Brainquake Page 5

  She studied Paul’s armor, the affect of the recluse, and tried to imagine his early withdrawal from life. She saw in him the seed of seclusion so many people dreamed of but couldn’t attain because they weren’t born sick in the head. Only twice had she put on a mentally retarded bagman. Three years of conditioning made them dependable robots in her kennel.

  She observed his eyes staring at the exit door on the other side of the office.

  “I have no secretary,” she said. “That’s the exit.”

  His face remained a cipher.

  “What did Barney tell you about mailmen, Paul?”

  At the mention of his father’s name, his expression of nothing showed nothing.

  “Did you pay the undertaker?” Paul said.

  She detected the barest sound of scraping sandpaper when he spoke. She figured that was the closest he would come to showing any kind of emotion.

  “I owed Barney track losses.”

  He remained blank. No thanks. Nothing. And it didn’t surprise her. She asked her question again:

  “What did Barney tell you about mailmen?”

  “They got pensions.”

  “Did he tell you they carry money in the bag?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “But you know.”

  Paul nodded.

  “Did Hoppie ever tell you, over the past three years?”

  Paul shook his head.

  “You figured it out by yourself?”

  Paul nodded.

  “How?”

  “The gun.”

  “You like the gun?”

  He shook his head.

  “You hate it?”

  He nodded.

  “Want a Vitamin C?”

  He shook his head. She popped one in her mouth, drank water, and said, “At least I’ll die happy.”

  She chuckled. No reaction from Paul.

  She studied his blank face that was created for nobody to remember. Nice features, but impossible for any caricaturist to find a single quality to draw or emphasize. Eyes, nose, mouth, chin, contours normal like millions of people who have faces easily forgotten. Paul had not a single distinctive quality one could describe. He was twenty and looked like anyone. Nothing stood out.

  Not too tall, not too short. T-shirt. Levis like millions of young men. Slim. Father virile, son a clump of clay. She was frustrated because parsing bagmen was like juggling smoke. To separate each part of what it took to make a bagman always baffled her. They all possessed the same psychological barrier of self-created isolation in the biggest crowd in the world.

  What did it take to be the most trusted men in the most dangerous business in New York City? What gave them that incredible, dependable virtue of loyalty and trust? What made them so impervious to money? To all that cash they carried every day and every night?

  Bank tellers steal. Bank directors embezzle. Cashiers steal. Bartenders steal. Politicians steal. Government officials embezzle. But when one of them was caught, he didn’t face a bullet in the brain.

  That bullet in the brain didn’t keep a bagman honest.

  Their honesty was something that she could never figure out, no matter how often she tried. A bagman made good money but never in the class of other jobs; never a fortune. Brokerage houses paid hundreds of millions of dollars in bonuses to their young executives before filing for bankruptcy. That was out-and-out stealing and many young men wanted to work in brokerage houses for that reason.

  Bagmen carried hundreds of millions without opening the bag to borrow a few thousand. Rarely had a bagman that vanished with his bag got away with it. The ones that tried it were caught. Only when a pirate hijacked and killed a bagman was the bagman absolved. The pirate was eventually caught and killed. Whatever was left of the hijacked money was returned to her.

  Looking at Paul she finally suspected how Barney had learned about the job, and about the qualifications for it. Some retired bagman who played the horses, placed bets with Barney, must’ve got drunk, run off at the mouth, told Barney that she was the Boss of all the bagmen in Manhattan. That son of yours, he must have said. What a bagman that boy would make.

  She watched Paul’s eyes gliding past the things on her desk, past the monitors, past the battery of multicolored phones, past her Maltese cat rubbing its nose against the big glass bowl illuminating goldfish in a desert landscape, and then his eyes stopped and remained rooted on the black and brown leather bags that were under the table against the wall.

  “There are rules, Paul. Break one, you’re dead.”

  His eyes glided back to hers.

