Lost Gods

By Drew Beatty

Kweku Anansi is just another member of the African diaspora, trying to make a place for himself in his adopted home of Toronto. He dreams of the life he used to live, centuries ago when he was revered as a god.
A chance encounter with a fellow con man with a dark and secretive past of his own plunges them both into the dark world of the lost gods, gods who would do anything to be worshipped again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Drew Beatty
• Release date: Aug 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9780980939828

Drew Beatty

Drew Beatty has been writing fiction seriously since the birth of his first son four years ago. His works have appeared in Aphelion-Online, Alien Skin Magazine, and Sinister Tales. Additionally, his first two novels are available as audiobooks on Podiobooks.com. He also writes a monthly podcasting column for Popsyndicate.com, and is working on a series of artices for Dad-O-Matic.com as well. When not writing, Andrew works as a teacher, reads too much, and juggles babies. Not literally, but sometimes it feels that way.

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Lost Gods

First Published in Canada by Fractual Publications, 2009

Smashwords Edition

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/3289

63 Havenbrook Blvd.

North York, ON

M2J 1A7

Canada

Copyright © Drew Beatty

Some Rights Reserved.

Author’s Note:

I would like to dedicate this book to my wife, Maureen, and my boys Tarquin and Ephraim. And to all the Tricksters out there, thanks for always being interesting.

Drew Beatty

Toronto, June 2009

Chapter One

It took two hours of waiting for the perfect mark to appear. My back was getting stiff from leaning up against the shuttered convenience store for so long, but if there was one thing I had developed, it was patience. I knew that it wouldn’t do to attract attention to myself by hassling too many people. Waiting for the right mark could be more effective than a dozen scattershot attempts. Consider it my version of narrowcasting, finding the ideal target market.

This man was my market, I was sure of it.

He was getting off the streetcar, looking carefully both ways before crossing the street. He looked like the kind a man who never touches a drink, unless it’s sacramental. His simple, open face broadcasted his willingness to help a fellow human being. It was time to make the rent.

I pushed myself off from the wall, smoothed my clothing, and advanced on him, smiling an open, yet embarrassed, smile. Excuse me sir, I said, using my nearly flawless French Canadian accent. He looked up at me with suspicion, the way most little white guys look up at large black men. I’m not all that large, really, just athletic, well built you could say. I’m dreadfully sorry to disturb you, I continued, but I find myself in an awkward situation.

He paused on the street corner, comforted, I knew, by my choice of words. Thugs are never dreadfully sorry about anything. Please, allow me first to introduce myself, my name is Jen-Luc Goddard.

Roger McNeil, he replied, not being friendly, but following social mores. Jen-Luc Goddard? he repeated. That name sound familiar.

It very well might, sir. I replied. Perhaps you have heard of me, though? Do you follow football, ah, sorry, soccer?

No, I’m sorry, I don’t, he said with suburban flatness. I knew he didn’t follow soccer, it's not very popular in Toronto. There is a spike of soccer excitement during the World Cup, with followers of the different countries showing national pride as their home country advances, but otherwise, soccer was invisible here. Even our local team, the Toronto FC had few fans, and obvious cubicle dwellers such as this man would be unlikely to be among them.

Ah, I see, well then I am not familiar to you. A pity. But, still, perhaps you can spare a moment for me, yes? He nodded his assent. I am here with the Quebec junior soccer team, we are playing in a tournament in your fair city. I find I am having some difficulty. I have rented a car, and was visiting some friends just down the road. I lost track of the time, we were having such a good visit, they are friends of my parents, actually, and when I returned to my car, a tow truck operator was about to pull it away. I must get back to the hotel, very soon, or I will miss curfew and not be allowed to play tomorrow.

My voice started to crack a little as I spoke, and I misted up at slightly, tears welling in the corners of me eyes. Men always get uncomfortable when other men look like they are about to cry, and will usually do anything to avoid it.

How can I help? He looked up at me with his innocent, trusting eyes. I knew he was an easy mark.

