Secondhand Souls

by Christopher Moore

  “Thing is, I’m not sure she does the k-­word anymore,” said Jane. “I’m not sure she hasn’t lost her, you know, powers.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Jane looked across the room to Cassie for support. The petite redhead nodded. “Tell him.”

  “The hellhounds are gone, Charlie. When we got up yesterday morning they were just gone. The door was still locked, everything was in its place, but they were just gone.”

  “So no one is protecting Sophie?”

  “Not no one. Cassie and I are protecting her. I can be pretty butch, and Cassie knows that karate for the slow.”

  “Tai chi,” said Cassie.

  “That’s not a fighting thing,” said Charlie.

  “I told her,” said Cassie.

  “Well, you guys need to find the goggies! And you need to find out if Sophie still has her powers. Maybe she can protect herself. She made pretty quick work of the Morrigan.” Charlie had chased the raven-­women into a vast underground grotto that had opened up under San Francisco, and was engaging them in battle when little Sophie showed up with Alvin and Mohammed and more or less vaporized them with a wave of her hand. Not in time, however, to save Charlie from the Morrigan’s venom.

  “Well, I can’t have her just kitty someone,” said Jane. “That may be the one bit of your training that stuck.”

  “That’s not true,” said Cassie. “She puts her napkin in her lap and always says please and thank you.”

  “Well, try it,” said Charlie. “Do an experiment.”

  “On Mrs. Ling? Mrs. Korjev? The mailman?”

  “No, of course not, not on a person. Maybe on a lab animal.”

  “May I remind you that most of your friends are lab animals.”

  “Hey!” said Bob.

  “Not them,” Charlie said. “I mean an animal that doesn’t have a soul.”

  “How can I be sure of that? I mean, look at you—­”

  “I guess you can’t,” said Charlie.

  “Welcome to Buddhism,” said Audrey, who had moved to the corner of the room to allow space for the Squirrel ­People to gather around the phone.

  “That’s not helpful,” Jane called.

  “Just find the hellhounds,” Charlie said. “No matter what is going on with Sophie, they’ll protect her.”

  “And how do I do that? Put up posters with their picture. Lost: two four-­hundred pound indestructible dogs. Answer to the names Alvin and Mohammed? Hmm?”

  “It might work.”

  “How did you find them?”

  “Find them? I couldn’t get them to go away. I kept throwing biscuits in front of the number 90 Crosstown Express bus to get rid of them. But she needs them.”

  “She needs her daddy, Charlie. Let me tell her you’re alive. I understand if you don’t want her to see you, but we can tell her you’re out of town. You can talk to her on the phone. Your voice is kind of the same—­a little scratchier and squeakier, but close.”

  “No, Jane. Just keep pushing through like you have been. You guys have done a great job with Sophie.”

  “Thanks,” Cassie said. “I always liked you, Charlie. Thanks for trusting me to be one of Sophie’s mommies.”

  “Sure. I’ll figure something out, I need to talk to someone who knows more than me. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Jane said. She disconnected and looked up to see Sophie coming out of her room, a hopeful light in her eyes.

  “I heard you say ‘Charlie,’ ” she said. “Was that Daddy? Were you talking to Daddy?”

  Jane went down on one knee and held her arms out to Sophie. “No, sweetie. Daddy’s gone. I was just talking to someone about your daddy. Seeing if they could help us find the goggies.”

  “Oh,” said Sophie, walking into her auntie’s embrace. ”I miss him.”

  “I know, honey,” Jane said. She rested her cheek on Sophie’s head and felt her heart break for the little kid for the third time that day. She blinked away tears and kissed the top of Sophie’s head. “But if I’ve fucked up my eyeliner again you’re getting another time-­out.”

  “Come here,” Cassie said, crouching down. “Come to nice mommy. We’ll have ice cream.”

  Over at the Three Jewels Buddhist Center, Bob the Beefeater looked at the dead phone, then at Charlie. “Lab animals? Little harsh.”

