Lion grabs a Moleskine, going traditional black cover, blank pages. Sometimes he prefers graph paper, especially when drawing the vector diagrams needed to explain subcult melds to corporate types. He remembers the executive boardroom in the Grand Rama Tower, Bangkok, trying to explain to an East Asian mining consortium how the splatter-punk arm of the Mumbai Tantras would soon corner the market for 3-D-printed silver jewelry. “So the English Goths of the 1980s begat the American Emo movement of the early 2000s begat the Mumbai Tantras circa 2015.…”
But he’s done with corporate types for the moment, so squelches the memory. And stays traditional: black cover, blank pages, empty of logos.
Notebook in hand, Lion glances back and forth, trying to remember which way he came in. Science and Science Fiction to the left: Psychology and Self-Help to the right.
He strides into Psychology, with a confidence he does not feel.
Book spines on either side. Titles he recalls from college, the weight of all the time that’s passed between then and now catching him unexpectedly, and heavier than usual.
Still no exit in sight.
Lion decides to head left, stepping around a stack of paperbacks in the aisle. The Collected Works of Charles Dickens, an anniversary edition wrapped in cellophane, a sticker on the outside with black Bauhaus lettering: “We wear the chains we forge in life.”
Two aisles later, he feels his phone buzz his pocket and stops walking to check the message. Possibly Sir Richard again and “Available for pinging?”
He doesn’t know.
Hunting his answer on the shelves in front of him, Lion spots Your Erroneous Zones, Your Erroneous Zones, Your Erroneous Zones—Wayne Dyer in triplicate. He must have made his way into Self-Help. Also a huge blue book with white lettering: Infinite Jest by David Foster Wallace.
Definitely not Self-Help, but it gives him an idea.
Infinite Jest is Lorenzo’s favorite novel, also his version of the I Ching. When faced with uncertainty, he’d open it at random, searching for a sign in the text. “Yarrow casting for lit snobs,” Lorenzo called it.
Lion slides the book off the shelf, snaps page 37 open. Sees “Year of the Trial-Size Dove Bar” in big, bold letters. The Year of the Trial-Size Dove Bar, he recalls, is Wallace’s version of our near-term future, where the calendar itself is available for advertising sponsorship purposes. “Subsidized Time” is what Wallace called it, and fairly prophetic.
Not exactly the sign Lion was looking for, but he feels it anyway, that familiar tug, how he used to feel as a journalist on the front end of a story, that sense of a question forming: How the hell did Robert Walker’s head end up on that wall?
And that tug again, not quite curiosity, more like gravity.
So yes, apparently, he’s available for pinging.
Slides the book back onto the shelf and thumbs his response to Richard. The cheerful whoosh that means send and, finally, Lion spots the checkout counter in the distance.
Navigates without incident.
“Would you like to try our chocolate-covered crickets, sir?” as he hands his Moleskine to the clerk. Plastic rectangular name tag reads JOHN ANDERSON; face seems to be Korean exchange student. “Peruvian dark, eighty-eight percent cacao, knock your taste buds to Tunisia.”
“Pardon?”
“Also a great protein snack.”
Lion’s not tracking.
“We also have The Well-Hanged Man: The Unpublished Poems of Stephen King. On sale for Easter.”
Then he gets it: the dreaded up-sell.
“Does it look like I’ve forgotten how to shop?” he asks.
“Sir?”
“Do I appear to have choice amnesia?”
“I’m not…”
“Like I no longer know what I want?”
“The crickets are also on sale, sir,” fumbles the clerk.
Lion glances out the front door, then back at Mr. Anderson.
“It’s also three-Indian Tuesday,” he says, “but I’ll just take the notebook.”
PINGING BILLIONAIRES
Lion finds the SUV out front, curbside, its hazards pulsing like a heartbeat. Slow and steady. Bo nowhere in sight. Then he spots him, straightening up beside the front right fender, polishing the headlights with what looks like actual deerskin.
Once again, Bo notices that he notices.
“Also lab grown,” says Bo, tossing over the rag.
