Nothing Good Happens After Midnight: A Suspense Magazine Anthology

ATM Jon Land

“Don’t I know you?” the guy seated across from Venn on the A Train headed uptown toward 207th Street wondered.

Venn tried not to regard him, avoided meeting his eyes. Could be the guy had been a trick in weeks or months past. Somebody he’d picked up in a bar like Tubby’s Tavern where he was headed right now, after midnight like always. Venn didn’t remember faces like that and didn’t want to remember this one either.

“I don’t think so, man,” he said, not quite regarding the guy and not smiling.

Barely regarding him, in other words, which was normally all it took guys who’d paid him for sex at one time or another to move on in their minds. Sometimes they wouldn’t let it go, maybe even wanting more of the same which Venn sometimes provided. He figured he should have been grateful that he remained attractive at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

A glimpse caught in the subway car window across from his seat revealed the tousled hair that swam to his shoulders, mostly brown with some natural blondish streaks. His eyes were the same middle shade, more of a hazel, and a flash of his perfect smile could make any potential trick melt, even the straight ones or ones who at least thought they were straight. Of course, he was also blessed with a great ass which the reflection didn’t show, but that Venn regaled in catching guys, and girls, grab stealthy glimpses of that always lingered a bit too long.

Tubby’s Tavern wasn’t a college bar per se, but its location in a trendy uptown neighborhood was populated by a mix of young professionals, many associated in some respect with nearby Columbia University. A convenient place to gather or stop by alone for a drink.

“Are you sure?” the guy across from him started up again. “Because... ”

“You teach at Columbia?” Venn asked, still not fully meeting his gaze. “Maybe you’ve seen me on campus, something like that.”

“Oh, you’re a student.”

Venn nodded, calculating how many more minutes were left before the train’s final stop at 207th and Broadway came up. “Junior.”

“You look older.”

Ouch, Venn thought. Of course, he couldn’t say exactly what he’d looked like when he was younger, since foster homes, group homes, and shelters were not known for keeping photo albums. Venn had grown up in an assortment of those. His was a classic American tragedy, like homeless veterans and that sort of shit. He chose not to dwell on his past — or his future, for that matter. “Live in the moment” was Venn’s mantra, out of necessity as much as choice.

There wasn’t much glamorous about being a hustler, but Venn had been the subject of a profile in New York Magazine and was included, anonymously as well, in the New York Times Magazine too. One trick he’d done claimed to be a film producer who wanted to base a movie around him. Venn had pretended to be excited and given the guy a disconnected number, because Venn thought he was full of shit. Months later, the same New York Magazine issue containing the article on him included the guy’s picture in a story on Hollywood up-and-comers, meaning he’d been legit.

If that didn’t beat all.

The train slid into the station and ground to a squealing stop, Venn and the guy across from him rising at the same time.

“You have yourself a nice night,” the guy said, a forced smile accompanying his words.

“You, too. Be safe.”

The man’s face played with a smile, like he knew something he didn’t want to share. “I was just going to say the same thing to you.”

Now Venn was regarding him closer, the man’s features appearing formless, not quite the same as they’d appeared before, but not really different either.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” the guy said, flashing a smile that lingered briefly. “I think this might be the night.”

“For what?”

Before he could answer, the doors whooshed open and a swarm of riders swallowed the man up. Venn stepped onto the platform after him, looked one way and then the other, but the man was gone.

Venn needed cash. Money made for the best disguise. Guys in a bar seeing you paying for your own drinks took the hustler thing off the table until he put it back on. Same thing for clothes and in Venn’s case, that meant dressing like a college student. Khakis or jeans to go with the right button-down and jacket courtesy of North Face or something like that.

The problem tonight was that his bank account was closing in on zero, all of fifty bucks left to his name which in his case was “Venn” and nothing more. Using his last name meant acknowledging his past, something Venn avoided at all costs given there was nothing there worth remembering. So why not avoid his surname as much as possible? He never used it when introducing himself, and the people he normally introduced himself to didn’t much care.

