Effluvia

Sorry, kids, no fun little links today. All my spare time at the computer lately has been spent writing. But you do get a big fat new section from the novel-in-progress. So that's something.

You still love me though, right?

Siobhanorama!

Siobhan and I seem to be having some bizarre contest in which we see who can go the longest without updating. Once again, I lose.

Three Years Ago
"Now she's calling me Phat Banana Boy."

Two Years Ago
"It's not content to just ruin my looks...it wants world domination as well."

One Year Ago
"It offends genuinely funny people with a well-developed sense of humor - like me, for instance - when unfunny people try to be funny."

It was a hot morning in July, but Grover Norquist didn't sweat a drop.

"I guess I was made to live in the heat!" he'd say. Then he'd grin at the people he said this to, usually customers in his little used car lot. His customers, as a rule, loved that down-home shit.

The customer that morning was a black man, probably in his early twenties, wearing enormous black jeans that puddled and flowed around his huge white tennis shoes. Sweat gleamed on his shaved head and stained his plain white undershirt. He kept cutting his eyes up and down Canal Street and wouldn't make eye contact with Norquist. He wanted something big, clean and sharp.

"Well come on around back, fella," Norquist said, his voice ringing across the parking lot and its sparse selection of cars, "I got somethin' in just this morning that you're gonna love!"

Parked behind the tiny office - which was really just a storage shed with a window and air conditioning, because Norquist knew that his customers couldn't stand heat like he could - was a silver Cadillac, gleaming in the midmorning sun. Norquist hit the button on the keychain in his pocket, honking the horn and unlocking the doors.

"Nineteen ninety-five Cadillac Fleetwood," Norquist said as the young man walked around the car, "37,000 miles, AM/FM cassette, air conditioner, leather, power moonroof, perfect body, spotless inside. A preacher's wife used to drive it, but she died and he didn't have the heart to sell it. He put it in the garage and it's been parked for the last four years. I drove it around this morning and it's hard to believe it's six years old. It's a real find."

"Why'd he sell it?" the young man asked, squatting to run a finger over the chrome wheels.

Norquist smiled.

"Debts."

The young man stood up and squinted at Norquist.

"Need to drive it."

"Well sure, son! I wouldn't never let anyone buy a car without driving it first. I'm just gonna need a little cash deposit before you can go."

"How much?"

"I think five-thousand should be about right."

The young man's eyes hardened.

"That's high."

Norquist shrugged. "Well, I guess I could run a credit check, call some references...you got that kind of time, tiger?"

"You gonna be here when I get back?"

"You gonna come back?"

They stared at each other for a while. Busses roared by on Canal. Nearby some little boys, riding their bikes, yelled at each other. A mosquito flew between the eyes of the two men and dropped, unnoticed, out of the air.

"Shiiiiiiiiit," the young man finally drawled, "awright..." He reached into one cavernous pocket and came out with a fat roll of cash. He peeled off - stopping to recount twice - fifty hundred-dollar bills.

Norquist counted them, too, then slipped the bills into his pocket and came out with the keys.

"Take your time, sport," he smiled.

Muttering, the young man got in the car, slammed the door and threw oyster shell paving in a rooster tail behind him as he drove off.

Still smiling, Norquist walked around to the front of the office to get his cup of coffee from inside. Then he stood in the shade of the tiny awning out front, waiting for the business that might or might not come.

Norquist Auto Sales didn't have many cars at any one time, true. On that morning, besides the Cadillac that he was undoubtedly going to sell when it came back, he had a late seventies Dodge van (complete with desert murals and deep shag interior), a green '91 Geo Metro, an '83 Nissan Pulsar and a '95 Mitsubishi pickup. In the weeds in the back of the lot there were three cars of indeterminate color, make, model and age. Norquist didn't worry about them - they'd been there when he'd bought the place.

At night, Norquist padlocked the chainlink gate behind him and drove away, without worrying about alarms or guards. He had one guard dog - an elderly rottweiler named Muffin - who had the run of the place at night and slept in the office during the day. There were rips in the fence around the place big enough for a person or a dog to get though, but Muffin never tried to leave and nothing had ever been stolen.

Norquist himself wasn't too striking. Medium height, medium build, tan from years standing in his car lot, his black hair slicked back along his skull, he appeared to be maybe forty or fifty. The only thing noteworthy about him were the deep acne scars on his cheeks. Just another salesman cruising towards middle age, seemingly happy with his place in life.

Was he Italian, maybe? Or from some place on the Mediterranean? When asked, Norquist said he was from Wisconsin.

