The old woman steadied the bowl of peas upon her lap. “If you’re who I think you are,” she said, “then I’ve no quarrel with you.” In the house, she could hear Phyllida grumbling to the housekeeper.
“Nor I with you,” said the red-haired fellow, a little sadly, “although it was you that brought me here, you and a few like you, into this land with no time for magic and no place for piskies and such folk.”
“You’ve done me many a good turn,” she said.
“Good and ill,” said the squinting stranger. “We’re like the wind. We blows both ways.”
Essie nodded.
“Will you take my hand, Essie Tregowan?” And he reached out a hand to her. Freckled it was, and although Essie’s eyesight was going she could see each orange hair on the back of his hand, glowing golden in the afternoon sunlight. She bit her lip. Then, hesitantly, she placed her blue-knotted hand in his.
She was still warm when they found her, although the life had fled her body and only half the peas were shelled.
CHAPTER FIVE
Madam Life’s a piece in bloom
Death goes dogging everywhere:
She’s the tenant of the room,
He’s the ruffian on the stair.
—W. E. HENLEY, “MADAM LIFE’S
A PIECE IN BLOOM”
Only Zorya Utrennyaya was awake to say goodbye to them, that Saturday morning. She took Wednesday’s forty-five dollars and insisted on writing him out a receipt for it in wide, looping handwriting, on the back of an expired soft-drink coupon. She looked quite doll-like in the morning light, with her old face carefully made-up and her golden hair piled high upon her head.
Wednesday kissed her hand. “Thank you for your hospitality, dear lady,” he said. “You and your lovely sisters remain as radiant as the sky itself.”
“You are a bad old man,” she told him, and shook a finger at him. Then she hugged him. “Keep safe,” she told him. “I would not like to hear that you were gone for good.”
“It would distress me equally, my dear.”
She shook hands with Shadow. “Zorya Polunochnaya thinks very highly of you,” she said. “I also.”
“Thank you,” said Shadow. “Thanks for the dinner.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “You liked? You must come again.”
Wednesday and Shadow walked down the stairs. Shadow put his hands in his jacket pockets. The silver dollar was cold in his hand. It was bigger and heavier than any coins he’d used so far. He classic-palmed it, let his hand hang by his side naturally, then straightened his hand as the coin slipped down to a front-palm position. It felt natural there, held between his forefinger and his little finger by the slightest of pressure.
“Smoothly done,” said Wednesday.
“I’m just learning,” said Shadow. “I can do a lot of the technical stuff. The hardest part is making people look at the wrong hand.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” said Shadow. “It’s called misdirection.” He slipped his middle fingers under the coin, pushing it into a back palm, and fumbled his grip on it, ever-so-slightly. The coin dropped from his hand to the stairwell with a clatter and bounced down half a flight of stairs. Wednesday reached down and picked it up.
“You cannot afford to be careless with people’s gifts,” said Wednesday. “Something like this, you need to hang on to it. Don’t go throwing it about.” He examined the coin, looking first at the eagle side, then at the face of Liberty on the obverse. “Ah, Lady Liberty. Beautiful, is she not?” He tossed the coin to Shadow, who picked it from the air, did a slide vanish—seeming to drop it into his left hand while actually keeping it in his right—and then appeared to pocket it with his left hand. The coin sat in the palm of his right hand, in plain view. It felt comforting there.
“Lady Liberty,” said Wednesday. “Like so many of the gods that Americans hold dear, a foreigner. In this case, a Frenchwoman, although, in deference to American sensibilities, the French covered up her magnificent bosom on that statue they presented to New York. Liberty,” he continued, wrinkling his nose at the used condom that lay on the bottom flight of steps, toeing it to the side of the stairs with distaste. “Someone could slip on that. Break their necks,” he muttered, interrupting himself. “Like a banana peel, only with bad taste and irony thrown in.” He pushed open the door, and the sunlight hit them. The world outside was colder than it had looked from indoors: Shadow wondered if there was more snow to come. “Liberty,” boomed Wednesday, as they walked to his car, “is a bitch who must be bedded on a mattress of corpses.”
“Yeah?” said Shadow.
“Quoting,” said Wednesday. “Quoting someone French. That’s who they have a statue to, in their New York harbor: a bitch, who liked to be fucked on the refuse from the tumbril. Hold your torch as high as you want to, m’dear, there’s still rats in your dress and cold jism dripping down your leg.” He unlocked the car, and pointed Shadow to the passenger seat.
“I think she’s beautiful,” said Shadow, holding the coin up close. Liberty’s silver face reminded him a little of Zorya Polunochnaya.
“That,” said Wednesday, driving off, “is the eternal folly of man. To be chasing after the sweet flesh, without realizing that it is simply a pretty cover for the bones. Worm food. At night, you’re rubbing yourself against worm food. No offense meant.”
Shadow had never seen Wednesday quite so expansive. His new boss, he decided, went through phases of extroversion followed by periods of intense quiet. “So you aren’t American?” asked Shadow.
“Nobody’s American,” said Wednesday. “Not originally. That’s my point.” He checked his watch. “We still have several hours to kill before the banks close. Good job last night with Czernobog, by the way. I would have closed him on coming eventually, but you enlisted him more wholeheartedly than ever I could have.”
“Only because he gets to kill me afterward.”
“Not necessarily. As you yourself so wisely pointed out, he’s old, and the killing stroke might merely leave you, well, paralyzed for life, say. A hopeless invalid. So you have much to look forward to, should Mister Czernobog survive the coming difficulties.”
“And there is some question about this?” said Shadow, echoing Wednesday’s manner, then hating himself for it.
“Fuck yes,” said Wednesday. He pulled up in the parking lot of a bank. “This,” he said, “is the bank I shall be robbing. They don’t close for another few hours. Let’s go in and say hello.”
He gestured to Shadow. Reluctantly, Shadow got out of the car and followed Wednesday in. If the old man was going to do something stupid, Shadow could see no reason why his face should be on the camera; but curiosity pulled him in and he walked into the bank. He looked down at the floor, rubbed his nose with his hand, doing his best to keep his face hidden.
“Deposit forms, ma’am?” said Wednesday to the lone teller.
“Over there.”
“Very good. And if I were to need to make a night deposit…?”