“Do you still enjoy the game?” she asked me.
“It’s the great American pastime.”
“I must admit that, myself, I’m tired of people with bats and balls. It’s a bit unsophisticated.”
“I didn’t realize trogstoys had such refined tastes.”
The slur didn’t halt her stride. “I would think an oiler such as yourself would know how unfair prejudices can be. Did you know we Neanderthals have larger brains than our sapien cousins? We made tools and formed societies in Eurasia before your ancestors arrived. We were more advanced, in many important ways. And yet we disappeared. Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to speculate.”
“My belief is that we were killed because we weren’t sufficiently murderous. We weren’t as bloodthirsty as the sapiens spilling into the continent. Brutality beats brains, quite literally. Fossil records are filled with the cracked skulls of my ancestors. Then you got to write the history books.”
“You Neanderthals seem capable of brutality,” I said. “At least according to the news.”
Last month there had been a Neanderthal uprising in Russia. Footage of tanks exploding in front of the subterranean mushroom farms was all over the news. The streams had the beefy workers impaling guards on spike rigs, cheering. President Petrov was promising the hard slap of the motherland’s hand.
She smiled curtly. “We all learn to adapt to our environments.”
The Mouth’s stadium office was about a third the size of the one in Mouth Tower, but exactly as golden. The back wall was decorated in robotic mouths. Entirely. They were stacked on top of each other from the floor to the ceiling. Hundreds of them, all with gold plated teeth and gold lips. No tongues. Only silent moving lips and the babbling of a thousand little drool waterfalls.
I let the mouths talk silently behind my back. Looked at the Mouth, who was showing me his own back. He stood at the window looking out at the sprawling park. His pet freagle was on his shoulder. A dark stain expanded where the freagle sat. The Mouth didn’t seem to notice.
“Can you believe I bought all this, Kobo?” He was pointing out the window.
“Sure.”
The Mouth frowned. His face twinkled like cheap nail polish. “No, I don’t think you can believe it. I own it. I own Central Park. I own two of the six faces of Mount Rushmore. The good ones. I’m not talking the dorks like Jefferson or Washington. I’ve got Rockefeller Megacenter. A fourth of the solar farms of Nebraska. A fleet of floating nuke plants. I’ve got some of the most elegant properties in the entire world. Next, I’ll get them on Mars after we terraform that red hunk of crap. I own the Monsanto name. Brilliant high-value brand that Bayer had shut down because a bunch of babies whined about designer seeds. Bought it back for a song and slapped it on a Future League Baseball team.”
“It’s hard to remember it all,” Natasha said.
“Did you know my grandfather was a politician? He didn’t have his name attached to anything except a few silly laws. Not much money in that either, legally at least. Now look at the Mouth name.”
“It’s famous,” I said.
Then I realized he was nodding toward a glowing sign above the park that read Mouth. Silver birds floated around the sign. The ones that landed began to glow.
“We had to genetically engineer those falcons to conduct electricity. The old feathered ones kept trying to fuck the signs and dying. Can you believe that? Nature is dumb. It doesn’t work, not by itself. That’s why all the animals are dying out. Climate change? Invasive species? Please. Nature always has some excuse. We humans are still here because we’re smart. We innovate. We disrupt the planet quicker than it can disrupt us.”
Given the constant water wars, sinking cities, and millions of climate refugees, I wasn’t sure that was a safe bet. But I kept my own mouth shut. The Mouth was still pointing out the window. Then he swung his finger to a small wooden chair in front of his desk. He sat in the large leather one on the other side. Natasha walked up behind him, began rubbing the rind of his bald head.
“You know what the best part of Zunz dying is?”
“There’s a best part?”
The Mouth frowned. With the surgical extensions, the lips seemed to curl back around on themselves. “Yes, no, no. Of course not. I didn’t say that. We’re all sad. Human life is precious, okay. It’s a tragedy. I said it. You heard me. But I’m talking business, and nothing drives business like martyrdom. Our sales are through the roof. People are rallying around the Mets. Buying hats, steroids, and upgrades by the bucketload. Can’t you smell it?”