So he was standing under the awning that morning, waiting for the young man to come back and buy the Cadillac. Of course he would buy it. Norquist had worked with this particular young man before, and with the young man's associates. He was a good salesman, and when his customers called looking for something he had a knack of not only knowing just what they needed but also where to get it.

He wasn't at all worried about the young man not bringing the car back. Not that it couldn't happen; it could and, in fact, had on more than one occasion, regardless of the size of the deposit left behind. But it can be safely said that Norquist's customers truly had no idea who they were dealing with. Three times someone had left money with him and not returned the car. All three times Norquist had had the car back by the next morning and kept the cash, too. No one had ever complained about this.

Norquist loved his job.

A few hours later (and Norquist stood outside the whole time, reading the paper and drinking coffee. He didn't sweat a drop even though it was a sunny, hot day. In July. In New Orleans.) the young man pulled up in the Cadillac. He was smiling and even swaggering a little as he got out.

"That ride's awright, G. Whatchoo want for it?"

Norquist smiled, a broad, bright sunny smile that charmed women and made children giggle.

"Well come on inside, son! Let's get outta this heat and let me pull the paperwork. We'll get you outta here just quick as we can."

Norquist loved a lot of things. He liked going out with women on the weekends. Sometimes they went home with him, sometimes he went home with them. He rarely spent a Friday night alone. He liked drinking beer. He liked spicy cajun food. He liked walking through the press of bodies in the French Quarter during Mardi Gras. He liked combining, mixing and matching all those things.

But most of all, Norquist loved haggling. He loved selling. He loved setting the price. He had considered, from time to time, going to work for one of the big car dealers, either on up Canal or out in the suburbs. As it was, he was barely more than a front for criminals to buy and sell cars in a hurry, and Norquist almost always had the advantage over them. Wouldn't it be something to take on accountants? Lawyers? Good, respectable people from Slidell and Norco, people who didn't have to buy from him, but would for the joy and challenge of working with a salesman who truly loved the game. Cars, guns, houses...anything, really. What he was selling was immaterial. It was the act itself that made Norquist smile, and couldn't he do so much more of it working for an honest-to-god dealer?

But no, Norquist had other considerations, and Norquist Auto Sales met all his needs amply enough. And he didn't have to work nights or weekends, either. Sure, he'd come in by appointment during his off hours. But any good salesman would, right?

So he ushered the young man into the office.

"You need something to drink? Water? Coke? Coffee? I'm a coffee man, myself. Got a fresh pot going if you'd like some." He said all this as he settled into the chair behind the desk and the young man slouched in the chair across from him, his back to the door.

"Nah."

"Well, all right! So tell me, son, what are you lookin' to pay for a car today?"

The man's eyes worked the corners of the room.

"Maybe seven. Maybe eight."

Norquist nodded.

"Well, son, I tell you, what I was thinking is - "

The phone - plain black, decidedly old-fashioned - rang.

"'Scuse me a second," Norquist smiled.

"Norquist Auto Sales.

"This is he.

"Okay.

"All right.

"I understand.

"I've got a finish a sale, and then I'll get right out there.

"Can I call you back on the other line? Give me twenty minutes.

"All right."

He hung up and looked across the desk, all traces of his smile gone. The young man sat up ramrod straight.

"Ten-thousand," Norquist said, his voice as icy as the rattling air conditioner, "take it or leave it. I don't give a fuck. That's a good deal on a great car. Somebody else will buy it for that if you don't."

The young man - whose name is Je'rod, in case you were wondering - is not easily scared. He is a criminal and considered a hard man amongst his friends, who are all hard men.

Je'rod is terrified. He shouldn't be - the dumb old cracker in front of him is not at all threatening, even if what he just said is rude. Disrespectful, even. But he's scared, just the same.

Je'rod, however, also knows the value of a good car. And he's no fool.

"I'll take it."

Fifteen minutes later Je'rod drove away in the Cadillac, ten-thousand dollars lighter and happy to be done with Norquist. It's a sweet car, though - Je'rod will recommend Norquist to his friends.

Norquist followed Je'rod out, waving and smiling. He walked out to the road and swung the gate shut, then went back to the office, letting Muffin out. Muffin strolled to the shade of the van and fell over in the cool dirt.

Norquist locked the door behind him.

There's only one other door off the office, and it opens into a tiny room, a closet, really. Old files all boxed up and a musty smell. Norquist moved a box, then another, and a third, revealing the faded, dusty floor. He passed his hands over the boards, slowly, muttering, then slipped the tips of his fingers into a shallow groove and lifted.

It was hot down there, and it rolled over Norquist's body in a wave. Now he was sweating. The dark in the hole seemed to spread and try to fill the little room, only to be beaten back by the sunlight filtering through the glass front door.