Still, fifty bucks was fifty bucks and Venn set out in search of an ATM machine to take forty of it out, leaving him ten unless tonight proved to be a profitable one assuming he could find the right trick. Venn could have ventured a bit further uptown to where deeper congestions of bars were clustered. He could have hit the bars frequented more by Columbia students. But he only did that when he needed a place to crash for the night, maybe poach some food for breakfast the next morning, seeing those students as different kinds of marks since any college student worth seducing wouldn’t need to pay for what Venn was offering.

ATMs were normally everywhere these days but not so, apparently, here in the area of Broadway and 207th Street. He found two banks but slipping his card into the exterior slot failed in both cases to make the glass door snap open. Since Venn carried the card loose in his pocket, maybe the magnetic strip was fucked up or something.

He walked about in search of an ATM held inside a bodega or all-night coffee shop or convenience store, starting to get anxious when he spotted one on a darkened stretch of Sherman Avenue just off 207th Street squeezed between a shoe repair shop and a cut-rate men’s clothing store, both with steel grates bolted down over their facades. The ATM was unique because it was squeezed inside an old-fashioned phone booth of all things which had faded from use around the time Venn was born. The glass was cracked in spider web fashion by what looked like well-placed rocks, reducing previously scrawled graffiti to fractured letters.

Venn unfolded the door after encountering some initial resistance; a single overhead lightbulb flickered to life after he’d folded it back closed. The ATM, too, looked old and beaten down, if such a thing could be said about a machine. In the outdated listing of the various cards it accepted was a selection he’d never seen before: CURRENCY OF with the final word scratched over except for part of the first letter, probably an O or maybe a G. The slot to the right swallowed Venn’s card and the ATM’s ancient looking screen flashed to life, asking for his password, fresh letters scrolling across the screen after he entered it.

HELLO, VENN.

When did these machines get to be on a first-name basis? Something all wrong about that in Venn’s mind, but he was too relieved his card had actually worked to ponder that further.

DO YOU NEED CASH THIS EVENING?

There was a Y and N trailing the question, so Venn clicked on the Y.

I’M OUT OF SERVICE RIGHT NOW.

Well, give me back my card, motherfucker, Venn thought.

SORRY, VENN, I CAN’T DO THAT RIGHT NOW.

Had he spoken the words out loud instead of merely formed them?

Venn found the CANCEL button and pressed it a whole bunch of times to no effect.

I NEED YOU TO DO SOMETHING FOR ME. THEN I’LL GIVE YOU YOUR CARD BACK.

What the fuck was this shit?

A TRANSACTION, VENN, THAT’S WHAT THIS IS. DIFFERENT FROM THE ONES YOU’RE USED TO, BUT A TRANSACTION ALL THE SAME.

The light-colored letters scrolled across the screen and froze there, leaving Venn wondering who was messing with him and why. Maybe this was like one of those hidden camera things for some kind of prank show, so he figured he should just go along with it. What choice did he have anyway, since the machine had already swallowed his ATM card?

I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU AN ADDRESS, the scroll resumed. YOU NEED TO GO THERE.

THEN WHAT? Venn used the keyboard to type, the two words appearing beneath the machine’s last scroll on the screen.

YOU’LL KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE. WHEN YOU’RE FINISHED, COME BACK AND I’LL RETURN YOUR CARD.

PROMISE? Venn typed, minus the question mark yet it appeared anyway.

PINKY SWEAR.

That gave Venn a chill because it was his classic follow-up to any lie he formed at the shelters and group homes that would have him. He’d probably said it a thousand times over the years but had never heard another human being utter it even once. Then again, this was a machine.

Venn didn’t do drugs, other than weed, because they messed with his head. Had he taken something earlier in the night and forgotten about it? Could he have ingested something without knowing it, maybe been dosed unwittingly? Seemed like that would be something he should remember.

WELL? the ATM machine prompted.

Venn decided to keep going along, typing WHAT’S THE ADDRESS?

9TH AVENUE AND BROADWAY. NOT FAR FROM HERE

A half mile to be covered on foot since the two bucks in his pocket wasn’t even enough for another single ride subway ticket.

WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WHEN I GET THERE? Venn typed.

But the screen went dark at that point, leaving him to recall the machine’s previous response that he’d know once he arrived.

WHEN YOU’RE FINISHED, COME BACK AND I’LL RETURN YOUR CARD.

Venn could only hope.

He was nervously brimming with anticipation when he reached the intersection, recognizing it as one of those listed to be the most dangerous in the whole city from a driving standpoint. There wasn’t much still open in the immediate area, save for a Dunkin’ Donuts and all-night laundromats. Venn could hear the whirring sound of the driers shuffling clothes about, the scent of drier sheets and fabric softener pouring from the vents and warming him a bit when he passed by. On those occasions when circumstances forced him into the street on a chilly night like this, he’d seek out just such a spot, so the smell didn’t carry a lot of happy memories with it.

A steady stream of vehicles flew through the green light even at this late hour, nothing new here in the ‘city that never sleeps’ which, in Venn’s experience, had proven much more than a slogan. It switched to yellow, the oncoming vehicles slowing in reluctant fashion, like bucking horses, eager to get to their destination.

Venn gazed about, no idea what he was looking for exactly since the message scrawled across the ATM’s screen hadn’t told him anything beyond that cryptic: YOU’LL KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE.

That’s when Venn noticed the woman, early thirties maybe, striding toward the intersection. New York was not lacking for beautiful women and this one certainly qualified, with blonde hair bouncing past her shoulders and leather pants shiny in the streetlights’ spill. Venn was free to stare as much as he wanted, since her attention was riveted on her phone screen, her thumbs busy tapping out a text or email.

Not noticing the cross-street traffic light she was approaching switch to red, about to be plowed over by oncoming traffic that would be powerless to stop.

Venn burst into motion, all thoughts of rogue ATM machines vanished for that moment. He was close enough to a massive SUV that had slammed its brakes in futile fashion to smell the scorched rubber when he grabbed hold of the woman’s Angora sweater and yanked her from its path just in time.

“Uh,” she gasped, losing hold of the phone that had nearly been the instrument of her death.

Venn retrieved it from the pavement. “Here you go,” he said.

The woman, clearly flabbergasted, could say nothing but, “Thank you.”

She said a bit more, some muttered explanation, but the words were lost to the hammering of Venn’s heart and air pocket that had seemed to form in his head. He backed off. The woman kept her eyes on him until the cross-street light turned green again and she moved back into the street, cocking one last still shaken gaze back his way.

“Whewwwww,” Venn said out loud to himself, before a shudder overcame him.

YOU’LL KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE...

Meaning what he was supposed to do, what the machine had sent him there to do. Had he just done it, saved a woman’s life who’d be splattered across the pavement now if not for his intervention?

Only one way to find out.

The phone booth containing the ATM was dark again when he returned, out of breath more from the rush of what had just happened than keeping a jogger’s pace all the way back. He stepped inside and once again folded the door closed behind him, the booth’s dome light flickering as the ATM sprang to life.

GOOD WORK, VENN.

HOW DID YOU KNOW? Venn typed on the small keyboard, taking the time necessary to que up the proper letters.

KNOW WHAT?

ABOUT THE GIRL.

In response, Venn heard the familiar thwack of twenty-dollar bills being counted out internally. The cash dispenser opened and a thick wad emerged.

PLEASE TAKE YOUR CASH, the screen reminded.

Venn managed to capture the wad in a trembling hand. “How much is this...”

He’d just been thinking out loud, but the machine answered him anyway.

$1,000. THERE’S SOMETHING YOU NEED TO DO WITH IT. YOU’LL KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE.

WHAT? Venn typed with quivery fingers.

OR YOU CAN KEEP IT, IF YOU WANT.

WHAT ABOUT MY CARD?

IF YOU KEEP THE MONEY, DON’T BOTHER COMING BACK. IF YOU CHOOSE TO COMPLETE YOUR ASSIGNMENT, GO TO DYCKMAN STREET AND NAGLE AVENUE.

