by Greg Bear
“I’m down now,” Joseph said. “If there’s anything I hate, it’s monkey nuts.” He patted Peter’s arm in passing.
“NICE COUPLE,” THE young man said as they sat in an alcove looking over the west lawn. The wistful last of the day faded far out over the cliffs and the ocean. “They were joking, weren’t they?”
“I think so,” Peter said. “I’m Peter Russell.”
“Stanley Weinstein.”
They stretched out of their chairs and shook hands. Chairs throughout Flaubert House were always set shouting distance apart from one another.
“Scouting for an investment?” Peter asked.
“An investor,” Weinstein corrected. “One million dollars, minimum. A pittance to finance a revolution.”
“In telecom?”
Weinstein cringed. “Let’s please avoid that word.”
Peter raised the plastic ovoid to eye level and twisted it until he found a seam, then tried to pry it open with a thumbnail. It wouldn’t budge. “If it’s not a phone, what is it?”
“We call it Trans,” Weinstein said. “T-R-A-N-S. Plural, also Trans. Invest a little, and you get one to use. Invest a lot, and you get more to hand out to friends. Very chic, extraordinarily high tech, nothing like them on the market. Feel that weight? Quality.”
“It’s a cell phone,” Peter said, “but not.”
“Close enough,” Weinstein agreed with a lean of his head. “They’ll be free for the next year. Then we go public and open booths in every shopping mall in the world.”
“Joseph won’t invest?” Peter asked.
Weinstein shrugged. “Our demo did not go well. Something seems to be wrong with the house.”
“There’s a steel frame. Lots of stone.”
“Trans will work anywhere from the center of the Earth to the moon,” Weinstein said, puffing out his cheeks. “I don’t know what the problem is. I shall have to ask my boss.”
“And your boss is . . . ?”
Weinstein held his finger to his lips. “Mr. Benoliel trusts you?”
“I suppose,” Peter said. “He trusts me not to hit him up for money too often.”
Weinstein looked funny at that, then wiggled his finger in the air. “Monkey nuts?”
“That is a joke,” Peter said. “I do stuff for them. I’m nobody, really.”
Weinstein winked. “You have influence. They trust you, I can tell,” he said. “Keep the unit. In fact, let me give you more. Hand them out to your friends, but if you would, please give one to a good friend of Mr. Benoliel’s, or better yet, Mrs. Benoliel’s.”
Peter shook his head. “I already have a cell phone,” he said. “I get calls every week about new service plans.”
“What about no service plan?” Weinstein thrust out his fingers like a magician. “A Trans unit lasts for a year, and then you replace it with another, price yet to be established—but less than three hundred dollars. Unlimited calling day or night, anywhere on the planet. Better than digital—in fact, pure analog sound quality, just as God intended. Do you like vinyl LPs?”
“I still have a few.” In fact, Peter had hundreds, mostly jazz, classical, and 1960s rock.
“Then you know what I mean. Lovely, like a soft whisper in your ear. No interference, just clean sound. If you can convince Mr. Benoliel we’re on to something, you’ll get free units for life. You and five—no, ten of your friends.”
Peter gave a dry chuckle. “And?”
Weinstein lifted an eyebrow. “Five thousand shares, IPO guaranteed to be set at twenty-three dollars a share.”
Peter raised his own eyebrow even higher. He hadn’t survived a career in films for nothing.
Weinstein grinned devilishly. “Or five thousand dollars, up front, your choice, payable when Mr. Benoliel invests.”
“How about ten thousand?”
Weinstein’s smile remained, tighter but still friendly. “Okaaay,” he said, mimicking Joseph’s deliberate drawl. “Pardner.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and began scrawling on it with a fountain pen. “Do you have an agent?”
“He hasn’t heard from me in a while.” Peter examined the short, neatly penned document. The address was in Marin County. He would probably need to go north anyway, for Phil’s funeral—if there was going to be one. He asked for the fountain pen and signed. “What the hell,” he said. “Joseph rarely changes his mind.”
Weinstein excused himself and returned a few minutes later with a white cardboard box. In the box, buried in layers of foam, were ten plastic ovoids in various cheery colors. “All active and good for a year. Push the help button for instructions.”
