The Death of Israel Leventhal

by Boom Baumgartner

  Izzy didn't answer. He scooped in another shovelful of dirt, and turned to get another shovelful.

  "I think I'm going to take a job with Johnson," George continued.

  "Get her to pay you up front, then."

  "Thanks, mate," George said sarcastically, because he had been doing this longer than Izzy had. Of course he knew that.

  "You've got fake passport and everything?"

  "Does this look like it's my first job? Of course I've got a burner."

  The scratching sound of shovels in dirt punctuated their words, and George started breathing heavily again with exertion. He hated these jobs. They kept him awake with existential crises, and demanded far too much physical labor.

  "I'm not going to be taking any jobs for a while," Izzy said finally.

  "Right."

  They didn't say anything else, and when the last shovelful went in, they tamped the dirt down.

  "Rose?" Izzy asked as George grabbed the shovels.

  "Yeah?"

  "You going to sleep all right tonight?"

  George swallowed hard as he regarded Izzy, but the other man did not meet his gaze. "I got some Nyquil back at the hotel."

  Izzy ducked his head, and scuffed his shoe on the dirt. "All right."

  They shook hands over the tombstone of Amanda Long and went their separate ways, but not before George called out, "Let me know if you need me for another job, mate!"

  Izzy stopped, and then he nodded slowly. It was too dark to see his expression.

  Chapter Three

  George didn't need a passport for the Johnson job, though he would have preferred it if that were the case. Anywhere in the world was better than being in Elizabeth, New Jersey, and he used to have to visit his cousins in Bradford for entire summers. Bradford, for God's sake, the city whose only claim to fame was wool and crime. Or maybe now it was just crime, and wool was a distant memory.

  Elizabeth was the first place George had ever gotten into a car accident. He had to slip the owner three hundred dollars for a ding on the bumper because he would be damned if he going to let the sniveling teenager call the cops. The last thing he wanted to do was burn a perfectly good identity on a fender bender at a toll booth, which was something else George hated. It was like being in the void, where creation and destruction vied against one another to birth the lane-less chaos of the New Jersey Turnpike.

  The whole incident left a nasty taste in George's mouth whenever he thought about it, and as long as he was in Elizabeth, he was always going to think about it.

  The city was also just dirty. A week ago, he had been digging up a rotting corpse, but it had nothing on the streets of Elizabeth. Or this shitty hotel room that made George pay for parking. It wasn't enough that he was paying an exorbitant fee for the most banal hotel he'd ever stayed in, but he had to pay to park there, too? Royal Crown Hotel, his arse. Royalty didn't pay for parking.

  The duvet covers scratched at his skin, and the window's only view was of a train station made from rusting, corrugated steel. George couldn't get out fast enough, which was strange because he was lying on the uncomfortable duvet covers not doing the job at all.

  Johnson hadn't paid him, and he was damned if he was going to get the information and let Johnson whittle the price down afterward. Frankly, Johnson was one temper tantrum with the wrong gravedigger away from a bullet in the head. It was a wonder she had survived so long, what with the way she wheeled and dealed, but it was a testament to her skills. She always knew when a gravedigger was down on his luck and would take anything. Or, in George's case, Johnson always knew when he was bored, in-between jobs and didn't really need the money anyway. George was just there with his arse in the air begging to be screwed, and Johnson always seemed to know it.

  But George had time, so he figured he'd play the game.

  That was why he sat on this scratchy duvet, ignoring the view of the city outside his window in favor of The Weather Channel. Maybe a freak tornado would take the city out, he hoped.

  Sighing, George grabbed his mobile, his finger moving to Izzy's name.

  Bored, he typed.

  He waited a few minutes, and tossed the phone on the bed when Izzy didn't reply. He wasn't surprised. Izzy was on radio silence these days. He did that. Sometimes it was because he just wanted to sleep a few solid days, other times it was because he didn't want anyone to know he took a job. George snatched the mobile up again, and punched in Really bored.

  Again, no reply.