  The Squirrel ­People nodded. It was a little harsh.

  “Jane’s a very damaged person,” Charlie said with a shrug of apology.

  Bob looked at the other Squirrel ­People in their miniature finery and mismatched spare parts. “We’ll be under the porch if you need us,” he said. He trudged out of the dining room. The Squirrel ­People fell in behind him. Those with lips pouted.

  When the last of them was out of the room, Charlie looked to Audrey.

  “Something’s going on.”

  “Apparently.”

  “My daughter needs me.”

  “I know.”

  “We need to find her dogs.”

  “I know.”

  “But she can’t see me like this.”

  “I can sew you a different outfit,” said Audrey.

  “I need a body.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Something’s happening,” Charlie said. “I need to talk to someone else in the business.”

  Mike Sullivan had worked as a painter on the Golden Gate Bridge for twelve years when he encountered his first jumper.

  “Stand back or I’ll jump,” said the kid.

  He wasn’t a kid, really. He looked to be about the same age as Mike, early thirties, but the way he was clinging to the rail made him seem unsure and less grownup. Also, he was wearing a gold cardigan that was two sizes too small for him. He looked as if his grandmother had dressed him. In the dark.

  Mike had been on the bridge when there had been jumpers before. They lost about one every two weeks, on average, and he’d even seen, or more frighteningly, heard a ­couple hit the water, but they usually went over by the pedestrian rails at the road level, not up here on top of one of the towers. This was Mike’s first face-­to-­face, and he was trying to remember what they had taught them during the seminar.

  “Wait,” Mike said. “Let’s talk about this.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not with you. What are you, a bridge painter?”

  “Yeah,” said Mike, defensively. It was a good job. Orangey, often cold, but good.

  “I don’t want to talk about my life with a guy who paints a bridge orange. All the time, over and over. What could you possibly say that would give me hope? You should be on this side of the rail with me.”

  “Fine, then. Maybe you can call one of those hotlines.”

  “I don’t have a phone.”

  Who goes out without a phone? This guy was a complete loser. Still, if he could get closer, maybe Mike could grab him. Pull him back over the rail. He unhooked the safety line from the left side, rehooked it over the upright, then unhooked his right cable and did the same thing. They had two safety lines with big stainless-­steel carabineers on the ends so one was always clipped to the bridge. Now he was within the last few feet of the top of the tower. He could walk up the cable and reach the guy in the stupid sweater. One of the guys on the crew had reached over the pedestrian railing and caught a jumper, dragged her by the collar to safety. The Parks Ser­vice had given him a medal.

  “You can use my phone,” Mike said. He patted his mobile, which was in a pouch attached to his belt.

  “Don’t touch the radio,” said the sweater guy.

  The maintenance crew used the radios to keep in touch, and Mike should have called in the jumper before he’d engaged him, but he’d been walking up the cable more or less on autopilot, not looking, and didn’t notice the kid until
he was almost to the top.

  “No, no, just the phone,” said Mike. He took off his leather work glove and drew the cell phone from its canvas pouch. “Look, I already have the number.” He really hoped he had the number. The supervisor had made them all put the suicide hotline number in their phones one morning before shift, but that had been two years ago. Mike wasn’t even sure if it was still there.

  It was. He pushed the call button. “Hang on, buddy. Just hang on.”

  “Stay back,” said the sweater guy. He let go of the rail with one hand and leaned out.

  Hundreds of feet below, pedestrians were looking out over the bay, strolling, pointing, taking pictures. Hundreds of feet below that, a con­tainer ship as long as two football fields cruised under the bridge.

  “Wait!” said Mike.

  “Why?”

  “Uh, because it hurts. They don’t tell you that. It’s seven hundred and fifty feet from here to the water. Believe me, I think about it every day. You hit at a hundred and seventy-­five miles an hour, but it doesn’t always kill you. You feel it. It hurts like hell. You’re all broken up, in the cold water. I mean, I’m not sure, but—­”

  “Crisis hotline. This is Lily. What’s your name?”