“How do you open them?” Peter asked.
Weinstein demonstrated. Pressing a barely visible dimple on one side released the upper half, which swung aside with oily smoothness. There were no buttons. A screen covered most of the revealed face and lit up pearly white with black touch keypad and letters, different from his Motorola. The unit was neatly made and felt just right in his hand, slightly warm, slightly heavy.
“It’s not a gift from aliens, is it?” Peter asked.
“It should be,” Weinstein said, chuckling. “No, it’s entirely human. Just . . . people.”
Weinstein handed Peter the box and looked around the drawing room. “Quite a place,” he said. “Have you worked here long?”
Peter smiled. Joseph did not like to be talked about, in any fashion, by anybody.
Weinstein turned serious. “Get this done, Mr. Russell, and you’ll rate a visit to our new headquarters, as well as your bounty money. Then you’ll meet the man behind Trans.”
Peter folded shut the top of the box. “I’ll put these in my car,” he said.
“That lovely old Porsche?” Weinstein asked. “Is it a replica?”
“Nope,” Peter said.
“Then it’s older than I am,” Weinstein said.
AFTER WEINSTEIN’S DEPARTURE, Peter followed Michelle up the long curve of marble stairs to the second floor. Flaubert House was huge and quiet, as solid as a tomb but cheerful in its way. “That was awkward,” Michelle murmured. “Joseph knew someone’s daddy way back when. Now one of his boys sends a salesman to hit him up for ten million dollars.”
Peter walked beside her for the last few steps, silent. It had taken him into his forties to realize that the true art of conversation was saying almost nothing.
“Joseph’s been a little down. I mean, not that he’s ever a ball of fire, you know? But a little less twinkle.”
In truth, Joseph had never struck Peter as being capable of twinkle. Blunt honesty, sharp conversation, an uncanny ability to pin down character—and a good joke every now and then—defined his few charms. Over the years, Peter had come to like Joseph; honesty and the occasional joke could make up for a lot.
Michelle looked tired. “Says he has a palooza of a chore for you. Won’t tell me what. Man stuff, do you think?” Her long legs carried her more quickly over the thick Berber carpeting in the broad hallway.
“Monkey nuts,” Peter said.
Michelle smirked. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” She left him standing between walls covered by framed glossies of movie stars. Most of the stylish portraits were autographed, souvenirs of Joseph’s days as a producer. Peter recognized them all: beautiful or soulful people brooding or sunny, feigning humor or dignity, looking inaccessible or seductive, but all seeking approval no matter what attitude they copped. Long ago, he had realized an almost universal truth about actors. They became real only when they were being witnessed, when they were on-screen. Hidden behind doors, alone, or looped around a reel and locked in a dark metal can . . . For an actor, not being seen, not having an audience, was worse than limbo.
“All right,” Michelle said, returning. “He’s decent.” She opened a door near the end of the hall. “Joseph, it’s Peter.”
“Who else would it be, Eliot Ness?” a voice bellowed in the dark beyond.
Michelle sighed. “Ten percent bonus
if you leave him a contented man.”
“I heard that!”
Michelle sighed loudly and closed the door behind Peter.
Joseph sat in a huge leather chair near full-length windows opening onto a false balcony about a foot deep and faced with black wrought-iron railing. Lights from the front drive and the last of the sky glow drew him in broad grainy strokes like chalk on velvet. The room also contained an antique oak bar from a saloon in Dodge City, so the legend went, and two brown leather couches separated by a square black granite table. “Goddamned awkward,” he said. “Did Weinstein try to suck you in?”
“Yeah. Ambition,” Peter said.
“In spades.”
Peter nodded. His eyes adjusted slowly to the twilit gloom.
“Offer you stock to convince me?”
“And cash.”
Joseph chuckled. “They’ve been yammering at me for a week. Goddamned things don’t work. You’d think they would check that out before they try to hit up a rich old fool.” There was a strange set to Joseph’s words. “Old trumps rich,” he murmured. “And fool trumps old.” He was staring fixedly through the windows. Peter stood about six feet from the chair. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. I need you to go see a woman. Interested?”
