American Gods

He sat on the chair, at the card table. The table was covered with a cigarette-burned green baize. Shadow practiced appearing to push coins through the table. Then he took two quarters and made up a Pointless Coin Trick.

He concealed a quarter in his right palm, and openly displayed the other quarter in his left hand, between finger and thumb. Then he appeared to take the quarter from his left hand, while actually letting it drop back into his left hand. He opened his right hand to display the quarter that had been there all along.

The thing about coin manipulation was that it took all Shadow’s head to do it; or rather, he could not do it if he was angry or upset, so the action of practicing an illusion, even one with, on its own, no possible use—for he had expended an enormous amount of effort and skill to make it appear that he had moved a quarter from one hand to the other, something that it takes no skill whatever to do for real—calmed him, cleared his mind of turmoil and fear.

He began a trick even more pointless: a one-handed half-dollar-to-penny transformation, but with his two quarters. Each of the coins was alternately concealed and revealed as the trick progressed: he began with one quarter visible, the other hidden. He raised his hand to his mouth and blew on the visible coin, while slipping it into a classic palm, as the first two fingers took the hidden quarter out and presented it. The effect was that he displayed a quarter in his hand, raised it to his mouth, blew on it, and lowered it again, displaying the same quarter all the while.

He did it over and over and over again.

He wondered if they were going to kill him, and his hand trembled, just a little, and one of the quarters dropped from his fingertip onto the stained green baize of the card table.

And then, because he just couldn’t do it anymore, he put the coins away, and took out the Liberty-head dollar that Zorya Polunochnaya had given him, and held onto it tightly, and waited.

At three in the morning, by his watch, the spooks returned to interrogate him. Two men in dark suits, with dark hair and shiny black shoes. Spooks. One was square-jawed, wide-shouldered, had great hair, looked like he had played football in high school, badly bitten fingernails, the other had a receding hairline, silver-rimmed round glasses, manicured nails. While they looked nothing alike, Shadow found himself suspecting that on some level, possibly cellular, the two men were identical. They stood on each side of the card table, looking down at him.

“How long have you been working for Cargo, sir?” asked one.

“I don’t know what that is,” said Shadow.

“He calls himself Wednesday. Grimm. Olfather. Old guy. You’ve been seen with him, sir.”

“I’ve been working for him for a couple of days.”

“Don’t lie to us, sir,” said the spook with the glasses.

“Okay,” said Shadow. “I won’t. But it’s still a couple of days.”

The square-jawed spook reached down and twisted Shadow’s ear between finger and thumb. He squeezed as he twisted. The pain was intense. “We told you not to lie to us, sir,” he said, mildly. Then he let go.

Each of the spooks had a gun bulge under his jacket. Shadow did not try to retaliate. He pretended he was back in prison. Do your own time, thought Shadow. Don’t tell them anything they don’t know already. Don’t ask questions.

“These are dangerous people you’re palling around with, sir,” said the spook with glasses. “You will be doing your country a service by turning state’s evidence.” He smiled, sympathetically: I’m the good cop, said the smile.

“I see,” said Shadow.

“And if you don’t want to help us, sir,” said the square-jawed spook, “you can see what we’re like when we’re not happy.” He hit Shadow an openhanded blow across the stomach, knocking the breath from him. It wasn’t torture, Shadow thought, just punctuation: I’m the bad cop. He retched.

“I would like to make you happy,” said Shadow, as soon as he could speak.

“All we ask is your cooperation, sir.”

“Can I ask . . .” gasped Shadow (don’t ask questions, he thought, but it was too late, the words were already spoken), “can I ask who I’ll be cooperating with?”

“You want us to tell you our names?” asked the square-jawed spook. “You have to be out of your mind.”

“No, he’s got a point,” said the spook with glasses. “It may make it easier for him to relate to us.” He looked at Shadow and smiled like a man advertising toothpaste. “Hi. I’m Mister Stone, sir. My colleague is Mister Wood.”

“Actually,” said Shadow, “I meant, what agency are you with? CIA? FBI?”

Stone shook his head. “Gee. It’s not as easy as that anymore, sir. Things just aren’t that simple.”

“The private sector,” said Wood, “the public sector. You know. There’s a lot of interplay these days.”