bills

Gilbert M. Stack

 

Gerry held his breath as he punched his PIN into the ATM. One small lapse in concentration and he could crash the machine. The risks of that were far greater than the embarrassment of having to go to the bank manager to reclaim his card. Banks were jammed full of electronic equipment - a virtual minefield for a man like Gerry whose substance-less body naturally interfered with the electrical fields around him. If he couldn't suppress his powers long enough to work the ATM, how did he think he could keep them in check during an interview with the manager? And he would have to try to do so if he failed here at the machine because he really needed to get some money.

His PIN accepted, Gerry chose "fast cash" and poked the screen where it read "$60". The equipment whirled and flashed a message: "Request denied. Insufficient funds."

Gerry almost lost control in the resulting shock of disappointment. He made a balance inquiry: "$17.52". Disbelief turned to despair. How could it be so low? Sure he hadn't worked since the accident that changed him, but $17? What was he going to do now?

He punched the button refusing another transaction and collected his card. Mission sort of accomplished, Gerry relaxed his mental muscles and let his body slide back into its new natural state. The color around him faded, leaving the world a bleached and dismal place. A ripple ran across the welcoming letters on the ATM machine before it went suddenly blank.

Sighing, Gerry turned away and started up the sidewalk along Eighth Avenue. What was he going to do for money? His preferred means of earning a living was gambling in illegal poker games. He never had won enough to actually support himself doing this, so he supplemented his income with a variety of temp assignments. All of that came to an end with the accident. Poker was a social sport which required intense concentration. Gerry wasn't ready to face that environment yet - not until he was far more accomplished at keeping his body firmly in the material world.

Temp assignments, on the other hand, generally involved computers, and Gerry knew he was no longer competent to do that kind of work. Since the accident, all things electrical seemed to hate him.

None of this would be quite so hard if he was willing to admit what had happened to him, but Gerry's family situation was difficult. His father was a retired "hero" of the New York Police Department with no use for his unconventional son. His eldest brother was an Assistant District Attorney with ambitions to be governor or president. Gerry didn't trust them enough to ask for help because it would mean admitting he'd been on location during the biggest fire to strike New York City since 9/11. He didn't believe they would put his interests above their own, and the rest of his large Irish American family simply couldn't keep a secret.

So how was he going to make money?

The headline at a news kiosk directed him toward one possible answer: "Cops Make Record Drug Bust."

It merited consideration.

* * *

"Make it fast, Gerry. I'm busy."

Good to hear your voice too, brother, Gerry thought. He didn't say the words. He needed Dennis' help and long experience told him he wouldn't get if he made the family ADA angry. Also, telephones depended on electricity, and Gerry needed to concentrate if he wasn't going to fade and accidentally disconnect the call. Getting excited wouldn't help him concentrate.

Fading was a good word to describe how Gerry slipped into his new natural state. He just eased or faded out of the material realm leaving him on the edge of elsewhere - not quite gone from the world altogether, but not precisely here anymore either.

"I appreciate your time, Dennis," Gerry said. His voice sounded natural when he was solid - not hollow and reverberating as it did most of the time now. "I'll make this as quick as I can. I made a bet with a friend - "

"Gerry!"

"Not that kind of bet! Not a wager. Just a friendly, no-money-at-stake, bet between friends."

"And?" Dennis did not try to conceal his suspicion.

"We both agreed you would know the answer."

Dennis only sighed, so Gerry continued speaking. "What's the biggest area for drug deals in the city? He said the Bowery. I said the Village. We're just talking about Manhattan - not any of the other boroughs."

"Gerry, I'm an ADA for God's sake." Dennis exasperation turned stern. "Are you using?"

"What?" The question genuinely surprised Gerry - not that it should have, knowing Dennis as he did. "No way! You know me, Dennis. Drugs have never interested me. Gambling is my vice. But if that's what you think, it's just an idle question anyway."

Dennis actually apologized, sort of. "Okay, okay, I was just asking." He paused for a breath and probably looked at his watch. "Look, I've got to get back to work. You can get drugs anywhere in the city: the Village, Times Square, Soho, Columbus Circle. Pushers are everywhere. If you're thinking of a slightly higher level of trade - big pushers meeting little pushers - I'd guess Central Park after dark. It's big, isolated, and very dark."

"Thanks, Dennis," Gerry said, and found he truly meant it. Now that his big brother had actually given him the information, Gerry realized he had not truly expected him to. "I really appreciate it."
Dennis sounded a little embarrassed. "Look, I've got to get back to work. Why don't you win your bet and then call Mom. She's always worrying about you. And it wouldn't hurt for you to come by the old house for Sunday dinner."

"Okay," Gerry agreed before he could censor the word.

It didn't actually matter. A click and a dial tone informed him Dennis had already hung up.

* * *

Guardian Spirit prowled Central Park looking for a pusher with money.