  “No girls. No wife. Not now, not ever. No friends. No ambition. No hobbies. No alcohol. No dope. No gambling. No debts. No talk when delivering the mail. No borrowing from the bag. No quitting. No selling your experiences after you retire. Never tell anyone you’re a bagman.”

  He remained silent.

  “You understand the rules?”

  Paul nodded.

  “You want to carry the bag?”

  Paul nodded.

  “Five hundred a week as a starter. Raises every six months. Bonuses. Sick benefits. Medical care. Hospital expenses. You’ll have a small van, taxi and motorcycle. The taxi’ll be your work umbrella. You’ll open a savings account near where you live and deposit the average weekly take of a New York City taxi driver. Your home in the Battery is fine. That will be your only address. Our accountant will file your tax returns. You will never meet him. In another bank at the other end of the city you will open a safe deposit box under the name of Patrick McManus. In that box you will keep all the excess cash you earn as a bagman.

  You’ll inherit route 116 from a mailman who just retired. Hoppie will introduce you to the drops on route 116. Pick out a bag over there.”

  Paul picked an old black leather one. No combination. Cracks. The bag was as faceless as Paul.

  9

  Blinking crimson reflected on the Boss’ face. The ringing of trouble snapped her back to the present. She seized the red phone. As she picked it up, the blinking stopped and she heard:

  “Farnsworth! Hijacked!”

  “Are you hurt?”

  His motorcycle was twisted around a busted hydrant. Empty green wooden box drenched by geysers of water attacking window of public phone booth. Nowhere in sight was Farnsworth’s bag. Blood covered, phone pressed to his mouth, barely breathing.

  Spitting blood, he said, “He got the bag! I’m dead.” And he was, dropping the phone a second after he spoke his final word.

  The Boss controlled the panic exploding inside her like a grenade. She had to think calmly, act calmly, speak calmly as she glanced at Mr. Yoshimura and his crew on the monitor, dialed, watched him pick up the phone on the desk. He was in a very good mood.

  “Yes, Boss?” was his cheerful greeting.

  “There’s a mole in Receiving.”

  His crew could not hear her voice. But Mr. Yoshimura heard it like the blast of an A-bomb. Having been reared by proud parents in Tokyo, he controlled his voice, but although sounding reserved, panic sneaked in with every word.

  “Not in my department, Boss.”

  “A mailman’s dead, a half-million gone!”

  Mr. Yoshimura lost control. His voice shook with anger.

  “I vouch for every man here!”

  His men stopped working, glanced at each other.

  “Who vouches for you, Mr. Yoshimura?”

  “You, Boss! You hired me!”

  “Tonight every man gets another lie-detector test. I’ll ask the questions. You’ll be the first one in the line!”

  She hung up, turned to the Laundry monitor. With growing rage she dialed once. Mr. Grigor left the table and hurried to his desk, picking up the phone.

  “Yes, Boss?”

  “A pirate just got one of our men, Mr. Grigor. And he wasn’t followed from the building.”

  “There’s no mole in my crew, Boss!”

  His men held their breath. Young Moe’s hands froze on a stack
of bills. Mr. Hendrix winced.

  “We lost a bagman and a half-million!” said the Boss. “Tonight every man gets another lie-detector test.”

  “I run the cleanest laundry in Manhattan!”

  “That’s where you’ll find dirt!”

  On the TV replay, people were going wild running after the ambulance. The trouble phone rang again. Christ! Another hijack? She swept up the red phone at the speed of light.

  “This is Zookie,” a voice said, faster than the speed of light. “I told my wife to say I’m dead, I didn’t relay the last drop. I spent the fifty grand on my kid. She’s got cancer!”

  “You think I’ll buy it because your kid got cancer?”

  “I’ll work it out!”

  “How?”

  “I gotta stay alive.”

  “Why?”

  “I gotta break my ass for a miracle to save my kid.”

  The alley door blinked. On the monitor Williams was waiting with his bag. She pushed the button. He entered the building.

  “Got a receipt for that fifty grand, Zookie?”

  “In my hand, Boss. I owed for a year. The doc said no full payment, no more treatments.”