Lion snatches it out of the air. It’s a different kind of soft, but with no haptic memory of deerskin, he has no actual grounds for comparison. “More tissue engineering?”
“Not my department,” says Bo, “but yeah, animal friendly.”
“Progress.”
“Agreed,” nods Bo. “You get everything you wanted?”
Tossing the rag back, Lion slips the notebook from his back pocket, wags it twice. “I did, thanks.”
“Would you like to go back to the hotel?”
Nods.
The side door to the SUV glides open and Lion climbs inside. He settles into the seat, hearing that exhale again, like the upholstery is breathing. Also a sign that his ears have adjusted to the city, now able to find clear signal amid New York white noise.
Bo slips into the front seat and slides the car into traffic. Congestion in every direction. Buses, trucks, cars, cabs, and a heavyset woman in a corseted Victorian frock pedaling a ten-speed. A look of fierce determination and her hands iron-gripped on the handlebars.
Hunting a way out, Bo banks a smooth right turn, dodges two cars to get across three lanes, and a harder left. He drives halfway down the block and darts through a dark alley. Lion sees redbrick buildings on either side of the fenders, and a menacing slash of Cyrillic graffiti. But when they pop out the other side, the road in front of them is completely devoid of traffic.
Just a long asphalt ribbon the way its creator intended.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen an empty street in New York before,” says Lion.
“Part of the service,” replies Bo, with a smile.
“How did you know?”
Bo touches a finger to his right ear. “New Arctic tech. Subdermal implant. Waze mixed with satellite feeds.”
“You’re getting real-time traffic patterns?”
“Better. Predictive algorithms. I get traffic patterns two minutes before they appear.”
Lion isn’t sure he could take the constant chatter in his ear. “I’d go bonkers,” he says.
“It’s haptic. I have it set on small dog. Like being kissed by a pug. One lick for straight, two for right.”
“A pug?”
“I’m used to it.”
Before Lion can respond, Bo jerks the SUV quickly to the right, just missing two stockbrokers on electric longboards. Another second and it would have been pancaked pinstripes. So primal instinct or predictive algorithms?
“Nice move,” says Lion.
Bo touches a finger to the rim of his Kangol.
Thinking about it a moment, Lion doesn’t believe it matters anymore: Instincts and algorithms are becoming indistinguishable. Evolution, blind as a bat, still managed to design the human brain to handle peripherals. A white-tipped cane, a cochlear implant, whatever. The system is pre-prepared for the easy integration of external data feeds. But if Arctic’s implant has the ability to spot stockbrokers from space? That’s a level of high-res detail that only comes, Lion suspects, from tapping into military-grade feeds.
That might matter.
And not something he wants to forget.
He pulls his new Moleskine from his sling-pack, finds a pen, and slices a fingernail through the cellophane. Opening to the first page, he jots down a reminder: “Arctic. Someone knows someone.” Then he recalls the Ghost Trainwreck, the lab-grown skin on the dragon box, and every other detail Sir Richard’s researchers seem to have dug out of his past.
Starts a fresh line: “And someone did their homework.”
He looks up as they slow for a red. Corner of Houston and s
omething. To his right, a rusted Gremlin. To his left, a storefront selling forgotten game consoles alongside fresh produce A stack of red Japanese pears in a raw wooden crate next to a tower display of Xbox 360s, and a store clerk in a white-on-white suit. A suit exactly like Jenka’s.
Then the light greens and he hears “Down by the Seaside” in cheerful synth.
Someone is calling.
“Lion Zorn,” says a voice that sounds like Sir Richard on autoplay. “Great to meet you.”
Not sounds like, actually is.
“Sir Richard?”
“Just Richard, please. I’m truly sorry I missed our meeting.”
So this is what billionaires sound like on the phone. Different than expected. Same Queen’s English consonants, much friendlier than the autoplay.
“Not much happened,” says Lion.
Silence on the line and also unexpected. Could Richard really be thinking before he speaks?
“Your em-tracking system…” says Richard, then another pause, “I’m sorry, is ‘system’ the right term?”
