The Everything Box

“Thanks.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Let’s,” said Bayliss.

  Coop put the box and papers in his bag, slid the chair away from the door, and grabbed his sign. They headed back to Bayliss’s desk. When they got there, Coop pulled a chair over and they sat down together. Bayliss’s face was a wide grin. Coop wouldn’t have guessed she could smile like that.

  “How does it feel, being in on a heist?” he said.

  “Wow. Now I know a little more why you and Giselle like this kind of thing.”

  “When everything works out it’s kind of a rush.”

  “I’ll say.”

  And this is where I ruin your night, he thought.

  “Now listen to me closely. About Giselle . . .” he said. And told her all about the phone call and Morty’s kidnapping earlier.

  “Oh my god. We’ve got to tell someone. I’ll call Mr. Woolrich,” said Bayliss. When she reached for her phone, Coop laid his hand on it.

  “Let me ask you a question: Do you really think the DOPS is going to risk losing the box to save a couple of lowlife crooks?”

  “Giselle works for us. They have to, right?”

  “They’re the government. They don’t have to do anything. And Woolrich will just tell Nelson. You think he’s going to help? He’ll bury Giselle just to get back at me, and you’ll probably end up in the mailroom.”

  “What are we going to do?” said Bayliss.

  “I need to take the box,” said Coop.

  “Are you crazy?” Bayliss whisper-screamed. “That thing is a weapon.”

  “Yeah, aimed right at Giselle’s head. You want to pull the trigger?”

  Bayliss sat back in her chair. She gnawed on a fingernail for a few seconds. “What do you want to do with it? You can’t give it to the people who kidnapped Giselle. That would leave your friend Morty in trouble. And you can’t give it to Morty’s kidnappers.”

  “I’m not giving it to anyone,” said Coop. “They just need to think I am. I have an idea. If it works, it’ll get back Giselle and Morty, and maybe help you capture Salzman and all the other idiots who want this thing. But you have to trust me and let me take the box.”

  Bayliss drummed her fingers nervously on her desk. She got up, looked around, and sat back down. “Only if you take me with you,” she said.

  Coop thought about it. She’d kept it together in the break room, she was more willing to take chances than he’d thought, and they both hated Nelson. He held out his hand. “Partners,” he said. Bayliss shook it.

  “Partners,” she said. “What do we do first?”

  “Do you have Salzman’s phone number?”

  “I can get it.”

  “Okay. That’s all you need to do for now.” Coop took a pen and pad and wrote Morty’s address out for her. “Call in sick tomorrow. Meet me at this address at noon. Bring Salzman’s number. If I need anything else, I’ll call you. Give me your number.” She wrote it on the pad and he put the paper in his bag.

  “I’m still trying to figure out what Salzman wanted with the box,” said Bayliss. “A guy like him. Was it just money?”

  “I don’t know. Everybody who knows about the box thinks it’s something else. Luck. A calling card for an old god. A bomb. The end of the world. Who knows what he thinks it is.”

  “Whatever it is, I absolutely want in on this,” said Bayliss. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Great.”

  Coop started to get up when Bayliss grabbed his sleeve. Her eyes were a little wider than they had been. “You’re not going to skip out on me, are you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re a crook.”

  “Yeah, but we’re partners. A good crook doesn’t skip out on a partner.”

  “Like you and Giselle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “One more thing, you should fire the guard in the lobby,” said Coop.

  “Why?”

  “He’s too bored to do his job and he’s not too bright.” Coop reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a watch. “When you fire the guy, give this back to him for me.”

  Bayliss smiled and put the watch in a desk drawer.

  “Tomorrow,” she said.

  “Tomorrow.”

  The Magister indulged in one of his last remaining vices: watching The Price Is Right on a little portable TV he kept hidden under some rugs in the corner of the sacred chamber. He always watched with the sound off, so he’d become pretty good at reading lips. Some dunce in a Hawaiian shirt bid way too high for a Barcalounger, not unlike his. The Magister shook his head and his back spasmed.

