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If you prepare a cup of coffee as black as night, at midnight, he’ll show up. The coffee can’t be made for you or a loved one, but must be especially prepared for him. I hear he likes a nice arabica.
Where you prepare the coffee is inconsequential, but the most important thing. It is inconsequential because he will arrive, regardless of your location. It can be in your home, at a crossroads, in a camp deep in the wilderness. However, the location is also critical because it is where he will clean.
Many a would-be sorcerer has summoned him thinking they would bring forth some minor demon or imp, a creature to help tidy up around the laboratory. But then he arrives, cloaked in gray, like the dust and ash of centuries, tools jangling from his belt, moving with a walking stick that might be a broom. His eyes are felt but never seen as he takes stock of the mess you’ve made, the disorderly piles of your life, the unresolved matters, and prepares to clean.
Like the making of sausages, it’s best not to watch. More than one person has tried to interrupt, to give direction to the dusty spirit, and regretted it, either in this life or the next. Do not try to leave, though, as you might miss what it takes.
A lucky man from Mumbai, having brought the grey spirit forth, found that when the spirit left it did so with his consumption. A shrewd, miserly woman from Wessex watched the spirit carefully, to make sure it didn’t take anything valuable, but later counted five of her children when, for a brief moment, she remembered having six. A shaman from the Red River had an entire store of poisoned grain, intended for an enemy, delivered to the table of his family. A rebellious nun from Milan, certain no such spirits existed, found her cell in a perfect state of cleanliness, its dust swept away with her faith. A middle-aged woman from Georgia returned home to discover her infirmed mother was gone, as if she had packed up all of her things and left on her own.
The gray spirit comes, takes what you don’t want, and goes. The human heart rarely know its own contents, though, which makes the cleaner as dangerous as Mephistopheles himself.
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I stared at the Russian on the casino floor. When I had no better answer to Jasper’s question of what I would do about him, I said, “I guess I’ll go say hello.” Not entirely certain what that meant, I spent another moment continuing to scan the monitors. Floating over the blackjack tables I spotted another familiar, unhappy face and something like a plan began to form.
The employee entrances onto the casino floor are tucked out of the way so the patrons don’t have to see the help enter and exit the stage. I doubt most of them could find one if their lives depended on it. I picked one that let out in a section other than blackjack, instead cruising by the Russian as I made my way there. He didn’t disappoint – I picked him up in my wake, slowly prowling behind me, his stubbled skull poking out from the crowd like a dorsal fin.
Gaspard was lording over the blackjack tables, pit boss of his tiny domain. He saw me coming; a flash of recognition preceded him tapping a subordinate on the shoulder and whispering to her. Finished with whatever warning he passed on, he faced me, planting his feet on the floor like he didn’t expect my mass to stop and it was his duty to keep me from crashing into the lucrative card games. I doubt he even noticed the actual danger of the Russian behind me.
I gave him plenty of time to do it, though, swinging by a few games, pretending to check out the action. When I stopped in front of Gaspard his features descended from his receding hairline in downward Vs and, if I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought I was late for work. Despite his obvious disapproval we exchanged, “Bon jour.”
I didn’t see any point in wasting time. “I won’t be showing up for my shifts for awhile.” I didn’t think he deserved any further explanation, but I added, “I’ve been given some additional duties to tend to. By management.”
Gaspard’s expression was only emphasized by his putting his hands behind his back and raising his height, briefly, up on his toes. “We know.”
I watched him bob up and down, then added, “Well, it’s good we’re all on the same page.” Not certain why, I didn’t give him the usual French goodbye, but said, “I’ll see you around,” and moved past him to leave.
I didn’t head out the employee entrance as I usually would, but made for the front, heading towards the same steps Sartre had thrown Mitnick down. There was a soft spring shower blowing in from the sea, so I sheltered under the glowing marquee, watching the first few luxury cars pull up to let out their VIPs. I pretended to consider hailing a taxi, giving the Russian time to catch up, then shrugged, opened the umbrella, and headed down the Promenade.
