“Did you hear what I said? Barry Rubin. Doesn’t the name ring a bell, Vanessa?” This time Crebold pronounced it slowly and precisely, as if repeating his own name to the maître d’ of an exclusive restaurant who had just asked him to repeat it because there didn’t appear to be a table reserved in that name.
Vanessa put the fork down and patted her lips with a green napkin. “Crebold, you have learned nothing—absolutely fuck-all nothing. What is it like to always, always come in last? My God, if you had a soul it would look like an old shriveled potato chip by now.
“I have something for you; it’ll make you feel good for five minutes.” She pulled a large black leather purse onto her lap and rummaged around inside it. “Here you go. I assume it’s what you came here for.” Vanessa handed him a piece of paper—the map she’d copied off the side of the elephant in the dream.
When Crebold saw what it was he hesitated to take it, as if the paper itself might be poison-coated or booby-trapped in some way. “Why are you giving this to me?”
She shrugged one shoulder. “Because it’s what you came here for, right? I don’t need it anymore.”
“Why not? Do you know everything on there now? Are you enlightened?” His arrogant, mocking voice said he didn’t believe her for a minute.
Instead of answering, she put the map on the table. “You’re a mechanic, or at least you were once. Do you know what all of these things mean?”
He ran a hand down his necktie. “No, because some of them are human.” There was no reason to lie to her, plus Crebold wasn’t aware of how much mechanic knowledge she had regained by then. If she was already up to a certain level, she would see through any lie he told now anyway.
“Do you recognize this little fellow?” With her finger she tapped on a symbol toward the middle of the page that looked vaguely like a fire hydrant. Crebold said nothing.
Vanessa nodded. “I didn’t think so.” She placed her hand over the symbol. Seconds later it rose up off the page until it became a solid three-dimensional figure beneath her open palm. Picking it up, she turned her hand over so the thing was held in the middle of her bunched fingers. She moved the hand toward Crebold. “Eat it.”
“What?”
“Take this and eat it.” Seeing the incredulity in his eyes, she asked, “Are you afraid it’s poison?”
He answered too loudly: “How should I know? I don’t know what it is.”
“You never were a big adventurer, were you, Crebold?” Without another word, Vanessa popped the figure into her mouth and chewed while looking straight at him. In a while she swallowed and smacked her lips. “I really like the taste of that one—sort of cinnamony.”
“What is it?” He’d been watching her mouth and not seen what her hands were doing. She lifted an identical “fire hydrant” up to him from the paper. “Here’s another one just like it—try it. I promise it’s not poison.”
He took it slowly from her, like a shy dog taking a treat out of a stranger’s hand. “What is it?”
“Just put it in your mouth and then I’ll tell you. Go on, Crebold—show you have at least one ball.”
Still dubious, he opened his mouth and cautiously licked the thing once, twice: nothing. Vanessa had said she liked the taste but this one had none. He licked it again. “Nothing—I don’t taste anything.” His already suspicious mind raised more red flags.
Vanessa sighed, snatched it out of his hand, and popped it into her mouth. Crunch crunch crunch—swallow. Then she offered him yet another one. Crebold took it without hesitation, put it in his mouth, and bit down. Or tried to but it was like biting a stone—nothing, no give at all. No taste, no give—it really was like trying to eat a rock. He took it out of his mouth and shook his head. “I can’t.”
She showed no surprise.
“So what is it, Vanessa? You said you’d tell me.”
“Humor.”
“What?”
“Try this one.” She held out a different figure she’d lifted off the paper. He tried but it was impossible too.
“That one’s grace.” She took it out of his hand and placed it on the table although it was still wet from his mouth. “I could give you hope or generosity or a bunch of others off this map but the same thing would happen: you can’t eat any of them, Crebold; you couldn’t even bite into them.”
“But you can?”
Vanessa nodded. “Yes, because I’m human, or most of me still is.” She rubbed the paper with her fingers. “These maps are records of what we’ve seen and experienced and what we find most important about this second life we’ve been living. Some of what we’ve seen has been through the eyes of the mechanics we once were, but we weren’t aware of it until now.”
