American Gods

A car drew up, and a man got out holding a small gray sack and a key. Shadow watched as Wednesday apologized to the man, then made him sign the clipboard, checked his deposit slip, painstakingly wrote him out a receipt and puzzled over which copy to keep, and, finally, opened his big black metal case and put the man’s sack inside.

The man shivered in the snow, stamping his feet, waiting for the old security guard to be done with this administrative nonsense, so he could leave his takings and get out of the cold and be on his way, then he took his receipt and got back into his warm car and drove off.

Wednesday walked across the street carrying the metal case, and bought himself a coffee at the supermarket.

“Afternoon, young man,” he said, with an avuncular chuckle, as he passed Shadow. “Cold enough for you?”

He walked back across the street and took gray sacks and envelopes from people coming to deposit their earnings or their takings on this Saturday afternoon, a fine old security man in his funny pink earmuffs.

Shadow bought some things to read—Turkey Hunting, People, and, because the cover picture of Bigfoot was so endearing, the Weekly World News—and stared out of the window.

“Anything I can do to help?” asked a middle-aged black man with a white mustache. He seemed to be the manager.

“Thanks, man, but no. I’m waiting for a phone call. My girlfriend’s car broke down.”

“Probably the battery,” said the man. “People forget those things only last three, maybe four years. It’s not like they cost a fortune.”

“Tell me about it,” said Shadow.

“Hang in there, big guy,” said the manager, and he went back into the supermarket.

The snow had turned the street scene into the interior of a snow globe, perfect in all its details.

Shadow watched, impressed. Unable to hear the conversations across the street, he felt it was like watching a fine silent movie performance, all pantomime and expression: the old security guard was gruff, earnest—a little bumbling perhaps, but enormously well-meaning. Everyone who gave him their money walked away a little happier from having met him.

And then the cops drew up outside the bank, and Shadow’s heart sank. Wednesday tipped his cap to them, and ambled over to the police car. He said his hellos and shook hands through the open window, and nodded, then hunted through his pockets until he found a business card and a letter, and passed them through the window of the car. Then he sipped his coffee.

The telephone rang. Shadow picked up the handpiece and did his best to sound bored. “A1 Security Services,” he said.

“Can I speak to A. Haddock?” asked the cop across the street.

“This is Andy Haddock speaking,” said Shadow.

“Yeah, Mister Haddock, this is the police,” said the cop in the car across the street. “You’ve got a man at the First Illinois Bank on the corner of Market and Second.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s right. Jimmy O’Gorman. And what seems to be the problem, officer? Jim behaving himself? He’s not been drinking?”

“No problem, sir. Your man is just fine, sir. Just wanted to make certain everything was in order.”

“You tell Jim that if he’s caught drinking again, officer, he’s fired. You got that? Out of a job. Out on his ass. We have zero tolerance at A1 Security.”

“I really don’t think it’s my place to tell him that, sir. He’s doing a fine job. We’re just concerned because something like this really ought to be done by two personnel. It’s risky, having one unarmed guard dealing with such large amounts of money.”

“Tell me about it. Or more to the point, you tell those cheapskates down at the First Illinois about it. These are my men I’m putting on the line, officer. Good men. Men like you.” Shadow found himself warming to this identity. He could feel himself becoming Andy Haddock, chewed cheap cigar in his ashtray, a stack of paperwork to get to this Saturday afternoon, a home in Schaumburg and a mistress in a little apartment on Lake Shore Drive. “Y’know, you sound like a bright young man, officer, uh . . .”

“Myerson.”

“Officer Myerson. You need a little weekend work, or you wind up leaving the force, any reason, you give us a call. We always need good men. You got my card?”

“Yes sir.”

“You hang onto it,” said Andy Haddock. “You call me.”

The police car drove off, and Wednesday shuffled back through the snow to deal with the small line of people who were waiting to give him their money.

“She okay?” asked the manager, putting his head around the door. “Your girlfriend?”

“It was the battery,” said Shadow. “Now I just got to wait.”

“Women,” said the manager. “I hope yours is worth waiting for.”

Winter darkness descended, the afternoon slowly graying into night. Lights went on. More people gave Wednesday their money. Suddenly, as if at some signal Shadow could not see, Wednesday walked over to the wall, removed the out-of-order signs, and trudged across the slushy road, heading for the parking lot. Shadow waited a minute, then followed him.