The Edger Collection

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The Edger Collection Page 42

by David Beem


  No turn on red.

  He considers making the turn anyway but dismisses it. It would be legal irony to commit a traffic violation in order to write a citation for another traffic violation. Cop-think like that is what leads to anarchy.

  Danny queues in the self-checkout lane. The large man he is tailing is one lane over with four customers in front of him. In front of Danny is an elderly woman in horn-rimmed glasses. She’s examining a piece of produce that looks like a cross between a red bell pepper and a baby triceratops.

  “Okay,” the old lady mutters. “Maybe it’s under fruit?” She punches the keypad.

  Danny rolls his eyes.

  One lane over, a customer happily completes her transaction.

  “Here it is,” says the old lady, punching in a code. “One dragon fruit.” She places the item in a bag and scans the next: three half-gallon bottles of Everclear. The register dings. A red light comes on.

  Danny shifts his feet and checks his watch. One lane over, the large man he’s tailing now has two customers in front of him. Impatience twists in Danny’s stomach. The little old lady adjusts her glasses and squints at the keypad.

  “ID required,” she mutters. “Oh.” She roots in her purse and pulls out her pocketbook. She scans her driver’s license. Nothing happens.

  “Hey, lady,” says Danny. “They gotta punch it in for you.”

  She faces him, her large eyes blinking with owlish deliberateness. “I can punch it myself, thank you very much,” she says in a frosty tone. Then, without looking, she punches her license into the scanner. She turns back to face it and frowns when nothing happens.

  Danny tips his head back. “Kill me now.”

  In Leo’s opinion, the main problem with this Officer Ferrell person is he is blocking the view of the A-Team van and the candy apple red Mustang which has just pulled up.

  “Sir?” says the cop. “You seem agitated.”

  “Ah, ahem,” Leo replies, coughing into his hand. “No. Sorry. Um. Can we hurry this up?”

  Officer Ferrell turns to track Leo’s gaze. His head tilts. “Whoa. Now there’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “What’s that?” asks Leo.

  “Well, look,” says Officer Ferrell, tipping his cap brim up with a knuckle. “That’s a 1983 GMC Vandura. An exact replica of the van they used in the seminal eighties television classic. Don’t tell me you don’t know the A-Team.”

  “Huh. Well, what do you know?” asks Leo. “Can I have my ticket now?”

  “May I see your ID?”

  Danny’s spirits rise. A millennial Target worker with a neckbeard and a beanie scans the little old lady’s license, keys in the code, and vanishes so fast, Danny can’t be sure it wasn’t teleportation.

  One lane over, another customer happily completes her transaction.

  “Screw this,” says Danny, hopping lines to stand behind the man he’s tailing. At the other line, the little old lady scans a coupon. Danny sets his groceries down in the prescanning area.

  “Eh,” says the large man in front of him, eyeing the old lady and smirking. “Some luck.”

  Danny grins. “You ain’t kiddin’, pal.”

  The old lady’s register dings and the red light turns on again. Ahead of Danny, the large man finishes his transaction, scoops up his plastic bag and, with a final parting smirk for Danny, leaves. Danny expels a rueful burst of air through his nose. He shakes his head. He shifts his items forward—and Neck Beard flashes past like lightning, flipping the switch on the register as he speeds to the old lady’s aid.

  A receipt skitters across the ground like a tumbleweed. A pack of lifesavers drops out of an overstuffed display box. Danny blinks, looks up. His green light is off. His touchscreen is dark. That bastard closed his register!

  “I’m trying to swipe my coupon,” the old lady is saying.

  “Hey,” says Danny.

  “I see the problem,” says Neck Beard, examining the old lady’s coupon.

  “I said, hey,” Danny repeats.

  “Please, sir,” Neck Beard replies. “You are not the only customer here.” Facing the little old lady, he says, “This coupon is for Aveeno: Positively Radiant Brightening Facial Cleanser.”

  “That’s not what I have?”

  “No, ma’am. You have Aveeno: Positively Radiant Brightening Facial Cleanser with Soy.”

  “They’re not the same?”

  “Well, ma’am, one has soy.”

  “And what does that do?”