I couldn’t smell anything except the faint odor of freagle piss. “Smell what?”
“The success! The smell of success. I could sniff it all night, like mana from the tit of god.”
He shouted “success” again and the little freagle on his shoulder squawked something that sounded like the word. I wondered if they’d added a pinch of parrot genes in the mix.
“It’s going to get even better when we let everyone know the Sphinxes did it. Where are we on that? It would be good for us to leak the news. Is the investigation soaring like a rocket yet?”
“Still on the launchpad,” I said, settling into the uncomfortable chair. “I looked into Jung Kang, but I don’t think he was the killer. Anyway, someone killed him before I could learn more.”
I watched them, but neither gave a sign they knew Coppelius had been the one.
The Mouth shook his head. “That’s too bad, too bad. You’re telling me you can’t prove it was the Sphinxes? Not yet?”
“I don’t think it was.”
“Don’t think. Still could be.” He smirked like a child smuggling cookies from the kitchen at midnight. He spread his faded gold palms. Shrugged. “Thinking isn’t knowing. It’s only our job to make people think. It could be them, just like you said. No one could disagree with could. It wouldn’t hurt to let the press know we think it might have been them.”
“Of course, sir. I did an hour ago,” Natasha said.
The three of us were silent for a moment. The Mouth looked at me, his smile lessening centimeter by centimeter. It grew straight, began to frown. His eyes seemed to stop noticing me. He looked out the window again. I got the impression I was meant to go.
Instead, I talked. “While I’m here, could you two tell me what Zunz was taking?”
The Mouth swiveled his gold face to me, fingers tapping against his dry yellow lips. “Taking?”
“His drugs, upgrades. His medical routine.”
“Who cares what he was taking?”
“Maybe I could talk to the team doctors. Get a list. His regimen.”
Natasha put her hand on my shoulder. “Our upgrades are proprietary. Trade secrets.”
“What he was taking?” The Mouth stood up, slammed his knuckles on the desk. The freagle jumped off his shoulder in surprise, squawking as it hit the wood. “He was taking the best goddamn drugs in the world. Mets drugs. Do you know how much we pay to make those drugs? We didn’t bring you on for medical advice. Are you a doctor? You want to massage my prostate? Whack my kneecap? No! We brought you on to find evidence the Sphinxes killed Zunz.”
“If they did.”
“If, if, if, if.” The Mouth smacked his desk with each iteration. The freagle hopped away from the blows. Cowered behind the gold phone, its feathered head bobbing behind the ringer. “I’m not looking for ifs. I am sure as hell not paying for ifs.”
I was ready to protest, tell them I was only concerned with the truth. But the truth was I needed the Mouth’s money. Perhaps now more than ever. The numbers of my medical debt flashed before me again.
“Okay,” I said. “Got it. You’re right, I apologize.”
I stood up, leaned over, and rubbed a finger along the freagle’s feathered head. It snapped at my pinkie.
“She’s a beauty.”
“She’s a he. I don’t want frog eggs, or eagle eggs, or any kind of egg on my desk,” the Mouth said, his own mouth opened in an
expression halfway between disgust and pride. “Limited edition, with the bullfrog genes. Not those discount toads the government sells to the public. Only two of these in existence. I gave the other to Newman personally.”
“Well, I’ve got leads to check out. Some of them lead to the Edenists. Heard of them?”
The Mouth began to smile again. “They protest at our stores and stadium all the time. Send our players death threats. I hate those treesuckers. You can point a finger at them? Brilliant. Would prefer to take out a rival team, but get me dirt on the Edenists and we’ll consider it a fair wage.”
“They’re good leads. Though it would help if I could get an extra advance on my payment. My expenses have been getting expensive.”
