Note that this book is still under construction
Hardcore
Note: Two of the characters in this story, Veronica Gianni, and Chris Szala, go by nonbinary pronouns, they/them/their.
For the world is Hell, and men are on the one hand the tormented souls and on the other the devils in it. —Arthur Schopenhauer
Part One That which is done in secret
Chapter ONE Sub Rosa
∞
Thursday, February
Tanner Harrison unlocks the door of his mother’s house and once inside, drops a black gym bag on the floor, and throws the keys on a table with a sense of angry urgency. He’s on his phone.
The friend on the other end of the call tells him, “So there’s this guy who’s been asking around about you.”
“Who?”
“Some guy named Gabriel Ross.”
“What? The private eye weirdo? I thought he was dead.”
“Well, someone who says he’s Ross has been asking around.”
Agitated, Tanner starts searching the small two-story house. The house has a few expensive items—mostly electronics, and otherwise nice middle-class conservative furniture. The house belongs to Tanner’s mother. He has a room upstairs, his old room, decorated in Early American dirtbag ne’er-do-well.
Tanner briefly stops in his room and his closet, smelling of unwashed clothes, old beer, and weed. He takes out a shoebox and opens it to grab a S&W .32 and checks that it’s loaded. “What’s he asking about?”
“He said he wanted to discuss things with you.”
Tanner shoves the gun down the back of his pants. “He’ll be dead for reals, he comes around again.” Tanner speaks with the bluster and aggression of one who’s never been in a serious throwdown. “You see him, let me know.” Tanner ends the call. Now for why he’s here.
Tanner is a medium-tall white man in his early thirties, on the wiry side. He wears faded jeans, faded boots, faded tee, and a faded hoodie. He has unruly longish brown hair and hazel eyes, currently scanning the house for things he could grab along with his objective. For that, he goes to his mother’s room. She is currently in the hospital with some such woman thing. A good time for him to get what he needs. And that is in her closet, in a locked wooden trunk. He opens the closet door in triumph, and then slumps in shock. A shiny new padlock on the trunk thwarts his objective. The trunk is too heavy to move easily.
Tanner then stalks around the house seeking a hammer or bolt cutter or something, but can’t remember where his recently deceased father kept his tools. Mom might have sold them, the stupid…Tanner curses more, calling his mother nasty names for the unspeakable crime of not having tools for his use to steal from her. He opens a hall closet and in his haste, knocks a can of scouring powder off a shelf and down his front.
Sweating, he heads into the nearby bathroom, resentfully kicking aside the faded bathroom rug. He starts running water in the sink. When he reaches for soap, it suddenly occurs to him there is a man sitting on the toilet tank, feet on the bowl lid.
Tanner whirls around. The man sitting on the toilet tank is Gabriel Ross. And he’s holding a remarkably large gun, a Glock 40. Remarkably large guns aren’t necessary to kill people, but they do have a psychological effect.
As does a person’s reputation. Tanner is somewhat daunted, but not enough to think he can’t get out of it—his type never is. He puffs himself up to look like Jon Berenthal as The Punisher, a character he cheers without understanding. He fails to look anything like Berenthal, but that doesn’t stop his attitude. “What the fuck are you doing here? What do you want?”
Ross doesn’t move nor show any distress. Tanner is unnerved, knowing Ross was supposed to be hospitalized or dead. Yet here he is with the Glock. Tanner raises his hands but draws back his right elbow, preparing to reach back for his own gun. In the fantasy of his badassery, Tanner will get the drop on this guy and dump his body in the Passaic with the rest of the river’s corpses for the day.
Ross is speaking: “Stop moving. I can shoot through both your knees before you pull your piece out.”
Tanner quickly reviews what he knows regarding this New Yorker. Not afraid of breaking laws, violence, or getting hurt. May have connections, serious connections. Might be insane. A friend of a friend who was locked up in Union County Correctional saw what Don Mathers looked like after a fight with Ross and said it looked like a horror film. He is supposed to be a do-gooder but some say he spread that rumor when actually he is a hired killer. Some think he took out mob assassin Stephen Cody and that’s why no one has seen Cody after his alleged escape.
Ross speaks in a somewhat raspy monotone. “Where is the money you stole from your mother?”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. The best thing you can do is take your leeching ass somewhere across the country and never bother your mother again. Tell me about the money and I will walk away.”
Tanner, in the manner that small-time criminals demonstrate a lack of critical thinking, decides that Ross is all talk as he’s gay, and so can’t possibly be as tough as Tanner himself. He shifts his posture slightly, smiling. “Did she hire you? Fuck that. You’re not what they think you are. A real killer would have done something by now.”