The tow-truck man, he said he would let my car go if I gave him one-hundred dollars. I have only forty. I need sixty more dollars, or I will not make it back to the hotel. Please, I know it is much to ask, but I have come all the way from Montreal to play in this game.

Roger considered my pitch for a moment. I’m not really sure, I mean, it’s a lot of money. Can’t you just withdraw some cash? There’s a machine right across the road. Of course there is, I thought. That is why I picked this location.

I know of the machine, sir. But my card, it does not work with these English ATMs. Something in the strip does not work, or it cannot translate. I am not sure. I have tried at three different places. Come, I will show you.

He followed me across the road, totally hooked in. I knew if I could get him to the bank machine, he would withdraw at least sixty dollars for me. But it was time to bait the hook. I debated with myself internally. Do I use the powers, or hope that he was weak enough that a simple redirect would work? I went for the redirect. My powers sometimes gave me a headache, and I didn't need that today.

Your feet, they are size 11? I asked, looking down at his sensible brown loafers. He nodded at me, a question in his eyes. But that is such good luck! I too, have size 11 feet. I have many, many pairs of athletic shoes, never used. Tomorrow I can have three, four pairs sent to your home. We have many sponsors; they give us too many shoes! Do you like Nike? Adidas?

He thought for a moment. I saw some new Nikes last week. A brown runner.

With the green stripes? I asked. He nodded. I think I have a pair of these. They are yours.

We arrived at the bank machine. That’s when my trouble began. Who knew one little member of the First Nations could cause so many problems? He was standing at the machine, pushing buttons angrily. His midnight black hair cascaded down his back, waving back and forth like a million snakes as he shook his head, obviously frustrated with the machine. Small-boned, his jeans and matching jacket almost hung off his thin frame, but looking at him, you got the feeling you shouldn’t mess with him, if you understand me. I got the distinct impression that he could take care of himself, if he needed to.

He yanked his card out of the machine, and looked over at us. I think this thing might be broken, man, he said. I can’t get it to work. You wanna try? He pointed at me with his card.

I am afraid I have been having some difficulties myself, I replied. I looked over at Roger. Perhaps you could try yours? As though it would be rude to do anything else, he pulled out his wallet and stepped forward to the machine. The other guy stepped back, looking like he was giving Roger room, but I noticed he locked his eyes on the keypad as Roger typed in his PIN.

No, it’s not working. He hit cancel, and waited for his card to come out. Nothing happened. He hit cancel again, and jiggled the return slot. Shit, the machine ate my card.

See man, I told you it was messed up. The longhaired guy wandered off, muttering to himself angrily. Roger was still hitting the machine, trying in vain to get his card back.

It’s no use. I need to go home and call the bank. Sorry man, I guess I can’t help you after all. He actually looked apologetic. For almost a full second, I felt guilty, but it passed.

Thank you for trying, friend, I said to him. He walked off quickly, hurrying, I suppose, to call the bank. I stood on the street corner for a moment, scanning the few passersby, hoping that I could see another good candidate. I realized after a moment that with would be futile, as the machine was broken. Down the block, I noticed the First Nation’s guy from the bank machine loitering, leaning up against a storefront, glancing occasionally in my direction. I turned and walked along the street the other way and took the first corner I came to. I looked around at my surroundings and waited for a few minutes. The sun was setting, making the rundown neighbourhood look beautiful, the drab and dusty store fronts were bathed in a brilliant golden glow. Even the second hand clothing store, with its cracked, grimy windows and shabby merchandise within looked almost regal. After a moment, I turned back onto the road, and saw my skinny little friend back where I expected him, at the bank machine, coaxing the card out of the slot.

I walked over quickly. He was mine, Indian, I said in my most threatening voice as I approached.

Person of First Nation descent, please. Indian is a misnomer based upon the fact that Columbus was a lost asshole, he nonchalantly responded. Come on, man, you’re blocking my light, this is delicate work. He waved me away.