I followed the same stretch of walkway next to the thoroughfare that Atwell had driven up on me with his BX the first night I had met Lanzo. I fantasized about that happening now, him pulling up next to me, honking at me from across the bollards, and me feeding him to the Russian.
Even as the sporadic vehicle noise would provide the Russian with some kind of cover if he wanted to approach me, I continued to head east, unwilling to take him in the direction of Sophie and our tenement. This early in the evening there was enough pedestrian traffic on the Promenade’s footpath that he wouldn’t be able to try anything, but the increasing rain was driving people indoors, giving me a limited time before he might be afforded an opportunity for action.
I made it a few blocks before I spotted one of the few brutalist structures in Old Town. Standing as tall as the most resplendent of the city’s noble palaces, its bare concrete walls were covered in art banners and officially sanctioned graffiti, anything to hide the fact that a parking garage had been built in the heart of the district. After all, not all of the gamblers who came down here were wealthy enough to be chauffeured to the gate or live close enough to just saunter in. But they still had money to lose.
The entrances to the garage were any number of open metal doors that I had never seen closed. Through them was the structure’s cement belly, ribbed with arches between pillars that kept one level from crushing the next under the combined weight of automobiles and concrete. It was well-lit, but I knew there weren’t any security cameras – after all, the plebes didn’t have nice enough cars to worry about. I knew there was usually an attendant or two on the first level, so I scanned for them while shaking off my umbrella and coat. When I didn’t see anyone I moved further inside. When I heard footsteps behind me, I headed up some nearby stairs. I made enough noise that Army Intelligence could have followed me.
The pillars provided some constant spots of darkness, deep pools of shadow that stood out starkly in the harsh halogen lights. On the second level, I hid in one of those, picking one that was close to the stairs I had come up, and waited.
When the Russian made his appearance, I decided he was smarter than lucky. He moved onto the floor of the parking garage with a caution that said he suspected something wasn’t right. He must have wanted to find me pretty bad, though, because he came anyway, poking his head through the door, scanning from side-to-side, then moving out into the open space. It put me close enough to get my first good look at him.
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Mr. Harding stared at the young man across the desk from him. He was certainly different than most of the young professionals that were applying for the associate position at the Exchange.
His hair was what Mr. Harding’s father would have called “high and tight,” his suit was pressed, his shoes were shined. That was enough to set him apart. Suits had fallen out of style, even at firms as storied at the Exchange, most young applicants interviewing in “business casual” or “fast casual” or whatever term disguised the latest trend for slobbery. Over the past two decades the venture capitalists had gained enough respect that their worst sartorial choices had bled over into other, more respectable, sectors. Not for this candidate, though, one Mr. Summers.
He was certainly more focused than the other applicants. He didn’t have the usual cloud of notification signals that surrounded other young people. Mr. Harding would often note when applicants would unconsciously reach for their smartphone, even the pressure of a job interview unable to dampen that Pavlovian response. It might have been that he didn’t bring his device with him, but there was something about this Summers that told Harding it was more than forethought.
Perhaps his age had something to do with it. For better or worse, Summers was older than most of the professionals that applied for associate positions at the Exchange. Leaning back in his chair, Harding picked up the single-sheet of paper that was meant to sum up Summers’ lifetime of professional experience.
The reading glasses Harding stared down his nose through brought the sheet’s writing into focus, but blurred everything else, which suited his purposes. “I see you joined the military in 2014.”
Mr. Summers bobbed his head and answered with a simple, “Yes, sir.”
“Yes.” Summers cleared his throat. “After leaving the service I…” He paused, long enough that Harding glanced over his spectacles. Seeing his attention, Summers replied with a steady, “I had difficulty adjusting to civilian life.”
“For three years?”
“No, sir. After a few months I was contacted by the Peachtree Group and offered a position there. I went back overseas for most of that time.”
“Your curriculum vitae doesn’t have that listed among your accomplishments.” Harding threw in a bit of Latin showmanship, smiling in the hopes of coaxing something of a human reaction out of Summers.
Summers remained immobile. “I don’t really think of it as an accomplishment.”