He was getting desperate. It was all well and good to adopt a secret identity and walk the city at night to see if he could help people. But now he had bills to pay and he was out of work. He had to make some money. The refrigerator was empty and the rent was coming due. And since he couldn't do legitimate work just now, he had decided to try a middle ground - somewhere between hero and villain. He would support himself stealing from criminals.

It was, he figured, a little bit like gambling. Criminals knew their careers were risky when they entered them. If they couldn't handle the risks, that was their problem. Gerry was simply taking advantage of the situation. Or so he tried to tell himself.

It was actually a service to society he was performing. Stealing from drug dealers must help everyone. Put a drug dealer out of business and he couldn't poison anyone. If Gerry also benefited from the dealer's misfortune, what was the harm?

Guardian Spirit started by walking the paved trails of the park, but quickly abandoned them for the green fields and groves of trees in between. He stayed away from the street lights - eyes penetrating the night almost as if it were day. Even the trees did less to obstruct his vision than they would a normal man's, although the sheer number of them proved that there were limits to how far his eyes could penetrate solid objects.

Central Park was surprisingly busy for a place which supposedly closed after dark. People could be found all over the place, squirreled away in an amazing variety of shadowy corners. Couples kissing passionately, or more; teenagers huddled in a circle smoking weed; even the occasional late night jogger running with his dog. Gerry couldn't credit these people for good sense. He just avoided them and kept on looking for a pusher.

He found what he was seeking north of the Central Park Zoo - two men talking quietly. One had a backpack dangling from his shoulder. The fabric could not conceal the fact that it held several zip lock bags filled with powder. Upon closer examination, Gerry could see that both men were also armed, which considerably raised the risks of this little venture.

Gerry was impervious to bullets only while he remained insubstantial. Once he solidified he could be shot. He decided to approach by stealth and attempt to surprise the two when the money came out. A quick snatch with his hands and he could fade away with the cash with no further concern for the bullets.

Guardian Spirit sank down into the ground until only his head remained above the surface. Then he crept up on the two men with little risk that they would notice him.

He was almost too late. One of them pulled a thick envelope from his pocket and showed the other the money it contained.

Guardian Spirit sank the rest of the way into the ground and walked up beside but beneath the two men. His heart was beating fast as he prepared to shoot out of the ground beside them. It was only when he decided to count three breaths to calm himself that he realized he was in fact still breathing despite being underground.

He shrugged his shoulders. If all went well there would be time to puzzle out the physics of breathing without air in the morning.

Bracing himself mentally, Guardian Spirit rose out of the ground in a rush right beside the two drug dealers. The man with the backpack was just handing it to his business associate. Both men had a hand on the envelope with the money.

Guardian Spirit changed his plan in that instant and threw a right cross into the face of one of the men. If he was going to take the money, he was also going to take the drugs. Not to use them, of course, and not to sell them. He simply refused to leave them on the street where they could do harm.

To say that a spirit rising out of the earth surprised the men was massive understatement. The punched man staggered backward, losing his grip on both envelope and backpack. Guardian Spirit turned and kneed the other man in the groin. He felt like he was in a movie, all powerful, taking out the bad guys. He followed up the knee with a punch to the jaw.

"Mother of God," a voice whispered behind him.

Guardian Spirit turned and saw the envelope and the backpack on the ground. The items distracted him just long enough to allow the first man to pull out his gun. Guardian Spirit froze in surprise.
The man fired repeatedly, emptying his weapon. The bullets passed through Guardian Spirit with many striking the man behind him. That man screamed in pain.

Hearing the first man's trigger clicking on an empty barrel restored Guardian Spirit to his senses. He solidified, scooped up the envelope and the backpack, then slid back beneath the earth again.
The screams of the wounded man seemed to follow him.

* * *

Gerry sat on the roof of the CompUSA near Columbus Circle, breaking open the bags of white powder and sprinkling their contents into the air. He did not feel good about his victory. With ten thousand dollars in his pocket and a pack full of drugs off the street, he expected to feel good. Yet all he could think about was the wounded man's screams.

The man was just a drug dealer - the scum of the earth. But oh, how he could scream.

Guardian Spirit hadn't intended to hurt him. He had not even pulled the trigger of the gun that wounded him. But he knew that he was ultimately responsible just the same. If he hadn't decided to rob them, the man would not have been injured. Next time - if there was a next time - he would have to do better. He did not want to become a killer.

Gerry pulled the very thick envelope from his pocket. It contained ten thousand dollars. For some reason, the money made him feel dirty.

Yet, he had bills to pay, and if he was going to spend his nights trying to help people, he had to find a way to pay those bills. But taking this money didn't feel like helping people, it felt like helping himself. Gerry didn't like that feeling.

He was getting to his feet when the idea struck him. St. Paul's had a poor box just a long block away. He didn't need all of this money. A couple of thousand was more than enough to pay his bills and restock his refrigerator. St. Paul's could have the rest. Let them use it to do some good.

Putting the envelope back into his pocket, Gerry wondered what God would think of his breaking into a church to give money to the poor. He hoped the Good Lord had a sense of humor, and would be patient with him as Guardian Spirit struggled to find his way.