Near Enemy (14 page)

So Shaban knows Lesser too.

Knows him? Spademan, they were fucking bunkmates at Langland. And the banker handed them both over to Bellarmine because Bellarmine was Langland’s stooge. He’d nurtured Bellarmine since the day he graduated the police academy. Saw a big future for him. Got him all the way to top cop. Hoped to get him to mayor. May yet, I guess. After all, his money’s not dead.

Boonce leans down and grabs a briefcase that’s leaning on the railing at his feet. Pauses. Asks me.

You see today’s
Post
?

I don’t—

That’s right. I forgot.

Props the attaché on the railing, pops it open, and pulls out today’s
Post
. Banner headline.

TOP COP TERROR SCARE: BELLARMINE POISED TO DROP BIG DEBATE BOMBSHELL
.

Boonce points to the headline.

The first mayor’s debate is this week. Open-air, just like Lincoln and Douglas, down in Battery Park City. And Bellarmine’s been teasing some big revelation all week. Ever since last Saturday night. Coincidentally.

So what?

So maybe his bombshell comes wrapped in a burqa, Spademan.

You think Bellarmine knows about what happened to Langland?

Boonce stows the paper. Buckles the briefcase.

I think he more than knows.

Boonce puts the attaché down and leans on the railing again. Clasps his hands. Wrings them. Seems actually worried.

Think about it, Spademan. What’s Bellarmine’s whole platform in the election?

Sleep Tight.

That’s right. So who do you think stands to benefit if every rich fuck in this city suddenly panics because supposed terrorists found a way to crack the limn and blow you up for real? Which strongman’s arms are they going to run in to?

Wait, Boonce. I thought Bellarmine’s your boss.

Boonce shrugs.

He is. Which is why we’re not having this conversation at my office.

Boonce watches the garbage barges pass.

Way of the world, right, Spademan? Start out as an idealist, end up as an underling.

You should have told me all this in the first place, Boonce.

He looks around. Says quietly.

That’s the whole point, Spademan. I didn’t know all this
before. I’m just piecing it together, just like you. And as you can imagine, with this particular situation, there’s not too many people I can turn to.

Then he leans in.

Look, there’s one more thing you should know, and then I won’t blame you if you bail right now. But I owe you the whole story. Bellarmine started Near Enemy, yes. Appointed me to run it. But his notion was a special division to protect the limn.

Okay.

Well, I was more ambitious. I took it in a slightly different direction. Lesser was working on something for me. A hack, for the limn. Like hopping. But worse.

Boonce kneads his knuckles again. Looks like a doctor who diagnosed himself and got the worst possible news.

Lesser was working on a way to weaponize the limn, Spademan. That’s what Near Enemy was really all about. Targeted assassinations in the limn, like drone strikes, but even better, because there’s no collateral damage, no near misses. Can you imagine the applications? If you could find someone in the limn and take them out? From any bed, anywhere in the world?

Sure, Boonce. Sounds great. Except it’s not possible.

Boonce worries his cuff links, tiny polished cop shields, like he’s recalling something. Or regretting it.

All the things in this world that we think are rules, Spademan? Or laws? They’re not. They’re just problems to be solved.

And Lesser—?

Lesser thought he’d solved the problem.

Did he?

I don’t know. Because he bolted. Quit Near Enemy and went back to bed-hopping full-time. Living in squalor. Which is where you found him, right before I found you, and he disappeared.

So why didn’t you just arrest him in the first place?

For what? Having an idea? Truth is, that’s why I was watching
him. To see exactly what he knew. And who he might sell it to. Maybe that was a mistake. Maybe I should have taken care of him the moment he bolted. But, you know, I felt protective of him. Like maybe I could win him back. That was my mistake.

Looks at me. Eyes pleading now.

That’s why I need to find him, Spademan. I need to know what he knows, and what he did with it, and who he gave it to. Because I unleashed this. This is on me. All of this. And I need your help to stop it.

I listen. Think a second. Mostly about how easy it would be to walk away. Surprise myself when I say instead.

I’ll help you, Boonce. On two conditions.

Just name them.

You hide Persephone. Like we agreed.

Absolutely. Where?