Harding stared quizzically at Summers. “The Peachtree Group does work for the Department of Defense, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So in a sense you were still serving your country.”
There was another long pause from Summers before he answered. “I suppose you could say that.”
“So what did you do while employed there?”
Summers’ face became grim. Or grimmer. Harding couldn’t quite tell if that were possible. He looked Harding directly in the eyes, though, when he responded, “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
Harding had worked at the Exchange long enough to know secrets, the making and keeping of them, and found the young man’s reply to be irksome. “Excuse me?”
Summer’s eyes flicked to his shoes, as if the answer might lie there. Harding was certain there was something more of an explanation coming, something about state secrets, images of redacted documents fanning out in his mind. These spiraled into a small anecdote he would share at a cocktail party later, mentioning what an interesting fellow he had interviewed, a patriot and soldier that wasn’t really qualified for the job, but his service had clearly earned him an opportunity at the Exchange.
Instead, when Summers’ eyes came up they were that of a wounded animal, the steady discipline restraining a watery regret. He only repeated, “I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
Surprised by the change in temperament, Harding whipped the resume in his hand, cracking the crisp paper. “The firm has business with the DOD as well. We’ve contracted with the Peachtree Group.”
At these words, Summer’s eyes returned to their stony discipline, resting on Harding. “If you know that, you must have classified status.”
Harding straightened in his chair, happy to let Summers know the type of man he was speaking with. “Of course I do. I’ve been working for the Exchange for three decades. My department handles international projects, particularly in the EMEA.”
“Then it was you who signed order GH-657.”
At the mention of this very specific corporate work order, Harding found his vision blurred for reasons completely unrelated to his reading glasses. His chest tighten. Images of the Sudan came into his mind. Not actual eye witness events, of course. He hadn’t been stupid enough to be in that savage place personally, but some of the worst atrocities had made the news. Focusing back on Summers again, he managed to get out, “How did you – ?”
“The order was to hire a group of local contractors to remove squatters from a survey area where cobalt had been discovered.” Summers paused. “Were you ever curious about how it was handled?”
“I didn’t – “
“You didn’t ask about the details.” A blink and the discipline in his eyes became a stoney emptiness. “Squatters is another word for ‘refugee camp.’ The contractors were a group of Janjaweed from Chad. They don’t much care for the local tribesfolk in the Sudan, so when they got the orders to remove the refugees they weren’t real concerned about how. I think maybe you know the rest.”
Harding stared at Summers, chest deflated and mouth agape. After a moment he managed, “What exactly did you do for the Peachtree Group, Mr. Summers?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Summers repeated, but then looked to the closed office door, almost as if X-ray vision allowed him to see the secretary beyond it. Before he could ask what he was doing, Harding was shocked by the swiftness of the younger man as he moved around the desk. “But I’d be happy to show you.”
Harding was almost able to call for help before Summers began his demonstration.
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I left Lanzo at Petit Motos Moreau but didn’t go inside. I wasn’t sure how his uncle would feel about me and the trouble I kept bringing to his shop and I didn’t want to deal with that iron grip of his. Also, I was pretty sure he’d be on his way to passing out by now.
It was still early in the evening so I took a tram into Old Town. In its plastic hull, there was a certain comfort in the conditioned air, the quiet chatter of the increasing tourist crowd, and the locals who mostly stared at their phones. In that calm pool of mediocrity, I decided the next logical step would be to update Sartre.
This early in the evening the glass domes and doors of the casino were lit only by the marquee. I wasn’t technically wearing my uniform, but the white shirt and black pants I had on were close enough that I decided to use the employee entrance. Sure enough, no one stopped me and the staff I encountered didn’t think anything was out of the ordinary. I saw Thibault, who was quick enough to see something wasn’t quite right, but he just smiled his still broken smile and we passed each other with a friendly, “Bon jour.”
I headed towards the security station and skipped the check-in. The third shift change wouldn’t happen for a bit, so the rooms were quiet, with none of the usual shuffling of casino employees getting ready. In the dark of the back room, I found Jasper at his bank of security monitors with two other professional observers. I tapped each of the others on the shoulder with a hand holding the pack of Marlboros, two sticks pulled out as an offering. Both of them, competent middle-aged men who weren’t looking to change jobs any time soon, stared longingly at the cigarettes with only doubt restraining them.