I stepped closer, towering over him. I said he was mine. Also, I knew that about Columbus. I was trying to be threatening.

It didn’t work, you are obviously too nice a guy to be all that threatening. But fortunately for you, I agree, he was your mark, and I bet he was a good one too. He appeared to be simple enough to fall for any little scheme. I mean, he bought your terrible accent, didn't he? He looked up at me, not the slightest bit of fear in his expression, and retrieved the bankcard. He removed a thin strand of film from around the black strip, and reinserted it. Now, what were you going to get from him, forty, maybe sixty dollars? Zero two, two zero. How much do you want to bet he was born on February twentieth? He kept up his rapid-fire delivery while typing away at the bank machine, scarcely glancing in my direction. Now, I have a proposal for you. You hooked the fish, so I will give you a cut of what I make. Say, twenty percent? After all, he was the first person to use this machine in a while.

I thought for a moment, considering. I am not a violent man, and I really didn’t relish the thought of getting into a fight with this guy. Fights can bring police, and police can bring problems, not to mention time in jail. Difficult questions could follow. Questions about immigration, identification, things like that. Forty, forty percent, I replied.

Call it thirty. I’m a reasonable guy. Seconds later, he handed me a stack of twenty-dollar bills. Three hundred dollars in all. He stuffed the rest of the wad in his back pocket.

How much did you get? I asked.

One thousand dollars, well, seven hundred now. He had a nice high daily limit. See you. And then he faded into the sidewalk traffic as though he were camouflaged, leaving me standing there, looking at the pile of bills in my hand. It would take me a few days, and at least five good cons to make three hundred dollars. I worked all day every day to try to pull in one thousand dollars a week. He did that in five minutes. I looked up from the billfold, but he was gone.

Shit.

I stopped off to buy some flowers and a bottle of wine before heading home. It had been a good day, all things considered. I threw open the door to my apartment, and walked in to the smell of something fantastic. I looked into the kitchen, to see my wife standing over a boiling pot. Drops of sweat were beading her forehead and upper lip, and I wondered how she could cook in our tiny, unventilated kitchen. Even though the days were getting slightly cooler, our apartment had no air conditioning, and the windows opened onto another building, no fresh air came through. It made cooking almost unbearable; the heat of the oven or stovetop would make it feel like a sauna. But this apartment was the best I could do right now. Maybe something better would become available and affordable, but until then, it was our home.

Hey baby, she called out. Her voice never ceased to make the hairs on the back of my neck tingle. Her voice was music, pure and raw, flowing out of her mouth like a river of delight. The setting sun streaming in through the windows bathed her in a soft golden light. The glow was just reflected light, actually, bouncing off the building just beside ours, but it still looked beautiful. She still looked beautiful in it. I presented the wine and flowers. What’s the occasion? she asked, smiling up at me.

I had a good day, and I have a great wife. What other reason do I need? I slid into the tiny kitchen, so small we had to press up against one another to share the space. I wrapped my arms around her, held her tight for a minute, before pulling a tall glass down from the crowded shelves. I filled it with water and used it as an impromptu vase.

I looked around the apartment for an appropriate place to put the flowers. My collection of books covered almost every flat surface we had. They were the only thing I collected, really. Old books, new books, used books. Books that no one else wanted, books from the top of the charts, both were of interest to me. Anytime I could get a deal on a book, I bought it. Our shelves were overflowing, our coffee table was piled up. Our television was currently buried under a pile of books I found at a garage sale, thrillers from the mid nineteen sixties, most of them. I stood, turning in circles, until I found a reasonably clean place on the windowsill. Not the most prominent of locations to enjoy the bouquet, but it would keep my books safe.

So, what made today so good? Did you make a lot of sales? Kanene asked as she put the finishing touches on dinner. She was under the impression I was a direct marketer, which was a very nice way to say door-to-door salesman. This is how I was able to account for my constant cash intake, lack of formal pay cheque, and erratic hours. I hated lying to her, but telling her the truth, telling her she was married to a petty scam artist would be difficult. Still, telling her that truth would be easier than telling her the whole truth about me. Hopefully that would never come up.

