The Edger Collection

by David Beem

  “Fine,” she says, turning her gaze back to the road. “I’m employed by a clandestine branch of the Australian government that coordinates with the United Nations, and, by extension, the United States. There. Happy?”

  “No.”

  A flash of annoyance crosses her face. “Why, Edger?”

  “Why? You just snipered the shit out of those guys!”

  “Well,” she stammers. “But now you know I snipered them…you know…legally.”

  “Oh, so it was a legal snipering!” I exclaim, tossing my arms in the air. “I feel so much better. Brain-matter lawsuits are on the rise, you know. Hate for you to get sued by a litigious chunk of brain that—”

  “Wait,” says Mary. “Did you say, illegal snipering, or—”

  “No, a legal. Two words.”

  “Because it wasn’t illegal. That’s the whole point—”

  “Wait, wait. Are you telling me you’ve got a license to kill? Can I see it?”

  “It’s not like a driver’s license! You don’t just get one at the BMV!”

  “Oh, no? Then where do you get them, Jane Bond?”

  She shakes her head. “Uh-uh. No. I’m not doing this with you. Because if it comes right down to it, I will kick Daniel Craig’s old-man ass faster than it takes me to make Mike Dame his protein shake. James Bond would fear me.”

  “Oh, man.” I cover my face with my hands, take a deep breath, and release it. I drop my hands into my lap. “You. Kill. People.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being a little judgmental here?” she replies. “I should point out, Edger, that these ‘people’ were about to kill you. And your dad, by the way. So. You know, you’re welcome.”

  “I had it under control.”

  “I noticed that when you were blacking out and falling off Qualcomm Stadium. Good job.”

  My jaw drops open at the same time a fly crashes into the back of my throat. I hack, spit a little bit into my hand, and my mouth clamps shut. Holding my hand out the window for a second, I wait for it to dry before wiping the rest of it on my leg. After a few minutes of silence, I sneak a glance at Mary. Her eyes are tight. Her lips are pressed together and going white.

  Great. Just great.

  “This clandestine branch of the Aussie government got a name?” I ask, my plan being to put her back in the hot seat. And going by her suddenly red complexion, I’ve hit a nerve. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue?”

  “Global Strategic Peace Organization Taskforce. There. Happy?”

  My head snaps back. Her eyes are glued to the road. Her hands are at eleven and one. My brain gears are struggling like an old car that won’t start. After a few more painful moments of silence, it turns over.

  “I feel compelled at this juncture to point out your supersecret spy group’s acronym spells G-spot.”

  “Y-yep.”

  “And…that’s, I mean, okay with you?”

  Mary screws her face up. “I didn’t name it.”

  I scratch the back of my neck. My eyebrows rise.

  “What?”

  “No, no,” I say. “GSPOT. That’s good. Good idea. Gives our two respective governments plausible deniability.”

  “How so?”

  I purse my lips. “I mean, nobody’s gonna believe GSPOT’s a real thing.”

  Her lips curl on one side, and her eyes narrow. “Oh—it’s real all right.”

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Every revving of the Harley’s engine sends a jolt through Wang’s system. The whoosh of passing vehicles lashes his ears. Tipping lane changes flip his stomach. Twine cuts into his arms and torso every time his weight shifts; he is bound to the back of the driver, his drool-encrusted cheek mashed sideways into two hundred ninety-six pounds of rock-hard muscle and football pads. Wang equates the experience to that of being strapped to the back of a Harley Davidson-riding defensive tackle for the Green Bay Packers. This is because he is strapped to the back of a Harley Davidson-riding defensive tackle for the Green Bay Packers.

  Shmuel’s situation sucks not a dime bag less. He is stuffed into the sidecar with his knees in his ears and a rag in his mouth. His hands are tied beneath his butt. Wang keeps expecting at any minute some random driver who’s seen them on the highway will call the cops. But apparently only assholes are out.