“Oh, really? Well, perhaps “they” did not tell you about my secret weapon.”
“What’s that, assh–”
Something hits him in the kidneys. Tanner cries out in pain, and is in shock that Ross had not even gotten up.
It’s not him. Another person has come up from behind him. Tanner tries to turn around but the other person simultaneously pulls the gun from his pants and punches him again, causing him to fall over the bathtub. He looks up over his shoulder, gasping. The other figure is all in black, a hoodie covering their head, wearing dark glasses and a neck gaiter.
Ross seems impassive. He hasn’t moved. “You can still tell me before it gets worse.”
“You’re not going to kill me,” Tanner croaks. “I’m gonna have you arrested for trespassing.”
“No, you won’t. We’re here with permission, to protect the property. You don’t have a title to the house, you have been served an eviction notice, and therefore you are trespassing.” Ross drops a paper in front of him in the tub, a court-ordered eviction, and then another, a restraining order.
Tanner slowly sits up, his back throbbing in pain. He’s used to getting his way through bullying and yelling, and pushback makes him snarl like a cornered dog. The legal papers don’t seem real to him. “She’d never fucking do that. Never.”
“Yeah, I know what you told her, that you were in debt to a drug dealer and needed her help. But she’s not handling this right now.”
“What–” Tanner starts to get up, but the other person in black points his gun at him. He stares up at the figure, still trying to grasp the situation. “So…what, my sister? You think I’m gonna listen to her?”
“Yeah,” Gabriel says. “A court did. So you will. Better you leave now.”
Tanner lifts his hands like he’s surrendering. “Fine. Whatever. Let me get my stuff. I’ll get that bitch later.”
“What does your “stuff” consist of? We can put it out on the lawn.”
“My bag! Just my bag. It’s by the front door.”
Gabriel moves off the toilet and leaves, presumably to check out the bag. Tanner starts to get up. “Stay the fuck out…” he stops when then black-clad figure raises their gun towards him.
“Jesus,” Gabriel says from the front of the house. “So many things here to get you arrested.” He picks out a set of keys and checks them out. “A storage unit. Interesting. This looks like the one you got your mom to pay for, so her name is on it but she’s never seen it. I bet that’s the place to check for the money. Time to move.”
The other person motions with the gun, and Tanner carefully climbs to his feet. He does not bother with the papers in the tub. He limps to the hall, and then the living room and the front door area, with the other person behind him. Gabriel is by the door with the bag at his feet. He holds up a bag of crystal from Tanner’s bag.
“Vitamins, maybe?”
“Fuck you.”
Gabriel shrugs and drops the meth in the gym bag. Tanner notices he doesn’t move fast. The other person seems androgynous but Tanner suspects it’s a woman. To Tanner, if the person was that confident in their abilities, they wouldn’t have dressed to disguise.
Tanner makes a final play, and he has a surprisingly good move. He lets his voice get whiny and says, “Hey, be careful.” He bends over to pick up the bag, but then swings it hard against Gabriel’s legs and carries the motion to smack into the person behind him.
Gabriel loses his balance and the figure in black stumbles back. An opening but not much; the person in black has fast reflexes. Tanner makes a grab for the gun in Gabriel’s hand.
A strange second that seems to last for an hour as the two men hold onto a gun both with and without thought for what it would do. The gun moves like a needle in a dial between the two of them. The figure in black grabs Tanner’s arm and moves up to his hand, trying to push him away from the gun.
Three people struggle over the gun, sweating. Fear and panic send hot wires of energy in Tanner’s arm and his hand trembles as he’s made the lizard-brain choice to shoot no matter what.
Sensing this, Gabriel and his companion inch closer to him, with the gun’s trajectory ever so slowly creeping past vital points. The person in black puts their knee on Tanner’s right calf and pins him to the floor. Gabriel uses that leverage to push him against the wall. Through their dual pressure, they work on prying him away from the gun. The sweat makes it hot and slick work. Any second, the gun might go off.
Maybe Tanner subconsciously gives up. Maybe the two get the best of him. Maybe an invisible force intervenes. Something happens, and Tanner’s fingers slip from the gun. Gabriel immediately moves away as the other person grabs his right arm and yanks it hard up behind his back. Tanner grits his teeth to not show pain from this person’s surprisingly effective grip.
Gabriel slowly gets up. He feels every bit of his injuries. But he holds the gun firmly. “Get out. Now.”