  At about the fifth time, George watched the five-day forecast (rain every day, though George thought it should have been grey with a 90% chance of vomit on the train because there was never a day he had taken that train when someone wasn't drunk on it), there was a knock at the door. He clicked the safety off his gun and moved to the threshold, pressing his feet softly into the polyester carpet.

  Through the peephole, he saw the familiar face of a stout Canadian who fit all the stereotypes, from his ubiquitous flannel shirts, to the Leatherman he always kept in his pocket. He even had a square jaw and scruffy beard. George was not surprised to see another gravedigger, but he was surprised that it was Kelly Bolduc.

  "Come on, George. I know you're in there. Open up." Kelly's hands were raised, the shirt cuffs looped tightly against his bulky wrists.

  With his eye on the peephole, George undid the locks and opened it. He kept his gun pointed but let Kelly in. Kelly didn't move.

  "Hello, Kelly," drawled George. "What brings you from the wintry north?"

  Kelly grunted, but his accent was still unmistakably Albertan when he spoke. Maybe Manitoban. Izzy would know. George never really cared to check. "I haven't lived in Canada for years, Rose."

  George already knew that, but he grinned anyway. "What brings you to Shithole, New Jersey, then?"

  "The Johnson job."

  George crossed his arms. "That's funny, I thought I was on the Johnson job."

  "Look, can we go down to the bar and talk about this?"

  George raised his eyebrows. Thick-headed Kelly. If his intent was to make it harder for George to murder him by getting them to talk in public, he shouldn't have insinuated something was wrong with the Johnson job to begin with. He easily could get the jump on the younger man, and suffocate him with a pillow right here. Or, George could wait and tell Izzy. It was no secret Izzy did not care for Kelly. He'd probably jump at the chance to fuck him over. However, these options seemed a little overkill for not knowing what Kelly wanted, so George acquiesced with a shrug.

  George could guess where this was going, so he played along. After all, he didn't really want to be in Elizabeth anymore with the fucking fender bender haunting every conversation he had with every person in the state. So what if it was a BMW? It was a ten-year-old model! It was so like New Jersey; a state full of too much pomp and shitty circumstances, and it hung on everyone's words.

  Kelly backed out into the hallway, and waited for George to meet him at the shoulder before he continued onto the elevator. George rolled his eyes. He forgot how young Kelly was. A gravedigger for only a few years now, a bodysnatcher for even fewer.

  "So, you fucking Leventhal?" Kelly asked as the mirrored doors shut them in. George was still taller than Kelly, but not as thick. In a tight space like this, he wasn't sure who would win.

  George cocked his head. No one else called Israel Leventhal Izzy. Too scared to, probably. "That the rumor?" Typical. It didn't matter how little gravediggers trusted each other, or how underground their profession was, you couldn't take a step anywhere without wading through rumors and half-truths.

  "Naw, Grace just said that once. Said you were gayer than the pink feather boa. I figured that since you and him partner so much, there might be more." Kelly pressed the lobby button.

  George pursed his lips "Right, well… Grace likes to make assumptions." It took him a moment to remember who Kelly was talking about. Grace was not her real name. He didn't think Kelly knew it.

  "Yeah, I'd be surprised if Leve
nthal ever had sex, let alone with you. Pretty sure you'd find him in the dictionary under ice queen. Though, I hear you do fuck everything that moves."

  "You're a crass creature, Bolduc. When you're not slitting throats, your mind is on what dick fucked what." In fact, on older jobs, when Kelly still worked with Grace, George had been drunk enough to play the Canadian's wingman on occasion. The thought struck George that maybe he ought to find those young women's addresses and send them an apology card. "Sorry I was a-party to your getting STDs," it would say, or: "I did the best I could and at least handed him a condom. Hope it all worked out."

  Kelly shrugged. "I am a man."

  "So am I, yet I have better things to occupy my mind with. So where is… Grace these days?"

  "She went corporate." Kelly kept his eyes on the mirrored door of the elevator, their reflection never leaving George's face. "Any time an upper level board member or someone in-the-know dies, she goes and visits their funeral an hour early. Gets their passwords. Makes sure company secrets are safe. I shit you not, it's a 9-5 job."