Crebold said nothing because Vanessa was right.
She held out another figure to him. “Now try this one.”
“This is a waste of time—”
She made an exasperated/amused face. “Just do it—trust me.”
If Crebold had been Bill Edmonds he would have instantly recognized the figure she offered now as Keebler, the netsuke sumo wrestler Lola Edmonds had owned and loved for years.
Crebold took it but again first licked the figure before putting it in his mouth. Delicious! Startled, he bit off the head of the little sumo. It was as soft as a piece of jellied candy. He couldn’t resist gobbling down the rest of what was in his hand. Scrumptious.
Vanessa said approvingly, “Great, huh?”
“Fantastic! But why can I eat this one and not the others?”
“Because it’s made of only mechanics’ food—udesh and other things. They planted one in Edmonds’s life when he retired. You’re still mostly mechanic so you can eat their food. There are other things on this map you could eat too because they were also planted in our lives.
“But watch this now—” Again Vanessa put her hand on the paper. Another Keebler materialized beneath her fingers. She held it up a moment for him to see before slipping it into her mouth. As if knowing what was going to happen, she gingerly tried to bite it but could not.
Crebold craned forward for a better look, to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing and it wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t a trick. “Why, Vanessa? You were a mechanic; and now at least part of you is turning back into one.”
She put it back on the table. The two of them looked at the Keebler figure until Vanessa said, “Petrichor.”
“What’s that?”
“The smell of the earth just after it starts to rain.”
Crebold made a huh? face. “Clarify please.”
“People think petrichor is only the combination of rainwater, earth, and stone. But it’s really a mixture of at least fifty different compounds, all blended together in an oily essence like perfume.”
“Answer the question, Vanessa.”
“It answers everything, Crebold. All of us, all the retired mechanics, are different kinds of petrichor now. We’ve become mixtures of who we were and what we are now. We’re no longer only stone or water—single things. Mechanics and Chaos are single things, pure, but we aren’t anymore.
“Do you know why you couldn’t eat humor? Because it’s a mix of mortal things, fallible, flawed things. Humor, grace, generosity, even sadness—all of them are mixes.
“Single things, things with hard edges and fixed boundaries, will never be able to understand how such weird, contradictory elements combine so well. Black and white can’t understand gray.”
Crebold wasn’t having it. “You’re talking about mechanics and Chaos, Vanessa. Between the two of them, they pretty much understand everything.”
“Wrong—they only have power over everything. They control it but don’t necessarily understand it.
“Here, I’ll show you.” She raised another figure off the map and offered it to Crebold. Without hesitating he took it, tried to bite it, couldn’t. “What is this?”
Vanessa took it out of his hand and gulped it down. “The dream we shared. Five people shared the same dr
eam, each one adding different parts from their lives to it. All those parts got mixed together like in a thick vegetable soup. A great, fantastic-tasting zuppa di verdure with every kind of vegetable imaginable in it. Five lives—our hopes, fears, secrets, joys … bits and pieces of everything that we are, human and mechanic—went into the soup.”
“So what?”
She reached over and patted his cheek. “So could you eat our messy human dream? No, but you just saw I could.”
Crebold disliked him on sight. The man was too tall, too handsome, too cocksure of himself with every step he took approaching the bar. It was as if his whole physical presence announced, “Out of the way, world—a god is coming through.” Crebold had seen versions in all places of this kind of egomaniac, and not just on Earth. All of them seemed to take it for granted life was both their friend and fan. And why not, the proof was everywhere—look at what it had already given them without their ever having had to ask.
The man sat down at the bar a few seats away. He shot his cuffs and adjusted his sevenfold silk tie. His beautifully tailored navy blue suit fell just so and didn’t scrunch up anywhere like most men’s suits do when they sit down. Even the damned suit loved him!
Naturally he and the bartender shook hands warmly and appeared to be old buddies. Without taking an order, the barman prepared a drink, put it down in front of him on a round red coaster, and said admiringly, “Lagavulin, twelve years old, one cube.”
