by Tim Wirkus
“I have to ask you,” he said, “if you’ve thought much about what might have happened to Marco Aurélio.”
“No,” said Mike, working to keep his voice level.
“Really?” said Toronto. “The mystery of it never intrigues you?”
Mike clenched his fingers together.
“No,” said Mike. “There’s no mystery. The Argentine had him killed.”
“Interesting,” said Toronto. He hoisted the leather bag into his lap. “Tell me why you think he would do that.”
“Why? Because Marco Aurélio tried to con him. It didn’t work, and the Argentine had him killed.”
“And what leads you to believe that Marco Aurélio’s con didn’t work?”
Mike felt like he was twenty years old, a missionary again. He gritted his teeth.
He said, “Nothing leads me to it, it’s just what I think happened.”
“But what evidence do you have to support that theory?” said Toronto, unbuckling the latch of his bag.
“I don’t have evidence,” said Mike. “It’s just—” He took a deep breath, composing himself. “Fine. Let’s say that’s not what happened. Do you have a better theory?”
“I’m glad you asked that,” said Toronto with an eager smile. “Now, I can’t quite account for all the details yet.” He opened the leather bag. “What I mean is, I think Marco Aurélio accomplished something truly astounding, and so obviously I can’t fully—”
“No,” said Mike, so forcefully that Toronto’s eyes opened wide in surprise.
“No,” Mike repeated. “I see where you’re going with this and it’s pathetic. Just stupid. Stupid”—the words sputtered out of him—“It’s stupid to think about. Is that why—did you track me down, or what is this? Because this wasn’t an accident. You didn’t just accidentally run into me today, let’s be honest here.” He laughed, a short, barking laugh. “And, I mean, going along with your stupid plan back then,” he shook his head. “No. Even for a couple of kids, I can’t believe how stupid—you’re supposed to be smart or something, but I really don’t see what’s come of that. Because you’re a mess, you know? If you’re still trying to figure it out after all this time—it’s pointless and it’s sad, because there’s nothing to talk about. Nothing.”
As Mike ground to a momentary halt, he could see that Toronto’s mangled face had twisted itself into an expression of—what? Betrayal? Embarrassment? Regret? Mike couldn’t tell. He pressed on.
“And now you’re going to try and convince me that Marco Aurélio pulled off some mystical, incomprehensible con that we somehow played a part in, and what? He’s still alive and well somewhere, enjoying the spoils of his impossible scheme? That’s not—that’s just not—I mean, that’s a great explanation for you, isn’t it? Right up your alley, because all it does is create more mystery. You don’t actually—” Mike waved his hands, groping for words. “See, I’m not going to claim that I’ve given the question that much thought because honestly, it’s not worth the effort. But you’re no more interested in solving anything than I am. And do you want to know why I know that? Because the solution here is obvious. Whatever happened, it was ugly and mundane and completely inconsequential. Marco Aurélio was a petty crook. He was just some loser who got in over his head with the wrong people and they killed him—that’s all. So don’t try to turn this into something it’s not. This is just—” He shook his head. “This is just ridiculous.”
Mike paused and took a breath.
“I won’t do this,” he said, composing himself. “Okay?”
The expression on Toronto’s face, which Mike still couldn’t decipher, intensified briefly and then resolved itself into something more neutral. He closed the leather bag, latching it shut again.
He said, “I should get you back home.”
• • •
Toronto pulled his rental car up to the curb in front of the Schwartzes’ beige stucco house. Mike opened the door and got out. The wind had not subsided, and dark, meaty clouds loomed overhead.
“Listen,” said Mike, calmer now, leaning into the blue compact car, his hand on the open door, “you’re welcome to come in if you’d like.”
“Thanks,” said Toronto, “but I should hit the road.”
“Well,” said Mike, and paused. He knew he should say something, but he wasn’t sure what. As he tried to think of what it could be, he saw Toronto’s ragged face assume the same inscrutable expression that it had at the restaurant just a few minutes earlier. This time, though, Mike recognized it as a look of pity. The anger that had diminished on the drive over returned in its full magnitude and Mike slammed the car door shut. He stepped up onto the curb.
A fat raindrop hit the sidewalk, and then another. Thunder in the distance. Mike braced himself against the wind.
Inside the car, Toronto leaned across the front seat, looking up at Mike through the passenger window, that same expression of condescending pity on his scarred face. He lifted a hand in farewell. Without acknowledging the gesture, Mike turned and walked up the driveway. The drops were falling steadily now, dark spots on the pale concrete, the deluge close at hand. He heard Toronto put the car into gear and pull away from the curb. At his front steps, Mike paused and turned back around. Stepping backward onto his porch, he took cover from the now-heavy rainfall. Through his good eye, he watched Toronto drive away until his small, blue car turned a corner and disappeared.
Acknowledgments
Novels aren’t written in a vacuum and I’d like to thank some of the people who most contributed to this one:
Thanks to Yishai Seidman, who is a generous and insightful reader and a heroically dedicated agent. Thanks also to Ben LeRoy, Ashley Myers, and everyone at Tyrus and F+W Media who worked on the novel.
Thanks to rigorous and engaging creative writing teachers, especially Patricia Russell and Steve Tuttle.
Belated thanks to Paulo Rogério Silvestre for the kind detour through the Praça da Sé.
Thanks to John Steinbeck for Cannery Row, Herman Melville for Moby-Dick, Kate Atkinson for Case Histories, and Jorge Luis Borges for “The Garden of Forking Paths” and “Ibn-Hakam al-Bokhari, Murdered in His Labyrinth.” Also thanks to The Killers (1964), directed by Don Siegel and starring Lee Marvin, Angie Dickinson, John Cassavetes, and Ronald Reagan.
Thanks to everyone who read all or part of the book-in-progress, particularly the members of T.C. Boyle’s fall 2011 fiction workshop.
I’d also like to acknowledge the generous support of the University of Southern California’s Provost’s PhD Fellowship which afforded me much-needed time to finish this novel.
A big thanks to Paul and Janice Wirkus for, among many other things, being adventurous readers.
And finally, thanks to Jessie, the best sounding board of them all.
Copyright © 2014 by Tim Wirkus.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
TYRUS BOOKS
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.tyrusbooks.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8276-9
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8276-9
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8277-7
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8277-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Wirkus, Tim,
City of brick and shadow / Tim Wirkus.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-4405-8276-9 (hc) -- ISBN 1-4405-8276-9 (hc) -- ISBN 978-1-4405-8277-6 (ebook) -- ISBN 1-4405-8277-7 (ebook)
1. Mormon missionaries--Fiction. 2. Missing persons--Fiction. 3. Latin America--Fiction. I. Title.
PS3623.I754C58 2014
813'.6--dc23
2014026402
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, org
anizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Many of the designations used by manufacturers and sellers to distinguish their products are claimed as trademarks. Where those designations appear in this book and F+W Media, Inc. was aware of a trademark claim, the designations have been printed with initial capital letters.
Cover images © iStockphoto.com/CSA-Printstock.