Wherever she wants to go.

She’s not safe at your apartment?

I’m not worried about where she is. I’m worried about who she’s with.

Simon.

I need to give her a better alternative.

Done. Safe passage. I can do that. What’s the other condition?

When we find Lesser, you don’t hurt him. He can face whatever he has to face for whatever it is he’s done, but he doesn’t just disappear.

Boonce laughs.

Look at you, Spademan, getting all sentimental. Unless I’m wrong, this time last week, you had very different intentions for Lesser.

This isn’t last week.

All right. I don’t touch Lesser. Look, I don’t need to. I just need to know what he knows. And who else knows it.

Fair enough.

Which means you need to talk to Shaban, Spademan. Shaban and I have a history. Not a good one. And if it turns out he’s in any way mixed up with Bellarmine? Well, obviously, I can’t follow that road any further. You can.

Just talk?

Just talk. For now. You won’t have trouble finding him. He’s set up shop on Atlantic Avenue.

Boonce picks up his briefcase. Offers me his hand. No wink this time. Just a hand.

We shake.

He smiles. Says to me.

A garbageman and an underling. City’s last, best hope. Imagine that.

He turns to leave. Then I think of one more question.

Hey, Boonce, you’re not a Buddhist, are you?

Why? You in the market for a new faith?

Just wondering about the name Near Enemy.

It’s a tactical term. Geopolitical. People divvy up the world into far enemies and near enemies.

What’s the difference?

The far enemy is the one you hate, the one you’re sworn to fight against. The near enemy is the one you’re close to, who you trust, but you shouldn’t. Radical Islamists, for example. They think of Muslim nations that don’t follow jihad as the near enemy.

And who’s the far enemy?

He gestures to the city.

Watch rattles.

We are.

Meanwhile in Hoboken.

Persephone’s changing a diaper.

Still waiting on those diaper wipes.

Hannah’s lying on her back on the changing pad with her legs up, giggling. Persephone wipes Hannah, once, twice, again. With a Kleenex.

Correction. What’s left of a Kleenex.

Chucks the remnants of the dirty tissue into the mouth of the diaper genie she lugged down from upstate.

Laughs to herself. Despite herself.

Diaper genie. Funny name.

Diaper genie, if I rub my baby’s ass, will you come forth and grant me my one wish?

And what is Persephone’s wish?

To be elsewhere. Anywhere.

Her and Hannah.

Somewhere safe.

And maybe a little nice. Just a little. Just for once.

Because a little over a year ago Persephone was eighteen and living in a tent in the camps in Central Park, sleeping on a borrowed yoga mat and warding off boys with hungry hands.

Warding off worse.

A year before that, she thinks, she was still a kid, really, still worrying about dumb shit like senior prom. Still living in South Carolina, on her father’s fabled estate, all paid for by Crystal Corral Ministries, on a property so large that the help would
pick her up at the front door of the main house just to drive her to the carport in a golf cart.

Where she had her pick of cars.

Had her pick of everything, really.

Grace Chastity and her three sisters.

Grace Charity, Grace Constance, and Grace Honor.

The four Graces.

She’s the eldest.

Now in exile.

Excommunicated, basically.

All four of them named for her grandmother, Harrow’s mother, a godly woman. Though Persephone barely knew her. Only from photos. But still revered her.

Still reveres her, actually.

Back then, back when she was taking chauffeured golf-cart rides over rolling grounds toward jam-packed carports, back when she’d routinely order clothes online without even bothering to look at the price, then just give whatever didn’t fit or she didn’t like to the help, back when her family had a private jet at their disposal, just idling on the tarmac, back when her father had the president’s ear and she was known simply as Grace, because she was the eldest of the four Graces, back then she even traveled with her own personal security detail.

Even had an affair with her own personal security detail.

Simon.

Calls himself Simon the Magician.

Who’s suddenly reappeared in her life.

Ta-da.

Best she knows, Simon is out in the livingroom right now, playing cards with silent Mark Ray.

Go Fish.

Meanwhile, here she is, stuck in Hoboken, trapped with a baby, unable to even go near the windows, the curtains drawn
all day. This after spending nearly a year in a cabin in the woods with no cable, no wifi, no handheld, no nothing.