  Destroy the world soon, Lord Abaddon, and rid me of this accursed flesh.

  They were coming up on the big showcase at the end of the show when his phone rang. He took it out, already angry at whoever it was. “Hello? Who is this? I’m busy.”

  A quiet voice on the other end of the line said, “It’s me. Coral Snake.”

  “Who?”

  The Magister heard a sigh. “Carol.”

  His mood brightened infinitesimally. “Carol. How nice to hear from you. Any news from our Caleximus friends?”

  “Yes. They got the girl.”

  “What girl?”

  “Coop’s girl.”

  “Who’s Coops?”

  There was a short pause before Carol said, “Craig. They got Craig’s girl and they’re holding her until he brings them the box.”

  The Magister pumped his fist in the air, which just made his back hurt again. “Excellent. Now all we have to do is get the girl and he’ll bring the box straight to us.”

  “Except I don’t know where she is.”

  “What?” said the Magister, his mood going quickly back to miserable.

  “They sent me for fries and then drove off without me.”

  “I don’t want to hear about fries. All I want to know is where’s the girl?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. I don’t know. She’s not at the site. But here’s the thing. Steve made a deal with Coop—Craig—to bring him the box in forty-eight hours.”

  “Priest Steve again?” The Magister thought for a minute. “Can you find out where they’ll make the exchange?”

  “I’m sure I can, but not until right before it happens.”

  The Magister nodded, grim wheels turning grimly in his head. “That’s fine. Forty-eight hours will give us plenty of time to get ready. You did a good job, Carol.”

  Tommy sighed. “My name’s not . . . Forget it. And we still have a deal when the end comes. You’re taking me with you, right?”

  The Magister used his silkiest voice. “Lord Abaddon will reward you with riches beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Cool.”

  “Cool indeed. Call me as soon as you hear anything.”

  “I will. Bye.”

  The Magister coughed. “Is that how we say good-bye?”

  “Sorry. Good-bye, Dark High Magister.”

  “Good girl, Carol.”

  The Magister hung up and dialed another number. Adept Six answered.

  “Yes, Magister?”

  “Do we have a trusted crew in the restaurant?”

  “Not now, I’m afraid. There are a few unbelievers. We’ll have a full crew in the morning.”

  The Magister scratched his ear, pondering the situation. “Good. When they come in, tell them to thaw out Fluffy.”

  The Magister heard a satisfying gasp on the other end of the line. “Fluffy? Are you sure, Dark High One?”

  “Very sure. And don’t tell anyone about him. I want it to be a surprise.”

  “Oh, it will be, Magister. It will be.”

  “Let me know as soon as he’s ready for company. I want to be in my nicest robes. Maybe the red ones, with the blue trim.”

  “A very flattering combination.”

  “All right. Get on that. Oh, and have them send me up some fries. That dopey girl Carol left me wit
h fries on the brain.”

  “Do you want some balsamic with them?”

  “Now, what do you think?”

  “Silly question. Sorry, Lord.”

  The Magister hung up and looked at the TV. The credits were rolling on The Price Is Right. He’d missed the whole damned showcase. Abaddon save me from my own people, he thought as he reburied the TV under the rugs.

  Salzman sat in a top-floor suite in the Mondrian Hotel, on a very comfortable leather chair across from a man in an identical comfy-looking chair. There was a chilled bottle of champagne between them. The man across the table was large, roughly the size of a walking refrigerator and just as graceful. Arrayed around him were several even larger men in glistening, strangely angled body armor. Salzman thought they looked less like bodyguards than like cubist waiters.

  “I am Zavulon,” said the large man. They shook hands.

  “I thought I was meeting Olga,” said Salzman.

  “She took sick. They call me,” said Zavulon. “I usually transpire in South America—Argentina, Brazil—so my English is not so good as hers.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to muddle through,” said Salzman. “Nice guards, by the way. That’s anti-thaumaturgic armor they’re wearing, isn’t it?”

