Dead Harvest (6 page)

  "Is he – I mean, do you have to go…" she stammered. "Is he in hell?"

  I laughed. "Near enough – he's in Staten Island."

  "Oh," she replied. "But you've been? To hell, I mean?"

  "Have I
been?
Sweetheart, I'm sitting in it."

  "I don't understand."

  "Hell isn't some faraway land, Kate. It's right here – in this world, in this room. Heaven, too, as near as I can tell. They're just, I don't know, set at an angle or something, so that they can see your world, but you can't quite see them. Occasionally, the boundaries break down, and the result is either an act of horrible savagery or of astonishing grace. But make no mistake, they're always here."

  Kate's brow furrowed as she looked around the room. "I guess I always imagined hell to be all fire and brimstone."

  I lit my cigarette and took a long, slow drag. "You ask me, I'd guess heaven and hell look pretty much the same," I replied. "Only in hell, everything is just a little out of reach."

  There was a long pause before Kate spoke again. "You don't seem so bad to me," she said.

  I laughed. "Thanks, I think."

  "So how'd you wind up here, doing what you do?"

  "That," I replied, "is a story for another time."

• • • •

  
Home back then was a tenement in the New Brighton neighborhood of Staten Island, about twenty minutes' walk from the ferry terminal. The place was ramshackle and overcrowded, and the racket from the munitions factory across the street was as constant as it was maddening. Still, as I hobbled up the stairs, I was greeted by the heavenly aroma of garlic and onion, so I couldn't much complain.

  
Inside, Elizabeth was standing by the stove, her back to
me. A Benny Goodman number drifted across the room from
the radio in the corner, and she tapped her foot in time.
When I closed the door, she started, and then smiled. I crossed
the room and gave her a kiss.

  
"Sam," she said, blushing, "you know the doctors said
you shouldn't do that!"

  
"To hell with them. You're my wife – I'll kiss you if I
damn well please."

  
"How'd it go today?"

  
I shrugged off my suit jacket and yanked the tie from my
collar, tossing both across a chair. "Same old story. They said
I'm more than qualified, that my references are sound, but
there's just no way a gimp like me is gonna keep up with
the demands of the job."

  
"They actually said that to you?"

  
"No, of course not – they said a man in my condition."

  
"Ah," she said, as if confirming something she had already known.

  
"What do you mean, ah?" I snapped. "Just because the
words they use are flowerier doesn't make 'em any likelier
to hire me, now does it?"

  
Tears shone in Elizabeth's eyes. She blinked them back
and looked away.

  
"Liz, I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just frustrated, is all. I'll
find something eventually, and then we'll get you better –
you just wait and see."

  
I put a hand on her shoulder. She shrugged me off and
returned to the stove.

  
"Whatever you're making smells fantastic," I said.
Though her back was still to me, I could see her posture
relax.

  
"It's braciola" she replied. It was my favorite, and she
knew it. I felt like an ass for snapping at her – God knows it
was the last thing she needed right now.

  
"How're you feeling today?" I asked.

  
She flashed me a smile over her shoulder. "Well," she said.
"I think the tincture Annie got for me is working."

  
"Liz, that's great! You'll beat this yet, you wait and see."

  
She dropped her gaze and said nothing for a moment,
then: "Oh, I forgot to tell you – Johnnie Morhaim stopped
by to see you. Third time this week, I think."

  
"Yeah, I'll bet he did. He comes around again, you just
let him knock, OK? I don't like the thought of the two of you
here alone together."

  
"Honestly, Sam, he's always been perfectly polite to me.
Don't you think you're overreacting a little?" I shot her a
look that made it clear that I thought no such thing.

  
The timer on the stovetop buzzed. Elizabeth took the pan
off of the heat and transferred its contents to a serving plate.
"Go wash up," she said. "Dinner's ready."

  
I kissed her neck and headed down the hall to the bathroom. The water ran rusty from the tap, and I waited for it
to run clear before splashing my face and washing my
hands. I heard the familiar patter of water against tile, and
cursed softly to myself – the fittings must be loose again, I
thought. And as I ducked my head beneath the vanity to
reach the pipes beneath, something in the trash can caught
my eye.

  
It was one of Elizabeth's handkerchiefs, crumpled and
discarded; I could just make out the delicate stitching of her
initials peeking out over the rim of the can. Despite the heat,
my skin went cold, and my heart thudded in my chest. I
fished it from the trash, certain of what I'd find.

  
The ivory surface of the kerchief was flecked with blood.
Elizabeth's blood.

  
Whatever lies she told me, we were running out of time.

 

The wind ripped across the harbor as I leaned against the deck rail of the ferry, savoring the bite of the chill salt air against my face. Behind me, an unfamiliar Manhattan skyline receded in the distance. So much had changed since I'd last been back, but as the lowslung buildings of the Staten Island waterfront swung into view, a shiver of remembrance traced its way along my spine. I guess the past is never quite as far behind us as it seems.

  The sun dipped below the horizon as I wandered away from the terminal, blanketing the streets of the island in shadow. I pulled Friedlander's pea coat tight around me, my hands thrust deep into its pockets.

  The old tenement was just as I remembered it. The first floor now housed an adult bookstore, its storefront windows papered over from within and its sign declaring XXX VIDEOS BOUGHT AND SOLD, but otherwise the years had failed to leave their mark. The same couldn't be said of the rest of the street. Most of the storefronts sat vacant. The old munitions factory was bricked up and abandoned. On a stoop two doors down, a bedraggled old man slouched unconscious and mouth agape, a bottle of Mad Dog dangling precariously from his hand.

  "Hey, sweet thing, you lookin' for a little company?"

  I turned around. Behind me stood a working girl, shivering in a hot pink tube-top, a fake leather miniskirt, and a rack to match. Track marks traced the veins of her forearms.