  “Well, ma’am, the soy isoflavones brighten the skin, boost collagen production, and decrease redness.”

  “But does it improve skin tone?”

  Neck Beard considers this before replying. “I believe, in night creams, soy-derived ingredients used as genistein, the moisturizers will—”

  “Oh, hell no.” Danny whips out his Glock, his blood pumping for a fight. He jacks the slide and fires a round into the air. Neck Beard and the old lady cringe in a mixture of astonishment and terror. Danny inventories his surroundings, but other than Neck Beard and the old lady, there’s not a soul in sight.

  “Good,” he says, brandishing his firearm. “Now. It would appear I need some goddamn non-soy-like assistance over here.”

  With trembling palms raised, Neck Beard inches over to Danny’s register. He flicks the switch, punches in a code, snatches his hand away, cringes.

  “Good.” Danny tilts his head to indicate the box of pain relievers and two energy drinks. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I wonder if you’d mind ringing me up, as long as you’re here.”

  Neck Beard hastily scans the items.

  “Good.” Danny opens his wallet. “Oh dear. Now will you look at this?” He removes a one-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet. “This may be larger than the machine will take. I may require further assistance.” Turning his gun on Neck Beard, he asks, “Do you have anywhere else you need to be right now?”

  Hands quivering, Neck Beard shakes his head.

  “Good.” Danny thrusts the hundred-dollar bill forward. Neck Beard feeds it into the machine. He juts his bearded chin forward and swallows. The little old lady blinks saucer-sized eyes. Danny scans left, right, and behind, but no one has come in response to the shot.

  Must be my lucky day.

  “Perhaps you could bag these items while we wait,” he says, striking a hearty, positive tone, and indicating the groceries with his gun.

  Neck Beard nods, places his items in the bag.

  “Thank you,” says Danny. “Good help is hard to find these days. But I can see you”—he points with the barrel of his gun—“are good help.”

  The machine spits out his change. Neck Beard slumps in relief. Danny counts his change, then stuffs it in his wallet and holsters his gun. Displaying his best eat-shit-and-die smile, he eyes the old lady and Neck Beard in turn. “Have a nice day.”

  Danny stomps off and, from behind, the little old lady asks, “Wasn’t I ahead of him?”

  “Sir!” calls Neck Beard.

  Danny stops, looks back.

  “That Fast Acting Original Strength Percogesic for Enhanced Relief of Pain is buy one, get one free.”

  Danny gives him the finger before storming out.

  Officer Ferrell is ten feet from the A-Team van where a large severe-faced man is holding a bag of groceries. Inside the open van door is an unmistakable face. Ferrell’s stomach plummets as he rests his hand on the Glock.

  “Vait a minute!” shouts the man with groceries. “Don’t shoot! That not who you dink! That harmless…how you say…look-alike?”

  Ferrell frowns. Using his free hand, he keys the police radio microphone clipped to his collar. But before he can call for backup, a female voice speaks from behind him.

  “Vhat?” she says, her tone dripping with annoyance. “Vhat now, Vlad?”

  Ferrell whips around, his heart hammering. The woman is attractive, with beet-red hair, midtwenties. She’s in a Pussy Riot tee, ripped-up tight-fitting jeans, high b
oots.

  “Pussy Riot?” says the how-you-say-look-alike, palms flipping upward and his face crumpling like her fashion sense is a personal affront. “Olga. How could you?”

  “I don’t come to your office to vatch you vork,” says Olga, shrugging. “Vhy you come to mine?”

  “You two know each other?” asks Officer Ferrell, hand still resting on his Glock.

  “Okay, long story,” says how-you-say-look-alike. “Vee do short version. Vee getting married today.”

  “Vhat?!” shrieks Olga. “Vee are not getting married.”

  “Dey are getting married,” says the big guy with the bag of groceries, nodding with confidence.

  Officer Ferrell frowns and thinks. “That’s why you’re at the Super Target in an A-Team van with a Putin look-alike?”

  The big guy with the groceries shrugs uncomfortably. “It sounds veird vhen you put eet like dat, but…vell, yeah.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Ferrell.

  “Vee are not getting married,” says Olga. “Dis man stalker. He stalk me. I file charges.”

