The War Against the Assholes (3 page)

The Christmas lights strung up all over the place began to pulse, brighten and dim. “Are you guys getting power surges,” I said. “Yes, exactly,” said Vincent. Charthouse ignored this exchange. The violin music broke off. “Now it's so quiet,” I said. “You have a lot of observations to offer,” said Charthouse, “about the obvious. Not that I object. The obvious is where you have to begin.” The sound of his voice almost knocked me to my knees. Vincent asked Hob whether he thought this would end well. I had to cover one ear. I had my whiskey in my other hand. Bone-bred guest behavior. Can't just drop a glass. “It's all right, Mike, we're getting there,” said Charthouse. “Did you poison me,” I said, “strychnine makes you hypersensitive to stimuli.” The words boomed in my own head. “We don't have any strychnine,” said Charthouse. “I saw that in a movie,” I said.

The violin player strutted over to us, swinging her instrument by its neck. I took another swig and found that my cup was empty. Hob refilled it. I didn't actually want any more, but I couldn't think of a polite way to say no, and Charthouse kept asking me questions. He wanted to know how much I knew about theurgists, and I told him I had no idea at all. Did I know what they were. No. Had I heard the term before. No. Was I in their service. No. “You make it sound,” I said, and my voice was slow and slurred, “as though it's a bad thing, and if I were, I don't think I'd necessarily admit it, you know?” The violin player snorted at this. She had a vine tattooed on her neck. It disappeared beneath her yellow shirt. “Astute,” said Vincent. Pain lanced through my head. Charthouse didn't pay any attention. He stared at me and beat his palm with the silver head of the cane. Even that was amplified: pounding on a wall. I heard another plink. Rain hitting a lake. I looked. Another drop of blood fell from my nose, into my goblet of whiskey. It spread. The first one was mostly dissipated. “I think,” I said. Gave up.

“You ever read Flannery O'Connor,” said Charthouse. I managed to tell him I hadn't. “You go to a Catholic school and she was a Catholic writer. You'd think they'd make the connection.” More blood warmed my upper lip. I told him I had no idea why they failed to. “Well, thing is, she had a story. Called ‘A Good Man Is Hard to Find'? And at the end, not to give it away, but at the end one of the characters says about this old lady, ‘She would of been a good woman if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.' You understand what I'm getting at?” I told him I didn't. “Well, maybe you will, yet,” he said. I was about to ask him what the hell he meant. Metal scraped my temple. Cold and hard. A thin, warm, hard forearm crossed my throat. I knew it was the violinist before she even said, “Don't bleed on my arm.”

She had a napkin in the hand at the end of the arm across my neck. I took it, pressed it to my nostrils. “You're set now,” she said, “just don't do anything ridiculous.” No one had ever pulled a gun on me before. They say it can happen to anybody. I'd known kids who'd gotten mugged, for example. Part of city life. Or there was a woman, a few years ago, who tried to make a smart remark when a young sociopath pulled a gun on her. “What are you going to do, shoot me,” she asked. He obliged. They called it a tragedy but I never saw it that way myself. You ask for punishment and the universe obliges. Standing there in that sweet-smelling cavern, breathing hard, I blamed myself. You would have too if you'd been there and had any sense. “I don't have any money,” I said. “I mean I don't and my parents don't. I mean they have plenty but you can ransom me and it won't do you any good. You won't end up with anything worth your trouble.” That's what I tried to say. I figured I might as well let them know, in case they had a fancy plan cooked up. My tongue kept slipping and floundering, adhering to my palate. I kept having to start over. The appeal got less sharp each time. An argument for keeping your mouth shut. So I gave up talking. If these people were going to kill me, there wasn't anything I could do about it, and I relaxed against the violin player. Her skin gave off heat through her tee shirt. I couldn't remember what color it was. Yellow, I thought. I could feel her breasts against my back and the barrel of her gun against my temple.
At least it isn't drowning
, I thought,
nothing could be worse than drowning
. Charthouse grinned at me, right then. He whipped around and started to whistle. A brief song. It repeated. I believed I knew the words. I couldn't summon them up. He reached out and placed the hot, dry palm of his hand, the scarred palm, against my forehead. As his hand approached my head, a blue thread of light leaped from his palm. A strong, curt sting on my skin. A pop of static electricity. No other way to say it: pure darkness, rushing in.

5

I
've never liked sleeping. This was worse. No dreams, no relief. Just darkness. Anesthesia. Lost time, nothing more. When I woke up, I was ascending. Cold air. A single car horn. Near my head a motor unspooled a grinding whine. Yellow light flooded my eyes. I could see the back of Charthouse's gray-sprinkled hair. He was still whistling. Flute-toned and clear. Vincent leaned against metal bars. Shadows striping his lean face. “Good morning,” he said. We were in a cage. Going up. Hob stood next to me. The white bulb of his nose moved in and out of my peripheral vision. I hoped he felt guilty. I hardly knew him and here he was accompanying me to my death. Truth is, it was funny. That might have been the whiskey, though, improving my sense of humor. “Hob,” I said.