  Wang’s hopes rise as they pull into the circle at the Manchester Grand Hyatt. The place is hopping with tourists. Maybe now someone will see them and call the cops. That’s all he wants. It won’t take much to call 911. He would. Well, maybe he wouldn’t give a shit—but surely a normal person would. That’s what it means to be normal, right? Giving a shit? And lo and behold, the first person they drive past, a businessman on his phone near the curb, with his smooth shave, sculpted hair, immaculate Windsor knot, pressed shirt, and expensive suit, looks like a card-carrying member of the Shit Givers’ Club. A bona fide contributing member to society!

  Shit Giver glances in their direction. Wang cries out.

  “Mrhn!”

  Shit Giver’s eyes widen. A cab swoops in, honks its horn. Shit Giver startles, takes another wide-eyed look at them, Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster sitting astride a Harley Davidson in full football gear, helmet, shoulder pads—the whole deal, Wang strapped to his back like an Asian Bondage fetish, Shmuel hogtied in the sidecar like he’s the First Prize at a Kentucky 4-H Fair Gay Cletus contest. Gay Cletus, the Slack-Jawed Human Man Boob.

  Shit Giver jumps inside the cab. Tires squeal as it pulls away.

  Wang’s belly twists in frustration. Asshole. Isn’t anybody going to call the cops?

  Next is a teenage girls’ soccer team disembarking from a bus. A blonde and brunette notice the extremely loud motorcycle. They gasp, point, cry out. Wang’s hopes spike.

  “Mm-rm! Rm-dm-gm-dm!” he yells into the rag stuffed in his mouth, and a little bit of drool moistens Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s brick-like back.

  “Mm-hm-rml-rmgl!” yells Shmuel from the sidecar.

  Several teenagers gawk. Some exchange side-eyes. Most, being glued to their phones, notice nothing. One girl, a skinny blonde with a long neck and uncommonly large overbite, shoots both arms diagonally up and to the right, dabbing for no apparent reason.

  “Grhm!” exclaims Wang.

  Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster slows to a crawl in front of the soccer team, the Harley’s fine-tuned sputtering engine cracking like a plumber’s pants. He lowers the kickstand, parks the bike. He climbs off, Wang stuck to his back like a Siamese Yoda.

  “Mm-rm!” yells Wang.

  The dabbing soccer girl lowers her arms. Her eyebrows rise. Her eyebrows lower. She shakes her head. Her left eyebrow twitches. Her buck teeth chew on her bottom lip. All this activity apparently complete, she shrugs, and dabs again.

  The bellhop’s eyes widen. Wang’s spirits rise. Bellhops, Wang is certain, do not rise to their station in life without being card-carrying members of the Shit Givers’ Club. Bellhops have to give a shit. They carry bags, for example, so there’s shit given right out of the gate. A person can’t carry bags to people’s rooms without giving a shit. Otherwise, bags would be delivered directly into the pool.

  Wang closes his eyes and begs to the god of bellhops. But when his eyes open, he finds Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster has turned around, leaving Wang a spectacular view of the hotel wall which, if he isn’t mistaken, is a pale shade of blue better known as Winter in Paris.

  “Ah,” says the bellhop. “Mr. Ball Buster. Good to have you back, sir.”

  “Why, thank you,” says Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster warmly. The Green Bay Packer turns to glance at his Harley, and Wang glimpses the bellhop casting a wary eye on his and Shmuel’s condition, and an even warier eye on Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster’s condition. Which is to say, heavily muscled. Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster turns back around, and now it’s just Winter in Paris again.

  “Is…ah…everything all right, Mr. Ball Buster?”

  �
�Of course,” Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster replies, turning again to check his Harley. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

  The bellhop purses his lips. His gaze moves from the Green Bay Packer to Wang, who tries to catch his eye, but, too late, the bellhop is gazing again at the Green Bay Packer.

  “Shame they cancelled the game,” says the bellhop. “I have you on my fantasy team, of course.”

  “That’s very kind of you to say,” says Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster, turning again to face the bellhop.

  “Any luggage today, sir?”

  “In fact, yes,” replies Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster. “There’s this bag and a fat stoner with moobs in the sidecar.”