  Zavulon turned around, then looked back at Salzman. “Anti-what?”

  Salzman wiggled his fingers mysteriously. “Hocus-pocus. It protects from magic.”

  Zavulon laughed and pointed. “Yes. Hocus-pocus armor.”

  Salzman leaned back, crossing his legs. “You should understand something: mooks are made by magic, but we’re not magic ourselves.”

  Zavulon leaned forward and his chair creaked a little. “But box is magic.”

  “I don’t have the box with me.”

  “I notice. Where is it?”

  “Technically, not on this Earth,” said Salzman. “So if anything should happen to me it will never be seen by anyone again.”

  Zavulon opened his arms wide. “Who would do that? Who would hurt you? Besides, to kill a dead man. I would have no notion how.”

  Salzman put a deeply sarcastic hand over his heart. “I don’t believe you, but it’s a comfort to have you say it.”

  Zavulon took hold of the bottle between them. “Let’s have champagne. Government has already paid, so let’s not go to waste.”

  “Good idea.”

  Zavulon poured two glasses and the men toasted each other.

  “You like?” said Zavulon, slurping his.

  “Very much. I’ll have to get the name before I leave.”

  “Don’t bother yourself. Give me address and I will send you case.”

  “That’s very kind.”

  The big man finished his champagne and poured himself another glass, but he didn’t drink it right away. He set it on the table with the bottle. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I like to cross all i’s and dot all t’s on such deals as this.”

  “You have it backward,” said Salzman.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

  Zavulon laughed. “Spasibo. Now, to be clear on deal. You will supply us with DOPS mook tekhnologiya . . .”

  Salzman held up a finger. “Not the technology. Just the plans.”

  “Of course. Plans for mook creation. And also, the little box. One with power to reverse the process.”

  “Exactly. You’ll be the only people in the world capable of both making mooks and unmaking them.”

  Zavulon picked up his champagne, took a sip, and rested it on the arm of his chair. “Explain to me. You are a mook, yes? You don’t age. You don’t get sick. You don’t get poison. Many—what is it?—flavors of magic don’t hinder you. Who knows what else? With that, why do you so much want to be alive?”

  Salzman poured himself more champagne. “You try being dead and then ask me that question.”

  “That I understand. No translator required.” Zavulon smiled.

  Salzman wondered how much one of the armored guards could hurt him. Antimagic armor wouldn’t protect any of them from a broken neck. Still. This wasn’t the time or place to contemplate such pleasantries. There would be time for that later. He said, “You have your experts in place who know how to use the box?”

  Zavulon nodded. “We study every manuscript, scroll, and book on box for centuries. My people—similar to your DOPS—are ready any time.” He laughed and pounded his chest. “We will make you strong like bear.”

  “What a strange thing to say,” said Salzman.

  A couple of the guards moved their rifles up a few inches. Zavulon barked at them in Russian and they lowered them.

  “Their English is good,” said Salzman, wanting to kill one of them more than ever.

  “Yes. Much better than mine,” Zavulon said. “Pardon my earlier joke. But is not that what most Americans think of us? Borscht, circus, onions, and bears?”

  Salzman drank his champagne and nodded. “Yes. And with a vibrant and flourishing kleptocracy.”

  Zavulon frowned. “I don’t know that word. How do you spell it?”

  “K-l-e-p-t-o-c-r-a-c-y.”

  Zavulon took out a small pad and wrote down each letter. “Spasibo. I will reference later to improve my language.”

  “Are there any details you’d like to go over?”

  “Not this second. I think is it. Is it? It is? Sorry. English, it all sounds the same sometimes.”

  “Champagne will do that to you.”

  Zavulon poured them more. “When can you deliver box?”

  “I’ll have to get in touch with my contact. It should be within twenty-four hours.”

  “Excellent. We will be waiting. Soon you breathe air, see with normal eyes, and die like other men.”

  Salzman glanced at the guards and back to Zavulon. “It sounds like Heaven. I’ll call my contact tonight.”

