until he got painful Charley Horses. He’d show up at the house bruised and battered, and his father would laugh and say, ‘Serves you right for not fighting back.’
If Foerster had been dumb enough to believe in God, he’d say that God was testing him like He’d tested Job. Almost nothing had turned out right as far back as Foerster could remember. That is, until he met Tyler Gant. Although Gant’s personality left something to be desired, and Gant’s tough-guy authority act chafed on Foerster, the time he had worked for Gant had probably been the one thing that had gone well in more than twenty-five wasted years.
Gant had used Foerster’s brains the way they were meant to be used, working him to his highest level. He had shown Foerster at least a dollop of respect, and had paid him what he was worth. Their project had come off without a hitch, and they had made history together. Foerster had watched the news coverage for days, silently bursting with pride, almost unable to contain himself. At the Illinois state house, politicians and their staff members – blood ticks sucking on the near-dead carcass of this diseased country – were dying of anthrax.
Foerster wanted to go a bar and have a few drinks and say to someone, some stranger, ‘See that? See what they did? That was me. I was on that team. I grew that stuff.’ He wanted to call his mother and tell her all about it. He wanted to dig up his old man and rub it in his face. But of course, he could never talk about it with anyone, ever, the rest of his days. About the only person he could possibly talk about it with was Gant himself, but Gant had told him to stay out of communication. One day, Gant said, he would be the one to reinitiate contact.
Foerster never imagined two cruel years would pass before he heard from Gant again. The world had slid further into the abyss during that time, and Foerster had slid with it. He had nearly forgotten about Gant, about the feelings of achievement, of being a winner that had come with working for him. Then a brief note, no return address, had appeared in Foerster’s mailbox. Although Foerster had moved three times since last they spoke, Gant had found him. Got some work for you (maybe). Same terms as before, times 2. Will send someone. Burn this letter. TG.
Same terms, times two – that was awesome. Foerster had made $25,000 on that job, for two weeks of work. He had received ten percent in cash before he ever did anything. That meant he would get $50,000 from this job, and $5,000 as an advance. Foerster had been in and out of jail in the months since that first note had arrived, but other notes had come since then. The time was getting close – Foerster could expect someone to pick him up any day.
Until yesterday, when those two clowns had crashed into the middle of Foerster’s plans like a bulldozer, he hadn’t realized how much he was looking forward to working for Gant again. As he slid the business card onto the table and closed his eyes, Foerster committed himself – he would do whatever was necessary to keep out of jail and get back to working with Gant.
Jonah felt exposed.
It was early the next morning. He and Gordo were parked in St. George, a few blocks from the Staten Island Ferry Terminal. They sat at the corner of Richmond Terrace and a quiet side street of shabby homes. Traffic was busy on Richmond Terrace, a weird parade of bicycles, motor scooters belching exhaust, a few cars and many people, some pushing along carts of various kinds. Diagonally across from Jonah and Gordo was a convenience store. A hand-lettered sign in the window read ‘CASHIER LEGALLY ARMED.’ Jonah wasn’t sure if that sign made life safer or more dangerous for the cashier.
From the passenger seat, Jonah pointed a big parabolic microphone at a house maybe fifty yards down the side street. The house was a ramshackle place, with light-blue aluminum siding that had seen too many winters. The microphone protruded from its base like a long black phallus, and was surrounded by a clear plastic half-dome. Jonah gripped it by its handle, which was rather like that of a gun. The mike was plugged into a tape cassette player sitting between them, which in turn was powered by the car’s cigarette lighter. The whole rig looked somewhat like a satellite dish, or perhaps like a death ray weapon from outer space. Gordo had picked it up at a second-hand sale.
For years, Jonah had noticed men on the sidelines at professional sporting events, holding the ultra-powerful mikes so that the television audience could get the benefit of every grunt, every scream, every high-speed collision between the finely-tuned war machines out on the field. Later, he learned they were also used by nature lovers for listening to songbirds. The mikes were even sensitive enough to listen to those birds through walls, or while the birds carried on boring phone conversations near open windows half a block away. Yeah. Jonah was familiar with parabolic microphones.
Unfortunately, nobody else seemed to be. He was attracting a lot of hostile glances.
‘Man, everybody’s gawking at us.’
In the driver’s seat, Gordo was reading the science pages of the New York Times. For once, he was dressed neatly, in a pressed shirt and slacks. He was clean-shaven. If things went their way, today he would be a man of God.
He glanced up from his newspaper. He gazed up and down the street.
‘I say fuck ‘em. Let them gawk.’
He snatched the binoculars off his lap and scanned the street.
Jonah watched the spy glasses move back and forth. The big man had brains – Jonah had to admit that. Among Foerster’s mail had been a bill from North Bronx Central Hospital. It seemed Foerster had been admitted for a bleeding ulcer some months before and still hadn’t paid. The dunning letter came with a copy of Foerster’s admission form. The form contained the name, address and phone number of an emergency contact.
Foerster’s mother.
‘Nothing yet, huh?’ Gordo said.
‘No.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll come.’
‘Oh, I won’t worry,’ Jonah said. ‘Why should I worry? Here’s a black man, probably from Mars, pointing a laser gun at somebody’s house during broad daylight. Nothing unusual about that, right? We’re lucky they haven’t called out the National Guard.
And meanwhile, Foerster would have to be an idiot to show up here.’
Gordo raised an eyebrow.
‘Patience, my brother,’ he said, scanning the paper again. ‘He’ll show up. I feel him in my bones, like some people feel the rain. A friendless bastard like that, he’s got to come back to his mother eventually.’
And as if by magic, Foerster appeared.
Jonah stared at him for close to a full minute before he realized who it was. Skinny, unkempt Foerster stood at the bottom of the concrete steps of his mother’s house, talking to a heavyset older guy. Foerster wore a gray wool cap like a sailor, probably to hide the scars on his head. It wasn’t remotely cold enough out for wool. Jonah could hardly believe the state of the man. He looked… dingy, like a ring of soap scum left around the sink after washing the dishes. He appeared to weigh about twenty-seven pounds. It was hard to imagine that this specimen had fought Jonah off yesterday, then had outrun him and given him the slip. He must be highly motivated.
‘Would you look at that,’ Jonah said. ‘He’s right out on the street.’
Gordo held the binoculars to his eyes. ‘Put the mike on them.’
Jonah turned the volume up and aimed the mike at the two men.
‘Yeah, yeah, I may stick around awhile,’ Foerster said. ‘My project in Cleveland just ended. It looks like I have something lined up down south, but after that job ends, I might just settle here in the old neighborhood for a while.’
‘What the hell is he talking about?’ Jonah said. ‘What job? Cleveland? I mean, come on already.’
Gordo shrugged. ‘He lies like other people breathe.’
‘Well, we’re glad to have you back, Davey,’ the oldster said. He clapped Foerster on his scrawny back and the mike picked up the slap. ‘I’m sure your mother will be happy to have a man around the house again.’
‘Sure, sure. I guess she gets lonely sometimes. It’ll be good for her.’
‘It’ll be good for both of you. Nothing like Mom’s home cooking to fatten a man up.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Gordo said. ‘They’re gonna need a lot more than Mom to fatten Foerster up. The guy’s a walking hunger crisis.’
