American Gods

by Neil Gaiman

  “I have a job waiting. A good job.”

  “Would that be the job at the Muscle Farm?”

  “Maybe,” said Shadow.

  “Nope. You don’t. Robbie Burton’s dead. Without him the Muscle Farm’s dead too.”

  “You’re a liar.”

  “Of course. And a good one. The best you will ever meet. But, I’m afraid, I’m not lying to you about this.” He reached into his pocket, produced a folded newspaper, and handed it to Shadow. “Page seven,” he said. “Come on back to the bar. You can read it at the table.”

  Shadow pushed open the door, back into the bar. The air was blue with smoke, and the Dixie Cups were on the jukebox singing “Iko Iko.” Shadow smiled, slightly, in recognition of the old children’s song.

  The barman pointed to a table in the corner. There was a bowl of chili and a burger at one side of the table, a rare steak and a bowl of fries laid in the place across from it.

  Look at my king all dressed in red,

  Iko Iko all day,

  I bet you five dollars he’ll kill you dead,

  Jockamo-feena-nay

  Shadow took his seat at the table. He put the newspaper down. “This is my first meal as a free man. I’ll wait until after I’ve eaten to read your page seven.”

  Shadow ate his hamburger. It was better than prison hamburgers. The chili was good but, he decided, after a couple of mouthfuls, not the best in the state.

  Laura made a great chili. She used lean meat, dark kidney beans, carrots cut small, a bottle or so of dark beer, and freshly sliced hot peppers. She would let the chili cook for a while, then add red wine, lemon juice and a pinch of fresh dill, and, finally, measure out and add her chili powders. On more than one occasion Shadow had tried to get her to show him how she made it: he would watch everything she did, from slicing the onions and dropping them into the olive oil at the bottom of the pot. He had even written down the recipe, ingredient by ingredient, and he had once made Laura’s chili for himself on a weekend when she had been out of town. It had tasted okay—it was certainly edible, but it had not been Laura’s chili.

  The news item on page seven was the first account of his wife’s death that Shadow had read. Laura Moon, whose age was given in the article as twenty-seven, and Robbie Burton, thirty-nine, were in Robbie’s car on the interstate when they swerved into the path of a thirty-two-wheeler. The truck brushed Robbie’s car and sent it spinning off the side of the road.

  Rescue crews pulled Robbie and Laura from the wreckage. They were both dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.

  Shadow folded the newspaper up once more and slid it back across the table, toward Wednesday, who was gorging himself on a steak so bloody and so blue it might never have been introduced to a kitchen flame.

  “Here. Take it back,” said Shadow.

  Robbie had been driving. He must have been drunk, although the newspaper account said nothing about this. Shadow found himself imagining Laura’s face when she realized that Robbie was too drunk to drive. The scenario unfolded in Shadow’s mind, and there was nothing he could do to stop it: Laura shouting at Robbie—shouting at him to pull off the road, then the thud of car against truck, and the steering wheel wrenching over . . .

  . . . the car on the side of the road, broken glass glittering like ice and diamonds in the headlights, blood pooling in rubies on the road beside them. Two bodies being carried from the wreck, or laid neatly by the side of the road.

  “Well?” asked Mr. Wednesday. He had finished his steak, devoured it like a starving man. Now he was munching the french fries, spearing them with his fork.

  “You’re right,” said Shadow. “I don’t have a job.”

  Shadow took a quarter from his pocket, tails up. He flicked it up in the air, knocking it against his finger as it left his hand, giving it a wobble as if it were turning, caught it, slapped it down on the back of his hand.

  “Call,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Wednesday.

  “I don’t want to work for anyone with worse luck than me. Call.”

  “Heads,” said Mr. Wednesday.

  “Sorry,” said Shadow, without even bothering to glance at the quarter. “It was tails. I rigged the toss.”

  “Rigged games are the easiest ones to beat,” said Wednesday, wagging a square finger at Shadow. “Take another look at it.”

  Shadow glanced down at it. The head was faceup.

  “I must have fumbled the toss,” he said, puzzled.

  “You do yourself a disservice,” said Wednesday, and he grinned. “I’m just a lucky, lucky guy.” Then he looked up. “Well I never. Mad Sweeney. Will you have a drink with us?”