Venn memorized the address, a working-class neighborhood not known for a lot of activity at night. He’d turned more than his share of tricks in the general Inwood area over the years and seemed to recall an apartment building turned rooming house popular among hustlers and prostitutes right in the area of that intersection.

WHAT ABOUT MY CARD?

No response.

WHAT DO I NEED TO DO WITH THE MONEY?

The machine went dark.

Venn had never had this much cash in his hand before, not even close. He lavished that new bill smell for a time before pocketing the neat stack of fresh twenties, tempted to leave it tucked right there, his ATM card be damned. But something, curiosity as much as anything, made him head down Dyckman Street where it joined with Nagle Avenue, clinging to the shadows to avoid crossing the wrong person’s path.

The rooming house he recalled was indeed there, complete with a faded marquee missing all of its bulbs. No one was about, other than the customers inside an all-night diner who were visible through a plate glass window. Except for a few bars that catered to locals, there wasn’t much else in view to speak of. Nothing but darkness, still and silent.

Okay, he thought, talking to the ATM in his mind, I’m here. No one to save this time.

Then Venn heard a voice.

“Hey, bro, you looking for a date?”

Startled, Venn swung quickly, scaring a kid who looked no more than fifteen.

“’Cause I can give you a good time,” the kid resumed, collecting himself. “Guaranteed.”

The kid could have been him circa his foster and group home days, the resemblance uncanny, right down to the scent of stale soap and unwashed hair that was mussy and long, casting shadows over the kid’s eyes.

“You need a better spiel,” Venn said, because he could think of nothing else.

“Huh?”

“For approaching a trick.”

“Huh?”

“I should know. I was you, I am you.”

Something turned in Venn’s stomach. The wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket seemed to shift.

“You’re new at this, aren’t you?” Venn asked the kid.

“What’s the difference?”

“Lousy corner to work, that’s all. Not enough traffic. And the nearby bars? All locals, guys with families and bills. You might think you could kick ass in these parts but all you’re going to do is get your ass kicked. Where do you really live?” Venn added, an afterthought.

The kid tried to look seductive. “Answers’ll cost you, too.”

“How much?”

THERE’S SOMETHING YOU NEED TO DO WITH IT.

The kid’s eyes bulged when Venn slipped the wad of folded twenties from his pocket.

“You’re new at this and now you’re done, done before you start hating yourself or get something shoved up inside you that won’t come out so easy.”

He handed the kid the cash, pressed it into his hand but didn’t let go.

“Go home. Go anywhere you can that’s not here. Hide the money in your shoe and get lost. You hear what I’m saying to you?”

The kid nodded, but his wide blue eyes remained rooted on the cash Venn hadn’t quite let go of yet.

“This is your golden ticket off the streets. You hear me?”

Venn let go of the money and the kid ran off into the night without answering him, gone from the world inside the fleabag joint sure to be furnished with ratty, cum-stained mattresses covered by similarly soiled sheets. The kid was already long out of sight when he looked back down the street.

YOU’LL KNOW WHEN YOU GET THERE.

The telephone booth light flickered to life again when Venn folded it closed behind him, illuminating his ATM card lying on the steel grated floor like it had landed there after the machine spit it out. He had it back, free to bleed its funds from a normal ATM machine or just hightail it back to the homeless shelter away from this fucked-up night.

But something kept him right where he was, staring at the empty black screen. He tapped the glass a few times, as if to roust it back to life. When that produced no result, Venn slid his card back into the slot and watched it be gobbled up.

The screen glowed to life, Venn focusing on a button that he hadn’t noticed before, or maybe it hadn’t been there, labeled SPEAKER alongside a grid of recessed lines.

“Good work again, Venn,” a mechanical voice said, loud enough to echo through the phone booth’s cramped confines.

“What’s going on? Who are you?”

“You didn’t want your card back?”

“I want to know what the fuck’s going on.”

“You gave it back to me. Another test passed. Congratulations.”

“Are you going to send me someplace else now?”

“Many people need help. Few of them know where to find it.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You found me. You passed the test most fail. You passed twice.”

“I almost kept the money.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“You’ve got my card.”