  George chuckled. "What's her nameplate say? Grace Smith, Posthumous Information Manager? VP of Ex-employment?"

  Kelly frowned. "I didn't think to ask. It's not like she talks to me much these days anyway."

  The elevator dinged.

  In between Kelly's comments on his sex life, George tried to discern why Kelly would take the Johnson job. Presumably, for cheaper, which is why Johnson hadn't given him the details yet. Kelly was a bodysnatcher, and "Shoot first, ask questions later" was sort of the mantra for their job. They were despicable. Necessary, but despicable nonetheless. All gravediggers looked down on bodysnatchers. Even as they snuck into graveyards and dug up coffins, gravediggers thought, Well, at least I'm not that.

  The two made their way through the hotel lobby and sat at the empty bar. The stools were made of worn brass and nicked red pleather seats. The bartender looked surprised that anyone was there, his eyes flicking up from between his half-filled ice bin on his left and the row of dirty glasses on his right. George pulled out his phone and looked at it again. It was only three in the afternoon. Figures. Yanks never drank this early. Instead they waited until late and binged, which George thought was a lot less healthy than a slow steady stream throughout the day.

  George surveyed the lack of taps, and opted for a glass of cheap scotch. Kelly ordered a Molson. When they didn't have that, he settled for a Coors.

  "Tastes like shit, but whatever," muttered Kelly before taking a long swallow.

  George raised his eyebrows and made a conscious decision not to comment on how disgusting Molson also tasted. There were other more pressing matters.

  "So, you going to say why you're here?" George asked.

  "Yeah." Kelly took a swig of beer. "I'm taking the job."

  George kept his face flat and did not touch his drink. "Really?"

  "I figured we've worked together before, so I owe you the courtesy or some shit. And since I'm not leaving you to die in a dumpster like other bodysnatchers might, you can do me a solid and let me live. I mean, I don't want Leventhal after me."

  George thought he might be losing his touch. He supposed there was never a time he truly instilled fear in the hearts of other gravediggers, but at least he thought he had respect.

  Of course, Kelly was a goddamn good shot. He probably didn't worry that much about people attacking him as long as he had a gun in his hand, and he always had a gun in his hand.

  "So you undercut me on my own job and think I'll just walk away?" George asked, because was that really how it worked? Because that was not the way it worked for George. His old partner, Charles pummeled George's head in and left him to die with the corpse they just interrogated. New Jersey was starting to have a Charles flavor to it, and he longed to do a job with Izzy to come wash the taste out of his mouth.

  "Come on, Rose. You hate New Jersey. You hate it so much it's a goddamn cliché. Besides, I need the money, and sometimes this is the way business works. The cheaper man wins."

  "You think gravedigging is a business? Businesses don't regularly kill the guy that underbids them."

  "They do, and you know it. You've worked corporate. You've done that job. You don't need the money. You're just bored. Me? Well, I'm fucked."

  Well, it was some form of logic, George thought. "What happened?"

  "Owe a guy some money for information. He's not too pleased that I haven't paid up. The info I got was a dud. Job didn't work, I didn't get the cash. The fixer is pretty pissed."

  "That is fairly fucked, Kelly." George nodded. "Who was the fixer?"

  "Woodmansey."

  George frowned. He had never heard that name before. Whoever it was, they must have been new to the scene. It didn't matter. Fixers—men and women who traded in secrets—never lasted long. Woodmansey would be replaced with Greybird or Firestarter, who would be replaced with someone with another stupid moniker like Assfucker or something. There were always fixers, and it didn't matter what asinine name they chose to hide their identity, they always ended up talking to a gravedigger eventually.

  "I'll owe you one."

  "You think?" George snorted. "You'll owe me three, and whatever they are you can bet they'll be messy."

  Sometimes George felt a little bit like George Wilson in the The Great Gatsby. Did all Georges let people control them, cuckhold them, knock them out in the void and leave them to die? Maybe that last part wasn't so true to the book, but still. George held in a sigh. He was stretching the allusion too far.