  “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Moobs. Man boobs. In the sidecar.” A jolt shoots from Wang’s spine to his teeth as the Green Bay Packer hits the palm of his hand against his football helmet as if just remembering something. “Psh,” he adds, chuckling like he’s embarrassed. “I almost forgot. I’ve still got the tiny human strapped to my back, don’t I?”

  “Ah…yes, sir.”

  “I mean, that counts as luggage too, right? Is there a charge for tiny humans? Extra luggage charge, I mean?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  Wang stares at the hotel wall, and a burgeoning realization dawns on him: Winter in Paris is actually Goddamn Green. Those bastard swatch makers at Lowe’s make it look Fucking Blue. That’s why Wang’s fucking living room wall is Goddamn Green. Fuck.

  The voice of another Hyatt employee reels him back to the conversation.

  “…the hotel apologizes, and we regret any inconvenience this may have caused.”

  Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster turns and Wang spots a hotel employee hustling a nervous-looking family of four out the front door of the hotel lobby. The bellhop skips around Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster and averts his eyes from Wang. “I’ll see to the sidecar, then. Shall I?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind,” Yourmajesty Fapa’fapa-Bal’buster replies. “Just send Moobs up to my room, please.”

  The next thing he knows, Wang is bouncing in pace with the Packer’s stride to the elevator. They pass undetected through throngs of people glued to their tablets and laptops, phones, and headphones, and even one set of virtual reality goggles. Waiting at the elevator, Wang catches sight of Shmuel on a golden luggage cart, sandwiched between Gucci and Prada, hogtied and gagged, and trundling through the pack of soccer girls snapping selfies. One teenage girl notices Wang. Her eyebrows come down for a second. Wang’s hopes come up for a second. She snaps a picture and nudges her friend. She holds out the phone. They wrinkle their noses and giggle. One of them says something about Instagram, the other says something about Twitter. They shrug it away. The elevator doors close and, even though these girls are less than ten years younger than him, Wang silently curses “kids” in general for not having their priorities better in hand.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Mary takes the beach exit and follows the signs into the parking lot. The sky is clear except for the seagulls. The ocean air and beach sun are restorative.

  Mary puts it in Park. I kick the door open and swing my legs out, then remove my shoes and tie the laces so they can hang over my neck. Not waiting for her, I head out onto the beach. The sand is warm between my toes. The wind and surf is cool in my ears. My skin is swollen and dry.

  It’s going to kill me to tell Gran we’ve got to call the whole thing off. Assuming I survive this at all, at least it’ll only be six more months until Gran and Shep can have their happy ever after from the money I’ve saved. But there’s no way she can go to Pine’s Place now. Not while it’s being funded by blood money. And I sure as hell can’t move in with Mary, the lethal snipery pretend girlfriend with an actual license to kill.

  “Edger.”

  I turn around, and a seagull marches between us. Mary’s gaze tracks its meandering path as it pecks wet sand where the tide has gone out. Her skin is glowing in the sun. Her hair is golden. She looks back up at me, and her clear blue eyes reflect the glimmering ocean. She’s holding her weight to one side. Anyone watching us could easily conclude this is a girl wanting to make up after a fight. No one would easily conclude this is a girl who’s just snipered two secret agents to death.

  “I don’t think I can do this anymore, Mary.”

  Nothing.

  “Does that mean you have to kill me now?” I ask.

  “Is that how you think this works?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  “No. We’re the good guys.”

  “Then why did you kill them?”

  “For starters, they were going to kill you.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Okay, okay.” She shrugs. “Possibly they were going to kidnap you. Maybe hook you up to a machine. In which case, they’d probably torture you. Sometimes they start small by strapping you down and spitting into your open mouth. That kind of thing. Gross, but, I mean”—she shakes her head and rolls her eyes—“kind of childish. You know? But I think for you they’d have started by gouging out your eyes. Or maybe a really nasty pair of pliers to kind of pull back your nails, and then jab something in there, pointy, like a—”

  “Hey-hey-hey! Not helping!”