  “Zvyozdochka moya,” says the look-alike, his forehead creasing in a pained expression.

  “Don’t you zvyozdochka moya me,” warns Olga.

  “Zing is, ohffizer,” says the man with the groceries, “vee really can’t stay and get involved in…how you say…whole big deal. Vee must get ready for vedding. Vee must leave right now, okay?”

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that,” said Ferrell.

  “Vhy not?” says Olga. “Vhat right have you keep us here?”

  Ferrell beams at the Putin look-alike. “Because with a Putin look-alike this good, I’m gonna need a selfie!”

  The four smile and gather for the picture. So focused are they on framing the shot, not one of them notices Leo sneak around the rear of the van, open the driver’s side door, and climb inside. What they do notice is the squealing tires as Leo steals the van and speeds away.

  “Get the fuck in, get the fuck in, get the fuck in!” yells Leo, screeching to a stop at the front door of the Super Target.

  Danny spots a cluster of people standing near the candy apple red Mustang—one of them a cop—races around to the passenger seat, throws the door open, and leaps inside.

  “The fuck?!” he yells, fighting with the seat belt.

  Leo floors it before he can shut the door. A moment later, he’s buckled in. He pulls the door shut.

  “What the hell took you so long?” asks Leo, swerving to miss an oncoming car before moving into the correct lane.

  “Did I see a cop?” he asks.

  “Forget about him. I let the air out of his tires. We’ve got goddamn commies! Fucking Vladimir Putin!”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Somebody say Vladimir Putin?” asks a third person.

  Danny and Leo startle as a short, bearded Mexican crawls out from behind a box of whip cream cans.

  “You’re not fucking Johnny Gemini!” yells Danny.

  “First of all, I’m straight,” replies the Mexican. “Second, I’m not having sex with anybody. It’s kind of a lifelong problem.”

  “Would you two shut up for a goddamn second!” yells Leo. “We’ve got bigger problems. I shit you not, Vladimir Putin is on US soil!”

  “Wait—who’re you guys?” asks the Mexican. Danny spouts the first lie that comes to mind.

  “CIA.”

  Leo’s gaze whips to meet his, then whips back to the road.

  “We’re fucking CIA, okay? And that was goddamn Vladimir Putin.”

  “Oh,” says the Mexican. “In that case, Fabio Jimenez, reporting for duty, sir.” Fabio salutes. “Eager to serve my country.”

  “Okay, Private Jimenez,” says Danny. “You can start by telling us where we can find Johnny Gemini.”

  “Johnny? Why’s the CIA interested in Johnny?”

  “Top-secret CIA stuff.”

  “Oh. Okay,” says Fabio. “I think we make a left up here.”

  Back at what’s left of the farmhouse, tires skid to a stop, kicking up dirt and gravel some fifty yards out. Where the house had been is now a raging bonfire. Six figures are silhouetted in the firelight.

  “What happened here?” asks Danny.

  Fabio slides the side door open and hops out.

  “Is everyone okay?” he asks.

  “Screw that,” says Leo, coming up from behind him and waving everyone to the van. “We got commies, people! Injuries can wait!”

  “Commies?” asks Johnny Gemini, already hastening to the van, his stupid cameraman following closely behind and filming everything.

  “A little too much confidence on that line, Johnny,” says the cameraman. “Give it to me again, but this time, I want you to dig down deep for your motive. Okay? All right, everyone: pick it up from ‘We got commies, people! Injuries can wait’!”

  “What. The fuck?” asks Leo.

  “Wrong line,” says the cameraman. “Jesus. You had one job.”

  “Derp. Commies?” says Johnny.

  “Perfect!” says the cameraman. “We’ll fix dipshit here in post.”

  “Come on!” yells Danny, shooing them onward.

  “Who’re these guys?” asks a fat stoner.

  “We’ll explain on the way,” replies Fabio.

  Everyone finally situated inside the van, Leo takes the wheel. They speed away into the night.

  CHAPTER Twenty

  The phone is ringing.

  I shift, roll over.

  “Hey,” says a woman’s voice. I sigh and pull the pillow over my head. A butt pushes into my knee. My weight redistributes as the bed shifts under someone’s additional weight. No—not a bed. This is the couch. I must’ve fallen asleep on the couch.

