Ben Soul

by Richard George

booty he was selling to the terrorist. Some sort of historical importance attached to it. It’s one of a set of three. Quig hoped to get the complete set. He believes the other two were in some downtown drug dealer’s possession.”

  “They’re probably dust by now; that area’s leveled, and bulldozers are shoving the debris into the Bay. Anything else?”

  “No, the rest of the pages are blank.”

  “I will have to confiscate the notebook and the Kuanyin, but you may take the rest of the effects with you.”

  Malcolm stood. “When may I bury Quig? Mother Vera loved him. I owe her that much, to see Quig properly out of the world.”

  “Any time you can arrange it. The quicker the better, actually. We have more bodies than we can handle. Try any mortuary; give them the reference number on the toe tag. They’re expediting burials for the sake of the general health.”

  “Thank you, Chief Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Drye. We have your number. We’ll call you if we need further information.”

  “Certainly, Chief Inspector.” The Chief Inspector waved him out the door. Malcolm left to arrange Quig’s funeral.

  The Kuanyins Surface

  Alfred Bynoh, Al to his friends, rolled a chunk of brick and mortar about the size of a basketball onto his shovel, and lifted it into the dumpster beside him. He grunted with effort; the dumpster was almost shoulder height for Al. He was not tall. His complexion was rather dark. He was a wiry little man, and not particularly handsome. His blue eyes would have startled the casual observer if they had not been buried in a perpetual squint. Al needed glasses he couldn’t afford.

  He’d been shoveling rubble most of the morning and half the afternoon across the street. Some bigwig had dropped by, made some comment about the pile of rubble on this side of the street, and bingo! Al was by himself shoveling a huge mound of debris. That was good, in one way. Al was away from the boss. Distance from bosses was always a plus in his view of things.

  It was a week since the temblor. The air over the City still smelled bad. It wasn’t decay, exactly; it was more the smell of stale secrets buried in building foundations for decades that the temblor had cast into the skies. Alfred Bynoh adjusted the breathing mask on his sweating face. It kept some of the smell, and the dust, out of his nose.

  The pile of rubble before him elicited a sigh from him. It was a heap of broken brick, crumbled plaster, and shattered lathing. The building it had been had not been up to code, maybe not even at its construction early in the twentieth century. No matter. Al’s job, to put gravy on his grits and a bit of bacon in his breakfast, required him to clear away this rubble a shovelful at a time. He knew, as did everyone in the City, the work was the Mayor’s idea to give people on assistance a sense of worth. Al thought he could feel just as worthy simply taking the cash or free food and lodging. The system was the system, though. Going along with it was easier by far than fighting it.

  Al moved another shovel of plaster and mortar dust. He opened a small cavity in the rubble. He dropped to his knees, praying there wasn’t a body in there. It looked large enough for a cat or small dog, maybe even a baby. Foul smells drifted up pockets in the ruins of the City’s collapsed buildings. One’s nose got numb to them. This one emitted an almost floral spiciness.

  Al bent over and peered inside the cavity. He couldn’t see anything, so he took the small flashlight he carried, and shone it around the cavity. There were two statues, Chinese or Japanese (Al wasn’t sure what the difference was between the Chinese and the Japanese—his education hadn’t extended that far). In front of them, crushed, was a small bronze burner that smelled like cheap perfume. Al glanced around. The boss was still across the street. Al slipped the two statues out of the cavity and hid them in his lunchbox by the dumpster. Then he went back to his slow and cautious shoveling.

  When he got off work, Al decided to go to Chinatown to sell his find. Some places didn’t ask too many questions, not that Al knew which those were. He chose Wong Brothers’ Import/Export Emporium at random.

  Mae Ling was alone in the store. The Wong brothers had family matters to settle, so he had asked her to stay later than she ordinarily did. Al Bynoh came in. Mae Ling guessed at once that the laborer was not likely a frequent customer.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” the man said. “I’ve got a couple of statues I found. Maybe you can tell me if they’re worth anything.” The man set his lunchbox on the counter and opened it. Stale banana smells erupted from it. Mae held her breath. The man took out two bronze-painted statues and set them on the counter. Then he mercifully closed his aromatic lunchbox and put it on the floor. Mae breathed again.