  “Send it to me.”

  “Right away, Boss. Am I chopped?”

  “Next twenty months you get zero from me—nothing. I don’t care how you eat, don’t care how you live. You pay the rest the day the twenty months are up, or you’re not only chopped, you’re dead.”

  “God bless—”

  She hung up on him and furiously crossed to the dumbwaiter to shut off the chimes. Jesus Christ! Her whole life was one big boomerang. She took on Barney’s son. Now it was Zookie’s kid. She pushed the button. The panel opened. The dumbwaiter ascended to a stop. She didn’t want to think what Zookie was going through. She picked up the basket and brought it to her desk, took out the stacks of cash. She normally paid him $2,000 a month for his toy-shop drop. Twenty months, that would be forty thousand. He’d have to raise the last ten on his own. He could do it. She’d cover it in the meantime. Nobody would lose.

  Except his kid. Jesus Christ! What a boomerang for that bastard. His kid may leave the world before he made his last payment.

  She watched Williams enter and put his bag on her desk and open it. Paul’s age. Between them they had said about fifty words to her in the last ten years. She saw her fingers trembling as she picked up stacks and placed them on the desk. Forced herself to calm down.

  “Still get your headaches, Williams?”

  He nodded.

  “Ever hear a flute?”

  He shook his head.

  “See any crazy colors?”

  He shook his head. When she finished emptying the basket, she closed the bag. He put a slip of paper on the desk. She saw an address and phone number on it.

  “My new address,” Williams said.

  “Trouble?”

  Williams nodded.

  “A sniffer?”

  Williams nodded. “Black. Nosy.”

  “Same apartment building?”

  Williams nodded.

  “What wheels last week to the art gallery?”

  “Taxi.”

  “Use the van. A pirate scored. Mailman dead.”

  Williams showed no reaction as he left. On monitors she watched him walk into a different small garage near Police HQ and she waited until he drove the van out of the garage and down the street and no vehicle followed the van. Though if there was a mole, what did it matter that no one followed? Looking at the name and address on the slip of paper, she made a phone call and ordered a check on the sniffer.

  “I gotta break my ass for a miracle to save my kid,” Zookie had said.

  So did the Boss.

  Her mother was born a deaf-mute. Her father was a numbers runner. She grew up using sign language to communicate with her mother. She learned that her father worked for a syndicate that employed hundreds of runners, men who picked up small bets from shop owners, clerks, taxi drivers, tobacco stores, cops, pimps, whores, firemen, and truckers—all gambling $2 and up on picking the last three figures of the day’s trading at the Stock Exchange. The figures were published every day in the last edition of the newspapers.

  She shared a small apartment in Washington Heights with her mother and father. Specialists were too expensive, demanding money in advance to treat her mother, to try to get her to hear or speak.

  And you could live without hearing, without speaking. Cancer… She knew the hell Zookie was living in.

  She was a hatcheck girl when her father keeled over from a heart attack. The next day her mother died from the shock. A week later the double funeral, paid by Barney, who drove her to the cemetery. Max the Mouthpiece got her the job with the legitimate half of Pegasus in the Dispatch Department for $300 a week.

  What her mother could never do because of lack of money, the Boss was determined to do for the deaf-mute baby she adopted at the orphanage. She’d named the baby Samantha, after her mother. The three hundred dollars weekly went to a nurse who knew sign language, to rent and to food. Several promotions followed. The raises went to specialists. No matter how many times she was told Samantha would never hear or speak, Rebecca kept paying, kept insisting they keep trying. Upped to Assistant Dispatch Chief. Truckers who hauled pianos and furniture soon dropped their resentment toward the female over them. When she was put in charge of Dispatch, the truckers threw her a party. Word flew through the legitimate half of Pegasus that Rebecca knew how to treat her people. They felt at home with her. They trusted her.