The Mouth laughed and sat back down. Spoke to Natasha while pointing at me. “This guy’s a bastard. I like bastards. Give him some digits for cab fare.” He waved a finger at me. “But remember, you aren’t getting your medical debt erased unless you give us something a lot better than that. And quickly. No one’s going to care about Zunz in the off-season.”
Natasha handed me the money, but as she did, she held my hand. Inspected it.
“I see you visited Dr. Setek. Good. Now that you’re in good health, how about you join us in the Mouth’s luxury box for one of the games.”
“I’ve actually got a date to game three.”
“Bring your date. Watch the game in style,” the Mouth said. But Natasha whispered in his ear. He frowned.
“Game four would be better for us,” she said to me.
“Yes, yes. You and your date are coming to game four. My box. You’ll want to be there. I insist.”
I started to argue, but the Mouth had already swiveled back to survey his domain.
28
THE TRUE BELIEVERS
After messaging Dolores the bad news about game four, I powered down my eye and pulled my hat as low as it would go. Slid my metal hand into my pocket. Tried to look as little like an oiler as possible as I approached the Untainted Gardens Edenist Center.
The center was out at the edge of the city, nestled up against the storm wall. The whole block smelled of stagnant water. The rooftop of the building was covered in dark moss while green ivy swarmed up the sides. Guards with shock rifles and blue cotton robes manned the walls. The one at the gate looked at my cybernetic eye and frowned.
“Can I help you?”
“I’ve got a delivery,” I said. “For the old man.”
“Which old man?” she said.
“The one with the long beard. Likes to shout about defilement and holiness. Tell him it’s from Jung Kang.”
The woman glared at me, but sent the message. She told me to put my arms out and step forward into the scanner. I’d left my gun at home, and when the scan pinged clean, the guard cracked the gate enough for me to squeeze through.
It might be a religious cult, but inside no one was praying. They were training. The courtyard was filled with sweaty Edenists doing martial arts, old men shouting at them in their ordered rows. Others climbed ropes or lifted free weights.
The old man I’d seen at Reunion Square ambled toward me, stooped in the shape of a question mark. His long scraggly beard was almost licking the dirt.
“You said a Mr. Kang sent you? My you’re a big fellow,” he said. There was meanness between the wheezes. “We don’t get a lot of big fellows around here.”
“I’m not a twig, if that’s what you mean.”
The old man wrinkled up his already wrinkled face. He leaned on his wooden cane. “We don’t use that term here. Twigs? No, no. Twigs snap easily. We don’t.” He nodded toward the acolytes lifting weights and boxing with drones.
“I thought you types weren’t big fans of machines.”
“We don’t live in caves and fear fire. We simply believe men are supposed to live in the vessel they are born into. We were not made in the divine image to pollute ourselves with the chemicals and corporate replacement parts.”
“Good story. Here’s mine. I’m here about a little girl. Maybe twelve. Goes by the name of Nails.”
He leaned on his cane. Sucked in his wrinkled lips. “She’s generating a lot of interest lately.”
“Someone got here first?”
The old man studied my face. Seemed to find my concern authentic. “A big man came by. Bigger than you and with an even nastier way of talking. Tried to rough up a few of our guards. Succeeded, to be honest with you. Said he’d be back with backup.”
“Did he talk to the girl?”
“No. And we didn’t tell him anything. We don’t give out information to self-polluters. That includes you, I’m afraid. If you have nothing from Mr. Kang, then goodbye.”
He grimaced and began to turn around.
I moved in close, grabbed his thin, bony hand with my metal one. Whispered angrily in his ear. “Pollution comes in handy, like how my fingertip can inject nerve poison that would kill you before you can even scream.”
It wasn’t true, but I figured he was the paranoid type.
“You’d kill an old man?” He almost choked on the words.
I squeezed his hand until I heard a crunching sound. Then another. I figured one more squeeze and I’d hear a snap. The old man made a yelping sound like steam escaping a broken pipe.
“God’s genes. I knew it.” There were tears in the wrinkles of his eyes.
“Knew what?”
