Convent

by Sam Clemens

  “Our building?” Cosmo asked.

  “So it says his name on some papers somewhere,” Laird said with a wave of his hand. “Who cares? You had a religious revival under that roof. Now that is taking ownership.”

  In fact, the building belonged to neither of them. The commercial space that housed Copper Mine Subs was owned by a real estate investment firm called Proper Property Equity, LLC, and leased to Mr. Abbot Phillips on a multi-year basis. The boys learned this via an internet search on Cosmo’s laptop, after which Laird became extremely calm.

  “Perfect,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  Cosmo looked at him.

  Laird spoke again: “Before you start raising potential problems, just give me a shot to handle this. I have a plan.”

  “And that plan is?”

  “You can’t know the plan,” Laird said. “That’s how being your hatchet man works; I do your dirty work while keeping you insulated from said work. It’s my way of protecting you.”

  “Dirty wor—”

  “Let. Me. Be. Your. Hatchet. Man.” Laird gently placed a hand on the side of Cosmo’s head. “Every good leader needs one. It’s my job as your lieutenant.”

  Cosmo opened his mouth to speak, but Laird put a finger over it.

  “I’ll hear none of it,” Laird said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  He’d always wanted to be a hatchet man, Laird. For as long as he could remember, he’d admired the famous ones, both real and fictional—Chuck Colson, Doug Stamper, even that puffy New York lawyer who’d paid off the porn stars that President Trump bedded, before he’d gone soft and testified. There was a subtle grace in the way they handled their craft; doing the hard work, the necessary work, in pursuit of some greater good. It took balls to get your hands dirty. Laird had balls, he was sure of it.

  His first call was to Jordan, the imposing ex-coworker to whom he owed a sizable gambling debt. Laird simply told him he had his money, and if Jordan wanted it, he was to meet him at Valmont and 55th, by the train tracks.

  Laird showed up forty-five minutes early, like he’d learned on the shows, to scope the place out. He walked the grounds—train tracks, an abandoned brick house, and a bunch of empty-looking industrial buildings—to get a feel for the space. Knowledge was power, he reminded himself, and Laird wanted to be sure to have a lay of the land in case things went south. He made a large circle and ended up back where he started. Then he spent the remaining forty-two minutes looking at his phone.

  Jordan showed up on time. He parked his Chrysler and walked toward Laird, who was leaning on what remained of a wooden fence. Jordan wore a leather coat, like some mobster. Boy, Laird thought, who does this guy think he is?

  Before words were exchanged, Laird held out an unmarked envelope and looked away. “It’s all there,” he said. “Three sixty-five.”

  Jordan snatched the envelope and rifled through it. He looked up at Laird. “And interest?”

  Laird gave him a look. “Jordan, come on.”

  “Whatever.” He turned back toward his car. “That’s the last time I take a bet from you, okay?”

  “There’s one more thing,” Laird said, holding a second unmarked envelope. The big man stopped and looked at it.

  Laird held it out like an offering plate. “I need a job done,” he said.

  Jordan nodded at the parcel. “How much is in there?”

  “Enough. Listen, Jordan, I know you aren’t a big fan of mine, but I need a bit of a favor.”

  “Favor’s don’t come with price tags.”

  “You’re right,” Laird said. “Okay. There’s seven hundred bucks here. You think that’d be enough for one of your P.I. guys to do a little recon?”

  Jordan was, for all practical purposes, a bookie. He made far more in illicit gambling cash than he did at his day job, but he kept the REI gig so he’d have something to tell the IRS. This was why he only worked three days a week. Laird knew Jordan didn’t personally perform the services he was asking about, but a man of his ilk had friends in the underworld. The line of work necessitated it.

  The big man’s ears perked at the mention of the money. “You’re correct,” Jordan said, sauntering back to Laird, “that I don’t like you.”

  “So let’s call it a business transaction.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Just information. It should be really easy. There’s this guy Abbot Phillips. He owns Copper Mine Subs in town here. I need dirt on him, everything there is.”

  Jordan nodded. “You could get that without going through me.”