  “Southern Comfort and Coke, straight up,” said a voice from behind Shadow.

  “I’ll go and talk to the barman,” said Wednesday. He stood up, and began to make his way toward the bar.

  “Aren’t you going to ask what I’m drinking?” called Shadow.

  “I already know what you’re drinking,” said Wednesday, and then he was standing by the bar. Patsy Cline started to sing “Walking After Midnight” on the jukebox again.

  The Southern Comfort and Coke sat down beside Shadow. He had a short ginger beard. He wore a denim jacket covered with bright sew-on patches, and under the jacket a stained white T-shirt. On the T-shirt was printed:

  IF YOU CAN’T EAT IT, DRINK IT, SMOKE IT, OR SNORT IT . . . THEN F*CK IT!

  He wore a baseball cap, on which was printed:

  THE ONLY WOMAN I HAVE EVER LOVED WAS ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE . . . MY MOTHER!

  He opened a soft pack of Lucky Strikes with a dirty thumbnail, took a cigarette, offered one to Shadow. Shadow was about to take one, automatically—he did not smoke, but a cigarette makes good barter material—when he realized that he was no longer inside. He shook his head.

  “You working for our man then?” asked the bearded man. He was not sober, although he was not yet drunk.

  “It looks that way,” said Shadow. “What do you do?”

  The bearded man lit his cigarette. “I’m a leprechaun,” he said, with a grin.

  Shadow did not smile. “Really?” he said. “Shouldn’t you be drinking Guinness?”

  “Stereotypes. You have to learn to think outside the box,” said the bearded man. “There’s a lot more to Ireland than Guinness.”

  “You don’t have an Irish accent.”

  “I’ve been over here too fucken long.”

  “So you are originally from Ireland?”

  “I told you. I’m a leprechaun. We don’t come from fucken Moscow.”

  “I guess not.”

  Wednesday returned to the table, three drinks held easily in his pawlike hands. “Southern Comfort and Coke for you, Mad Sweeney m’man, and a Jack Daniel’s for me. And this is for you, Shadow.”

  “What is it?”

  “Taste it.”

  The drink was a tawny golden color. Shadow took a sip, tasting an odd blend of sour and sweet on his tongue. He could taste the alcohol underneath, and a strange blend of flavors. It reminded him a little of prison hooch, brewed in a garbage bag from rotten fruit and bread and sugar and water, but it was sweeter, and far stranger.

  “Okay,” said Shadow. “I tasted it. What was it?”

  “Mead,” said Wednesday. “Honey wine. The drink of heroes. The drink of the gods.”

  Shadow took another tentative sip. Yes, he could taste the honey, he decided. That was one of the tastes. “Tastes kinda like pickle juice,” he said. “Sweet pickle-juice wine.”

  “Tastes like a drunken diabetic’s piss,” agreed Wednesday. “I hate the stuff.”

  “Then why did you bring it for me?” asked Shadow, reasonably.

  Wednesday stared at Shadow with his mismatched eyes. One of them, Shadow decided, was a glass eye, but he could not decide which one. “I brought you mead to drink because it’s traditional. And right now we need all the tradition we can get. It seals our bargain.”

  “We haven’t made a bargain.�
��

  “Sure we have. You work for me now. You protect me. You transport me from place to place. You run errands. In an emergency, but only in an emergency, you hurt people who need to be hurt. In the unlikely event of my death, you will hold my vigil. And in return I shall make sure that your needs are adequately taken care of.”

  “He’s hustling you,” said Mad Sweeney, rubbing his bristly ginger beard. “He’s a hustler.”

  “Damn straight I’m a hustler,” said Wednesday. “That’s why I need someone to look out for my best interests.”

  The song on the jukebox ended, and for a moment the bar fell quiet, every conversation at a lull.

  “Someone once told me that you only get those everybody-shuts-up-at-once moments at twenty past or twenty to the hour,” said Shadow.

  Sweeney pointed to the clock above the bar, held in the massive and indifferent jaws of a stuffed alligator head. The time was 11:20.

  “There,” said Shadow. “Damned if I know why that happens.”

  “I know why,” said Wednesday. “Drink your mead.”