  Word of this trust reached Max who offered her a thousand a week as assistant to the boss of bagmen in Manhattan. Max trusted her. If she turned it down the conversation had never taken place. Bagmen? The only conscience she had was her daughter’s health. Rebecca accepted the job, spent every penny on new specialists. When her superior retired, Rebecca Plummer became boss of bagmen at $3,000 per week with a fat bonus every six months. She kept spending all her money on Samantha.

  In a medical journal she read about Bill Wilson, a deaf-mute who partially licked it and was willing to help others. Bill was 26. He worked closely with Samantha, using his experience to help her. When Samantha was 23, she married Bill.

  The Boss picked a bigger apartment that they all lived in. She knew that Samantha was in good hands. But she kept bringing in doctors. All her bonuses went right to the most expensive specialists. She bankrolled Bill and Samantha to Europe to contact specialists there and hunt for a miracle no matter how much it cost. The news was always bad but the Boss never gave up.

  She never would.

  The light blinked. On the monitor Max was waiting. She pushed the floor button. The door slid open. Max came in. He was pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked pained.

  The Boss knew it was about Paul.

  “I need an aspirin,” Max said. “Bad headache all day.”

  She gave him a pill from her bottle. He swallowed it dry.

  “I could’ve told you on the phone, Rebecca, but this news…I wanted to tell you to your face.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “The throne okayed you handling all five boroughs. You’ll of course keep Manhattan as your main office, but they’ll all report to you. Triple salary. Double bonus every six months.” The proud smile on his face turned to a grimace, like he was tasting something sour. “What the hell did you give me, Rebecca?”

  She couldn’t contain her relief. She hugged him.

  “Vitamin C, Max!”

  “Goddam it, Rebecca, you trying to poison me? All I asked for was a goddam aspirin.”

  10

  It was dark when Paul was discharged from the emergency room. He flagged a taxi, was driven back to Central Park. His taxi was still there. He climbed behind the wheel, his head still whirling, bandaged face aching, bruised eye smarting. Paul drove slowly through the streets. No bones were broken. He was trying to fit the pieces together. He’d had an attack when the man was shot. Why didn’t he have one when the bomb went off? When the
people rioted?

  Had it all even really happened? Was it all in his head? A mirage…

  …they were sitting in faded blue canvas folding chairs…he and his mother…outside the shack…and the sky was muddy… she was reading Robinson Crusoe aloud…word by word and spelling the words…and she saw him pointing at the sky…

  “Ship.” He forced the word out. He was seven. He had learned some words.

  His mother looked up at the skyscrapers.

  “There’s no ship. It’s a mirage, Paul. Mirage. Say mirage.”

  “Mirage.”

  “M-i-r-a-g-e. M-i-r-a-g-e.” She printed it out on the pad. “M-i-r-a-g-e. Spell it out with me, Paul.” He did again and again and kept repeating the word.

  She hugged him.

  “Good. Write it, Paul.”

  He printed it slowly.

  “Good, Paul. Mirage is something you see that is not really there. Do you understand?”

  His face was blank.

  “The ship in the sky is not real, Paul. On the water people see an island that is not there and they see ships that are not there and in the desert they see trees that are not there…they are not real. This book is real. I am real. Our home is real. The ship in the sky is not real. It is called a mirage, what you saw, not a ship, but a mirage. Now you tell me, Paul, what is a mirage?”

  “Not real.”

  Ivory Face was real. What happened this morning was real. His bruises were real. The aching was real.

  Why hadn’t he spoken to Ivory Face before? Why did he lack the courage? His father once told him that he had courage. Paul remembered very clearly. It was after he put the pillow on his mother’s face. He didn’t know that his father had been watching him. He didn’t understand why his father didn’t speak to him for weeks after that. And one day Barney asked him, “Did Ma ask you to cover her face with the pillow?” And Paul had nodded. “Why did she ask you, Paul?” said Barney. “To stop her pain, Pa.” His father hugged him and cried and said Paul had more courage than anybody in the world.

  Where was that courage? What happened to it? Once, Barney had told him he had the wisdom of Solomon and the strength of Samson. He didn’t know who they were, but it all had something to do with courage.