  “Mm-hmm,” says Mary, pushing into me to make more room for her to sit. “Okay. Got it. Thanks.”

  I crack an eye open. Mary’s staring off into our dark hotel suite. I sit up.

  “That was Caleb,” she says. “Our plan worked. Press is saying the prime minister isn’t going to mass. Only problem is, according to Caleb, neither is the bishop.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t get it.”

  “They made sure the visiting bishop got food poisoning. The real Cain Shillelaugh won’t be in any shape to deliver his sermon.” She shrugs. “Alex doesn’t care if we show up or not. As far as she’s concerned, the whole operation is off.”

  “But I don’t understand. What about Kasabian?”

  “Didn’t you hear me? Prime Minister Watson released his itinerary to the press. He isn’t going to mass. It follows neither is the assassin.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five thirty.”

  Hello? Are we awake, then? asks Nigel.

  “Oh, man.” I rub my eyes. They won’t come into focus. Mary strokes my arm.

  “Go back to sleep. This doesn’t change anything. You’re still off the hook for the sermon.”

  “But they won’t have a sermon. I mean, the church people.”

  “I’m sure someone else can give the sermon.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t they have backup priests?”

  I shake my head, finally coming fully awake. “Mary. We messed this up. Alex, Caleb—one of them—poisoned the church people’s bishop.”

  “Stop calling them the church people.”

  “We poisoned their bishop!”

  She pats my arm. “It was a mild poison. He’ll be fine. Go back to sleep.”

  “No, Mary, you listen to me. Maybe in the spy world, people poisoning and drugging each other all the time is perfectly normal. Or maybe that’s the real world and I’m just figuring it out. But if it were up to me to remake the world, I’d remake it with a thing called accountability. We caused this problem. What kind of a superhero team are we if we don’t fix it?”

  Her eyebrows raise. “You want to give the sermon?”

  “I don’t want to give the sermon.”

  Oh dear, says Nigel. You’re going to make
me do it, aren’t you?

  “Well, I’m not doing it,” says Mary. “Nobody’s going to mistake me for Bishop Cain Shillelaugh.”

  “Okay, forget about the sermon for a second. If there’s even the slightest chance Kasabian is going to be there, shouldn’t we be there too?”

  Mary folds her arms and rolls her eyes. “I’m not giving that sermon.”

  Oh, bloody hell, says Nigel.

  I’m tightening my Windsor knot when the phone rings a second time. Crap—Alex. I tiptoe to my door and crack it open. On the opposite side of the suite, Mary’s door is shut. I inch my door shut before accepting the call.

  “Hey.”

  “Update,” Alex replies.

  So, we’ll just skip the pleasantries, then, shall we? says Nigel, as I hurry through my report, my heart thundering at the idea of Mary catching me red-handed. But by the end of our call, Alex’s orders for my evening side mission with the prime minister are simple. First: “Don’t screw up. Washington’s breathing down our neck.” Second: I’m to wear a wire and earpiece while Alex monitors from the van. That way, anything Nigel doesn’t think to ask, Alex can ask through my earpiece. If I get into any trouble, she’ll come running. What could possibly go wrong?

  “I can think of a few things that could go wrong,” I say.

  “Just be ready,” Alex replies.

  “But wait—how am I supposed to sneak out without Mary hearing me?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  The line goes dead.

  CHAPTER Twenty-one

  The Cathedral of St. Patrick bell choir is playing as Mary and I sneak into the church office, her in a breezy summer dress, me in a frock. She gives me a peck on the cheek.

  “For luck.”

  She squeezes my hand and then hurries down the hallway.

  There’s a door with a tiny round window marked SANCTUARY. I tiptoe over to it and peek through. My stomach plunges.

  At the far side of the bell choir is the unmistakable ugly face of Grunka Kasabian. He’s in a red robe, his head bobbing against the beat. His panicked eyes find the music director. But the music director’s attention is on a boy soprano soloist. Kasabian reaches under the table. Not watching what he’s doing, he pulls out an Uzi, tries to ring it, realizes it isn’t a bell, and hurries to stow it again beneath the table. He grabs his actual bell and rings it—late. The music director scowls.

 

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