She sighed and hung. "I'll buzz you up. But I'm watching you."
The guard pointed to a row of monitors flipping through feeds from the elevators, the halls and offices.
"Great. If anyone tries to steal this briefcase, I'm sure you'll have my back, right?"
The guard gave him a hard look and settled back into the chair behind the desk.
"Take the third elevator on the right."
Marcus went to them. Four on each side of the polished granite corridor. He looked back toward the desk.
"That's the one."
He thumbed the up arrow and waited. The elevator rose from below. The red arrow dimmed and the doors parted.
Marcus stepped in.
"Press P." The guard's voice came from the intercom. Marcus looked up at the black camera bubble and did as instructed.
"Yeah, that’s not creepy at all," he muttered to himself.
The doors slid closed. The elevator ascended smoothly.
On the tenth floor, the elevator brightened as the back wall opened on a view of the San Francisco skyline, the piers of Embarcadero and the Bay beyond. He stepped back in shock—hadn't even realized the elevator was glass, as the wall behind it had been mirrored. Squinting, he marveled at the view.
He hadn't realized how much he missed being up in the air until just then.
"Nice view."
"What's that?" the security guard asked.
"I said, 'nice view.'"
"Oh. You get used to it."
Marcus had never gotten used to it. Every moment in the air proved humanity's dominance over nature. Every flight was a war against gravity.
On the fortieth floor, the view disappeared behind a black wall. Three subsequent floors passed before the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open.
"Wipe your feet!" the guard ordered.
Marcus looked down at a doormat: HOME SWEET HOME. He thought it must be ironic but he wiped his feet anyway, looking up at a camera in the hall.
"Come in, Marcus."
The voice came from ahead of him, beyond a wall of dripping moss and low vegetation. Behind him, the elevator had closed, and the numbers above counted down.
Too late to turn back.
"Mr. Morales?" Marcus moved past the living wall, searching for the man himself. Water trickled beneath the plants and collected in a small pool, where he half-expected to see frogs on lily pads.
"Please, call me Americo."
In the main office, the man stood in front of a bank of widescreen televisions. He wore a silver, skin-tight tracksuit, sweat down the back, as if he'd just come off the treadmill. Behind him, a clear Lucite desk stood before a glass wall overlooking the bland gray buildings Mission District, and the streets below where Marcus had spent much of the last five years scrounging to stay alive. Morales stood beside an apparently antique chessboard—only the black rook moved forward—as he flipped channels, which of course changed all the channels, frustrating him.
"C'mon, where is it…?"
Finally he settled on a channel. Of the twelve monitors, each on something different, Marcus couldn't tell which one Morales was watching until he got closer. The Wentworth rally was on the second TV two rows up.
Morales shook his head in awe. "He's a genius."
"He sure knows how to rile up a crowd."
"That's an understatement. He's got these people fighting with each other over who his biggest supporter is. Of course, half of them are being paid, but that's the power of groupthink. Someone starts chanting, someone else sees it… it's like that old telephone ad, 'She calls one friend, and he calls a friend, and she calls a friend,' and suddenly everyone's cheering and no one remembers it's all a fucking pageant."
Morales finally looked over. Saw the briefcase clutched in Marcus's hand.
"Ah, you brought it. Good."
He approached, holding out a hand. Somewhat reluctantly, Marcus handed over the briefcase. After all the trouble he'd gone through in getting it here, he supposed he’d expected a little fanfare.
Morales looked it over. "The clasp is broken."
"Some dude harassed me at the library."
Morales grinned. "I know. I paid him to."
"Wait a minute, you paid—"
"A man to harass you, yes. Would it have better suited your world view it were real?"
Had me followed, Marcus thought. Or knew I was going to be there because I always go there… Not sure which is worse.
"Well your little prank worked wonders. I knocked the wind out of the guy."