Speaking hurt my throat. My voice came out sandpapered. I touched my upper lip. The bleeding had stopped. Drying blood made the skin tacky. The violin player was even-tempered. She didn't pull the trigger. She tapped my temple with the barrel. That's all. “Breathe,” she said, “just take a deep breath.” Her lips almost brushed my ear. Her skin or her soap smelled like grass, new grass in spring. “What did he do,” I said, “to knock me out.” “I don't think you're allowed to know yet,” said Vincent. Charthouse said: “Don't be coy. We have to attend to our affairs.” The violinist laughed. So I laughed again. I kept my footing. “That's better,” said the violinist. Up we rose. Outside and inside at the same time. Wind biting and the sky as usual empty of stars. They say the light from the city obscures them. I wouldn't know. Floor after floor of nothing: bare I-beams, drywall, windows without glass. Junk and clutter. You have to expect them when you build. Accidents, too. Deaths, missing limbs. No way around it. A construction site. We were going up in one of those cage elevators. Charthouse whistled his tune. “What's that song,” I said. “I like the air tonight,” he said, “and I like the odds, too.” I preferred the whistling. The light from the lamps, also caged, on each floor we passed poured in. Charthouse's whistling got louder and harder. Nobody else made a sound. Except me. “Where did you learn how to drive one of these,” I said, “I mean operate.” “It's not a fighter jet precisely,” said Charthouse, “but I'm glad to see your natural curiosity's still aflame.”

We went up and up.
Had always been ascending and would always be
, I thought. I started saying Ave Marias. Quiet but still out loud. Hob turned to stare. “
Gratia plena
,” I said. “It's not
that
bad,” he said. The girl behind me. I didn't know whether to think girl or woman. Couldn't tell her age. I was still half-blind. I was weak voiced and addled. Yet I pondered how to impress her. You can't escape your urges. Charthouse kept whistling his song. I guessed at words between prayers. He tapped time on the bars of the elevator cage. The badger's eyes caught lamplight. The wind was blowing through our cage, making it dance. I caught a whiff of ozone. A high-voiced dog in one of the buildings near us howled. “Natives are restless,” said Charthouse. “We're the natives,” said the violinist. “You have,” said Charthouse, “the majority opinion against you on that question.” We came to a halt, the winch above us whining and going dead quiet. The cage swung and creaked. I prayed more. “Gentlemen's apparel,” said Vincent. He opened the cage door. Charthouse's cane boomed against whatever thin surface we were walking on. Wood, I thought.
That's my name
, I thought. He kept whistling. My head half-clear. My body shaking from the cold or the drink. “His heart's pounding,” announced the violinist. “Where are we going,” I asked. Didn't work any better. “Now, what kind of second-rate question is that,” said Charthouse. We passed between two sheaves of rebar. “Crow,” said Hob. The clatter of wings. A black flash. He was right: one crow. “Keep moving,” said the violinist, “you're obsessed.” I didn't disagree. “Shouldn't be up here, though, this late. Should be asleep. Birds sleep at night. That's a fact,” said Charthouse. “Look, are we going to suffer or act,” said the violinist. “As I said, the natives are restless,” said Charthouse. He stopped his strong hobble. He smelled like an overheated engine. Not bad but not what you expect from a human. My captors spread out. Vincent scratched his left ear. His cuticle torn. I was sure I was going to die. Thus the detail. When your life seems poised to end, you remember things. This I know from experience. The violin player chivvied me forward.

Cold air filled my mouth and dried out my eyes. Yellow glare and vertigo. I couldn't accept the view. Or wouldn't. “The valley of bones,” said Charthouse. All I could dredge up in response was: “It's not the valley of bones.” My throat stung. “An expert,” said Vincent. “If it isn't the valley of bones,” said Charthouse, “then what is it?” Everyone stood behind me. I had to keep craning my head to see. The violinist held the gun steady. In every glimpse. “Don't do anything stupid. I already told you,” she said. “It's the new building they're building on Mercer Street,” I said, “with the thing they haven't put in yet. The spire. Glass spire.” Which it was. I recognized the orange crane creaking away, near us. From news reports. Concerns over its stability. Then again, what doesn't suffer from such concerns? “Don't be so literal,” said Charthouse. The violin player gave me a shove. I objected to this. I couldn't say anything. At least the gun wasn't scraping my skin anymore. At least my nose wasn't bleeding. I turned to face them. I didn't want to get shot in the back. “I don't know what it is that you think you can get out of doing this,” I said. “It's not we who are going to get anything out of it,” said Charthouse. “I can tell you this,” said Vincent, “you should try to stay calm but you're not going to like what comes next.” “You're interfering,” said the violin player, “there's no rule I can't shoot you.”