  Shadow knocked the rest of the mead back in one long gulp. “It might be better over ice,” he said.

  “Or it might not,” said Wednesday. “It’s terrible stuff.”

  “That it is,” agreed Mad Sweeney. “You’ll excuse me for a moment, gentlemen, but I find myself in deep and urgent need of a lengthy piss.” He stood up and walked away, an impossibly tall man. He had to be almost seven feet tall, decided Shadow.

  A waitress wiped a cloth across the table and took their empty plates. Wednesday told her to bring the same again for everyone, although this time Shadow’s mead was to be on the rocks.

  “Anyway,” said Wednesday, “that’s what I need of you.”

  “Would you like to know what I want?” asked Shadow.

  “Nothing could make me happier.”

  The waitress brought the drink. Shadow sipped his mead on the rocks. The ice did not help—if anything it sharpened the sourness, and made the taste linger in the mouth after the mead was swallowed. However, Shadow consoled himself, it did not taste particularly alcoholic. He was not ready to be drunk. Not yet.

  He took a deep breath.

  “Okay,” said Shadow. “My life, which for three years has been a long way from being the greatest life there has ever been, just took a distinct and sudden turn for the worse. Now there are a few things I need to do. I want to go to Laura’s funeral. I want to say goodbye. I should wind up her stuff. If you still need me, I want to start at five hundred dollars a week.” The figure was a stab in the dark. Wednesday’s eyes revealed nothing. “If we’re happy working together, in six months’ time you raise it to a thousand a week.”

  He paused. It was the longest speech he’d made in years. “You say you may need people to be hurt. Well, I’ll hurt people if they’re trying to hurt you. But I don’t hurt people for fun or for profit. I won’t go back to prison. Once was enough.”

  “You won’t have to,” said Wednesday.

  “No,” said Shadow. “I won’t.” He finished the last of the mead. He wondered, suddenly, somewhere in the back of his head, whether the mead was responsible for loosening his tongue. But the words were coming out of him like the water spraying from a broken fire hydrant in summer, and he could not have stopped them if he had tried. “I don’t like you, Mister Wednesday, or whatever your real name may be. We are not friends. I don’t know how you got off that plane without me seeing you, or how you trailed me here. But I’m at a loose end right now. When we’re done, I’ll be gone. And if you piss me off, I’ll be gone too. Until then, I’ll work for you.”

  “Very good,” said Wednesday. “Then we have a compact. And we are agreed.”

  “What the hell,” said Shadow. Across the room, Mad Sweeney was feeding quarters into the jukebox. Wednesday spat in his hand and extended it. Shadow shrugged. He spat in his own palm. They clasped hands. Wednesday began to squeeze. Shadow squeezed back. After a few seconds his hand began to hurt. Wednesday held the grip a little longer, and then he let go.

  “Good,” he said. “Good. Very good. So, one last glass of evil, vile fucking mead to seal our deal, and then we are done.”

  “It’ll be a Southern Comfort and Coke for me,” said Sweeney, lurching back from the jukebox.

  The jukebox began to play the Velvet Underground’s “Who Loves the Sun?” Shadow thought it a strange song to find on a jukebox. It seemed very unlikely. But then, this whole evening had become increasingly unlikely.

  Shadow took the quarter he had used for the coin toss from the table, enjoying the sensation of a freshly milled coin against his fingers, producing it in his right hand between forefinger and thumb. He appeared to take it into his left hand in one smooth movement, while casually finger-palming it. He closed his left hand on the imaginary quarter. Then he took a second quarter in his right hand, between finger and thumb, and, as he pretended to drop that coin into the left hand, he let the palmed quarter fall into his right hand, striking the quarter he held there on the way. The chink confirmed the illusion that both coins were in his left hand, while they were now both held safely in his right.

  “Coin tricks is it?” asked Sweeney, his chin raising, his scruffy beard bristling. “Why, if it’s coin tricks we’re doing, watch this.”

  He took an empty glass from the table. Then he reached out and took a large coin, golden and shining, from the air. He dropped it into the glass. He took another gold coin from the air and tossed it into the glass, where it clinked against the first. He took a coin from the candle flame of a candle on the wall, another from his beard, a third from Shadow’s empty left hand, and dropped them, one by one, into the glass. Then he curled his fingers over the glass, and blew hard, and several more golden coins dropped into the glass from his hand. He tipped the glass of sticky coins into his jacket pocket, and then tapped the pocket to show, unmistakably, that it was empty.

