The Body Scout: A Novel

by Lincoln Michel

  “I could use some of the money up-front,” I said. “For expenses.”

  The Mouth guffawed. “That’s a good one. I didn’t get rich paying for jobs people haven’t done.”

  “We can give you a modest per-day stipend,” Natasha said. “But I assure you, we’ll be good for the total amount. If you solve the case.”

  “Guess I’ve got no choice.”

  Natasha guided me to the door. Shook my newly chipped hand. “Welcome to the team.”

  14

  THE RETIREMENT HOME

  While I mulled over my agreement with the Mouth, trying to force myself to like the taste, I got a call. It was the nursing home Zunz had stashed Mrs. Z, my adopted mom, inside after her mind had faded away. Early-onset Alzheimer’s fast-forwarded by decades strapping her brain into a remote-control helmet at work.

  The retirement home director, Dr. Finnegan, said he needed to talk to me about “future payment arrangements” given Zunz’s untimely death.

  “Is now the time to be talking to me about that?”

  Finnegan’s voice was high and pleased with itself. “We here at Second Youth Assisted Condos merely want to ensure a continuation of care for our thriving residents. You wouldn’t pull up a flower right when it’s blooming, would you?”

  I thought I’d tear up the whole garden bed if it wiped the smug grin off the man’s hologram face, but I said I’d come. I felt like a bad enough son already. I hadn’t been to visit in months and I was dreading it. She’d surely been informed of JJ’s death, but with her leaky memory I’d have to be the one to break it to her again.

  I took the supraway uptown and arrived at a tall brick building with rows of hedges enclosed in glass around the front. There were sealed-off balconies on every floor, each with a couple people sipping tea and glaring down at me. As I walked inside between the polished marble columns and rows of exotic flowers edited to survive indoors, I realized I’d made a mistake. Even seeing the bill on this place was likely to give me a heart attack.

  Second Youth cost a lot and the money went right into the residents’ veins. They were getting the best treatments. The latest surgeries. Hell, looking at them jog by I wouldn’t have been surprised if they were getting daily sponge baths of biopharm preservatives.

  Dr. Finnegan greeted me at the front desk. He wore an emerald-green suit and had a thick grin. His dimples were perfect divots in his cheeks. He led me past a glass room where octogenarians were lifting weights and contorting themselves into yoga poses.

  “At Second Youth, you really do get a second youth,” Finnegan said. He gestured toward a bowl of green and pink virility pills by the wine dispenser. Winked and leaned over to whisper. “Don’t worry, all residents get disease screenings.”

  “It’s pretty wonderful,” I said, plastering on a smile. “Mind if I visit my mother before we get into finances?”

  “Certainly. Of course. You’ll find her in the game room, I believe. Just signal an orderly if you need any help.” Finnegan patted one of the robot orderlies on the shoulder. It was shaped like a svelte panda and had a beaming red light on its forehead. “You know this is real fur? Grows from a wetframe right under the casing. The residents just love petting our orderlies. I think you’ll find you get your money’s worth here. Here, give it a hug.”

  Finnegan flashed me his million-dollar grin. His title said doctor, but he was a salesman through and through.

  “I’ll pass on the hug.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I strolled toward the game room sniffing the sanitized air. Small cleansing drones with microbe catchers were floating around the ceiling. The residents ambled around looking confused. They might have been preserved on the outside, but their brains were a different matter. The human mind was the one thing the biopharms hadn’t cracked. Fingers, bones, and hearts were easy. Gray matter was another matter entirely. Money could buy you a few more years of clarity and short-term boosts, but eventually your mind would turn into the same mush as everyone else’s.

  Past a long aquarium of fluorescent lobsters and a media room where red-faced pundits screamed about illegal immigrants with genetically enhanced lungs, I found the games tables. It was quieter than the other rooms. Residents punched the interfaces at random, eyes vacant. I found Mrs. Z by the chessboard. She was studying a rook in her hand. She placed it across the board in front of her opponent’s queen. The board buzzed. Illegal move.