Tanner recognizes the end of the line. He has enough self-preservation to crawl away, reach for the bag, and then stumble out of the house.
Gabriel and Veronica follow, to watch Tanner peel out in an old Mustang with rust on the panels.
The two collapse on the small cement porch. Veronica pulls the gaiter down from their face, which is red and sweaty. “We going to call the highway patrol on him?”
“Just a minute. I want to get in touch with actually still being here.”
They rest for a minute, breathing quietly. Both are exhausted and shaking from adrenaline and residual fear and anger.
They still have some things to do. Go to that storage unit, come back and change the locks, install a security system, and notify the client of the happenings.
“Don’t tell Joel about this…for now.”
Veronica nods. They don’t want to get involved with the conflict Gabriel has with his boyfriend about returning to work. “He’s working on his upcoming trip. He may not even notice we were out today.”
That isn’t true, although Joel has been alternating with mother-henning Gabriel about doing too much, with zoning out completely from the world around him. For a man who lived his life pretty much fuck you I do what I want he’s been damn hypocritical lately. Lecturing about taking precautions and then doing a 180 and disappearing into his phone.
They all have issues going on. It’s not something to deal with right now. Right now, Veronica, like Gabriel, just wants to appreciate being alive.
∞
Thursday, Continued
East Village, Avenue A, Manhattan
Veronica arrives at Gabriel’s apartment building around 7 pm the same night. Their hands tremble slightly, from exhaustion. Before heading downtown, V followed the tussle with Tanner by visiting two of the agency’s more important clients to make sure security procedures were running smoothly. That involved checklists, oversight, sometimes arguing with staff who do not seem to believe V’s in charge.
It’s been a year since Gabriel was shot. He’s not 100% physically, but has a strong will to heal. In the meantime V has free reign to take the lead in running the two-person agency until Gabriel has fully recovered. He has worked hard to catch up.
In the elevator on the way up, V takes a last look at a task list on the iPad. A cigarette would be good right now. Sometimes V lights an incense stick and pretends it’s a cigarette, just to have the feel of it in their hands–something about holding a cigarette gives one a sense of control. But they’re old enough to be more cautious about the health effects of smoking, and so has given it up for the last six months.
V fell asleep late last night watching one of those YouTube videos from the perspective of a train, going through snowy wilderness in Norway. They look like the beginning of a movie. In a subsequent dream V was watching the train in person, and then trying to get to one of its stops, a rural shack painted red to stand out against the snow. V is carrying a giant backpack, and slogging through the snow, her injured leg aching. The train slows and an angry horn blows.
Fuck. I’m going to miss it. And V can’t miss it. Everything will fall apart. They do their best to run, and just clear the red shack when the train slowly begins pulling forward. No no no nonononono….V runs for the train, dropping the bag. It’s a sacrifice. Catch the train. When V was young, they used to be fast. This would be nothing then to run next to a slow-moving train and jump for the open door. The iron handle, coated with a million layers of black paint is under their fingers and V steels themself to jump…
V woke up before being able to get on. Disappointment flooded like a sneeze that fails to manifest, or perhaps the occasional orgasm that says, nah, not this time, yo. Stress dreams…even actual sleep is problematic these days. Often unable to return to sleep, Veronica will spend time reviewing client files, logistics of all the jobs Gotham Investigations was handling, the agency’s budget, checking accounts and credit cards. Over and over to ensure nothing is missed that could cause huge fuck-ups. Even after giving themself a headache from the minutiae, V doesn’t feel entirely confident. Imposter syndrome even with a partner who trusts them totally. But it is what it is. Innumerable incidents of negging or casual patriarchal patronizing in college and in jobs to undo at some point.
But now it’s time to put the job away. Bob Jarvey, one of Gabriel’s close friends, a tall, quarter-back built white man around 50, is leaning against the window in the hallway next to Gabriel’s apartment, messing with his phone and sneaking a Marlboro.
He greets Veronica with an affectionate smile. “Hey, Wonder Woman. What’s happening?”
Veronica smiles back. Veronica is white, 5’9, with strong eyebrows and full lips, dark brown hair usually short and upswept, but they have been growing it out with some blue and pink streaks. They are not thin and not fat, muscular in some places, soft in others, an androgynous body after top surgery. V is grateful for Bob’s help coming here from Paterson, NJ to act in an unofficial capacity as bodyguard. Bob’s hours as an addiction counselor for ex-offenders were recently cut back, and V has paid him to help out. Even if V didn’t pay, Bob can always be counted on to lend a hand and V needs that.