  "So, we have a deal?" asked Kelly, shaking George from his thoughts.

  "Yeah, but only because I hate this city."

  Five-days-of-dirty-rain-and-a-small-dent-in-a-bumper hated it. "Do this again, Kelly, and my love and respect for… Grace… will not protect you."

  Kelly nodded, and took a long drink of his beer.

  George took out his phone and typed Johnson job went south, and waited for an I told you so. It never came.

  The Pierce Job

  Three Years Earlier

  "You can't send a message with flowers, Izzy. That's just naff." Rose idly stroked the sides of his half-drunk pint of cider. The two had elected to drink at a beer garden so Rose could smoke while they discussed next steps for a small-time mark.

  Rose, however, had seemed more interested in taking a break than talking about the information Israel had gleaned; namely that their mark's mistress had received a bouquet of roses and daisies.

  "It's called floriography, Rose," said Israel, taking out his cell phone to search the bouquet.

  "Floriography?" scoffed Rose. "That can't be a word."

  "Why can't it be?"

  "Because it sounds ridiculous. It's like saying the study of desks is deskography. That's why."

  "Well, it makes perfect sense in Latin."

  Rose pouted his lips a bit, and looked up out of the corner of his eye, obviously unconvinced. "I suppose so."

  "Look, I'm not saying that it's significant, but it's an odd pairing, don't you think?"

  "I've never really sent a bouquet to anyone but me nan." Rose shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette. "I wouldn't know."

  "Just trust me." Israel scrolled through the tabs of information on his phone. "Putting roses and cyclamen together is not a normal combination. People do send messages that aren't words, you know. In World War Two, Belgian women would use certain stitches when they knit scarves to denote what kinds of trains came into the stations. Even placement of stamps were a secret code for lovers. Human beings have a lot of ways to hide what they want to say."

  Rose shrugged, downed the rest of his cider and went to go order another one while Israel googled the flowers on his phone.

  Cyclamen meant "goodbye" and hinted to "resignation". Roses signified "love". Israel frowned as he tried to piece the information together.

  Rose came back with a Guinness and an extra glass of wine in hand to replace Israel's mostly drunk but almost completely forgo
tten Muscato.

  Israel waved the glass away. "I think he's onto us."

  "Who?" Rose sat down next to Israel, glancing over his shoulder to look at the phone. Israel didn't move away.

  Israel rolled his eyes. "Pierce."

  "Why? Because of flowers?"

  "Yeah. Look. If you knew you were being targeted, you would probably just drop a mistress cold. Imagine if you liked her, though."

  "I like everyone I sleep with." Rose half-smirked. "It's a bit of a rule."

  Israel took a deep breath, not wanting to let Rose take him off track. "I mean really like, not just casually. Love, even. Say you wanted to be with that person, but you knew it would endanger them. What would you do?"

  "I suppose I would try to send a message telling them that my absence was not their fault."

  "Right?" Israel agreed.

  "But what guarantee do we have that she understands what those flowers mean?"

  "I'll dig into his credit cards records a bit more. You get to his apartment and see what you can find."

  Rose rolled his eyes. "That sounds like a horrid bother."

  "It's your job, Rose. If you don't like it, you can always be something else."

  "Ah." Rose leaned back, and crossed his legs. "Now that's a pub conversation right there."

  Israel frowned. "What?"

  "What would you be if you weren't a gravedigger?" Rose rubbed the back of his shaved head.

  "You're serious?"

  Leaning forward, Rose took another swig of his beer. "Perfectly."

  Israel glared at him.

  "I'd be history teacher," Rose said. "No, scratch that. I hate kids. Maybe a museum curator or something."

  "Rose, if Pierce knows, we have to move fast."

  "Fine, I'll work something out." Rose sighed, staring wistfully at his pint. "Get some intel from your fixer for me, will you? I'd like to know when he's out next so I can do the ol' breaking and entering thing."

  Israel darted his eyes around the pub. Then he hissed under his breath, "Sometimes you talk too loud."

  "No one believes anything anyone says at pub, mate."