  “Hush,” she murmured.

  The man on the other side of the board was asleep. Drool dangled from his chin like a man on a bridge working up the courage to leap.

  I stood there, watching her. She looked beautiful still. Barely aged a day in fifteen years. I was half expecting her to jump up and offer me a tray of pastelitos, saying “Julio’s waiting for you in the bedroom with a new action figure.” Or to tell me to keep my coat on because she was going shopping and she needed “a big strong man” to carry the groceries.

  Watching her, my gut felt like it was being wadded up and tossed away. Mrs. Z had taken me when no one else would, and I’d forgotten her here. Told myself she was getting the high-end treatment thanks to Zunz’s money with no financial help from me, so what right did I have to visit?

  Then the board buzzed again as she grabbed one of his knights. She turned to look at me. “Shut up this machine.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Z,” I said.

  She smiled politely. Crow’s feet fluttered around her eyes, but her hair only had a scattering of gray among the black. She pointed at the board with the rook in her hand.

  “It’s me.”

  She ran her hand through her hair. “Sí. Sí. Of course.” She looked away, then back. Then her smile widened as the recognition stirred in her mind. “Bobo? My Bobo.”

  “Aww. You know I hate that nickname, Ma.”

  She reached out for my elbow. “My little darling. What happened to your arm?”

  “They cut it off and gave me this metal one. Don’t you remember?”

  She let my hand go. Shook her head. “You always were clumsy.”

  Behind her the window was a drop screen that displayed trees blowing in a summer breeze. A robin flew toward us, chirped, and sped off into the digital distance.

  I pulled up a chair. The snoring man across the board didn’t mind. His drool had made the leap and landed on his chest.

  I took her hands in mine, making sure not to squeeze too hard.

  “How are you doing? Are they treating you well?”

  She nodded, looking over my shoulder. I glanced back and saw one of the panda robots standing there, staring at us.

  “It’s good to see you.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling in that magic way I remembered from childhood. But then she frowned. Pointed toward the drop screen of a fake outdoors. “They won’t let me go outside. They say the air is poison.”

  “Yeah, smog is thick as phlegm today.”

  “Well, I like to walk,” she said. “I’ve always liked to walk.”

  “I’ll talk to Finnegan. Maybe they can get you a filter helmet,” I said. I started to choke up. “Ma. Listen. Did they tell you about JJ?”

  “Julio.” She waved her hand. “He doesn’t visit me. Nobody comes here.”

  I could feel the hot tears inching toward the corners of my eyes.

  “Julio passed away. Someone killed him.”

  This dislodged something in her mind. Tears welled up, spilled out. She squeezed my hand.

  I squeezed back.

  “I’m trying to find out who. No, I’m going to find out.”

  The moment passed and her expression was wiped clean. She smiled and asked me if I wanted to play a game of chess.

  “Did he ever mention a man named Kang? Jung Kang. It’s important.”

  She waved a hand in front of her face. “Kang was a girl. Kenneth, I’m hungry.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Never liked her. Too preachy.”

  “What are you talking about? Jung Kang?”
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  I wondered if Kang had transitioned. It wasn’t unheard of in the league. But I didn’t think so. The way he’d gawked at my cybernetic arm, I doubted he’d ever risked changing himself beyond what a team doctor demanded.

  “You tell Julio to find someone—” she started to say, but then she stopped and leaned forward. She was close enough I could smell her lilac perfume. Same one she’d used for decades. I could see she was looking past me. I looked over my shoulder and the panda orderly seemed to still be staring at us. “I don’t like the nasty man with the red hair,” she whispered.

  “What man?”

  She tapped the back of her neck, right where the spine was showing beneath her hair. There was a small, puffy scar. “He keeps poking me with needles.”

  “They probably just need to test you. They’re doctors.”

  She shook her head back and forth, lip jutted. “He has an ugly face. And the needles go so deep.”

  I started to ask her if she knew what specific tests they were doing, but then I felt a hand alight on my shoulder. I looked up and Finnegan had appeared, grinning.