“Hey, Buckaroo Banzai. Glad to see you here.”
He bows. “Only took an hour on George. Or maybe Martha. I forget which.”
“Martha…”
“She’s under George, of course.”
As Veronica realizes Bob means the GW Bridge, Bob frowns. “Fuck, I forgot I was trying to stop saying shit like that. Sorry.”
V waves away the apology. “How’s it going?”
He rolls his eyes. “Our problem child is still in his funk.”
Veronica sighs, now feeling twice as
tired.
Bob nods. “I know.” He feels better himself that Veronica is here. V has managed to make a thousand details of the detective agency, and follow-up security for Gabriel after he was shot, all work smoothly. Bob always liked Veronica, above and beyond his ribald nature. But in witnessing their perseverance and intellect, he’s gained a new level of respect.
It’s Gabriel’s birthday celebration. He didn’t have much of one last year, hospitalized after being shot, technically died at point, for weeks bedridden and nearly insensate with pain. When he had come back to life from some other place–Veronica felt his return in a sense, and also felt that the return has…well, they aren’t sure what it’s done.
Bob says, “There’s a lot of people coming around today, although I think we all know each other. That guy John Dell let me know he’ll be here to help.” John Dell is a cop from Joel’s hometown of Wayne, New Jersey, who was a crucial player in a past case. Dell is good friends with Joel’s mother and frequent antagonist Gloria McFadden, but not Joel’s favorite person. Nonetheless, he’s polite to Dell when they meet.
V nods, their eyes going back and forth, mentally confirming a checklist. “That’s great; I want to keep the protection tight.”
Bob glances at the door. “I’m a little worried about that.”
“I know,” V says. “And Baby Boy will shape the fuck up or else. I think he’s angry with me because I dared to have some time to myself this past week.”
“I’ll back you up on that,” Bob says. “And how are you, anyway?”
For a moment Veronica is confused and then finally laughs. “I guess I’m okay.”
Bob smiles again, wryly. “And I guess no one asks you too often.”
“Geneva does, Michaela does. But yeah, I’m failing the Bechdel test miserably.”
Bob looks at V closely. “You’re more worn-out than usual. I can see that. What happened in Jersey today?”
Veronica starts to answer and stops when hearing footsteps pause at the front door. The problem with hallways is that conversations carry into the apartments.
The apartment door opens silently. Joel peers out through the crack and is nonplussed to see them both staring at him. “Oh, you’re here,” he says in a fake tone of surprise. “When I didn’t hear from you last night I thought something might be wrong.” He’s probably heard enough to be troublesome. Veronica is already resigned that their goal of Joel not finding out about today’s NJ adventure will eventually fail to Joel’s sixth sense.
“Yes, I’m here. When you texted–at 2 am–I was asleep,” V replies, with a touch of sarcasm.
“So now you’re just hanging out here in the hallway?”
V steps closer to him. “Hello. How are you, Veronica? Glad to see you, Veronica. I appreciate you being here and handling this, Veronica.”
Joel yanks open the door and briefly glares at them. Joel is 34, white, 5’8, sinewy from swimming, biking, and working on his giant paintings. As typical, Joel’s anger almost immediately flames out and morphs into guilt. “Well of course I’m glad, V. How are you?” He kisses their cheek and ducks back inside, temporarily embarrassed.
Veronica sighs and turns back to Bob once she sees him far enough in the apartment to not overhear. “So about what happened today? We kind of got in a fight. Obviously we won, or we wouldn’t be here. But still…” V briefly recaps the incident with Tanner.
Bob shakes his head, grimacing. “Get some rest tomorrow, then. What do you do in your time off for fun?”
V has to think about it. “Some writing on occult Medieval and Renaissance magic and 19th and 20th Century stage magic. Researching history is soothing somehow. Geneva and I are going to handcraft some books on witchery. We also have our site up and running on crowdsourcing information regarding crimes against trans persons. Chris helped on that, and we’ve seen a good response thus far.”
Bob nods approvingly. “Let me buy one of the books, especially if you have naked witch ladies in it. I don’t believe witches are evil. You aren’t.”
“You sure can buy one. I’m not really a witch, now, I’m pagan. My mom fancies herself Wiccan these days–she tries to cast spells on Trump. But I’m not taking naked pictures of her; don’t get your hopes up. Okay, I’m going in.” Veronica opens the door and walks into the apartment, Bob following.