“For you, always,” Peter said.
“She may be the most charismatic female on the planet. Certainly one of the smartest. If I went personally, she would play me like a farm trout. You, however . . . You know women better than any man alive. You’ll survive.”
Peter gave a small, dubious laugh.
“Well, you will. You’ve made it with over two hundred women, photographed maybe two thousand, and Michelle genuinely likes you. That’s a résumé no other man in my experience can equal.”
“Who gave out my track record?”
“We’ve known each other a long time,” Joseph said. “I did some research before bankrolling your films.”
“A bit exaggerated,” Peter said. “I never kept count.”
Joseph lifted his hand, spread his fingers, then let it drop back to the chair arm. “Before she met me, Michelle used to know a lot of photographers. Long-haired sacks of fermented pig shit. That’s what she called them. But not you.”
“I’m respectable?” Peter asked.
“Not if you work for me, you aren’t.” Joseph shifted in his chair. “This woman you’re going to meet is seventy years old. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, bar none. I’ve watched her on TV. Her teeth aren’t perfect, but she smiles like some sort of Eastern saint, whatever you call that.”
“Kwan Yin,” Peter offered.
“Yeah, maybe. Her name is Sandaji. Used to be Carolyn Lumley Pierce. She’s from the Bay Area, started out as a New Age groupie, but I checked up on her, and she’s been through hell and come out wiser. Amazing story. She’s holding meditation seminars in Pasadena.”
Joseph’s voice became a low, assertive bellow. “I want you to drop a roll of money, ten thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, into her collection plate. Then ask her my question. Bring me the answer tomorrow morning.”
Peter’s errands for Joseph were varied and often peculiar, but he had never done anything like this. Peter was not fond of New Age types, followers or leaders. They had disappointed him.
“Directions. Loot.” Joseph held out a folded piece of paper and a thick roll of money. “Don’t tell Michelle. She’s still mad at me for paying a quarter of a million dollars for a watch last week.”
“Jesus,” Peter said involuntarily.
“It’s a good watch,” Joseph said with petulance. He pulled back his sweater cuff to reveal a wide flash of platinum. “Maybe I’ll will it to you when I die.”
“I’m a humble man,” Peter said.
“Well, Michelle’s already in my face, so don’t tell her how much this time, okay?”
“All right.” He pocketed the money and the directions. The money pushed against the Trans.
Joseph shuddered. “Goddamn, it’s cold in here. Peter, you look gloomy. Worse than me, and I feel like an old cabbage. What’s up?”
“My friend died. A writer named Phil Richards.”
“Sorry. Friends . . . can’t afford to lose them.” Joseph’s eyes moved beyond Peter to the far corner of the room. “Water out there somewhere, reflecting moonlight,” he murmured. Peter looked up over his shoulder and saw a dim, milky flare play across the ceiling. Then it was gone.
“What should I ask her?” Peter asked.
“I’ve arranged for a private audience. You will absolutely not tell anyone else. I trust you, Peter . . . but I want you to promise me anyway. Swear to me as much as one atheist can swear before another, all right?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die,” Peter said.
Joseph seemed to accept this. He folded his hands in his lap like a schoolboy about to recite. Peter had never seen him so vulnerable. “Ask her if she believes it is possible for someone to live without a soul. Ask her in private, not in front of all those salivating white-collar geeks she cultivates.”
“Someone, live, without a soul,” Peter said.
“Don’t mock me, Peter Russell.” Joseph’s voice was hard and clean. In the glow of the rising moon, his face was the color of an expensive knife.
“No disrespect, Mr. Benoliel,” Peter said. “Just getting my lines straight.”
“HE HAS BEEN such a lemon lately,” Michelle said in the entry, holding the door. The veranda lights cast a dull golden glow over the stonework. “Please make him feel better.”
“Isn’t that your job?” Peter asked.
“You’re short tonight,” she observed.
“My best friend just died,” Peter said.
“Oh, shit, really?” Michelle was shocked and saddened. On her face, the effect was of a curtain drawing open to a new play. She stood straight and let go of the door. “How much time do you have?” she asked. “Time for a drink?”