  “These are the guys,” he said. He looked hopefully and anxiously at her. Mae raked her eyes over his grimy work clothes. Underneath the gray-dusted rumpled denim she could tell he was a muscular, though small, man. She warily picked up a statue.

  “This is a sacred Kuanyin,” she said. “I’m not sure just which one. It’s a clay copy, of course, probably early twentieth century.” She set the statue on the counter and picked up the other one. “These two appear to be part of a set.” She turned them over. “This one is labeled one, in Chinese.” She took up the other one. “This one is labeled three. One is missing.”

  “These two are all I found,” the man said. “What are they worth?”

  “About ten dollars, total, without the missing one,” Mae said. The man shrugged.

  “That would be ten dollars I didn’t have before.”

  “Do you want to sell them, then?”

  “Yes.”

  Mae struck a key on the cash register and extracted ten dollars. She gave it to the man. “Do you need a bill of sale, or other paperwork?”

  “No,” he said, scooping up the ten-dollar bill, and bending to get his lunchbox. “Thanks.” He left the store hurriedly. Mae contemplated the statues, turning them over several times. Something drew her to them, broken though the set was. On a hunch, she went to her purse, took out ten of her own dollars, and put them in the register. The statues she wrapped in a bag, and put beside her purse. When she went home, the bag went with her.

  Dickon Lunches with Rev. Bobbo Link

  The chow mein sat like lead in Dickon’s stomach as he caught the bus north. By the time he got home the icy numbness of his shock and grief was beginning to melt into his anger.

  “I’m not trash to dump!” he shouted at the manse door. “I’m not trash at all! How dare she!” The walls did not answer him. The dingy and worn furniture, most of it cast-off by church members, stared silently and dully at Dickon. He wanted to throw knives at Vanna, and rocks and sticks. How had he ever been dumb enough to fall in love with her?

  Vanna was not in front of him, and he had nothing to throw but his car keys. Those he threw at the gray-green sofa. They fell onto a cushion with a soft, unsatisfying, clink. Dickon clenched his fists by his sides, squeezed his eyes shut, and fought to control his temper long enough to plot his next move.

  Presbytery. What would Presbytery say? What would the congregation say? Some of the congregation liked Vanna a lot. What would Dickon say this Sunday morning? Dickon could do nothing about Vanna. He had learned long ago when she decided to do something, she did it, without regard to consequences or bleeding bodies in her wake.

  Dickon’s mind raced through all the evidence he had since the great Temblor. Vanna’s taking rooms in the City. This Clarence who had found her work with the City administration. Dickon began imagining scenes between Vanna and Clarence. Other names and faces from past years whirled through his mind. He needed to interrupt the flow. Some distraction—he needed help. He took down the Presbytery address book and dialed the Reverend Robert Oliver Link, whom everybody called Bobbo.

  Bobbo was just going out to a meeting an hour’s drive away. He would be near Dickon on the following day, though, and
arranged to have lunch with Dickon at the Crusading Cow, a family restaurant at a crossroads near Dickon. Somehow, Dickon felt better, just knowing someone who cared was within reach. When his mind began to spin through possibilities and might-have-beens again, Dickon drank two bottles of wine to put himself to sleep. As he drifted drunkenly off, he hoped he hadn’t scheduled any meetings or counseling sessions for tomorrow. He was sure he had no weddings or funerals. Those he’d remember.

  Dickon woke late to a vicious headache and nausea. He got up, took three aspirin, used eye drops to clear the red from his eyes, showered, shaved, and dressed in casual clothes. Reverend Bobbo would probably have a coat and tie. Dickon’s throat was too raw to welcome the constriction of a tie. As he drove toward the Crusading Cow, the throbbing in his head eased. He had put the aspirin bottle in his glove compartment just in case. Now he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it.

  Rev. Bobbo Link was standing at the restaurant door when Dickon drove into the parking lot. Dickon checked his watch. He wasn’t late, thank goodness. He parked his car and hurried toward the door. He was in a suit and tie, both brown. His straight brown hair was wind-disordered, and straggled down one temple. He nervously brushed the stray locks into place with his left hand.

  Dickon raised his hand to his own red hair. It was reasonably