A second later V is swarmed with affection from various friends who are setting up the apartment for a righteous party. A bear hug from V’s former girlfriend Mikki Connor, who is also Gabriel’s New Jersey attorney and sometime employer. Mikki is Veronica’s age, 35, Black, and a few inches shorter than V’s 5’9. Then a dual embrace from Ellen Pollan (30, WNBA height, blonde and reedy) and Evelyn Pollan (37, Japanese-American, rangy and tall, with a thick black bob), they are respectively wife and adopted sister of Jim Pollan, Gabriel’s New York attorney and sometime employer, who is also here. Jim is 38 and resembles a young Bradley Whitford.
Veronica is up for as many hugs as they can get. Geneva Lennon, Veronica’s roommate, is here too, and goes for the longest embrace. Geneva was originally a friend of Joel’s, then a client of Gabriel’s, and then moved in with Veronica when both of them needed a new place. Veronica, a non-binary person, and Geneva, a trans woman, have quickly grown close. Geneva picks up on Veronica’s exhaustion and gives them a quick massage.
The apartment is the short hall leading to the living room where a few windows overlook Avenue A (and Gabriel’s tuxedo cat Archie sits like an emperor on the coffee table, kitchen and dining alcove to the left. Master bedroom to the right, bathroom and closet sandwiched between that and the second bedroom, also an office of sorts.
In the living room Joel is now slouched in a chair messing with his phone. He doesn’t look up. When he texted V in the middle of the night, which he feels free to do despite discouragement, Hey, u happen to be up? the phone did wake V up but they ignored it, and managed to sleep again until the train dream. V can tell he is still irritated about not getting an answer.
Veronica listens and chats while noting Gabriel is not evident, but apparently in his bedroom; she can hear his voice and Jim’s. On the way to Gabriel V walks by Joel and kicks his chair leg. He looks up, frowning. Catching their stink eye, Joel actually blushes.
Problem child. V bends over to say in his ear, “Get the fuck outta that chair; setting up isn’t women’s work.”
“I’m not like that; don’t be unfair.” But he jumps up and heads over to the group bustling around Gabriel’s kitchen.
This is true, he’s not like that. But V had to shake him up to get him going. Whatever’s going on…well, can’t think about it right now. Veronica goes into the bedroom and takes Gabriel’s head in their hands. “Happy Birthday, my love.”
V feels the warmth of his scalp. His hair has grown back appreciably from when he was kidnapped–when he was forcibly sheared to what is called military, mental patient, or male-pattern baldness short. He’s trying hard to stay in shape with rehab. Aside from the scars on his chest and his vocal problems (from an operation that had complications) his face carries some somber shadows from the experience.
Tonight he’s also sore where Tanner punched his ribs, and winces when he turns too fast. “Jesus, looks like I picked the wrong day to stop smoking.”
V finishes the Airplane line with him and they both laugh a joke told many times. “Hey, at least there is cake, and it’s not cake or death.”
“I don’t know, it looks a little gay,” Gabriel jokes. The giant cake was a weekend project Ellen and Evelyn handled. It is sitting on the dining table next to Gabriel’s kitchen, a two-layer sheet cake with the six pride colors in buttercream frosting. “But at least it’s not fondant.”
“Mikki said she brought champagne. It will be the highlight of the day to have cake and champagne for dinner.”
“For me too.”
Veronica glances out the door. Having pulled glasses from the cabinet and sliced some cake, Joel is in the kitchen frowning at some messages which keep the iPhone dinging with his particular tone, the Star Trek boatswain’s whistle. Each time it dings, V’s hands twitch. Two years ago he couldn’t be bothered to let people know he was alive; living out of a backpack and never saying goodbye. Now he lives on that fucking phone, constantly going through a batting lineup of contacts: Gabriel (if they aren’t already together), V, Chris Szala (an old friend of his from his teen years on the street who is also here tonight), Geneva, Isabella (his old friend and art agent–not hear tonight for which V is secretly glad), Travis Churchill, his wealthy patron, and a mix of others. When he’s desperate for contact, even his mom, with whom he has a relationship best described as “difficult,” will go on the rotation as a pinch hitter.
V steps out of the bedroom and turns on Gabriel’s stereo, hooking up an old iPod with a playlist then making a beeline for the kitchen and Joel glaring at the iPhone screen.
“We’re not working today, right?”
“No, but there’s just the Goddamn issues at the art fairs.” His grouchy mumbling irritates V further.
“Isabella can handle it. That’s what she’s paid for.” Veronica’s tone turns distinctly sharp, like a knife hitting bone. Isabella was invited, but is in Miami at the moment. Joel squints under the intensity of V’s glare.