  “We do need to have that talk. Plus, it’s lunchtime. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Zunz? Chicken and dumplings today!”

  She nodded, face blank. Then she reached for her queen, and the board buzzed again. She grunted. Looked at Finnegan. “Can you fix the board?”

  “I’ll have a technician take a look pronto.” He turned to me. “Shall we?”

  I said my goodbyes and told her, “I’ll visit again soon.” I started to say, “I promise,” but stopped myself.

  Finnegan guided me to the office, while offering his condolences about my “recent bereavement” through his grin. I wondered if he’d fixed his mouth that way permanently to please the residents.

  “I’m more of a basketball fan myself. Go Glaxo Celtics! But I’m told the late Mr. Zunz was one heck of a slugger.”

  The office was old-fashioned with wood furniture and a set of busts on each side of the desk. The busts were pale and freckled, with a tinge of green to the skin. Retro biosculptures, a thin layer of chlorophyll-encoded flesh stretched over the marble. Finnegan wiped the busts with his handkerchief. “Condensation is a real pain. A lot of yeast and bacterial infections with these. This is Paul Beaumont Finnegan Senior and my grandfather, Silas Beaumont Finnegan the Second. The previous directors. This is a family institution, where we respect our elders. Which brings me to Mrs. Alejandra Zunz.”

  “You don’t look all that related,” I said. Ignoring the green tinge, the statues were white as milk while this Finnegan was at least three shades darker.

  “Well, my family has a few roots in the subcontinent. But they didn’t have racial-adjustment surgery back then.”

  I started to pull out an eraser. Finnegan frowned.

  “Not around the sculptures, please.”

  “Speaking of my mom, she isn’t happy with one of the doctors. The one with red hair.”

  Finnegan steepled his fingers and drummed on his lips. “No one with red hair here. Happy to show you the staff directory, but she must be mistaken. I’m afraid her memory is, well, spotty to say the least. We have some exciting new therapies we’re planning to try soon. Assuming her continued stay in our care.”

  “So what happens if someone can’t pay?” I said, sliding the pack back into my jacket. “You chop them up and sell their organs on the exchange?”

  Finnegan’s smile stayed glued on. “Please, nothing like that. Although we do have a legal right to recoup expenses.”

  “Listen, I’m not sure what you think I earn, but—”

  The man laughed. “Oh, please. Mr. Kobo. Don’t worry. We’re not asking you to pay. Our facility has a strong relation with Sunny Day Healthcare Loans and we’re aware of your financial obligations. You came right up on the warning list.” He laughed affably. “No, no. We just need your authorization.”

  “Authorization?”

  The man was riffling through a file of screens. He pulled one out and slid it across the desk. “Mr. Zunz had several tracts of real estate around the city on file as guarantees. You were listed as the executor in case anything unfortunate happened. I assume the estate has been in touch with you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah, well, corporate approval can take a while. Once they do, you can authorize a sale to cover her fees. There are some fetching assets here. Mr. Zunz was a very thoughtful son.”

  There were several properties on the screen. His cloud condo in Midtown, part ownership of a ridiculous restaurant called Balls, where the plates were shaped like baseball gloves and every dish was molded into a sphere, and a couple sky parking lots downtown. I was familiar with all those, had even eaten at Balls with Zunz and a couple of his Mets business partners. The meatballs weren’t bad, but the croquettes were soggy. There was another property I’d never seen before. A tiny two-story house on Governors Island. I’d never heard Zunz mention it. It made sense that he’d have a place to hide away from the paparazzi and the fans and everyone else who bothered him, but I’d never thought I’d be on that list.

  “I’m sure you’ll want to consult with some brokers. However, I might suggest the Midtown condo should prove more than adequate.”

  “Yeah, I’ll need to talk to some people.” I stood up. “Probably a lot of people. Want to check all my boxes. Can you send me a copy of these files?”

  Finnegan was still grinning. “Just don’t check them too long. Our grace period is, well, not the most graceful.”

  I returned his smile. “That seems to be the way these days.”