  “Yeah,” Laird said, “but this way I figure we both win. I give you this envelope of cash, you figure out how to distribute it.” His voice raised in pitch. “Maybe take a little off the top for yourself. Maybe that patches things up between you and me.” Laird held the envelope closer to Jordan, daring him to take it.

  Jordan snatched it out of his hand. He rifled through the cash and saw that it was all there.

  “Cash transaction,” Laird said. “Off the books. It all stays between us.”

  “Yeah,” Jordan said. “Yeah, okay. We can get that done.”

  Cash. The great equalizer.

  Laird gave him a handwritten piece of paper with Abbot Phillips’ information. Jordan told him it would take a week. They shook hands.

  “And one more thing,” Laird said.

  “One more?”

  Laird paused. “I need to put fifty on Georgia Warhorse in the Belmont.”

  Jordan scoffed and walked away. “I said no more bets from you. This doesn’t change that.”

  “Jordan!” Laird pleaded. “Come on, man. This pony can’t lose!” But the bookie was already unlocking his car to go.

  Over the phone, Laird informed Cosmo that the plan would take a week, though he still wouldn’t reveal the nature of his workings. He recommended they cancel the upcoming meetings until the problem was resolved.

  “Once we get this sorted out, we’ll be able to meet every night if we feel like it,” Laird said.

  Cosmo agreed to disseminate the message to Retha and Roy. He’d have them tell the group he was on a spiritual walkabout in the hills.

  “Also,” Laird said, “we’ve exhausted the last of the petty cash.”

  Cosmo paused. “You mean you did.”

  “You gotta trust me here, Coz, as your lieutenant. You need to spend money to make money.”

  “You blew fifteen hundred bucks on some pamphlets and your secret scheme?” Cosmo said, his speech getting faster and thick with consternation.

  “That’s the gist of it, yes. Pamphlets are still on hold but have been paid for.”

  Cosmo blew air through his lips. “And where in the hell did you spend the rest of it?”

  Laird shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “Just give it a week. If this doesn’t work, I’ll never touch the money again. I promise.”

  Twelve

  Six days later, Jordan met Laird at the same railroad hideout. He came carrying a manila envelope.

  “I think you’ll be happy,” he said, handing the information over.

  Laird looked at the envelope. “What’d he find?”

  “Just read it. I gotta go.” Jordan’s car was running.

  “Hey Jordan,” Laird said, holding a hand out in front of him. “Are we cool, man?”

  Jordan held a long look at him. Begrudgingly, he nodded. “Yeah, we’re cool.”

  Laird took another step forward. Quieter now, carefully, he asked, “Did you, uh—you didn’t make that bet for me on the Belmont, did you?”

  Jordan laughed, then. A deep, reverberating laugh from his belly. “No, I didn’t. You’re fucking welcome.”

  Georgia Warhorse had come in ninth place in the Belmont Stakes.

  Laird whistled as he walked to Copper Mine Subs. The sky was overcast and his bank account was overdrawn by seventeen dollars, but his spirits were high.
It was just before 9:30 a.m. when he strolled through the alley and approached the rear access door. He checked his phone and waited by the dumpster, just out of view of the security camera.

  True to form, Abbot Phillips pulled into the parking lot at 9:30 on the nuts. He parked his Lexus along the back fence and got out. The lights flashed when he hit the lock button.

  Laird’s own recon told him when Phillips would arrive—it was the same time every Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. The packet he got from Jordan confirmed it; 9:30, four days a week. He leaned on the dumpster and waited, arms crossed, as the man meandered toward him.

  “Can I help you?” Abbot Phillips said, characteristically annoyed. He sized Laird up and looked past him.

  “No,” Laird said, “but I can help you, if this all goes smoothly.” He was proud of the line.

  Abbot Phillips stopped. His polo sleeves were slightly shorter today, and the hard tan lines were distressingly visible. “Listen, son, I don’t know who you’re looking fo—”

  “We know about the sex club in Aurora,” Laird said. His arms remained crossed.

  Abbot Phillips’ face changed; it softened at first, absorbing the obvious blow, then quickly his eyes narrowed in an attempt to cover his emotions. Too late, Laird thought. Got him.

  “I don’t know what yer talking about,” Phillips said, but he didn’t move.