  "Maybe," I told her. "But I'm not from around here. You got somewhere we could go?"

  She looked me up and down. "For you, sailor, I'd lay down right here."

  "I was thinking someplace a little more private."

  "I know a spot a couple blocks from here, long as you don't mind the hike."

  I didn't. She led me by the hand to a decrepit row house, nibbling on my ear all the while. I pretended not to notice. Inside, the place was a mess. The paint on the walls was discolored and flaking. The floor was littered with newspaper, empty bottles, and God knows what else. A smattering of stained and filthy mattresses were scattered throughout the front room. A few of them were occupied: junkies, mostly, sprawled amidst their needles, lighters, and scorched bits of tinfoil.

  My date dragged me toward the stairwell. I followed. At the foot of the stairs, a man was slouched against the wall. His sleeve was rolled up, and his arm was tied off with a length of rubber tubing. A hypodermic needle jutted from his arm. His eyes fluttered as we stepped over him, but he didn't stir.

  "Nice place," I said as we reached the landing.

  "I think the time for talking's passed," she replied, pushing me up against the wall. She kissed me, then. Her breath reeked of latex and menthol cigarettes. Involuntarily, I pulled back.

  "Whatsa matter, sport, you rather get right to it?" Her hand found the zipper of my jeans. I pushed it away. Her face read hurt and angry, but the emotion never registered in her blank addict's stare. Then her eyes filled with black fire, and her hurt expression disappeared. That's when I knew I'd found my mark.

  Quick as death, her hand found my throat. Her grip was like iron, crushing my windpipe as she lifted me off the ground. My teeth rattled as my head connected with the wall. She held me there, pinned, as my feet tried in vain to reach the floor.

  "This body isn't yours," she said. Her voice was suddenly raspy and hoarse, nothing like the treacly croon she employed out on the street.

  "I could say the same of you," I squeaked.

  "She gives it freely."

  "I'm sure she does." My feet kicked against the wall. My vision went a little gray around the edges. I hoped to hell we got to the point before I passed out.

  "Who are you?"

  "An old friend."

  "Most of my old friends would rather see me dead."

  "Can't imagine why," I replied. My face had passed red and was headed toward purple. Spots swam before my eyes.

  "Why are you here?" the creature speaking through her asked.

  "Because I need your help."

  She released her grip. I crumpled to the floor, gasping. By the time I'd regained my wits, the
other
had gone, and the girl was glaring at me with glassy-eyed disdain.

  "The boss'd like to see you," she said.

  "Yeah, I thought he might." I rose unsteadily to my feet, a hand on the wall for support. Without another word, she headed back down the stairs and out of sight. I stumbled after.

  She led me through the front room to a grimy kitchen, its broken, gaping window doing little to alleviate the stench of rot that emanated from the open refrigerator. In the kitchen was a door. The girl opened it, revealing a set of rickety stairs that led down to the basement. She descended. I followed.

  The basement was close, fetid. The only illumination was from a series of bare light bulbs dangling from the ceiling at irregular intervals. Many were out, and all were so covered in grime they did little to dispel the murk. At the edges of my vision, half-seen figures writhed and moaned and wailed, in pleasure or pain I wasn't sure. There were people strewn everywhere, some shooting up, some grinding against each other in varying states of undress. One man, withered by drugs or disease or both, rocked back and forth, his knees tight to his chest. He'd scratched his forearms raw, and he clawed at them still, nails furrowing flesh. As I passed, I heard him muttering "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry," again and again, to no one.

  My escort led me through this sea of human detritus to the far corner of the basement. The light was warmer here, brighter – the result of dozens of candles, casting tiny halos of light from every surface. A lush Oriental rug occupied the space, and the walls were lined with shelves, cobbled together from scrap wood and cinder blocks and adorned with thousands upon thousands of books. Also on the shelf was an ancient record player, which crackled with the sounds of some old jazz standard – Billie Holiday, I'd guess. And at the center of it all was a man, clad in a pale blue suit and a hat to match, his diamond tie tack catching the candlelight and casting tiny rainbows across his black silk tie. He was draped casually over a high-backed leather chair, a glint in his eye and a smile on his cold, handsome face.

  "Sam Thornton, as I live and breathe," he said. "Well,
live,
anyway. I didn't expect I'd be seeing you again."

  "Merihem," I replied.

  "You know, Sam, there was a time you called me Johnnie."

  "There was a time I didn't know any better."

  Merihem gave the girl beside me a nod, and she disappeared into the darkness. "That was some stunt you pulled, walking in here like that. I could've killed you. Woulda been a shame, really – that body suits you."

  "I'm surprised you recognize me."

  Merihem laughed. "I didn't, at first. Your meat-suit fooled her eyes just fine, but my own eyes are another matter."

  "And you," I said, taking him in. "You haven't changed a bit."

  "I'd like to think I've mellowed," he said, a grin playing on his face. "But that's not exactly what you meant, is it? My kind are too dignified to trawl among the monkeys; the body you see is a projection, nothing more. I gather you didn't drop by to catch up on old times – why don't you tell me just what the hell you're doing here?"

  "It's about a girl."

  "Isn't it always?"

  "I suppose it is," I said, "but this one I was sent to collect."

  "Ah, a little on-the-job romance! So what – you figured you could stash her in a black market body and buy you two some time? Maybe jet off to Cabo for a week or two before you do the deed? You've got stones, my friend, I'll give you that – but believe me, it's more trouble than it's worth. Your handlers will see through you just as surely as I did, and they won't find the situation half as amusing, I assure you. My suggestion is you finish the job and move on. Afterward, bring her body by if you like – I'll pop one of my girls in there, and you can have yourself a go."