Chapter 1 (p.11)
Shadow read the list of in-flight music channels available on transatlantic flights, and then he was looking at the map of the world with red lines on it that showed where the airline flew. Then he had finished reading the magazine, and, reluctantly, he closed the cover, and slipped it into the pocket on the wall.
The man opened his eyes. There was something strange about his eyes, Shadow thought. One of them was a darker gray than the other. He looked at Shadow. “By the way,” he said, “I was sorry to hear about your wife, Shadow. A great loss.”
Shadow nearly hit the man, then. Instead he took a deep breath. (“Like I said, don't piss off those bitches in airports,” said Johnnie Larch, in the back of his mind, “or they'll haul your sorry ass back here before you can spit.”) He counted to five.
“So was I,” he said.
The man shook his head. “If it could but have been any other way,” he said, and sighed.
“She died in a car crash,” said Shadow. “It's a fast way to go. Other ways could have been worse.”
The man shook his head, slowly. For a moment it seemed to Shadow as if the man was insubstantial; as if the plane had suddenly become more real, while his neighbor had become less so.
“Shadow,” he said. “It's not a joke. It's not a trick. I can pay you better than any other job you'll find will pay you. You're an ex-con. There's not a long line of people elbowing each other out of the way to hire you.”
“Mister whoever-the-fuck-you-are,” said Shadow, just loud enough to be heard over the din of the engines, “there isn't enough money in the world.”
The grin got bigger. Shadow found himself remembering a PBS show he had seen as a teenager, about chimpanzees. The show claimed that when apes and chimps smile it's only to bare their teeth in a grimace of hate or aggression or terror. When a chimp grins, it's a threat. This grin was one of those.
“Sure there's money enough. And there are also bonuses. Work for me, and I'll tell you things. There may be a little risk, of course, but if you survive you can have whatever your heart desires. You could be the next king of America. Now,” said the man, “who else is going to pay you that well? Hmm?”
“Who are you?” asked Shadow.
“Ah, yes. The age of information—young lady, could you pour me another glass of Jack Daniel's? Easy on the ice—not, of course, that there has ever been any other kind of age. Information and knowledge: these are currencies that have never gone out of style.”
“I said, who are you?”
“Let's see. Well, seeing that today certainly is my day—why don't you call me Wednesday? Mister Wednesday. Although given the weather, it might as well be Thursday, eh?”
“What's your real name?”
“Work for me long enough and well enough,” said the man in the pale suit, “and I may even tell you that. There. Job offer. Think about it. No one expects you to say yes immediately, not knowing whether you're leaping into a piranha tank or a pit of bears. Take your time.” He closed his eyes and leaned back in his seat.
“I don't think so,” said Shadow. “I don't like you. I don't want to work with you.”
“Like I say,” said the man, without opening his eyes, “don't rush into it. Take your time.”
The plane landed with a bump, and a few passengers got off. Shadow looked out of the window: it was a little airport in the middle of nowhere, and there were still two little airports to go before Eagle Point. Shadow transferred his glance to the man in the pale suit—Mr. Wednesday? He seemed to be asleep.
Shadow stood up, grabbed his bag, and stepped off the plane, down the steps onto the slick wet tarmac, walking at an even pace toward the lights of the terminal. A light rain spattered his face.