  Mike held up a finger to signal for the kid to wait just a second. “I’m Mike. Sorry, they were supposed to connect me with the suicide hotline.”

  “Yeah, that’s us. But we don’t call it that because it’s depressing. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m not calling for me, I’m calling for this guy who needs some help. He’s over the rail on the Golden Gate Bridge.”

  “My specialty,” said Lily. “Put him on.”

  “Stay back,” said tiny sweater guy. He let go with one hand again. Mike noticed that the kid’s hands were turning purple. It was a nice day, but up here, in the wind, it was cold, and hanging on to cold steel made it worse. All the guys on the crew wore long johns under their coveralls, and gloves, even on the warmest days.

  “What’s his name?” asked Lily.

  “What’s your name?” Mike asked sweater guy.

  “Geoff with a G,” said sweater.

  “Geoff with a G,” Mike repeated into the phone.

  “Tell him he doesn’t have to tell ­people about the G,” said Lily.

  “She says you don’t have to tell ­people about the G,” Mike said.

  “Yes I do. Yes I do. Yes I do,” said Geoff with a G.

  “The G is important to him,” Mike said to Lily.

  “Is he cute?”

  “Pardon.”

  “What’s he look like? Is he cute?”

  “I don’t know. He’s a guy? He’s going to jump off the bridge.”

  “Describe him.”

  “I don’t know. He’s about thirty, maybe. Glasses. Brown hair.”

  “Is he clean?”

  Mike looked. “Yeah. To the eye.”

  “He sounds nice.”

  “She says you sound nice,” Mike conveyed to Geoff.

  “Tell him if he comes down, we can get together, chat about his problems, and I’ll give him a blow job.”

  “Really?”

  “The point is to get them past the crisis, Mike. Get him off the bridge.”

  “Okay,” said Mike. To Geoff, he said. “So, Geoff, Lily here says that if you come down, the two of you can get together and chat about your problems.”

  “I’m done talking,” said Geoff.

  “Tell him the rest,” said Lily. “The second part usually closes the deal.”

  “She says she’ll give you a blow job.”

  “What?” said Geoff.

  “I’m not saying it again,” Mike said to Lily.

  “Tell him I’m beautiful.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, fucktard, really. How are you not getting this?”

  “Maybe I should just put you on speaker, and you can tell him.”

  “Nooooooo,” wailed Geoff. He raised his free hand and swung out into space.

  “She’s beautiful,” Mike said.

  “Not again,” said Geoff. “No more.” He pushed off into space. No scream. Wind.

  “Fuck,” Mike said. He looked, then looked away. He didn’t want to see him hit. He cringed and anticipated the sound. It came up from the water like a distant gunshot.

  “Mike?” said Lily.

  He caught his breath. He could feel his pulse rushing in his ears and the sound of ­people shouting below. A code blue came over his radio, signaling for everyone on the crew to stay secured in place until the captain of the bridge could assess the situation.

  “He went over,” Mike said into the phone.

  “Balls,” Lily said. “This is on you, Mike. This is not on me. If you’d given him the phone—­”

  “He wouldn’t take it. I couldn’t get close to him.”

  “You should have had him call me himself.”

  “He didn’t have a phone.”

  “What kind of loser goes out without a phone?”

  “I know,” said Mike. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Well, couldn’t be helped,” said Lily. “You’re going to lose some. I’ve been doing this awhile, and even with your best moves, some are going in the drink.”

  “Thanks,” said Mike.

  “You sound nice,” said Lily. “Single?”

  “Uh, kind of.”

  “Me, too. Straight?”

  “Uh-­huh.”

  “Look, I have your number. Okay if I call you?”

  Mike was still shaking from Geoff’s dive. “Sure.”

  “I’ll text you mine. Call anytime.”

  “Okay,” Mike said.

  “But the blow-­job thing is not automatic, Mike. That’s strictly a crisis-­line thing.”