Yes, I was able to sell some entertainment books, and some ticket packages. I found a really good complex, lots of bored workers looking to have something to do with their weekends.

She breezed out of the kitchen, into the tiny adjoining dining room carrying a try loaded with soup, rice, and the wine. I am glad you had such a good day, the flowers are lovely, she said. Together we served the meal.

What about you, how was your day? I asked. She shrugged, stabbing at some thick chunks of yam with her fork. I cared for the sick and dying. No one died today, so there is some mercy, I suppose. I looked around our small, cramped apartment. I hated that I was reduced to this. I thought back to better times, when I was a king. Once upon a time I could have bought an entire city block, bought and sold this entire building without paying any heed to the transaction. Now I had to struggle just to pay the rent. There was only one thing that made it worthwhile, and that was Kanene.

But someday I would lose her too, that was our destiny. We finished our meal in silence.

I spent the next few weeks searching for the other con artist. Winter was approaching, and that made my job difficult. People who might be willing to pause and listen to a sob story during the warmth of summer often keep their heads down and walked with a more determined step during the harsh Toronto winter. The weather had been holding out, staying reasonably warm for the fall, but I had to act fast. I was certain if I could convince my little First Nation’s friend to become my partner it would be advantageous for both of us.

I crisscrossed the city, working different areas, always trying to remember the people I had already spoken with. I had an excellent memory for faces, and could usually remember a mark, successful or otherwise, months after I had first approached them. It was a useful gift, and saved undue embarrassment and suspicion. Even in a city of over two million people, it was possible to come across the same faces. The world really is much smaller than you can imagine.

Time and time again, I went back to the corner where I had first come across my impromptu partner in crime. I would stop there, have lunch in one of the many restaurants, sitting by the window, looking for him. It was a thankless task, but I was lucky, autumn lingered this year, the snow was late in coming. Christmas decorations sprouted on businesses, on the sides of street, chubby Santas rang bells for charity, but it all felt false. People were still in light windbreakers, and the temperature had never fallen enough to bring the snow. Without snow to cover barren tree branches, the city just seemed dirty and bleak. Splashes of Christmas cheer did little to emolliate the depressing appearance of the city trapped in an endless fall. I had all but given up on finding him, when he found me.

I was having lunch in yet another restaurant, looking up at the record albums and comic books that attempted to give the bar some character. They did not succeed, and only served to make the place seem like the juvenile hangout of repressed teenage boys. The jukebox played a succession of album-oriented rock from twenty years ago. Not for the first time I reconsidered my lifestyle choices.

I sat in the back, tired of looking out at the affectless faces of the Torontonians who wandered the streets in the middle of the day. The booth offered a degree of privacy, on one side an aquarium gave entertainment, fish swimming lazy circles while I ate rubbery French fries. I didn’t notice him enter, didn’t notice him order a pair of drinks, but suddenly he was across the table from me, pushing a beer in my direction.

You’re good, he said by way of introduction. I picked up the beer, took a sample sip. It was ice cold, clean and light. Not a winter beer, but I kept drinking.

What do you mean? I asked.

I have been watching you, he said smiling. His grin looked slightly predatory, like a wolf’s smile. You didn’t notice, huh? I shook my head, amazed that someone I was looking for could evade my detection as easily as he had. You pick true, time and time again. I think in all the times I was watching, people shot you down once, maybe twice. I’ve never seen anyone that good, even the best get shot down, press their luck, misread a mark. But you, never. Not ever.

I was suddenly uncomfortable with the amount of insight this stranger was sharing with me. Even with the rewards our partnership could give us, I did not wish to be exposed. I will admit I do have a talent for reading people, but I am also lucky, I always have been. I put on my best smile, trying to charm him.

It’s a lot more than luck, I think. Anyhow, do you want to partner up, or what? I assume that is why you were looking for me.