Morales waved it off with a laugh. "He's a stuntman. It's part of the job, I presume. I had to know how you'd deal with it, Marcus, should it arise while you're on the job. And you did admirably, aside from the broken lock. This was my favorite briefcase." He unlatched the other clasp, and opened it on his Lucite desk, where he turned it so Marcus could see its contents.
Marcus stared down at the interior lined with stacks of money, his mouth suddenly as dry as summer in Death Valley. Morales plucked a single bundle from the pile, and slid it across the desk.
"What's this?"
"Your per diem for today. You'll find another deposit like it in your bank account tomorrow."
"I don't have a bank account."
Felicia had removed his name from their joint savings account after giving him what she considered his fair share, which he'd spent in a few months attempting to drown himself in alcohol.
"You do now."
Marcus picked up the bankcard Morales slipped across the table. Seeing his name stamped in capital letters on the plastic made his flesh crawl. "You can't just start an account for someone like that. How'd you even know my name?"
"We know a lot about you, Marcus." Morales took a seat in a tall, throne-like black leather desk chair. "Including all the details required to secure a bank account under your name."
Marcus fell down into a firm yet comfortable white leather chair. "Look, man, I don't even know if I want the job—"
“Cut the shit,” Morales snapped, his gaze drifting toward the computer monitor.
Marcus jerked back in the chair. "Hey, man—"
Morales raised a hand to pacify him, and indicated his Bluetooth earpiece. “I know your people need this win as much as we do.” He looked up at Marcus. “Sorry. I’m on a call with the Russian Ambassador.”
Marcus waited awkwardly while Morales spoke to the Ambassador, until the millionaire turned back from his computer.
"You brought the briefcase back in one piece, didn't you? You could have opened it, taken the cash and fled the country. You could have left it at the gas station or just let Burt take it from you at the library. But you didn't. You brought it back, Marcus. And I think that's because deep down inside, you're hungry for an honest day's work."
The man was right, despite the spying, bank fraud, and harassment. Marcus was tired of scraping by with panhandling and handouts from various shelters. The small stack of bills on the desk reminded him of those long-gone days of steady paychecks. Afternoons spent in airport bars.
The excitement of defying that most elusive natural phenomenon: of staying afloat in a world that only wanted to push you back down in the dirt.
"If ever there was a man deserving of redemption," Morales said, "it's you."
Marcus merely shook his head.
"You saved a lot of lives, Marcus."
The voice in his head rebelled at the accusation. Marcus stood and began walking away.
"Where are you going?"
Heading for the elevator, he paused to turn back. "I need a fuckin drink."
"Sit down then. Please." The man had gotten up behind his desk and was gesturing toward the chair. "I'll pour you one."
Marcus stayed put by the living wall, the tranquil trickling water soothing his nerves.
"Marcus. Haven't you played the victim long enough? Don't you think it’s time to give yourself another chance? Don't you think you owe that to your daughter?"
Even the scar
ed little voice in his head couldn't argue. Be good to have something positive to tell Katrina, if she'd ever answer his calls. Losing touch with his little girl—not quite so little anymore, he reminded himself—weighed as heavily on his conscience as the accident, if not more.
More than anything he wanted to be able to look his daughter in the eye again without seeing pity and shame. He needed to her to look at him the way she had when she was still little. When he'd returned home from a long flight halfway across the globe with a layover and she'd come running into his arms the moment he'd stepped in the front door, and he'd lifted her up above his head and spun her round and round, making her fly.
Marcus's grandmother had often cautioned her grandchildren with the Bible verse: Pride goes before the fall. He'd never felt less prideful in his life than he did now, but he'd already fallen as far as humanly possible.
He was sick of people looking down on him, sick of wondering if he'd have enough money to eat on any given day, of being ignored, harassed, beaten up, and treated like shit scraped off a shoe.
He was sick of being a victim.
Am I, though?
Marcus grudgingly returned to the chair. Passing the chessboard his gaze fell on the single piece moved forward, the black rook.
