the street was that he was the son of a man named Ghos. Someone big time, worked out of Philly.
Did some checkin’ that can’t be done on a computer and found out that this Roger Dupont had been involved…involved like you, like me…for a good deal of time. Did some more checkin’ and found it was him that sent a group of mercenaries after you because you, apparently, murdered his father.
That true?
About the mercenaries or that I murdered his father?
Either.
Yes. Go on.
He was lookin’ to organize a group to do exactly what you’re doin’ here. Said something big was going to go down in Philadelphia. That’s all.
And he used to be called Bartleby.
Wasn’t much else to it except…
Except what?
Except he kept accusing the Seven Devils of being behind…well, whatever it was he thought was happenin’ here. When he went silent, I thought it was ‘cause they got him. Not you.
THE PUBLIC WORKS
Steve knocks on my room and I open the door, surprised that he’s alone.
“Where’s Travis?” I ask, and Steve shoots me a contemptuous look.
“He’s still at the works building, think his Bluetooth died. I had to move if I was gonna reserve a lab at the university.”
“Which did you pick?”
“Drexel.”
“Why not Temple?” I ask, curious – I had affection for Drexel, personally, since my father used to teach there.
“’Cause fuck Temple,” he answers, sharply.
“Fair enough. You going to need me tomorrow at the lab?”
He nods.
This exchange happens in the threshold of my hotel room so I back in and Steve follows. My room is neat and tidy except the spare bed covered with all of the information Augustus had printed for me. Steve glances at the photos—“What’s all this about?”—before taking a seat on my bed.
“Something I gotta deal with. I’m out Saturday night to Monday for a meeting with Charne which means we need to settle up some of this stuff by Saturday morning. I need more to go on before I see her.”
“Well, Travis seems to think he found what we were looking for but I’m not a hundred percent. I’ll give it another look tomorrow but the Public Works Office closed about—” checks his watch, “—five minutes ago. Anyway, I sent Augustus the pictures from the office so he can draw us up some ideas in the meantime.”
“Did you and Travis…decide…” I’m nudging him the direction I want without saying what it is I need to ask of them.
“Yeah. I’m gonna do the car…tonight, I guess…” he sighs, though the answer is obvious since I have a deadline of Saturday afternoon for concrete results. “And Travis is gonna do the sewer.”
I give Steve a gentle pat and an appreciative nod.
“You’ll be fine. They said the car could hit a train and the driver would be fine.”
“It’s not the impact…it’s what happens after,” a hint of genuine nervousness in his voice.
“I’ll be there. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I’m turning into a pussy as I get older. And Travis…he gives me that bullshit look like he’s never gonna see me again when I mention it. Makes him more affectionate, though…which I guess is good. He’s been kinda cold lately.”
“Well…” I never know how to deal with their relationship, “…good luck?”
“I’m gonna go get some quiet time, rest up for tonight.”
“You do that…” and a feeling of tired rushes over me. “Think I might, too.”
“Okay,” he says, standing to leave, wearily adding, “then we’ll go fuck shit up.”
WINDOW IN THE ROOM
David sits atop the air conditioner with his knees bunched against his chest, staring out the hotel room window at the landmarks of his hometown city, the skyline a black canopy littered with bright specks and smears, some flashing, some distant, some glowing like Earth-bound planets or shooting like a star.
Her note is clutched in his hand but he doesn’t even notice anymore.
David,
I’ll miss you but I’m not good at dealing with this kind of thing. I’m going home early. Contact me when you’re in London.
Kate
A small part of him had expected her to leave.
A small part of him is happy that she left, too, but he’s not sure why. Without her, he’s free to mop and droop his head and hate the world…except he didn’t feel like doing any of that. He was holding out hope, reserving judgment on the future. At least she didn’t have to be there helping, pitying, feeling obligated…
And now he had something to get back.
Now, his destination had importance, had weight.
The moment he saw her bags gone, he had missed her, though. Her scent lingered in the room as if she had just stepped out to get ice. The bed would be lonely without her. But he shed no tears and the thought of feeling sorry for himself only made him sick. Instead, he stays at the window of his hotel room, texting from the prepaid phone his brother had bought him before leaving.