“You know I don’t drink.”
“A small glass of sherry for me, ginger ale for you,” Michelle said with studied grace. “We’ll toast your friend.”
They went into the huge kitchen and Michelle sat Peter at the marble-topped counter. Only the counter lights were on and the rest of the kitchen fell back into olive-colored shadows. Peter felt as if he were under a spotlight. Michelle poured two glasses as described and sat at the corner next to him. “To your friend,” she said, lifting her sherry.
“To Phil,” Peter said, and felt his shoulders make a quaking motion. He sucked the ginger ale down wrong and started to choke. He used that to disguise the tears, and coughed until the impulse was almost gone.
Michelle gave him a napkin to wipe his eyes. “Want to talk about him?”
“I don’t think there’s time.”
“Your appointment isn’t for another hour and a half,” Michelle said. “Was he famous?”
“Not really,” Peter said. “He was a better writer than me. Maybe a better man.”
“Do you still write?” Michelle asked.
“When I need the money,” he said.
“I admire people who do something with their talents.” Michelle put down her glass. “What did you think of Weinstein?”
“A hustler,” Peter said. He reached into his pocket and took out the Trans. It slid smoothly past the roll of hundred-dollar bills. “Haven’t tried it.”
“Give me your number,” Michelle said. “Weinstein left a box of them. I’ll pick out a nice blue one.”
“Do they even work?”
“Not in the house, apparently,” Michelle said. “But I need to get outside more. Besides, Weinstein will pay you if we convince Joseph . . . won’t he?”
Peter smiled ruefully, tilted his head, and nodded. He opened the unit and read her the number from the screen. It was odd, seven sets of two digits separated by hyphens.
Michelle wrote the number on a slip of paper. “See?” she said, and patted his hand. “I was hard up once. Cast adrift. I know
how life goes. It isn’t easy finding a safe harbor.” She shook her hair and shoved out a hand toward the kitchen walls, as if to push them back. “I just get lost here. It’s been thirteen years with Joseph, and I still haven’t explored all the rooms.” She shook her head. “Half aren’t even furnished. I can do whatever I want with the houses, but it’s just the two of us, and you, and the cleaning people once or twice a week. Joseph doesn’t want servants living on the estate.”
“It’s quiet,” Peter said.
“Very quiet,” Michelle said. She took Peter’s Trans and opened it. “Weinstein explained it to me a few days ago, before he spoke with Joseph,” she said. “Is this the only one you have?”
“He gave me nine more,” Peter said. “Should I throw them away?”
“No, no. Maybe it’s the weather and they’ll work inside the house later. We’ll just spread them around. They’re no use sitting in a box. Then I’ll talk to Joseph again and try to convince him. For your sake, not Weinstein’s.”
Peter leaned forward. “I don’t know what to say. You’re treating me like a brother.”
“You might as well be a brother,” she said. “You know your boundaries. You give me more respect than my real brothers ever did. You understand that I have a tough job, but it’s one I intend to stick with. We’ve seen a lot of the same old world, from different sides of the fence. And we both mean what we say.”
“Wow,” Peter said. “That’s something I can, I don’t know, cherish.”
Michelle’s lips twitched. “You’re my project, Peter Russell.” She sipped her sherry. “When you toast the dead,” she said, “they feel comforted and don’t bother you, and you have only good thoughts about them.”
“You sound like an expert,” Peter cracked.
Michelle smiled. “That’s what my grandmother told me when I was a little girl. She was French, from Louisiana.”
Peter took up his glass and they toasted Phil again.
“May he sleep tight,” Michelle said.
CHAPTER 3
JOSEPH’S MAP TOOK Peter into Pasadena and down a series of narrow streets. The summer evening air oozed through the half-open windows, filling the car with the green odors of juniper and eucalyptus cut by the sweetness of honeysuckle. Sticky jacaranda flowers filled the gutters with purple rivers. Old-fashioned street lamps dropped puddles of dim yellow light. He drove slowly, looking for a restored Greene and Greene home, a classic wood-frame bungalow with Japanese touches.
