Page 97 of Violent Possession
He shakes his head violently. “I... I can’t. I can’t...”
“You can’t or you won’t?”
He hesitates. The muscle in his jaw twitches. “Ican’t,” he repeats.
I watch him, dissecting that hesitation. Is it the hesitation of a loyal man or a terrified man? The line between the two is thin.
“Why, Arthur? Because your loyalty to him is greater than your love for your daughter? Or because you’re more afraid of what he can do than whatI’mabout to do?”
He doesn’t answer. He just trembles.
“Let me clarify your options so there’s no doubt,” I say, leaning forward, closing the space between us. “There is a future where you cooperate. Think about it. Sofia not only continues her treatment but goes to the best college. She gets married in a beautiful ceremony. She gives you grandchildren and lives a long, happy life, completely free of worry. I guarantee her an entire life, Arthur. A life you could never afford. I put her on a golden path, far from men like me and, especially, from men like him.”
I let the image of that perfect future settle in his mind. I let him taste the hope.
“That’s door number one,” I whisper. “But there are others.”
The glimmer of hope in his eyes dies.
“Do you know what else I can do?” The question is rhetorical; he doesn’t dare dream of rock bottom until I offer it to him. “I can turn your life into a hell so absolute that your daughter’s cancer will seem like a common cold compared to what you will feel. I can ruin you ineverysense. I can make every hospital, every school, every store in this city refuse any request made in your name. I can ensure that you watch from afar as your daughter’s health withers because her father could no longer pay the bills.”
I pull back, taking a deep breath, and in this gesture he tries, ridiculously, to regain some control—as if straightening his debilitated spine could reverse everything that has been said.
I realize how hope is a more resilient disease than any cancer.
“That’s door number two,” I finish, and my right hand unbuttons my jacket, letting the light reveal the steel of the pistol. His eyes don’t look away, don’t blink. There is a morbid relief in the idea of a single, quick shot. “And, of course, there’s door number three... where all of this is resolved in seconds. Sofia becomes an orphan, you an anonymous corpse, and Seraphim remains anunreachable shadow.”
I cross my hands in my lap, leaning back in the chair, and I wait. Arthur breathes unevenly—he’s calculating: how much his life is worth, how muchherlife is worth, how much they both weigh against the void. How much it’s worth to protect a ghost.
“Which door will you choose, Arthur?”
His eyes shift to an invisible point behind me, to a safe place in his thoughts where he can negotiate with God, or with the void, or with his own insignificance.
He cries, softly, like a child.
I don’t interrupt him. I watch as Arthur’s face transforms: the blood darkening, the sweat and tears forming a grotesque mask, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain and resignation.
“I don’t know his name,” he says, finally. “No one does. I swear. He... he doesn’t have a name.”
“Try again.”
“It’s the truth! We don’t call him. He... he finds us. When you need it. When there’s no one else... he appears.”
The description fits the methods of a messiah, not a crime boss. But it’s not enough.
“Where?” I press.
Arthur shakes his head. “It’s not just one place... he doesn’t have an office, a... a headquarters. It’s...” He hesitates, searching for the right words.
“Be specific.”
“The... old Schmidt’s tailor shop, on Eighth Avenue... the one that gives free clothes to people going to a job interview,” he says. “Or... the St. Jude church soup kitchen... Mrs. Elma’s charity thrift store... those are his places. It’s where his people are. It’s where... it’s where youfeelhim.”
A tailor shop. A church. A charity thrift store.
What the fuck is this?
I was looking for an empire built on warehouses and docks, on money and drugs. And all this time, he was building a kingdom on top of our scraps?