“System is fine.”
“So your em-tracking system did not detect a signal.”
“No.”
“If you will,” says Richard, “I’d like the chance to change your mind.”
“It doesn’t really work like that,” aiming for even tones. “It’s a kind of gut instinct—just yes or no.”
“Can I buy you dinner?”
“It won’t change the no to a yes.”
“Jenka,” says Richard, “Jenka said you were intrigued.”
Lion flashes on side-view pompadour and the sensation that is almost, but not quite, angry.
“Jenka stole my notebook,” he says flatly.
“He mentioned that you had left it behind.”
“Doubtful,” says Lion.
“Penelope found it under the table. I can have someone drop it by your hotel, if you need it now, or I can bring it to dinner.”
“You understand, crime isn’t my thing.”
“Says the reporter.”
Lion feels pinpricks on his neck. Remembers the note he just left himself. Someone did their homework. Remembers the reason he left himself that note.
“Ex-reporter.”
“There’s a new Tibetan place on D. Heard it’s great. Yak by Yang and Jake—so poly-tribe Tibetan, I suppose.”
Which is when Lion feels the gravity again and knows, resistance is starting to fail. Somewhere between what does Tibetan food actually taste like and Arctic’s check representing three months off his mortgage, easy. Plus, what would Lorenzo say: “Gravity, it’s not just a good idea, it’s the law.”
“Could you meet me at the Ludlow instead?” says Lion, giving in, but feeling the edge of the countdown.
“Seven o’clock at the Messy French?”
Dirty French, thinks Lion, but leaves it alone.
“Seven o’clock is great.”
Lion hangs up, slides the phone into his pack, and leans back into the seat. A second later … or what feels like a second later … he realizes they’re pulling up in front of the Ludlow. How’d they get here so fast? A gap in his memory, like the time lost between Union Square and the bookstore. Not a comforting feeling, but one he’s gotten used to.
The brain uses 25 percent of our energy at rest. Lion, with his information filters wide open, uses more. Makes him sleepy. Makes him lose time. Makes him forget anything without significant emotional salience. The downsides of em-tracking, like a North Star he never wanted.
Bo clicks on his blinker, slipping back into the exact same spot he occupied this morning. Directly across from the hotel.
The licking pug must be on the job.
EVERYONE A STORY
A doorman he doesn’t recognize, with a pompadour all his own. Shorn on the sides and bleached platinum on the top. The Thin White Duke model and more wedding cake ornament than hairstyle.
“Welcome back.”
Across the threshold and into the lobby. In the daytime, the wood-paneled walls exude translucent ocher. In the distance, slashes of light from the atrium, catching dust motes midflight like insects in amber.
“Mr. Zorn?” calls the desk clerk.
Lion stops and turns.
“Yes?”
“A package came for you.”
“A package?”
“I had it sent up.”
He didn’t order anything. Doesn’t recall ordering anything. “What is it?”
“Don’t know,” with a shrug. “It was in a box this big.” The clerk holds his fingers six inches apart. “I just signed for it.”
“Do you remember who delivered it?”
“Woman, red hair, white shirt, early thirties.” Touches the back of his neck. “A question mark tattoo here.”
Lion realizes he’s talking about Penelope, then realizes it’s the same clerk from last night. Same lilting afro. Different skinny suit.
“You’re working a double?”
A big smile. A phone. A couple of clicks.
The clerk holds out the screen, showing Lion a photo of flesh and cloth, a very small human wrapped in a very big blanket. “Have to keep her in diapers.”
Everyone a story. Another thing Lorenzo had said, the night they met, smoking cigarettes on that Twin Peaks rooftop in San Francisco. Lorenzo pointing at the lights of the city in the distance, ten thousand fireflies and each one a life, each one with memories as thick as our own, everyone a story.
“Congratulations,” says Lion.
“My angel.”
But the thought of babies makes Lion weary. Not just babies. Also dust mites. Packages. It clicks into place: the countdown again. Emo-stim overload meets that vicious jet lag. T minus three minutes as he starts across the lobby.
“Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Zorn.”
A little crowd when he gets to the elevator. A dreadlocked woman with a silver hoop through her eyebrow rides with him to five, the really big engagement ring stays on to eight, the Cleveland Browns jersey until nine. Has the car to himself after that.
Out of the elevator and down the hallway. Right, left, right. A déjà vu wave of exhaustion as he opens the door, gray skies pouting through a wall of windows as he steps inside. A freshly made bed, white linen and corners pulled hospital tight, calling his name.
On the bedside table, he sees the package that Penelope dropped off. A small white cardboard box with a white envelope on top of it. Red Ice icon on the bottom right corner of both. Not pulsing. Lifeless.
Yet, Lion suspects, no less dangerous.
But T minus one minute—so he’ll wait to open them.
Blackout curtains bring the blackout.
In the darkness, he undresses quickly. Shoes and socks. Straight-world uniform slides to the floor, like a puddle of cloth. Leaves jeans and sweater where they fall, slips under covers. His head hits the pillow before T minus thirty seconds.
He doesn’t dream. Just a deep hard sleep.
Waking, when it comes, comes easier than expected. Transitioning through the hypnogogic, and Lion feels like himself again, or some close facsimile.
Out of bed and into his habit. Slides the coffee pod into place, cocks the chrome arm, and chooses the lie that is large cup. He takes a shower while the coffee brews. Not a thought in his head.
The first thought arrives while toweling off: Is he late? Doesn’t seem like he overslept, but walks into the bedroom to check the clock. Ninety minutes until dinner and more than enough time to stick to his plan. Ghost Trainwreck and Lorenzo, in that order.
Dragon box, new notebook, phone in one hand, coffee cup in the other. He crosses the room and reaches the curtains, but his hands are already occupied. Has to stack cup atop phone to slide them apart. A dicey moment as he blinks away the incoming light, but his auto-balancing program seems to be awake as well.
Not a drop spills.
Drapes parted, he opens the terrace door and steps outside. Skies of leaden gunmetal and buildings that
match. Also strangely quiet, more white than noise, and maybe the reason for the wall of black plastic shingles behind the potted mini-firs. Some kind of sonic absorptive in the polymer.
This time he chooses one of the lounge chairs, but after sitting down and stretching out decides he doesn’t want to be that comfortable. What would Lorenzo say: It never ends well, not for nations, not for individuals, this getting too comfortable with comfortable.
Lion stands up and carries his coffee, notebook, and phone over to the glass table. Auto-chair molds to his frame, back straight, feet on the floor. Exactly what was required. Fully conscious, fully lucid.
But not for long.
Lion opens the dragon box, this time deciding 50-50 seems about right. He crumples dank weed in with drier tobacco and scoops the pile into a rolling paper. Pushing the edges together, thumbs slide up, thumbs slide down, until this universal origami produces a tight cylinder.
He clicks his lighter with one hand, punches open the Skype app with the other. Hits the connect button. Inhales as it starts to ring, exhales as—but what time is it in Japan?
Hangs up a second later.
Google tells him it’s 4:00 A.M. in Tokyo.
Awake? he texts Lorenzo instead.
Twenty seconds later, he hears his Skype ringing. Clicks the answer tab.
“You’re awake,” he says.
The screen pixilates for a second, then settles down. Lorenzo, seated at a hotel room desk, snaps into view. Broad shoulders, pale skin, five-day gray stubble coating heavy jowls. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses, a straw cowboy hat, and some kind of kimono, red silk decorated with steampunk iconography. A qwerty keyboard made out of bronze, attached to a leather bracelet, attached to a bodice-clad woman. A man dressed in a top hat and tails, wearing a gas mask, carrying a copper telescope.
“I never went to bed,” says Lorenzo.
“Have you been playing gigs in that?”
Slides back in his chair and raises a leg. Lion sees boxer shorts that match the kimono, bare bulgy knees and dusty brown shit-kickers worn with tube socks, white cotton with three red stripes.
Last Tango in Cyberspace Page 4