  “Sorry.” She takes a deep breath and releases it through her nose. “Can we sit for a sec? Just for a second, I want to tell you some things, and then I promise, if you want out, I’ll totally understand. I know this has already been more than you bargained for.”

  I sigh and nod, and then we’re nestling our butts into the warm beach and staring out across the ocean. The waves are slow and constant.

  “The reason you want out is the same reason you should be in. You should be Zarathustra. You’re a good person.”

  “Wait, you say that like someone else could be Zarathustra. Can you take the serum out of me?”

  “Well, no one knows.”

  “What do you mean, no one knows?”

  “Well, I mean, your dad would know. But after everything that’s happened to him, I don’t think he trusts us. He wouldn’t tell me, I don’t think.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “He doesn’t trust you.”

  Mary nods. “I kinda figured. Edger, don’t take this the wrong way, but…your dad…he’s…”

  I sit up straighter. “What? He’s what?”

  “Well, he’s a little paranoid.” She sits up straighter also and reaches her hand toward me before pulling it back. “I don’t mean that to be insulting. Since he left you, he’s spent twenty years as either a hostage or a fugitive. Anyone would be paranoid with a life like that.”

  I consider that for a second. I try to imagine what it would’ve been like for him, researching something like this. How many people would want it. Then I remember those two Nostradamus agents falling off the top of Qualcomm Stadium.

  “Maybe he just doesn’t like killers.”

  I immediately regret the sting in my words. Mary’s gaze goes back out to the ocean. I lean back on one elbow, grab a nearby stick, and start fiddling with it. Another seagull marches past.

  “I’ll be very sorry to lose you,” she says. “If you quit, I mean. You’ve done so much already.”

  “As far as I can tell, we’re not much further down the road at all.” I drop the stick back where I found it.

  Mary’s forehead tightens. She grabs my arm. Her touch is still electric, the good kind of electric, despite everything that’s transpired in the last hour.

  “Edger, that’s not true. You restored the power grid and fortified it against future attacks. And it’s beginning to look like you may have single-handedly defeated terrorism.”

  I frown. “Really?”

  “The gay pride parade. It’s working. It’s all over the news. I mean, it’s weird, and confusing, but a lot of these guys are just surrendering now. Coalition forces are just driving up to the parades and arresting them. They don
’t even resist. I don’t know how you pulled it off, but it’s working.”

  “Pfft. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Mary’s eyebrows lower. “Now you’re just being negative.” She tucks a band of golden hair behind her ear and peers into my eyes.

  “Negative, huh?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  I frown. “Maybe. But I’m not good at remembering my dreams. And these encounters are like that. Dreams. So, this is all pretty hazy for me. Everything kind of makes sense when I’m there, but afterward, it all seems so…I mean…outlandish.”

  She nods right away. “Oh, yeah. I can totally see that.”

  I close my eyes and try to remember. Images float through my mind’s eye. A tower. A tree. A wise old man. My eyes pop open.

  “I’m seeing the archetypes!”

  Mary frowns. I scramble upright, kicking sand everywhere in the process. Mary dusts herself off and sits up also.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But when I close my eyes I see the archetypes now. That didn’t use to happen.” She blinks in confusion, and I hasten to explain. “The Tree of Life. The Dark Tower. The Wise Old Man.” I pause and bite my lip. “But that’s weird. Usually I just talk to Bruce Lee.”

  “Edger… Okay, you’re not making any sense.”

  I close my eyes.

  Bruce Lee? Are you there?

  Nothing.

  Concentrate.

  Hattori Hanzo—Lieutenant Killmaster! Anyone? Hello? Can you hear me?

  Nothing.

  “Edger, are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

  My eyes pop open. A cloud passes over us, washing out Mary’s radiant color.

  “Edger, what is it?”

  “They’re gone. They’re all gone.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Mary shakes my arm again. “Gone? Who’s gone? What are you talking about?”

  I scramble to my feet and dust the sand off my butt, then march back toward the Jag. Mary chases after me.