  Laird reached into the envelope—a touch dramatically—and removed three glossy photos. The photos appeared to be taken from security cameras, and they showed a man of striking resemblance to Abbot Phillips naked on all fours, with what looked to be an old-fashioned ball gag in his mouth. A masked woman next to him held a pink feather duster and, it was clear from the progression of the three images, used it to titillate the rectum of one Mr. Phillips.

  “Now, I can’t be positive,” Laird said, “but I’m guessing that woman isn’t Laura.”

  Abbot Phillips turned red at the mention of his wife, and the sight of the photos. He became indignant. “Fuck you,” he seethed, his lower lip quivering just a bit. “That ain’t me and you can’t prove it is.”

  “It’s not for me to prove,” Laird said. “It’s up to Laura to decide. And, I suppose, the Boulder Chamber. You’re the vice president, yes? And oh, I don’t know, your landlord, Proper Property Equity?”

  Abbot Phillips’ face turned redder, taking a shade of burnt auburn. He looked at the pictures again and, after a second passed, lunged for them with ferocity. Laird stepped to the side and released the photos into Phillips’ hands.

  “Oh, they’re yours,” he said. “A gift from me. I have plenty of copies. Come on, Mr. Phillips, you know how this works.”

  Phillips’ gritted his teeth. He coughed then—an awkward, sputtering cough, as if his engine was malfunctioning. It was a lot to take in. “Alright,” he said, “what is it?”

  Laird raised his eyebrows. “It’s a picture of you in a dominatrix club, being anally stimulated by—”

  “No!” Phillips yelled. “What is it you want?”

  “Ah,” Laird said. “Yes, of course. Mr. Phillips, you’re in luck. I don’t want any money from you. In fact, I don’t want you to do anything.”

  Phillips’ face relaxed a bit and lost a degree of redness, back to a manageable hue of candy apple.

  “What I want you to do is nothing, Mr. Phillips,” Laird said. “Absolutely nothing. If you see anything suspicious happening in your store—” he motioned with his head to the building behind him, “—you do nothing, you say nothing. You act like you didn’t see it. You see anyone in here after hours on the security cameras? Not a fucking peep. Not to your wife, not to anyone. I don’t want you to even think about it, you understand?”

  Abbot Phillips looked at him, then back to the photos.

  “You do that, we can forget about all of this,” Laird said. “You don’t, and a copy of these gets mailed straight to every member of the Boulder Chamber leadership, your landlord, and, of course, your wife. Do you understand?”

  Phillips stared at the photos and said nothing.

  “Hey!” Laird snapped his fingers. “Abbot. We clear?”

  “Yeah,” Abbot Phillips said, nodding slowly. He creased the photos and placed them in his front pocket, then pushed past Laird and went through the back door.

  Thirteen

  Immediately following his meeting with Abbot Phillips, Laird strode the half mile to Cosmo’s apartment. As usual, the door was unlocked. He entered and sprawled out on the buffalo-sauce-stained couch.

  Cosmo was microwaving his breakfast. He watched Laird from the kitchen. “Oh hi,” he said. “No, Laird, it’s fine. Come right in.”

  Laird stretched his arms above him and smiled. “Cosmo, our little problem with Copper Mine Subs has been resolved. Allow me to be the first to say you’re welcome.”

  Cosmo Hendricks walked to the living room. He wore sweatpants and a Spaceballs t-shirt. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I just had a very productive meeting with Abbot Phillips. He’s agreed to stand down.”

  “How?” Cosmo said. He stood perplexed; he didn’t think his friend was an idiot, but he certainly hadn’t had faith in him to solve complex issues involving illegal, after-hours meetings at private businesses. He’d given Laird the week to work on the problem out of courtesy, and had assumed whatever scheme he’d been running would collapse spectacularly, as most of Laird’s did. Then they’d find another meeting place or disband the experiment altogether, and go back to being hourly nobodies.

  Laird motioned to an envelope on the coffee table, identical to the one he’d given Abbot Phillips. “Check it out.”

  Cosmo sat down and opened the envelope carefully, as if it might contain a bomb. The pictures inside were copies of the others.

  “Fuck,” Cosmo said, and curled his lip at the image.