First is a mass text:
DAVID: Ear drum burst from the
airplane ride. Can’t talk over phone. Only text.
There’s only a moment’s pause before the first response.
SADIE: omg thats awful r u alright?
DAVID: Yea, Ill be fine. How is the massage school?
SADIE: lol better be fine. n the semester is about to start new students yay
There’s a momentary pause before his screen flashes twice with the message that he’s just received a photo from Sadie. When he clicks to open it, the picture is a downward view of a half-obscured, naked butt beneath a thin blanket.
SADIE: had to stop a massage to answer please be careful n take care ttyl
SADIE: n tell kate i want her hot ass
David assumes the picture is Sadie’s butt and that she’s receiving a massage, not that she had to stop a client’s massage…but he’s never certain when it comes to Sadie or Chris, and he’s not given much time to think about it as his phone blinks repeatedly with an onslaught of text messages:
PAM NOEL: Sory to here it.
PAM NOEL: That wasnt a joke.
PAM NOEL: Bar is fine. New bartender is fine.
PAM NOEL: Everything fine.
PAM NOEL: When will u be back?
DAVID: Less than a week.
PAM NOEL: Everything isfine until you come back.
PAM NOEL: Tell kate not to drink toomuch.
An hour passes where David paces and sings to himself, trying unsuccessfully to gauge his pitch and range, fluctuating his volume to estimate the difference between a decent inside voice and a whisper. He belts out a few lyrics, reaching full volume, but stops before his neighbors complain.
He does miss Lizzy and lingers on memories of her.
There’s a sickly feeling in his belly, not of sadness or concern but of boredom, of staying in the same place for too long. He searches his travel bag for motion sickness medicine and takes two of the tiny pink pills. Within minutes, his eyes grow heavy and he sits on the edge of the bed.
There’s a vibration next to him:
BROTHER: Did you go to a doctor?
DAVID: Yes.
BROTHER: And?
DAVID: And they say I have the same signs as mom.
BROTHER: How bad?
David types several responses, erasing each to begin a new one with less information, or more information, or an angry declaration, or…
He falls asleep without answering, and he does it on purpose.
a brief interlude about the seven devil nation
Conversations with the Seven Devil Nation
With a swift movement, she slapped me clear across the face.
“He’s faking,” she said with certainty.
Dazed, I couldn’t help but wonder:
Who the fuck are you?
“Welcome, Mr. Ridley. My name’s Charne,” pronounced like Chardonnay without the D sound, “and we’re going to make this quick, as you – my lucky friend – are ruining my shoes.” Plastic skin, a South African accent, and obviously irritated, Charne bended down on her knees like the tall, skinny stick-like man had been doing just before her. He was now standing next to her, looking down, the gang of angry bandits behind them. The bandits were cursing me more and more frequently, growing fierce and irate as they realized the poison was no longer killing me.
My back against the tree, tied and angry, I stared into her face. She had the faint scent of plum, and the makeup on her face was beginning to smudge and smear from the heat and sweat. For a moment, the woman became preoccupied with someone standing behind the tree, someone that had remained quiet the entire time I had been conscious enough to realize what I was doing.
“Handle them, please,” she told the silent stranger.
There was the loud sound of a gun cocking.
“Tell ‘em,” a gruff, South African voice spoke up, “that if they don’t shut their bloody mouths, I’m going to shoot the big one.”
Before the gruff-voiced man finished speaking – before the tall, spindly fellow could translate – the gang of bandits had quieted down. There had been movement behind me and it sounded like a rifle shifting in someone’s hand. They stared down at me once more before heading off into the forest; as they left, they were huddling close to each other and speaking low.
“You need to tell me, how’d you survive the poison?” Charne says, bending down.
“We made an antidote. For the villagers,” I spoke in dry rasps.
“Who’s ‘we’?” she spat, frustrated.
I said nothing.
“Doesn’t matter. Do you know who’s hired these local—beasts!” she cursed at the group that now stood far off, still gawking and sneering, but talking amongst themselves quietly. A moment later, they were vanished amongst the lush green.
