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 In the outdated listing of the various cards it accepted was a selection he’d never seen before: CURRENCY OF with the final word scratched over except for part of the first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.