And how do you know I was looking for you? I was watching you watching for me, he said with a lopsided smile.

You aren’t the only one who can read people.

Perhaps this was a bad idea, I said, standing up.

Relax, relax. Yes, I was watching you, if you want me to apologize for that, I will. But I had to know who you were, what I might be getting myself into. I can’t just partner up at random. Now I don’t know if you are aware of this, but what we do is illegal. He paused while the waitress came to see if we needed another beer, some more food. For all I knew, you were a cop, trying to shake me down. Maybe you were bad news, a nickel and dime scammer hoping to ride my gravy train to the next level. So I watched you.

I reached out with my mind, tried to look into his, but I found nothing. Not a wall, not something blocking me, just an absence, as if he wasn’t even there. This was very strange, but now I was curious. Did you watch my home? I asked him.

He shook his head. No, never. I will admit I know the neighbourhood you live in, but only to the closest subway station. I respect limits.

So what now? Why did you approach me?

Like I said, I could see that you are the real deal. You have the gift. People skills. Me, I’m a tech head. I know how to separate a person from their money at the bank machine, but you can get them there, time and time again, you can get them there. Holy shit! he suddenly exclaimed, looking up at the wall.

What, what’s wrong? I asked. Nothing’s wrong. Take a look at what’s on the wall there.

I looked up over my shoulder to where he was pointing. I only see a comic book, I replied.

Yeah, it’s just a comic book. But that comic book is worth about a thousand dollars. That’s an Amazing Spider-Man number 43, the first appearance of the Rhino. It looks mint. This is crazy, the rest of these books are junk, he waved his hand dismissively around, indicating the other comics. But that, he continued, that is something special. We have to get it.

You want to steal it?

Of course not. We’ll scam it. You have the people skills. Show me you can get that book out of here legitimately, and you have yourself a new partner.

I paused of a moment, considering the angles, thinking. I called over the waitress, asked if the manager was around. She was. A smoky lady of indeterminate age came over to our table, asked how she could help us. I put on my best smile. I’m sorry to bother you, I started, My friend and I were just admiring your collection of comic books here. Are you a collector?

Me? Oh no, she laughed, unearthing a rattle from deep in her chest. After her brief coughing fit, she continued. I got the lot of them at an auction, frames and all. I thought they would be a good addition to the bar. I like to change the décor every few years.

Well, they are a handsome looking set. I actually collect books myself. A few pieces here are actually quite valuable, you know.

She looked surprised, I had no idea, she said.

Oh yes, I pointed out a random book that sported a large bosomed heroine throwing a muscle bound hulk through a wall. Assuming that one is in mint condition, which it looks like it is, you could probably get at least five thousand dollars for it.

Jesus, I only paid a hundred bucks for the lot of them. You really think I can get five thousand dollars for a comic book?

I nodded my head seriously. Oh yes, the market for comic books has been heating up for several years now. People will pay hard earned money for a piece of their childhood. I could see I had her on the hook. Now it was time to reel her in. I can only see one problem, really. Did you have these books up while smoking was permitted in the bar?

She thought for a moment, nodded her head. Yeah, I guess I had them up for a few months while people could smoke. That damn bylaw has cost me about thirty percent of my business, she said angrily. Damn government telling people they can't even smoke in bars anymore, it's ridiculous! I tried to look empathetic.

I understand it has been hard for many businesses. And I am afraid I have more bad news. It’s possible the nicotine and chemicals in cigarette smoke damaged the books. They might actually be worthless. I gave her a consoling smile. This is the tricky part of a good con. It’s not enough to play on someone’s greed; you need to set yourself up as a saviour. If you would like, I could take a sample to some dealers I know, they could tell us if it was worth anything.

Suspicion flashed in her eyes. I’m not going to let you just walk out of here with something that valuable, she said.

"Oh, no, of course not. I wasn’t suggesting that. I could take any of the books; I would imagine that all of them would have equal exposure to the smoke. It doesn’t matter which one, I