I nodded.
“Bloody hell, let’s just get this out of the way…”
I braced myself.
“You murdered Francis Dupont. Ghos, as we called him. I’m sure you did, too. Well, that was father of the man who ordered these beasts to come for you. We call this man Bartleby but his real name is Roger Dupont. Roger contacted this man—” she pointed behind me to someone; then, annoyed, she motioned for the man to walk over, which he did.
The man with such a gruff voice walked around to face me. His frame was large, muscular, obviously someone that had been or currently was in the military. He had a shaved head with the South African flag tattooed to his scalp and, aside from the camouflage outfit, he had an assault rifle cradled in his arms.
“Dingane, meet Mr. Ridley. Mr. Ridley, this is Dingane.”
The man hardly cares, his eyes searching the forest for the bandits.
“Bartleby hired this man to kill you.” Charne looks into my eyes to see if I’m paying attention. I nod my chin at her as if to hurry her speech. “This man and his team tracked you here and hired these…” she goes to point at the bandits but they’re gone, “…well, let’s hope they crawled back into whatever hole they came out of.”
The gruff soldier turns, aiming his gun toward the forest and moving toward the last place they saw the bandits.
“Well, it just so happens you’re very important to us. Ghos was a member of the Seven Devil Nation. And as this tends to be the next question—no, there are more than seven of us. We seven are six continents and the head. We are not in Antarctica. We the Seven Devil Nation are a community. We exist to keep things better. We funded Ghos as he helped to clean up Philadelphia.”
I stare at her, blank-eyed.
“We’ve known about you for some time now. Ghos gave us steady reports about how pertinent you were to his operation. So we have come with a proposition. As you have murdered a member of the Seven Devils, you are to take his place. There will be a ceremony. You are to come with me, right now.”
She stands and turns to the stick man, scolding, “Well, cut him bloody loose and let’s get out of this shithole before I get malaria.”
the asterisk
PHASE TWO – OPERATION REINFORCED CAR
I check my watch:
1:43 a.m.
We’re parked in darkness a block from the alleyway entrance of Roberts & Dunham Law Offices. Steve has been regaling me with the long, overly-detailed quest he made to procure Mans el-Ray Pasquale’s autopsy report.
“…and I had to find the right med intern before—”
Steve’s in the driver’s seat and I hold my hand up between us, preventing him from continuing. Days earlier, he had gotten the report with the help of an intern. A clever individual picked to have the autopsy of the recently deceased Senate Aid Mans el-Ray Pasquale to be performed at the Main Line Hospital. It was an impressive decision, as this guaranteed an intern-assisted autopsy which, by law, must keep the deceased anonymous to those gathering the data. The person had succeeded in removing the hospital’s record of the autopsy results; however, there are two separate systems for back-up in a college hospital, student and staff.
“Thanks for getting the report,” I say once again, “but you don’t need to t
ell me every detail. I appreciate it. Really. Do we know why the autopsy, forged or otherwise, never made it to records?”
“No. As there were no formal charges, it should exist in some form or another,” Augustus says over the line. He’s in his hotel room noisily opening the plastic on a Twinkie.
“So we got, what?” I think aloud, “Someone covered up a murder. Made it look subtle, called it pneumonia. Who can explain how to explode lungs?”
The autopsy report said that Mans el-Ray Pasquale was in perfect health except for a severe burn to his esophagus and partial disintegration of both lungs.
“Not especially difficult if you have resources,” Steve eagerly refers to his story again, “the med student told me. Something similar to dry ice but in a condensed form, or a condensed container. Something like that.”
“Like an inhaler? But why?” I ask, unable to put it together. “Why so elaborate? Did something get screwed up? Someone make a mistake? Was this what they wanted? I mean, it just doesn’t make sense. You want him out of the equation, kill him in an alleyway. People get killed in Philadelphia all the time. Why leave so many loose ends?”
“Out-out-out,” Steve says hurriedly, removing the miniscule blue tooth from his ear; he hands the waxy device to me, along with his phone.