Not much of a life for the eldest of Graces.

And now she hears from Simon that her three little sisters, the leftover Graces, as she used to call them, are not only all thriving on that estate in South Carolina, but are actually angling to take control of her father’s church. Still have their pick of cars in the carport, probably. Still siphoning off her father’s fortune, no doubt, even though her father’s now gone.

At her hand.

But Crystal Corral is still going strong, even after settling all those lawsuits. And if her father’s gone, his fortune isn’t. It’s not exhausted, apparently.

Not like she is.

Wipes Hannah again.

Once.

Twice.

Discards.

Fucking flimsy Kleenex.

Hannah coughs, then smiles, and Persephone recalls how when Hannah was a newborn, still red-faced and fussy, every sound she made absolutely petrified Persephone. Every coo, burp, gurgle, cough, snort, and hiccup made her heart seize. Because Persephone was convinced every time Hannah made a noise that it was some sort of cry for help. Or a last breath.

A death rattle.

So she’d constantly stare at this alarming new creature, terrified. Unsure just how to keep her alive. Wondering, How do people do this? But over time, she figured out something that reassured her.

Her baby wants to live.

Her baby has no other job than to live.

Her baby is basically a machine for staying alive.

And so she determined, in that moment, to simply follow her baby’s example.

To become a machine for staying alive.

Makes her think of that old disco song, in fact. She looks down at Hannah. Tweaks her nose.

Sings it to her.

Ah, ah, ah, ah. Staying alive. Staying alive.

Hannah giggles.

Here we are, together, staying alive, Persephone thinks. Not much of a life, maybe. But we’re alive.

Then says to Hannah, One last wipe.

All done!

Wipes her down with the last of the Kleenex, which she tugs from the now-empty box. Balls the soggy tissue and takes her best shot. Buzzer beater. For the win—

Wad bounces weakly off the lip of the diaper genie and falls to the carpet.

Crowd groans.

Persephone frowns.

Used to play a little basketball back in private school. Lost her shooting touch, apparently.

Stoops to retrieve the fallen wad. Looks up to find Simon, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her.

He gives her a slow-clap ovation.

Nice shot.

She gives him the finger.

Simon smirks. He wears a white turtleneck, despite the summer heat. Always did look good in a turtleneck, she thinks.

But she says nothing. So Simon breaks the ice.

She’s a beautiful baby. Takes after her mother.

Really? That’s the best you can do?

He smiles.

How so?

I just remember you as being a bit more of a charmer. But, you know. I was young. Impressionable. Vulnerable.

Maybe I’m rusty. Need to get back into practice. Just like you, with your jump shot.

What do you want, Simon?

He straightens up. Uncrosses his arms.

How long are you planning on staying here?

I was going to ask you the same thing.

He inches into the room. Shuts the door softly behind him.

I’ll stay here as long as you need me. To make sure you’re okay. You’re both okay.

Persephone scoffs.

I can take care of myself. Of both of us. I’ve proved that.

Simon holds his hands up, as if in surrender.

Hell, you’ll get no argument from me.

And besides, I’ve got those cops outside, watching us. We’ll be okay. If you need to leave.

I’m not leaving.

Either way.

I wouldn’t count on those cops.

Why not?

I generally counsel against counting on anyone. You need to know how to protect yourself. That’s why I taught you how to handle that bowie knife, way back when.

And Persephone, despite herself, recalls those long summer afternoons, alone with Simon, out in the barn on her father’s estate. Sun slicing through the wood slats in bright dusty shards, through the overwhelming smell of hay and horses. Simon standing behind her in the heat, holding her arms, working them like the limbs of a marionette. Teaching her just how to kill a hay bale. Jab, feint, thrust. Stab, stab, good, again. Showing her where to aim the blade. Honing her knife technique. Then acting as her target. Pointing toward his midsection.
Daring her. Go ahead, you won’t hurt me. You won’t even touch me. And it was true, she could never touch him, he was too nimble, too swift, always where you thought he wouldn’t be. Dodging, dancing, daily. Sweating together in the stifling shadows of the barn. Jab. Thrust. Again. Better. Thrust. Good. Again.