  “Glorious.” Zavulon checked the bottle to see how much champagne was left. “Would you like to finish? It’s too good for their likes,” he said, nodding at the guards.

  “Why not?”

  Zavulon poured them each another round. He drained his glass and said, “Do mook people such as you, you get drunk?”

  “Keep pouring and I’ll let you know.”

  Zavulon laughed. Salzman smiled. The guard on the end, he thought. The one who moved his rifle first. He’s the one I’d kill. Or maybe Zavulon. Was that accent even real? Salzman wondered. He sighed. It wasn’t fair. The annoying guard had gotten him all worked up, but he needed to make the call. There just wasn’t time to stop off and strangle anyone on the way home. Salzman had another glass of champagne and thought of happier, deadlier times.

  THIRTY-THREE

  WHEN HE FINALLY REACHED LOS ANGELES, THE stranger took out his guidebook and walked to Griffith Park. Once inside the park grounds, he headed for a particular sycamore tree. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he picked up a stick and wandered the trails, peeking and probing under the bushes. Nothing. He went up another trail, past the observatory and the tourists taking selfies with the hazy city in the background.

  Redecorating, he thought. That’s all this place needs.

  Eventually, he reached the abandoned zoo. In a long-disused tiger cage, the stranger found an old sleeping bag, but nothing else. He couldn’t even smell anything. All the familiar scents were masked by the smog, the musk of long-gone animals, and the sweat of everyone else who, over the years, had used the zoo as an open-air squat. The stranger took out the guidebook and scanned the park map looking for other likely sites.

  As he trudged up a long trail that wound higher into the park, a young couple strolled past him coming the other way. They were radiant. The woman was in a light summer dress and the man was in a blue polo shirt and white designer slacks. L.A. elites. Graceful and glowing in their beauty and privilege. The stranger barely glanced at them. His mind was somewhere else, rearranging buildings. That’s why he started a little when the couple approached him. br />
  “Hi. I’m Darla and this is my husband, Christopher,” said the woman. “I was wondering, do you know the way to the Hollywood Wax Museum?”

  The stranger shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’m not from around here.”

  “Oh. I saw you had a guidebook and thought you might know,” said Darla.

  The stranger held the book out to her. “You’re welcome to look if you like.”

  “That’s the problem,” said Christopher. “We lost our bags and both of our sets of reading glasses were in them. If it’s not too much trouble, could you look it up for us? Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about your bags. Of course I can help. There’s a wax museum around here? I might have to visit there myself before I’m done.”

  Darla gave him a sunny smile. “Oh. Are you here on business?”

  The stranger thumbed through the guidebook. “Very much,” he said.

  “What kind?” said Christopher.

  Darla leaned in. “The reason my husband asks is that you don’t look much like a businessman. More like a fucking bum.”

  The stranger looked up. “Do I really?”

  “In that filthy coat and shitty shoes? What are you? A junkie? A dealer? Both?” said Christopher.

  “I didn’t think my coat was that dirty.”

  “Filthy,” said Darla. She cocked her head and looked at him. “Nothing at all like what an actual businessman would wear.”

  “Thank you. I’ll have to do something about that,” said the stranger. He flipped to the guidebook’s index. “Now, it was the wax museum you wanted . . .”

  Christopher pulled a switchblade from his pocket, snicked it open, and took a step toward him. “Fuck the museum. I know a dirty dealer when I see one. How much are you carrying? Empty your pockets. I want all of it.”

  “You don’t need the knife,” said the stranger. He dropped the guidebook and put up his hands. “You can have all of it.” He closed them and when he opened his hands again, gold poured out onto the ground.

  “Damn,” said Christopher dismally.

  “Fuck me,” said Darla miserably.

  The stranger took the knife from Christopher’s hand, broke it in two, and threw the pieces into the bushes. “Is this how you spend your days? Show me your real faces.”

  “We can’t,” said Leviathan, his Christopher face turning red with embarrassment.