Norquist took a flashlight from one of the shelves and shone it into the hole. The light pushed the insistent dark back slowly, revealing a simple wooden ladder leading down a narrow shaft.

"Just like it used to be," Norquist muttered. He put the flashlight back. He knew the way by heart, and there was light at the end of it. He lowered himself into the hole.

Fifty rungs down - Norquist counted - and his feet touched floor. He turned around, back to the ladder, and took two steps forwards. He stretched one foot out in the dark and found a step down. He took it and started counting again. The stairs were steep and shallow, and his shoulders brushed the wall on either side. He knew the ceiling was just an inch or two above his head. Most people would have been uneasy in such a dark and an enclosed space, to say the least. Norquist laughed. This would probably be interesting work.

After eight-hundred and ten steps his feet found the floor again. Three steps forward and Norquist squinted into the dark, trying to see for the first time since he'd left his storage room, over a thousand feet above him.

[A note, here: New Orleans is surrounded by water. The Mississippi to the south, Lake Ponchartrain to the north, swamp sand marshes to the east and west. It was a very, very poor place for a city, but the early settlers of the region were nothing if not stubborn. Still, the water table is high, and it's hard to dig a hole without it filling up with water. Flooding is a common problem, and an elaborate system of pumps, drains and levees is the only thing that keeps the city from slipping beneath the surface and drowning. You've seen the elaborate crypts in the New Orleans cemeteries? In the early days of the city the dead had an unsettling habit of bobbing to the surface of the ground after a hard rain. Aboveground interment was preferable to having a departed relative repeat on you like bad lasagna.

Therefore: Yeah, this is no normal basement.]

It was just dark at first, but slowly - and he couldn't be sure if he was imagining them or not, at first - a few scrawls of writing made themselves visible, glowing a dull red in the black. Norquist recited three lines, memorized long ago. The darkness boiled around him for a second, then settled. He reached out with his left hand, found a simple doorknob in the dark, and turned it.

The room he stepped into was dim, but almost dazzling after the total dark of the stairway. More dull red writing - most of it in a script that looked to be written by octopi - covered the walls, the ceiling, even the floor. The room was no bigger than his little storage room up on the surface, and the writing was everywhere, except on a single blank rectangle of wall opposite where he'd come in.

Another door.

Was somebody standing in front of that door? Maybe. Even the dull, bloody light seemed to avoid that part of the room.

"Boss?" Norquist said, "it's me, Norquist. You here, man?" His words tumbled to the floor and died like so many stomped ants.

Norquist hadn't heard a thing save for his footsteps and the sound of his own voice since he'd gone down the ladder. Now there was something, though, at the edge of his hearing like the scrawls on the door had been at the edge of his sight, at first. Slowly it got louder, and to Norquist it sounded like so many flies buzzing in time to make a voice.

"Norquist? Yes, Norquist...it's been a long time, Norquist. Your work goes well, I suppose?"

"Can't complain, boss. I'm just doing my part."

"Good and faithful servant," a buzzing chuckle, "others have seen you through the years, Norquist, and speak well of you. Soon you will be due a promotion, if you want it. Are you happy with your job?"

Norquist nodded. A drop of sweat rolled off his chin and fell to the floor, sizzling. "Very happy, sir. I wouldn't want to be anywhere but where I am. Making a difference, and, you know, doing what I do. I'd prefer not to change, sir, if it's all the same to you.

A contemplative buzz.

"Do what I ask, Norquist, and you may choose your next assignment - or to stay at your present one, if it suits you.

"There's an escapee."

Norquist's eyes widened in the dark.

"Is Rodnais here?" He didn't want to work with Rodnais. Part of the job was being subtle, and Rodnais knew nothing of subtlety. Norquist briefly pictured Rodnais' horrid green hide on the front page of USA Today and shuddered.

"Rodnais was here briefly, but his physical form was hit by a...wagon? Is that the word?"

"It's close enough, boss."

"Then the gate he had passed through was blocked. Rodnais was injured, and by the time his operatives made it back through the fugitive was gone. Can you find him, Norquist?"

Norquist thought, deeply and quickly. The potential reward was good, but...

"What happens to me if I don't find him, boss?"

More buzzing laughter.

"You are the smart one, Norquist. There will be no punishment if you fail. Those who were supposed to secure the escapee are already being punished, and Rodnais' people are already in New Orleans.

"But there's a rumor, Norquist."

"Yes, sir?"

"There's a rumor that the opposition wants this one, Norquist. They say that heaven is looking to make an example of him and shelter him in Rome. So you won't be the only one looking for him. But if you find him, our enemy is foiled and you, Norquist, will make me look very, very good. You understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go get him."