Christopher Moore - Secondhand Souls

“I don’t think you’re supposed to say that word.”

“It’s okay. I’m allowed.”

“Some words hurt people and you’re not supposed to say them. I have a word I’m not supposed to say. A really bad word.”

“You do, do you? What that word?”

“I can’t tell you, it’s a secret.”

“You got a lot of secrets.”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe this meeting we havin’, this be our little secret.”

“When a grown-up tells you it’s our little secret, it means they might be up to something. You should be careful.”

“You don’t never be lyin’, peanut. You don’t never be lyin’. I do need to be careful. How long it been since you seen them dogs of yours, child?”

“This morning,” she lied. It had been a week since the giant hellhounds had disappeared. “I like your hat,” she said to change the subject. “It’s nice. Daddy said you should always say nice things about a person’s hat because it was an easy way to make them feel better.”

“Why, thank you, peanut.” He ran his fingers around the brim. “You miss your daddy, don’t you?”

How did he know? That wasn’t right. He was a stranger. She nodded, pushed out her lip, went back to coloring her ponies.

“You miss your mama, too, I’ll bet.”

She had never met her mama, but she missed her.

“You think they gone because of you, peanut? ’Cause of how special you are?”

She looked up at him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know. I’m special, too.”

“You should be careful,” Sophie said. “I need to go.”

She stood and looked toward the building. The mean nun pointed for her to sit back down, but then the bell rang and the sister waved her in.

Sophie turned back to the man in yellow, held out the page she had been coloring. “Here, you can have this.”

“Well, thank you, peanut.” He took the drawing, then untangled from the table and stood as he looked at it. “That’s very kind.”

“Their names are Death, Disease, War, and Sparkle-Darkle Glitter-tits,” Sophie said. “They’re the four little ponies of the Apocalypse.” Sophie liked saying things that shocked people, especially nuns and old people, but he wasn’t shocked.

The man in yellow nodded, folded the drawing, and slipped it into his breast pocket. He looked over his sunglasses and Sophie could see for the first time that his eyes were golden-colored. “Well, y’all take care, Shy Dookie,” he said.

“Bye,” Sophie said. She took her handful of crayons and skipped back into school. Once in the door, she looked back to the picnic table. The man in yellow was gone.

I’m not invisible,” Rivera said into the phone.

“I never said you were invisible,” said Minty Fresh. “The Big Book never said you were invisible. It says ‘people may not see you’. Even if you are retrieving a soul vessel, people can see you if you call attention to yourself.”

“I didn’t call attention to myself. The old man walked in on me —was going to shoot me.”

“And the bitch just Tased him. You know, that banshee know how to party.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying this, Mr. Fresh, but if I hadn’t known the EMTs who arrived to take care of the old man, I’d be facing breaking and entering charges.”

“Emergency operator didn’t record your call, then?”

“I didn’t call. The old man had one of those electronic alert medallions. I just pushed the button and they dispatched.”

“Yeah, shit tend to work out like that. If our frequent phone calls don’t cause the end of the world, I’ll tell you about my unified theory of irony someday.”

“I’ll look forward to that. Meanwhile, that’s five out of five people from my calendar who I visited and there was no evidence of a soul vessel.”

“And out of five, even you would have found one. Even a blind squirrel—”

“They weren’t there.”

“Maybe you should try starting at the end of the list. Catch up on the most recent names, the people just went on your calendar. Retrieve those and work backward.”

“When? I’m officially back on duty. I have real cases to work.”

“Well, you put this off anymore, shit gonna get real up in here real quick. Let me call your attention to exhibit A, Inspector: motherfucking banshee Tasing motherfuckers in the privacy of their own home.”

“I know. I know. But, assuming I find the soul vessels, how am I going to sell them? With my caseload, I can’t open the bookstore.”

“Hire someone.”

“I can’t afford to hire someone. I’m barely keeping the doors open working there myself, and I don’t even take a salary.”

“You do what you’re supposed to do, collect the soul vessels, the money will come. It always does.”

“That more of your unified theory?”

“Experience. I’ve known a dozen Death Merchants. Everyone said the same thing: as soon as you start doing it, the money comes. You are catching up, Inspector. You’re not going to have time to work in your store at all. It’s a bookstore. There’s a multitude of bright, overeducated motherfuckers with liberal arts degrees who would be happy to come work for you, just on the outside chance someone might ask them about Milton or Postmodernism or something, just like for my record store, there’s a shitload of insufferable know-it-all hipsters who will work for next to nothing for the privilege of condescending to customers about their musical knowledge. Just run an ad and hire someone.”

“What about that spooky girl who used to work for Asher?” Rivera asked. “She knew all about our business. I mean, if it’s all right with you, I know you two—”

“I told you, it ain’t a motherfuckin’ thing, Rivera.”

“Sorry. Do you have her number?”

“I’ll call her for you.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Fresh.”

“I do not want to, I’m doing it because she won’t trust you if you try to tell her what’s going on.”

“Trust me? But I’m a cop.”

“Seriously? You did not just say that to a black man.” The Mint One disconnected.

Crisis Center. What is your name, please?”

“Kevin.”

“Hi Kevin. I’m Lily. Where are you calling from, Kevin?”

“I’m on the Golden Gate Bridge. I’m going to jump.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Nope. Not going to happen. Not on my watch.”

Now he was going to tell her his story. Lily liked to watch French movies with subtitles on her tablet while listening to the story . The stories were usually pretty similar, or at least it seemed that way, because they were always calling from the same chapter. The chapter where someone is thinking about jumping off a big orange bridge or walking in front of a train.

Kevin told her his story. It sounded sad. But not as sad as what poor Audrey Tautou was going through on the screen. Lily knew there would be sad French accordion music and she tried to work an earbud from her tablet under her phone headset ear so she could feel the full weight of poor Audrey’s despair…

Kevin paused. Lily paused her movie.

“Don’t do it,” she said. “There’s stuff to live for. Have you tried that cereal with the chocolate inside? Not on it, inside the actual cereal. How about pizza under a flaming dome? That shit is tasty insanity. Fuck, Kevin, you kill yourself without trying that, you’ll hate yourself even more than you do now. I’m a trained chef, Kevin. I know.”

“At least it will be over.”

“Oh, hell no, it won’t be over. You could hit the water, blow out an eardrum, shatter a bunch of vertebrae, die cold and in excruciating pain, and then, like five minutes later, you’re a squirrel in a top hat and tap shoes, fighting a pigeon with a spork over a used donut. I have seen things, Kevin, terrible, dark, disturbing things. You do not want to go there.”