Jasper came up from the electric haze of the monitors to see me standing there, then reassured his co-workers in quiet French that he could handle things for a few moments. When neither man budged Jasper said something quicker and raised a decibel enough that I could catch, “Gouverneur Nuit.” The two men fidgeted in their seats for a moment, glanced at each other, then took the cigarettes and headed outside.
I offered Jasper a smoke, which he waved away. Having to use the little weasel as a go-between was almost enough to make me wish I had skimped on my own operational security. But I wasn’t even willing to carry the mobile Mitnick had given me, so Jasper was still my best choice for reaching Sartre.
I put the cigarettes away, leaning forward to stare at the monitors. In the glow of the screens, I hovered my bulk over Jasper like some kind of alien craft floating in mid-atmosphere. It allowed me to be heard as I said quietly, “I need to get a message to Sartre.”
Jasper stared up at me, his features rigid, concealing his discomfort at our proximity with disdain. “And?”
I smiled, probably the first genuine smile I had given Jasper, grateful that he was allowing us to skip any preamble. I decided to play nice. “Please tell him,” I stopped, suddenly remembering that I wasn’t entirely certain that Jasper was only working for Sartre. Mitnick had hinted that he had more than one person in the casino on his payroll. Checking my internal machinery, I realized I only cared enough to barely veil what I had to say. “Tell him,” I repeated, “that me and the Idiots are moving forward with the plan.” I let my eyes wander over the screens for a few moments, then added, “We’ll need his help after we’ve secured the package.” Even in the light of the monitors, Jasper’s face brightened at the bit of spycraft dropped into his lap.
That lasted just long enough for me to break away from the monitors. Jasper’s face returned to its usual resting scorn, clearly unhappy at delivering such a short and cryptic message. I repressed an impulse to slap him and kept my calm, adding, “Or you can just tell him I need to speak to him.”
Completely removing himself from the chain wasn’t what Jasper had in mind, though, and he dismissed the suggestion with another wave of his hand. “I will let him know.”
I said thanks and stood, bending the light of the screens around me as I did. Jasper waited until I moved to leave before he said, “The Russians have been searching for you.”
That got my attention. Not wanting to give him any satisfaction, I slowly rotated my battleship bulk back to him. As if I didn’t understand, I asked, “What’s that?”
Jasper was practically leering, but he didn’t waste time trying to lord the knowledge over me. He pointed towards one of the monitors, crisp and clear in its high definition. The live image was crowded with people, either moving or standing at one of the gambling tables. I wouldn’t have noticed anything out of the ordinary if it weren’t for Jasper’s incisive eye.
In the background, near one of the casino’s marble columns, was a man who stood out from the formal wear of the high-end gamblers and the gawking of the spectators watching them. The black of his now familiar faux-uniform (black jacket and pants, short cropped hair) made it inescapable that he was of one of the Russians. The monitor rendered a distinct enough picture that I thought I could even spot a tell-tale tattoo.
Whoever he was, he was either very lucky or smart enough to realize that every inch of the casino floor was covered by cameras and he had picked the spot that made him least conspicuous. I squinted my eyes, trying to determine if I recognized him from the backroom party at Mitnick’s, but couldn’t in any decisive way. Trying my luck, I asked Jasper, “How do you know he’s Russian?”
Jasper only chuckled and I had to admit to myself the weasel wasn’t stupid. I conceded the point and tried another question, “How do you know he’s looking for me?”
Jasper’s leer only deepened. “He appeared a short time after you stopped coming into work. He has been searching for something. He continues to search. You are not here.”
That took me a moment to puzzle out, but I had to credit his logic. Weasel or not, Jasper was smarter than I gave him credit. He had inferred a correct conclusion by the absence of something rather than evidence of it. That was a trick I never quite managed.