Morales had moved to the bar, and poured scotch into two crystal lowball glasses. He brought them over and handed one to Marcus. "Nectar of the gods." Morales raised his glass in a cheer. "Salud."
Marcus muttered the toast in return and drank the contents in one gulp, a pleasant warmth filling him from throat to gullet. "So tell me more about this job," he said, before he had time to reconsider.
Morales smiled, leaning past him, reaching for the chessboard. He slid a single white pawn forward, and sipped his Scotch.
The gesture gave Marcus an ominous vibe. “What was that all about?”
The rich man indicated his Bluetooth earpiece again. “Russia just made their move.”
3 – EAT THE RICH
IT HAD BEEN years since Marcus had taken a real shower (although he could still remember the circumstances of the last one clearly). Even longer since he'd had a proper haircut. Morales had given him the royal treatment. An Italian man in his sixties had shaved Marcus's head with the same straight razor as he'd used on his salt-and-pepper beard. A Vietnamese lady of about the same age had worked on his calloused feet and dirty fingernails.
Afterwards Marcus let the hot water scald him for a good half hour. The rainfall setting on Morales's showerhead and a soaped loofa washed away layers of dead skin and dirt his trips to the gas station bathroom hadn't cleaned.
When he stepped out of the shower he felt like an entirely new man.
Almost entirely. The expensive Scotch waiting for him on the double sink went down far too easily. He immediately wanted more.
He dried himself with a lush, fluffy towel, dragging it between his ask cheeks before slinging it back over the rack. On the counter was a lotion dispenser. It smelled a little girly but his skin tended to dry out quickly so he rubbed some of it on his arms and hands.
Morales's "man," the old Italian dude, had left out some clothes on the edge of the Jacuzzi and Marcus dressed in them: a clean pair of boxers, a nice pair of chinos and a golf shirt. Even when he'd had a home he hadn't been a polo man, but he supposed beggars couldn't be choosers. He wondered where Morales's man had taken his old clothes and realized he didn't care if he'd put them in the incinerator.
He couldn't remember having felt so comfortable.
Morales was standing at the wall of monitors when Marcus left the bathroom. The rally had ended and countless talking heads spewed their opinions into the world.
Morales saw him and smiled. "Marcus. You look like a million bucks."
"I feel like it, Americo. You have no idea how good it is to have a real shower."
"Oh I've been to some squalid parts of the world, Marcus. You'd be surprised."
Marcus let it go.
Morales clapped his hands together. "So. Are you ready for your first delivery?"
"I'd like to swing by the convention center first, if that's cool. Say adios to my friends."
"You'll see them again, in time."
"How long do you expect this job to last?"
"That depends entirely on how well you do. There's no limit to how high you can climb within this organization, Marcus. Deliver the packages and we'll sit down again to discuss where you see yourself in the future."
"That's good to hear. I like that."
Morales smiled and scooped up a set of keys. He tossed them at Marcus, who fumbled them before catching them in his other hand.
The sleek metallic letters said JAGUAR.
"You're kidding, right?"
"Not kidding. You'll find it in the lot downstairs. I don't think I have to say 'don't drink and drive,' do I?"
Marcus shook his head. "No sir." He set the emptied glass on Morales's desk. "No sir, you don't."
Marcus had never driven a convertible before.
Even on a modest pilot's salary—Morning Skies being a small airline—with two dependents, living in a cramped, rent-stabilized apartment in Astoria to be closer to La Guardia and a decent public school for Katrina, convertibles were a rich man's dream. A single man's dream. A young man's dream.
Marcus revved the engine as he pulled the sleek silver Jaguar F-TYPE out of Trimaricorp's underground lot. It'd been years since he'd driven anything but he took to the manual transmission easily, grinning from ear to ear as a pizza delivery car braked to allow him out into light traffic.
The smile left his face as traffic thickened, and he remembered why he'd never liked driving in San Francisco. Too many cyclists. Too many buses. Too many switchbacks and stop signs on hilltops.