  “Of course,” Mike said.

  “But not out of the question,” said Lily.

  “Okay. What do you do if the caller is a woman?”

  “I commiserate. I can go from zero to co-­miserable at the speed of dark.”

  “Okay.”

  “I know things, Mike. Many things. Terrible, dark, disturbing things.”

  “I should probably report in or something.”

  “Okay, call me, bye,” said Lily.

  “Bye,” he said.

  Mike put his phone back in the pouch then made his way to the top of the tower, hooked his safety lines on the high cables, then sat down, took off his hard hat, and ran his fingers through his hair, as if he might comb some of the strangeness out of the morning that way. He looked up at the giant aircraft warning light, sitting in its orange-­painted steel cage twelve feet above his head, at the very top of the bridge, and behind it the sky began to darken as his vision started to tunnel down. He had just about fainted when out of the side of the light tower a woman’s torso appeared—­as solid as if a window had opened and she had peeked out, except there was no window. She was jutting right out of the metal, like a ship’s figurehead, a woman in a white lace dress, her dark hair tied back, some kind of white flower pinned in her hair above her ear.

  “Alone at last,” she said. A dazzling smile. “We’re going to need your help.”

  Mike stood and backed up against the rail, trying not to scream. His breath came in a whimper.

  4

  Tribulations of the Mint One

  Nestled between the Castro and the Haight, just off the corner of Noe and Market Streets, lay Fresh Music. Behind the counter stood the owner, seven feet, two-­hundred and seventy-­five pounds of lean heartache, the eponymous Mister Fresh. Minty Fresh. He wore moss-­green linen slacks and a white dress shirt, the sleeves flipped back on his forearms. His scalp was shaved and shone like polished walnut; his eyes were golden; his cool, which had always been there before, was missing.r />
  Minty held Coltrane’s My Favorite Things album cover by its edges and looked into Trane’s face for a clue to the whereabouts of his cool. Behind him the vinyl disc was spinning on a machined aluminum turntable that looked like a Mars lander and weighed as much as a supermodel. He had hoped that the notes might bring him into the moment, out of a future or a past, anxiety or regret, but Gershwin’s “Summertime” was skating up next on the disc and he just didn’t think he could take the future-­past it would evoke.

  He had wept into her voice mail.

  Did Trane look up from the album cover, lower his soprano sax, and say, “That is some pathetic shit, you know that right?” He might as well have.

  He put the album cover down in the polycarbonate “now playing” stand and was stepping back to lift the tone arm when he saw the profile of a sharp-­featured Hispanic man moving by the front window. Inspector Rivera. Not a thing, Rivera coming to the shop. It was cool. The last time he’d spoken to Rivera, the Underworld had manifested itself in the city in the form of horrible creatures, and chaos had nearly overcome the known world, but that was in the past, not a thing, now.

  He willed a chill over himself as Rivera came in. Then—­

  “Oh, hell no! Get your ass right back out that door.”

  “Mr. Fresh,” said Rivera, with a nod. “I think I need your help.”

  “I don’t do police work,” said Fresh. “I’ve been out of the security business for twenty years.”

  “I’m not police anymore. I have a bookstore over on Russian Hill.”

  “I don’t sell books either.”

  “But you still sell soul vessels, don’t you?” Rivera nodded to a locked, bulletproof case displaying what appeared to be a random collection of records, CDs, tapes, and even a ­couple of old wax cylinders.

  To Minty Fresh, every object in the case glowed a dull red, as if they’d been heated in a furnace, evincing the human soul housed there, but to anyone but a Death Merchant, they looked like, well, a random collection of recorded media. Rivera knew about the Death Merchants. He’d first come to the shop with Charlie Asher when the shit had gone down, when the Death Merchants around the city had been slaughtered and their stores ransacked for soul vessels by the Morrigan—­“sewer harpies,” Charlie had called them. But now that Rivera was one of them, a Death Merchant, he could also see the glow. Minty had sent him the Great Big Book of Death himself.