  Laird put his hands behind his head and watched.

  “I thought you weren’t gonna tell me what you were doing,” Cosmo said.

  “Just this one time.” Laird leaned forward. “To prove my worth. Nobody got hurt and we got what we needed. Just some old-fashioned dirt.” He motioned aggressively to the photos. “You believe this guy? What a freak!”

  Cosmo looked through the pictures a second time. “Laird, your worth has been proven.”

  Laird let the satisfaction wash over him. “We have a meeting tonight,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  He nodded. “I called Roy on the way over. Told him to put out the bat signal. You’ve returned from your nature walk.”

  Cosmo stood up. “Jeez,” he said, “you could give me a little more notice.”

  “You’re broke, and so am I,” Laird said. “So is the cult. We need to get those donations going.” He stood and repackaged the pictures. “I’m going to have the pamphlets printed today, hopefully send them out tomorrow. You have something ready to say tonight. These people need to be inspired when we pass the hat.”

  The group had already grown by two individuals; an older man with gray stubble in a dark beret, and a woman who wore a braided ponytail beneath a blue and white baseball cap. Both looked well-postured and prosperous, and Cosmo Hendricks had no idea where they came from.

  When Roy opened the Copper Mine back door for them to enter, Laird preceded the leader and gave him an introduction of sorts.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the group seated in a semi-circle. “Fellow followers. It’s my pleasure to welcome our leader back from his recent spiritual journey. Brother Cosmo has grown exponentially the past few weeks, and I know he’s excited to share the revelations he received while in the wilderness.” He motioned toward the back door. “Without further ado, I give you: the emancipator.”

  Shit, Cosmo thought. Could you set the bar higher, dude?

  He entered the sub shop to hearty applause and felt uncomfortable; even with Laird’s deft blackmailing, Cosmo was afraid the ornery business owner would show up and have them arrested, and this fear sat
lodged in the back of his mind. It was a dismay he’d carried since childhood—that something would always go wrong, no matter how safe things seemed. But he stepped up to face his people and there was no sign of Abbot Phillips.

  “Good evening,” Cosmo said, focusing on keeping his words sharp. They had pregamed at the bar again. “It is my serene pleasure to be with all of you tonight.”

  “The pleasure is ours,” responded about half the members of the crowd, in disjointed chorus.

  Cosmo stopped. He looked to Laird, who gave a wide-eyed shrug.

  “Anyway,” Cosmo continued, “I see some new faces here tonight. May I be the first to welcome you to the bold new direction. You are on the ground floor of something special.” He lifted his palms toward the new man and woman. “Welcome to the cause.”

  The fresh recruits smiled and fidgeted in their chairs. Original members looked on. In the corner, Cosmo saw Retha bring a bag of Lays to Laird, who thanked her and focused on opening the bag as quietly as possible.

  “Now,” Cosmo said, projecting a smile. “I need to thank all of the members—every member—for your understanding last week. As you well know, when the spirit calls, I must answer. And so often, the spirit doesn’t follow a reasonable schedule!”

  The crowd laughed at the joke and nodded along.

  “So I apologize for my absence, but as brother Laird said, I am elated to return with more wisdom than ever, and very excited to share these insights with all of you in due time.” Cosmo paced the green and white checkered tile floor. He wore a plain black t-shirt tonight, which contained holes that Laird had carefully helped him rip; the outfit choices were proving a challenge, and both the men agreed this was something an underground spiritual leader might wear.

  He continued. “But for now, let me share one small thing.” The crowd leaned in to receive the wisdom. The leader paused, and in the space between speech, the only sounds came from the soda machine’s buzz and Laird’s discreet munching of potato chips. Cosmo looked down as he paced. “Cosmography is about the journey,” he said. “And none of us take the journey alone; rather, the journey happens together, and it’s only through the fellowship of our brothers and sisters that we can progress closer to the maker, and find salvation. And so I realized.” He stopped and addressed the group. “When I was out there in those hills, though I was technically by myself, I wasn’t alone.” He lifted his hands above his head and spoke quietly. “No, you were all there with me. And in the same way, wherever you are in your day to day lives, I’m right there with you. Always.”