  15

  THE SECRET HOUSE

  I turned off game one of the World Series after the Mets pitcher gave up two runs in the third inning on a wild pitch. They were already down 1–0 after Sanchez had homered on the first at bat and it was depressing me to watch. The team was playing confused, awkward. Like Zunz had been their compass as much as he’d been mine.

  The ferries to Governors Island shut down at night, so I spent the rest of the evening following clues that didn’t lead anywhere. Remembering fragments Zunz had said and cold-calling friends to see if they could fill in the blanks. Zunz’s high school coaches, old neighbors from the burrow, ex-teammates. They all told me the same thing. That they were sorry. That they couldn’t believe this had happened. And that they didn’t know a single useful thing.

  In the morning, I grabbed a pair of shock slugs. The one I’d been carrying around had died, dissolving into yellow mush. I headed downtown and took a seat in the back of the earliest ferry sub. Held up my screen, pretended to watch the news. The scroll said Sphinxes Turn No-Zunz Mets into No-Hit Mets, Win Game One 4–0.

  As we sank, the water through the porthole was the greenish-brown of muck at the bottom of a garbage can. From the seafloor, broken structures jutted up—the skyscrapers at the edge of Manhattan that had toppled before the engineers built the storm wall. The wall couldn’t hold the seas down, but it could protect real estate investments during the hurricane season.

  A school sub loaded with high schoolers went by, yellow lights pulsing in the murk. The kids were looking down at their screens, eyes glazed over.

  Governors Island had been a dinky clump of land for hundreds of years. As the sea levels rose and washed away Manhattan real estate, the city scrambled for new places to build. They were purchasing giant tankers of sand from the expanding Mextexan desert to shore up the underdeveloped island. Create a new floating tax base that wouldn’t need a storm wall. At least not for a few decades.

  When the submarine ferry emerged, I could see the large floating ships spewing fountains of sand into the harbor. Huge tan arcs from every direction. They looked like a flock of robotic penguins vomiting up breakfast for their young.

  Construction of the new condos was only partially complete, and the existing houses were all below three stories. It was a little time capsule with an old army fort in the center surrounded by vacant fields of grass. Lawns, I guess you’d c
all them. The roads were tiny paths that couldn’t even fit a creepeasy. A few oak trees lived, barely, their bark coated in gray slime.

  The house that matched the address was all wood, with pale blue paint molting off the facade. It had white columns that had been stained brown over the years. I could smell mold in the boards. I didn’t even need to pull out one of my shock slugs to short-circuit the door. I knocked it open with a few swift kicks.

  I pulled out my gun and went inside.

  The interior was a museum. Wooden chairs, an antique Ikea couch, and a large LCD TV. I walked slowly into the living room. The walls were covered with posters of old New York baseball stars: Derek Jeter, Mike Piazza, Aaron Judge, Barack O’Neil, Colton Diaz, and Matt Haddock. Heroes from back when the game was pure.

  A bookshelf filled with knickknacks lined one wall. I realized I knew all these items. They were Zunz’s and mine, the toys and posters we’d had as kids. Framed photos I’d thought had been lost by movers and action figures I’d assumed had been thrown away decades ago.

  For a couple minutes, I sat on the couch and absorbed it all. My childhood laid out in objects. I could picture myself and Zunz on the scratchy blue carpet of our burrow, playing with those toys. I sucked in all the memories like my mind was a giant vacuum. I’d never realized Zunz cared about those days as much as I did.

  Then I got angry.

  Zunz had taken our things and set up his own little oasis away from the world. It didn’t surprise me that Zunz had a secret home. Most star athletes did. I could understand that he needed a place to hide from the paparazzi, but did it have to be a place he also hid from me?

  I picked up a plastic Mr. Met figurine, a rotund and beaming baseball head on a human body. When Monsanto bought the Mets, they kept the name and colors but ditched the mascot. The new one was a floating metal hexagon that fired lasers into the air between innings. I dropped the anthropomorphic ball. Decided to finish my snooping and then get the hell out of there.