None of this information thrilled me, though. Remembering I had given Jasper the mobile’s number, I channeled some of my sudden worry into disapproval. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Whether it was a small act of rebellion or just insolence, Jasper smirked at me and my question. “Tu veux quoi? I should call with nothing more than a strange man who does not gamble?”
I conceded yet another point to Jasper, making him grin all the more. As much to distance myself from that as anything else, I straightened up, but couldn’t help adding, “Nice work.”
The banishment of his usual disdain was as close to happiness as I had seen from Jasper, who took the compliment and swiveled on his chair back to the bank of screens. Whatever pleasure approval brought him, it didn’t stop him from trying to gather as much information as he could. “What will you do now?”
I cocked my head at the monitor and gave that some thought. When nothing better arrived, I said, “I guess I’ll go say hello.”
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In the mornings, his typing was one of the chorus of things that would bring her out of sleep, along with the rising sun and bird song. It often made her smile, knowing that he had been up since before dawn, working on his obsessions.
The sound of his typing sometimes went like a freight train, a fast and rhythmic clatter that would change in intensity as it took a long corner or climbed a difficult hill. Other times, it was like an excited commuter in morning traffic, rushing from one point to the next, coming to sudden, ponderous stops, only to accelerate again at some hidden signal. Even others, it reminded her of an old pet chicken on her parents’ farm in Pueblo, quick to skitter, stopping to peck, peck, peck, searching for the worm of the perfect word.
The disappearance of the sound was one of the first things she noticed, its absence a hole in the simple pleasures of a morning routine. Even his beloved cat, Sam, had noticed, no longer satisfied to sleepily watch him work, but instead waking her by pawing her face. One morning, so rudely awakened, knowing that he disliked being interrupted, but not hearing any sound issuing forth, she tip-toed to his study to find him bathed in the morning light of the eastern window. She smiled to see him so at peace until she noticed that his hands weren’t posed above the keyboard, but hung slack at his sides. She watched him for a long moment before abandoning any pretense of stealth and walked in to say his name gently, like a question. “Husni?”
The golden light of the morning couldn’t wash the gray out of his skin as he turned to her. His eyes swam in rheumy waters she had never seen before as his jaw worked, uttering nothing. At this sight, a fear weld up inside her until she spoke to him as if he had been struck blind instead of dumb. “It’s Litsa.”
That brought him back to her and he snapped to awareness to hug her tight. He didn’t cry then, and she had been too shocked to, but they both did after the diagnosis.
The beast that the doctor’s named was like something from her grandmother’s stories, an invisible creature that stalked her Husni, slowly sapping away his essence, stealing him bit by bit. It was small at first, moments like the first, but as the shroud over his mind expanded, the stain it left grew in time, each moment of his absence becoming longer.
Litsa heard horror stories from loose-lipped nurses and tearful support group members, of parents and spouses that became unstuck in time, forgetting where they were or becoming obsessed with events or objects from long ago. In a way that made her feel terribly guilty, she was grateful her and Husni were spared this, the predation by his own beast only stealing him away for longer and longer periods of time. When it struck, she would guide him to sitting and then sit with him, holding his hand, hoping that it would help him find his way home.
Even with oblivion knocking on the door, she would sometimes find herself waking to the sound of his old keyboard clacking away. Sometimes this made her jealous, knowing that the morning was when he was most cognizant, most himself, and she wished that he would take these moments to be with her. But then the sun would rise through the window and the birds would begin to sing.
Rising, she’d find he had tidied the kitchen from the night before, fed their animals, and performed a dozen small chores that she had never noticed he had always done, clearing her path for the morning while the beast was yet unable to rob him of it.
She would put on coffee. She would resist the urge to look at her phone, instead watching the sun rise, listening to him beat out his heart into words.
Around the time when the light began to warm the kitchen, he would emerge to drink coffee with her. They would speak of any dreams they had the night before, plan their coming day around the growing holes in his brain and, eventually, he would rise to make them breakfast. While it the midst of his culinary fussing, knowing enough time had passed between his imaginary world and the entrance into the kitchen, she would ask him how his morning had been. It was then that he would humbly ask her to read his ever diminishing words.  She would smile and say, “Of course.”