“You want it back?”

“I want this to stop.”

“Then you wouldn’t have given it back to me.”

“Just tell me where to go. Where am I supposed to go this time?”

“You like helping people.”

“What’s the difference?”

“It’s who you are, who you really are. Look at the screen, your reflection.”

Venn did but there wasn’t much to be seen, framed by the screen’s soft glow. “So?”

“You look different.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I’m talking about on the inside. That’s what I see. Just one more test left.”

“Where should I go?”

“Your favorite number is thirteen.”

Venn suddenly felt hot, almost feverish. “How did you know—?”

“Your mother’s name was Carol. You were with her when she died, before they came and took you away.”

Venn could feel the sweat soaking through his shirt, gluing his jeans to his legs.

“Thirteen Carol Street.”

Five miles from here via Harlem River Drive in what was commonly known as Spanish Harlem. Not the best of neighborhoods but not the worst either.

“Then what?”

“You’ll know when you get there. You’ll need to take a cab.”

And five more fresh twenties popped out of the cash dispenser, followed by his ATM card.

Cabs normally didn’t cruise this part of town much, but he was able to hail one almost immediately.

“Thirteen Carol Street,” he told the driver.

The guy behind the wheel, fat unlit cigar hanging from the side of his mouth, cocked a quizzical glance his way. “You sure?”

“Thirteen Carol Street,” Venn repeated.

The man shook his head, started the meter and drove off.

It read $31.50 when they got there, plus a $2.50 surcharge — whatever that was. Venn handed the driver two twenties and climbed out at Thirteen Carol Street on the outskirts of Spanish Harlem.

It was one of those walk-in clinics, open twenty-four hours a day, a security guard manning the entrance behind the thickest glass Venn had ever seen. The man didn’t look very formidable and held the door open for Venn’s approach.

The waiting area was packed, not a seat to be had. Venn was surprised to see parents with young children plentiful in attendance, including several infants which explained the diaper stench he caught a whiff of on his way to the reception counter. The waiting area was quiet, all voices muffled, and a pair of wall-mounted televisions muted, with the closed-captioning scroll running at the bottom of both screens.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist, a large African-American woman with basketballs for breasts, whose nametag identified her as THELMA, asked him from behind the counter.

“Actually,” Venn started, “I think I’m here to help you.”

“Come again?”

Venn swept his gaze across the waiting area, hoping whoever the ATM machine had sent him to aid this time would magically appear. “I’m here to help somebody.”

“Who?”

Venn shrugged. “I don’t know. I will,” he added, flashing back to the first two times, “but I don’t know now. Any ideas?”

“Of somebody you can help?”

He nodded.

“This is a free clinic, Sweet Cheeks. You see what it looks like now? That’s the way it is all day and all night. So you want to know if there’s somebody you can help? There’s a whole lot of somebodies, starting with yours truly because I haven’t had a break in six hours and I’ve got two aides out with the flu.” The woman leaned forward, her breasts bouncing in perfect unison. “So what are you doing for the next few hours?”

Venn finally left after three, exhausted from the non-stop chores Thelma had assigned him. He shelved supplies, counted inventory, helped patients in and out of wheelchairs, cleaned exam rooms, took down personal information on a clipboard he wore chained to his belt. It kept flapping against his hip, but at least he wouldn’t lose it. He even comforted some kids whose parent was being treated inside, got the third wall-mounted television to work, and even found two of the long-missing remotes hidden beneath or between couch cushions. The pace never let up and Venn’s head was hammering when he finally ran out of gas.

“I have to go now,” he told Thelma, feeling guilty but eager to return to the ATM machine.

“On one condition, Sweet Cheeks,” she said to him.

“What’s that?”

“You promise to come back tomorrow. Gonna be an especially busy day. You can count on that.”

“Why?”

“Because every day here’s an especially busy one.” She smiled widely. “You get yourself home safe, pretty boy, and make sure to get your ass back here tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Venn said, actually looking forward to it.

“Promise?”

“Pinky swear.”