“What issues?” Gabriel says from behind Veronica.
“Uh, nothing major.” Joel starts to lift the phone again but relents under Veronica’s laser eyes and puts the phone in a drawer. He takes Gabriel’s hand. “I think that some major reviewers aren’t going to like the collection.”
“Fuck ‘em.”
Joel shrugs. “Controversy helps. But I just don’t want it to affect what’s upcoming in Venice. Someday I’d like to be part of the Biennale Arte, but right now I have a chance at one of the better nearby gallery shows and get some foot traffic…”
Archie jumps up on the counter to check if the sink might be dripping some of his favorite cold water, and meows to add to the general melee of sounds–music, the apartment door opening, people talking. Gabriel cups the cat’s face and whispers to him. Joel tries a smile on Veronica.
V’s glare can frost or burn as they choose, and Joel’s feeling both. He then makes a show of putting his phone away and turning back to Gabriel. “Well, then, no more of this shit tonight, right? We’re all about you.”
For a moment, the three of them in the kitchen make an intense triad. A little over a year ago, due to a maniacal they were hiding in a desperate, dangerous situation, isolated and holding on to one another in a metaphorical foxhole relationship. That throuple somehow continued afterwards, although it really shouldn’t have as it erupted under fire. Things have changed, and yet things are also still the same.
Veronica isn’t sure this impromptu dynamic can go on, and how this will affect them emotionally. But they aren’t going to get into that tonight. It’s a party, so they can Masque-of-the-Red-Death it tonight.
An apt analogy, as there is also a certain ominous undercurrent to the festivities. There is security–first Bob then John Dell, moonlighting from his regular police job so Bob can also be here as a friend. Both of them, in addition to V and Geneva and Joel, take turns checking out the apartment and the hall outside.
Someone tried very hard to kill Gabriel last year, and that person was not caught. The person was smart enough to lure Gabriel into a trap. That kind of forethought means a real possibility exists that they will try to do so again. It hasn’t happened yet, but they’ve been through too much to ignore the danger.
The triad is broken when Gabriel’s father Jeffrey, out of town on business, calls Gabriel to wish him well. Jeffrey then speaks to Veronica to thank them and check on security. A former military special ops officer who helped rescue Gabriel last year, Jeffrey is also very much aware of the danger. Jeffrey’s working partner Maxim Zest, also says hello, which considering the circumstances under which Gabriel met Zest makes Gabriel feel surreal. What a ride the last couple of years have been.
The night goes well nonetheless. The Billionaire Boys Club visit for a bit. The BBC consists of Travis Churchill, who is a software company owner and the primary patron of Joel’s art, and Andy Davidson, an English expat who owns the city’s second main newspaper, the Herald-Standard. Andy is also a client; Gotham Investigations was contracted to supervise all sorts of security features for the media outlet. It’s the type of contract that can make a business solvent for the foreseeable future so keeping it is important. Veronica spends much of their working time taking care of specialized security operations for the Standard, such as handling sub-contractors and vetting policies and procedures, background checks, investigations, tech installation, tracing threats and so on. When Gabriel was hospitalized, V handled both those tasks in their expertise, and crash-coursed the technical tasks they were not familiar with.
Jason Evans, their bookseller friend, arrives with a book on Buddhist thangkas for Gabriel. An older friend and mentor arrives, Bertrand Herrmann, who brought his bulldogs Magic and Larry. And Walter Cleveland shows up soon after, making the apartment seem like a Vanity Fair event, as Walter writes for the mag, and Travis and Andy have been profiled in it. Walter is a well-regarded society and true-crime writer who has formed a bond with Gabriel over recent cases, and in essence has become part of the family. Walter talks to Gabriel and the other guests with true affection, recounting inside stories about writers, filmmakers, and politicians.
After cake and champagne, in a brief lull where everyone is feeling full, Gabriel wanders into the kitchen to refill Archie’s water bowl. Chris follows. Chris is white with Mediterranean complexion; Hungarian father, reedy and tall, with black hair and deep brown Tim Curry eyes. “You okay, Danger Man?”
“Sure. Just tired. This is great, though.”
“You seem haunted, like you fucked with a ghost.” Chris tends to be blunt.
Gabriel stares out the tiny kitchen window. “I guess that’s not far off.”
“You saw something from the other side. You told me something like that.”