  “There,” he said. “That’s a coin trick for you.”

  Shadow, who had been watching closely, put his head on one side. “I need to know how you did it.”

  “I did it,” said Sweeney, with the air of one confiding a huge secret, “with panache and style. That’s how I did it.” He laughed, silently, rocking on his heels, his gappy teeth bared.

  “Yes,” said Shadow. “That is how you did it. You’ve got to teach me. All the ways of doing the Miser’s Dream that I’ve read, you’d be hiding the coins in the hand that holds the glass, and dropping them in while you produce and vanish the coin in your right hand.”

  “Sounds like a hell of a lot of work to me,” said Mad Sweeney. “It’s easier just to pick them out of the air.”

  Wednesday said, “Mead for you, Shadow. I’ll stick with Mister Jack Daniel’s, and for the freeloading Irishman . . . ?”

  “A bottled beer, something dark for preference,” said Sweeney. “Freeloader, is it?” He picked up what was left of his drink, and raised it to Wednesday in a toast. “May the storm pass over us, and leave us hale and unharmed,” he said, and knocked the drink back.

  “A fine toast,” said Wednesday. “But it won’t.”

  Another mead was placed in front of Shadow.

  “Do I have to drink this?”

  “I’m afraid you do. It seals our deal. Third time’s the charm, eh?”

  “Shit,” said Shadow. He swallowed the mead in two large gulps. The pickled-honey taste filled his mouth.

  “There,” said Mr. Wednesday. “You’re my man, now.”

  “So,” said Sweeney, “you want to know the trick of how it’s done?”

  “Yes,” said Shadow. “Were you loading them in your sleeve?”

  “They were never in my sleeve,” said Sweeney. He chortled to himself, rocking and bouncing as if he were a lanky, bearded volcano preparing to erupt with delight at his own brilliance. “It’s the simplest trick in the world. I’ll fight you for it.”

  Shadow shook his head. “I’ll pass.”

  �
�Now there’s a fine thing,” said Sweeney to the room. “Old Wednesday gets himself a bodyguard, and the feller’s too scared to put up his fists, even.”

  “I won’t fight you,” agreed Shadow.

  Sweeney swayed and sweated. He fiddled with the peak of his baseball cap. Then he pulled one of his coins out of the air and placed it on the table. “Real gold, if you were wondering,” said Sweeney. “Win or lose—and you’ll lose—it’s yours if you fight me. A big fellow like you—who’d’a thought you’d be a fucken coward?”

  “He’s already said he won’t fight you,” said Wednesday. “Go away, Mad Sweeney. Take your beer and leave us in peace.”

  Sweeney took a step closer to Wednesday. “Call me a freeloader, will you, you doomed old creature? You cold-blooded, heartless old tree-hanger.” His face was turning a deep, angry red.

  Wednesday put out his hands, palms up, pacific. “Foolishness, Sweeney. Watch where you put your words.”

  Sweeney glared at him. Then he said, with the gravity of the very drunk, “You’ve hired a coward. What would he do if I hurt you, do you think?”

  Wednesday turned to Shadow. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “Deal with it.”

  Shadow got to his feet and looked up into Mad Sweeney’s face: how tall was the man? he wondered. “You’re bothering us,” he said. “You’re drunk. I think you ought to leave now.”

  A slow smile spread over Sweeney’s face. “There, now,” he said. He swung a huge fist at Shadow. Shadow jerked back: Sweeney’s hand caught him beneath the right eye. He saw blotches of light, and felt pain.

  And with that, the fight began.

  Sweeney fought without style, without science, with nothing but enthusiasm for the fight itself: huge, barreling roundhouse blows that missed as often as they connected.

  Shadow fought defensively, carefully, blocking Sweeney’s blows or avoiding them. He became very aware of the audience around them. Tables were pulled out of the way with protesting groans, making a space for the men to spar. Shadow was aware at all times of Wednesday’s eyes upon him, of Wednesday’s humorless grin. It was a test, that was obvious, but what kind of a test?