He took another cab from East Harlem back to the ATM machine’s general address, needing to direct the driver along the final stretch since he didn’t have a street number. Another forty bucks blown would leave him twenty plus the few singles in his pocket with which he’d started the night. He had no idea what the machine had in store for him next, but he couldn’t wait to find out.

“You sure we got the right place, kid?”

“I... think so.”

Everything else looked right, but the ATM was nowhere to be seen. He tightened his focus through the flickering street lights, finally fixing on the relic of a phone booth with its spider webbed glass.

But there was no ATM machine inside.

“Let me off here,” he told the driver absently, putting two twenties into the transfer and twisting it toward him. “Keep the change.”

The cab drove off and Venn turned his attention back to the phone booth, as if the ATM might reappear now that he was alone. It didn’t.

Venn approached the phone booth, folding open the door for some sign the machine had ever been here in the first place, but there was nothing other than street refuse, old fliers and post-its that had collected inside courtesy of the wind. He walked back to the subway stop at 207th and Broadway, dog tired with twenty-two dollars to his name and a promise to return to the free clinic the next day.

The morning’s first light was showing when he dropped into the darkness of the station. He bought his ticket and boarded the train that thundered into the station just as he reached the platform. He sat down and squeezed his eyes closed, too tired to even try to make sense of the evening’s events. He massaged the lids and manually pried them open.

To find the same guy from earlier in the night seated across from him again. Same seat, same suit, same shoes. Staring right at him.

“Long night?”

Venn nodded. “I’ll say.”

“Me, too. Lots of work at night.”

“How’s that?”

“You should know,” the man said, leaving it there.

“The ATM machine...”

The man remained silent.

“You?”

The man said nothing, regarding his shoes more than Venn.

The train slid into the next station, aglow in the lights radiating from the platform. The man rose to disembark, stopping before Venn on his way to the door.

“Oh, you must have dropped this earlier,” he said, extending something that looked like a credit card toward him. “Glad I got the chance to return it to you in person.”

Venn took the card in his grasp. “What happens now?”

The man’s expression flirted with a smile. “You’ll know when you get there.”

Venn glanced down at the Columbia University student ID he was holding with his picture on it. A chill coursed through him. The world seemed to tilt one way and then the other, as the subway train doors whooshed open.

“Hey,” he called to the man in the suit. “Hey!”

But the man was already through the door, ambling along the desolate platform and gone from Venn’s sight by the time the train started moving again.

The next day at the Columbia University bursar’s office, Venn found he was fully enrolled, his education supported one hundred percent by financial aid. All the paperwork was somehow in order, the application he’d never filed for admission complete and accurate. He even had a room in a dorm and a meal plan. Nobody seemed to know who he was but he didn’t know them either. What he did know was that his closet and drawers were full of clothes that were his size and fit perfectly. First time in his life he had more than three sets, so many choices he didn’t know what to change into first.

The bursar’s office had printed out a class schedule for him. He hadn’t registered for a single one, of course, but the classes were exactly what he would have chosen if he had. Venn had plenty of questions, but no one to whom he could pose them. He rode the A train every night for a stretch, hoping to encounter the well-dressed man again, abandoning the effort when it became clear that wasn’t going to be the case.

Venn kept his promise to return to the free clinic where he became a volunteer and regularly visited the phone booth in the hopes the ATM machine might someday reappear. Instead, one day when he got there the phone booth had been removed, and he never went back again.

Not a day went by, though, when he didn’t think of how a visit to that machine had changed his life forever. He could picture it in his head, right down to the menu of the outdated cards accepted ending with a final entry forming CURRENCY OF something that had been scratched off, leaving only a portion of the first letter, an O or maybe a G. For some reason that one stuck in his head, but he didn’t realize why until a flier pushed its way beneath his dorm room door, an advertisement for a campus religious group seeking to expand its membership.

The banner at the flier’s top, scrawled in bold, brilliant letters, froze Venn in his tracks. He lost a breath and a heartbeat, his eyes holding the banner like they’d never let go.

HOW WILL YOU SPEND THE CURRENCY OF GOD?

Venn could only smile.