Perhaps too tired to self-edit, Gabriel says, “My uncle. I saw my uncle, and I don’t remember much. It was like a dream in being hazy, but real enough I could feel it. They told me to go back, but also…”
Chris leans forward. “Something about the future?”
“The past. He said he was murdered. My uncle.”
“Jeeezuss. Well, what are we going to do about that?”
“Ah, well. I don’t…” Gabriel trails off as Walter and Veronica show up in the kitchen.
Walter gently puts his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “Maybe this is inappropriate during a party, but how are you doing in investigating what happened to you?”
Gabriel is a bit overwhelmed having been questioned about his uncle and himself, looks away for a moment. “I’ve…I’m not sure. I don’t know where to start and it’s been hard.”
“Okay, I get that. If I can be of any help, let me know. Oh, and, well, this is not appropriate, but I know someone who wants to talk to you for a podcast.”
Gabriel shrugs. “Always gotta be hustling. What’s the story?”
Walter is an older man with neat graying hair, round glasses, and tailored clothes. He pulls at his sleeves, hesitating. “The host of the Crimewise podcast. She contacted me.”
Gabriel half-smiles. Jess Jensen is the host of that podcast. It is one of the true-crime hot tickets. Both Gabriel and Veronica and true-crime aficionados–it is what they talked about the first night they met at a private investigation and security convention. And how could they not be, in this profession? But over time, the fascination with criminal psychology evolved into empathy for the victims. A good deal of crime podcasts seem to promote a cynical or even irrelevant attitude, some tastelessly comedic, when describing truly horrible acts. Neither Gabriel or Veronica can listen to those.
Crimewise, to be fair, doesn’t do that. Jensen uses a lot of charm and personality, but also good knowledge, research, and careful inquiry for various cold cases and conspiracies. She hustles for publicity, but that’s par for the podcast sponsor dollars and download numbers.
She has tried to get Gabriel for an interview several times due to his notoriety in NYC and NJ. Such notoriety is why he and Walter got to know each other. But Gabriel doesn’t want to re-tread the cases, especially that of last year. Jensen has tried to get him to go on the show to at least give expert opinion on other crimes, but he’s felt, forgive the expression, gun-shy.
Nonetheless, he’s listening to Walter, exchanging glances with V. “Okay…”
Walter is a talented speaker as well as a writer. When he’s not writing extra-long articles for Vanity Fair and GQ, he works on a new pod of his own, rolling with the technology. He’s worked with Jess a bit, exchanging older generation authority for younger generation relevance. Gabriel and V are automatically drawn in to listen intently. “So you know she works out of Jersey. She’s looking into Don Mathers. He has another appeal working through the courts and he’s put in several complaints about his prison conditions. Jess Jensen asked me to consider if you and Veronica would speak briefly about him.”
Gabriel looks away. “I don’t like reading about him or thinking about him, but I have to. For self-preservation. Honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if he is trying for a prison break somehow.”
“I don’t have anything worthwhile to comment about that fucking guy,” Veronica adds.
Walter raises his eyebrows. “Fair enough. Veronica, Jess is very interested in you based upon your writing; she wanted to know if you’d be willing to discuss occult crimes. She knows the difference between real crimes and the Satanic panic.”
“I heard…it’s the reason why I’d even entertain the notion.”
Gabriel makes a face briefly. “Veronica should go. I get it, publicity means business for us. But see, with this kind of thing, it feels ugly. It’s not like I’ve forgotten the victims.” His voice catches, and they know he’s thinking of Giselle, who very briefly befriended him before Don Mathers killed her. “I know working with PTSD can be revisiting trauma, but I don’t know if I can.”
V says, “Some have suggested we do this ourselves–start a podcast or a YouTube channel.”
Gabriel winces, but sees Veronica is serious. “Um, I don’t feel ready for that, maybe I’ll never be. But you should do it if you want. I’m not saying this lightly. I can already see you planning. You are the emperor of logistics.”
“I’ll have you as a guest on mine,” Walter adds. “Do it a few times and you get familiar. But I have a second proffer. Jess is queer, and is working on a second pod, one about LGBTQ+ history. No crime involved unless it is in the context of history–like with the Last Call killer and the indifference of the NYPD to the community. She’s looking at memorializing people. In researching you, she became curious about your uncle. She was interested in hearing about his community work.”
Now Gabriel smiles genuinely and he and Chris exchange a glance. “Funny we were just talking…I’m so proud of him. By comparison, I haven’t done…well, very much community-wise. But I believe in memorializing people. That I would do.”