He passed a cop car on the way and was glad he'd cleaned up before taking the car out. If he'd been dressed the way he had been before meeting Morales they would have pulled him over for carjacking for sure.
Shit, someone still might….
Thinking of the cop back at the station as he entered the intersection he remembered he'd promised to give his share of any winnings to the straggly-haired meth-head. The tank could use filling anyway. He pulled into the station and scratched the ticket while the tank filled. It was a winner but only three bucks, just enough for another scratcher.
The straggly-haired guy was back at the door and opened it for Marcus.
Marcus handed him the ticket. "Here, man. This one's a winner."
The guy said "God bless you," as if Marcus was just another guy with money, not a brother from the street.
Tito was still behind the counter and when he recognized Marcus he looked shook his head dramatically as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "Lookin good, Mr. Mills!"
"Thanks, Tito. I'm at pump three."
"Pump—" Tito blinked. "That fly ride is yours, man? You musta won big on that scratch ticket!"
"It belongs to a friend."
Tito nodded. "Friends in high places, must be nice. That'll be sixty bucks."
Marcus reached into the pocket of his jeans and counted three twenties from his old wallet. What would have been a good chunk of change this morning didn't even make a dent in Morales's "per diem."
The photo of Katrina peeking out of the billfold made him homesick so he slapped the wallet closed and slipped it back into his pocket.
The fridge at the back by the bathrooms called to him with its colorful array of liquors and beers. His hand began to shake as he handed the twenties to Tito.
I need a drink. Better get to where I'm going first, though. Can't fuck up on the first day.
"You have a good one, Tito."
"Yeah, yeah," Tito said distractedly. No Stay cool. Not even a You too. He seemed to watch Marcus with suspicion or envy or both through the glass as Marcus got back in the car.
Better get used to it. Maybe trade this baby in for a cheap sedan.
Marcus turned on the radio to drown out his anxiety.
"Fox Wentworth went on an anti-abortion crusade in his latest rally," the growly-voiced radio announcer said. "Never mind the fact that his supporters have been performing late-term abortions in the basement of a Gringo's Pizza in the middle of the Great Salt La—"
Marcus chuckled and switched to what used to be his favorite classic rock and funk station when he'd first moved out to the Golden City but it had since started playing bullshit club music with auto-tuned vocals. He flicked to The Bone and caught Stevie Wonder's "Superstition" right in the middle.
Grooving along as he drove he caught sight of another Gringo's Pizza delivery car in the rearview. The driver's red trucker hat obscured his face.
Those guys are everywhere today, he thought.
Some attractive women in short skirts outside O'Farrell Theater caught his eye at the lights with the top down and Stevie blaring and spoke in each other's ears. It had been a long time since any woman had showed any interest in him, so he smiled back and gave them a wave and they giggled.
When he finally pulled up out front of the shelter Reyes and Buck stood with a bunch of other men smoking cigarettes. Buck spotted him first and his eyes just about popped out of his head. He flicked his smoke aside and jumped up and down giddily on his way to the car.
"Du-hude! What?! Where'd you get the slick whip, bro?" He ran his slender fingers over its glistening silver body, drinking it up with his eyes.
Reyes and a few of the other men sauntered over.
"Americo Morales lent it to me. Wanna take a ride?"
Buck glanced back over his shoulder. The excitement in his face vanished at the looks of suspicion and jealousy from the other men. He shook his head, turned to Marcus with his eyes downcast. "Nah. Nah, I don't think so, homie."
Marcus realized he probably looked like he was showing off but he'd only wanted to catch up with his friends before leaving them behind. The problem was he couldn't say that in front of all these guys without looking like an even bigger asshole. He turned to Reyes. "Ernie, you in?"
Reyes approached cautiously, looking the car over. "Mr. Morales let you drive this?"
HARBINGER Deliver Us to Evil Page 3