“Technically,” said Charthouse, “you are correct.” The violinist kept the gun pointed at me, though. Not Vincent. I was standing on a platform. Wooden planks, weather-stained. They bowed and bounced under my weight and the weight of my captors. Bright bulbs in their orange cages hanging from rubber cords tied around the exposed girders of the building. Source of that yellow glow. In the middle, a huge square shaft. Three hundred feet deep, I estimated. Four, possibly. The platform edged this. For the spire. For its internal supports. I had no idea. I stared down. More vertigo. I didn't even fear heights. The wind whipped my ears. The plank floor creaked and swayed. All the drowsiness and uncertainty the whiskey brought on drained away. I heard the wind whistle and I heard Charthouse chuckle. Double voice of nature. That phrase is my own. “Let's get to it, Alabama,” said Charthouse. Alabama: the violin player. I turned to watch. She shuffled back till her shoulders met a girder, covering me with the pistol. “Your name's Alabama,” I said. “You're a real wit,” she said, “the girls must love you.”

“Charming,” said Charthouse. “This is going to be good, I predict,” said Vincent. The barrel hole black and enormous, when I twisted to look. “How did you knock me out,” I asked Charthouse. “Better and better,” said Vincent. “He wasn't talking to you,” said Charthouse. The barrel hole steady. A dark eye. It echoed the bruise under the tip of her pale chin. “Just be calm, Michael,” said Hob. The crane moaned. “We're getting close,” said Charthouse. I tried to crouch, to get stable. “Stand up,” said Alabama. I was still thinking about what she would look like naked. “Where did you get that bruise,” I said. “Listen to Charthouse,” she said. I was more concerned with the gun. “Did you come to us of your own free will,” he asked me. “Are you joking,” I said. “Don't be disingenuous,” said Charthouse, “Alabama will shoot you.” “Yes,” I said. It was for the most part true. “With no promises or inducements,” he asked. I looked at Hob. “You gave me all that whiskey or whatever it was, does that count,” I asked. “ ‘Whatever it was,' ” said Charthouse. “That's eloquent,” said Alabama. “Does not count, by the way,” said Vincent. The wind moved the loose cloth of Charthouse's dark windbreaker. Purple, eggplant purple. White stripes down the sleeves. A robe. I thought,
His windbreaker looks like a robe
. I am literal minded. Secret of my success. Such as it is. “And what do you mean it's the valley of bones,” I said. A stupid question. “It's a metaphor,” said Alabama, “now get moving.” “But what do you mean, though,” I said. Another stupid question. “Son, you know what she means,” said Charthouse. Alabama twitched the gun toward the outer edge of the platform. “Turn and get walking,” she said, “or you know the deal.” I didn't move. She widened her stance. My bladder ached. I thought about pissing myself. I didn't. I walked up to the platform edge and stared down. More levels like the one we stood on, more blaring lights in cages. I heard a clicking sound. I knew it was Alabama chambering a round. Drawing back the hammer. Had to be. “All right, you ready,” said Charthouse. “For what, ready for what,” I said. “You should feel lucky,” said Charthouse, “few get the chance.” “He doesn't look ready,” said Vincent. “Shut up,” said Hob, and then to me: “Don't listen, it's totally fine, trust me.” This I had trouble with. “I don't know what the salto is,” I said, “and I don't know how to take it.” “I trust you can figure it out,” said Alabama. “She's right,” said Charthouse, “it's not genius-level perception we're talking about here.”

At the bottom of the shaft, two-by-fours, cement sacks, eleven wheelbarrows. I counted them twice. A yellow hard-hat topping a pile of white dust. “Valley of bones,” crowed Charthouse. “I don't see any bones,” I said. I knew I was going to die. These cocksuckers were going to kill me for no reason. “You lack a sense for poetry,” said Charthouse. True. I'm no poet. I'm no philosopher, either. I wasn't then. I was a kid suffering an already-coming-on hangover, standing on top of a building with a hot girl pointing a gun at him and ordering him to take the salto. “I don't know what that means,” I said, “I don't.” “Just jump,” said Hob. “Or she'll shoot you,” said Vincent, “and I've seen her do it before.” You could tell by their reedy voices they were brothers. In the shaft, wind-carried fragments of paper circled. On the streets below, the amber and red lights of cars. The air smelled like snow. “Nothing hard to understand about it,” said Alabama. “He's not going to do it,” said Vincent. “I didn't say that,” I called. “You have a point,” said Charthouse, “but you need to decide.” I pushed my toes over the wooden lip. “Can I just ask you one thing real quick,” I said. “Last question,” said Charthouse. “How does the rug get back down flat if you close the hatch behind you when you come down. In the store, I mean.” Charthouse hooted a long laugh. The cold wind whistled. “You're an observant guy,” he said, “and you might even find out. But right now you need to decide.” So I decided. I didn't want to get shot in the back. I took three breaths. I clenched my teeth. I leaped into the empty air.