Walter texts Jess Jensen for a meeting. Gabriel and Veronica agree that they prefer to meet in person rather than Zoom or FaceTime. It’s better to assess someone when actually in their presence. Walter agrees to go along for the discussion to break the ice.
∞
After a couple more hours, people start to drift home, which is all right with Gabriel. He’s hiding how rough he feels from the morning tussle. Veronica does more heavy lifting and ensures the remainder of the party is gradually cleaned as the attendance dwindles, without seeming to. Joel catches on and helps. Soon, Veronica is the only guest left, and begins packing up their bag to go.
Gabriel is checking on Archie, who is sitting on a radiator, watching the proceedings. Joel is taking a trash bag out from the kitchen, and notices Veronica hunting for their leather jacket.
“Surely you’re not leaving…”
“I am, and…”
“…Don’t call them Shirley,” Gabriel finishes. Airplane quotes never die.
Joel has heard that quip so many times he doesn’t change expression. “Okay, but you don’t have to leave, right?”
Veronica pauses in the middle of adjusting their jacket and looks up, and then at Gabriel and Joel. What he means is obvious.
V says diplomatically, “Well, we’re all kinda tired.”
“I can handle it.” Gabriel allows.
Veronica considers whether it is time to have a conversation that has been running through their head for a few months. Not a birthday party conversation to be sure, but Joel is going to be insistent they stay over.
“It is always up to you, Vevi. You are welcome.” Gabriel is sincere, but Veronica tilts their head, trying to read his tone for subtext, if any.
Joel has no subtext. For him it’s cake-having and cake-eating, and he sees no reason to change. He moves to stand ostentatiously between Gabriel and Veronica. “What’s the issue, here?”
Veronica steels up to go ahead and put it on the table. “I didn’t want to get into this, but if we must…”
Gabriel interrupts. “Not Veronica’s fault. I pushed too hard today with our Jersey case.”
“How so?” Joel frowns, whirling around, I-knew-it written all over his face.
Seeing tension start to rise due to Gabriel trying to save Veronica from conflict, Veronica in turn makes a snap decision to save him instead. “Okay, I’ll stay over for the birthday’s sake, hey what?”
And while still suspicious about what he hasn’t been told regarding Jersey, Joel is instantly distracted, like a puppy given a new toy.
Nothing happens after that that the participants don’t want, and even becomes otherworldly due to V’s new thing with Hans Zimmer soundtracks playing in the background. But even while basking in physical pleasure, V remains doubtful about the sustainability of the throuple in the long run and concerned about Gabriel hiding his exhaustion in the short run.
The three engage in a round of forget-about-the-future. The kind where in the midst, one can feel like hey, I can work with this. I don’t need anything else.
The morning comes slowly and languidly, with the three in the new king bed (Joel’s contribution to renovating the apartment), waking from cake, champagne, and sex to figure out the day.
Gabriel rises, visits the bathroom, and heads toward the kitchen to make coffee. Archie bounds in front of him meowing expectantly for his breakfast.
Thump.
Joel and V sit up quickly and then scramble to get to the living room.
Gabriel has collapsed in front of the coffee table.
“I’m okay,” he says into the rug he’s collapsed upon.
But he’s really not, and doesn’t argue about the ambulance arriving.
∞
Saturday
NYU Hospital, First Ave. One am.
My eyes snap open my private room; Joel paid for the upgrade. The rest of Friday following my unexpected (ha) incident involved various tests in the hospital. Wake up, go to sleep, get scanned, take pills, answer questions. They wanted to observe me overnight so here I am. My problem turned out to be metabolic acidosis, which can happen from medicines, medical conditions, infection, or “too vigorous exercise.” My insurance is now good enough that I’m here for 24 hours rather than given an aspirin and a boot in the ass out the door.
Joel is feeling guilty that our birthday tryst led to hospitalization. Veronica is feeling guilty about our preceding tussle with Tanner. I feel bad about both. But I gratefully took the opportunity to sleep. Sometimes one needs to be alone, and I’ve had many hospital visits to be almost comfortable in one.
Alone. I’ve been righteously sedated so I move slowly. I struggle to sit upright. I check my phone, which I fell asleep holding. Veronica will be here soon after taking care of a task for a client, and although I feel the way I feel, I know I’ll sleep better when they are here. I check my phone for any messages that V is here already. Not yet. It occurs to me–why did I wake up? A certain tingling along my spine, frisson. My short hair rises along my neck, scalp, goes down my arms. Turning my head, I can tell the darkness across the room is too dense. A phantom. A person. The darkness then moves.