“That you oilers have no respect for your elders. You think we’re out of date, because you fear you yourself are out of date. You can’t possibly keep up with the future you have thoughtlessly unleashed.”
“I’m trying to help the girl. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
“My hand!”
“Your hand isn’t broken. Yet.”
The guards were starting to look our way. One raised his gun. I squeezed a bit more and the old man waved them off. “Okay. We’ll talk inside.”
He groaned as I dragged him toward the warehouse. I kept my grip on his hand. The Edenists in the courtyard stopped their training. Started to form a circle around us, but the old man held up his other arm. They looked like scarecrows in their cloth outfits. Beside the large barn doors, someone had scrawled Bring the Diseased Eden in glowing spray paint.
Their Eden already seemed diseased to me. There was a foul smell, a rank musky stench that reminded me of our high school locker room after a game. In the next room, I realized why. The warehouse was filled with animals locked in small cages with barely any room to move. Rows of them stacked atop rows. The waste dripping down from one tier to the next, then collecting around clogged drains on the floor. Wings, snouts, tails, and hooves pressed into their glass enclosures. A whole menagerie in misery.
And all with heads. Wild-eyed and squawking or grunting heads. I’d never realized how black and large the eyes of animals could be. Tubes were attached to their mouths, muffling their cries. Other tubes were fastened to their udders and backsides. Edenists in white smocks ran around, collecting jars of yellowish milk and scooping up eggs.
“What the hell is this?”
“It’s food. Real human food.”
“It’s illegal is what it is. They can barely move. And they have heads! They’re screaming in pain.”
He could barely shuffle with his hunched-over back. Still, he looked at me indignantly. “Humans, real humans, have eaten real animals for thousands of years. Living animals, not flesh cells grown in petri dishes. Not mutated monstrosities that couldn’t survive outside of a lab. Real animals. Why do you think you are better than your ancestors?”
“I’m cleaner at least,” I said, looking at the rivulets of piss and shit draining through slots in the floor. I’d heard that Edenists sold illegal meat, but had no idea it was at this scale.
“Who are you? A health inspector? We already paid the city off last month.”
I shook my head. “I don’t care about your farm scam with the city. I care about the girl.”
When we got to the office
s in the back, the man opened the door marked Oldblood Jonas. It was a dim, perfumed room, decorated with rugs and pillows. Incense was burning, and self-blowing wind chimes added music to the room.
“Okay, you brute, let me go.”
I did so. He held his hand up. It was red and curled in a claw. He was even more stooped over now, perpendicular to the floor. “You could have broken it.” He flexed the hand, and then walked over to pick up the exobrace he kept hidden behind the door. He strapped it on and powered it up. Grunted as it tightened. Soon he was sitting up straight and smoking a pipe. A sweet smoke filled the air.
“Didn’t figure you for an eraser man.”
Smoke leaked out of his nostrils in thin strands. “This is tobacco. Regular tobacco, not some transgenic hybrid concoction. No infused vitamins or caffeine. Just smoke. You’ve probably never even tasted it.”
“I don’t smoke for the taste. I smoke for the medicine.”
He shook his head slowly, swirling the gray cloud around him. “So. What do you want with Lila?”
Lila. I filed away the name. “Are you a baseball fan?”
“The modern league is an abomination of mutants that would make our ancestors spin in their graves,” he said between puffs. “But, yes, I watch. I grew up in New England back when it was separate states, so I root for the National Genetics Red Pills. Death to the Yankees and all that. Why?”
“Then you know about what happened to JJ Zunz.”
“Yes, the news does manage to reach Queens.”
“The people who did that to Zunz are after Lila.”
The old man shook his head, unbelieving. “That’s absurd. We’ve raised Lila for years. She gets into trouble, sure. Runs away sometimes. Has gotten involved with some of our, well, lost brethren. Never been fully one of us, I guess you could say. But I can’t imagine anyone would want to kill her.”
“What do you mean she’s not one of you?”
“We raised Lila as, well, let’s say as a favor.”
The Body Scout: A Novel Page 16