Mr. Handsome put a hand over his heart and bowed an exaggerated thanks to the barman for remembering what he liked to drink.
“Do you have a Balvenie, fifteen-year-old double wood?” Crebold was sitting just close enough for Handsome to hear his request. Clearly impressed by the choice, the bartender said indeed he did and went to the far end of the bar to get the expensive, rarely ordered drink.
“Balvenie? I’ve heard you should drink it with a piece of gingerbread. Supposedly the combination of the two makes the cake taste more spicy.”
Crebold turned his head slowly toward the other man and raised his eyebrows in casual interest. “Izzat right? I never heard it before. I haven’t eaten gingerbread in twenty years.”
Handsome moved down to the seat next to Crebold’s and extended his hand. “You are a man who obviously knows fine scotch. I’m Barry Rubin.”
“Crebold.”
Rubin smiled, waiting for him to say more. When he realized nothing more was coming he dipped his head forward and back like a nervous bird. “Crebold? That’s it, only one name?”
“I’m from Macedonia.”
From the immediately shifty look in Rubin’s eyes it was plain he didn’t know what the hell Crebold was talking about but didn’t want to admit it or ask what coming from Macedonia had to do with going by a single name. Baffled, Rubin nodded sagely as if he totally understood. “What do you do, uh, Crebold?”
The bartender brought the Balvenie and as a sign of respect, gave the bar a quick wipe with his rag before putting the glass down on a coaster in front of Crebold. Instead of answering Barry’s question, the Macedonian picked up the glass, closed one eye, and carefully sipped the very expensive whisky. To the mechanic the stuff tasted like skunk piss but he pretended to savor it as if it were ambrosia. Rubin let him have his moment.
“I’m a singer.”
“A singer, really?”
“Yup.”
“What kind of music do you do?”
“Polka.”
Rubin hesitated, nonplussed. “I didn’t know polka music was sung.”
“Only in Macedonia; but it translates surprisingly well into English.” Crebold was talking complete crap but it was the first thing that came to mind and he wanted to mess with Rubin a while to see how he’d react.
The room around them slowly began to fill. It was after six and the city wanted its first drink of the evening. The next time Crebold looked up from the conversation, he noticed two bartenders were at work and both were very busy.
This was the night years ago Vanessa and Barry Rubin slept together for the first time. Crebold had chosen to return here not because of the event, but because he simply wanted to meet this Rubin character and see what kind of fellow he was. What kind of person would bring out the killer in a woman like Vanessa Corbin? Crebold knew he had a good hour before she was to arrive here for the date, so there was time.
“And what do you do for a living, Barry, besides drink good booze?” Crebold lifted his glass in a toast to his new friend. Rubin did the same and they both took small sips.
“I’m a designer. I helped create Lightcage.” Endearingly there was immense pride in Barry’s voice. He sounded like a little boy telling his parents he’d gotten a good grade in school.
With one finger Crebold rubbed a circle around the top of his whisky glass. “Lightcage? Is it some kind of lamp?” He made sure to inject just the right soupçon of derision into his voice to make it plain whatever “lightcage” was he didn’t give a shit.
Rubin raised his chin, startled and offended by the other’s remark. “No, it’s a video game; one of the bestselling games of all time, actually.”
“Interesting, but you’re talking to the wrong guy; I’m not a gamer.” The way Crebold said that last word was like a bully’s poke in Rubin’s chest.
Without missing a beat, Barry fired back, “Well, I guess we’re even then because I don’t have any polkas on my iPod; never been a big fan of the genre, you know?”
The mechanic grew a sly grin. “Touché, Barry.” It was the first time he’d liked anything about Rubin.
“Here you go, gentlemen.” The bartender gently laid two plates down on the bar in front of them. On each was a long golden brown baguette filled to overflowing with different kinds of meat, cheeses, and colorful vegetables. Oozing tantalizingly out the sides (the sandwiches were wonderfully warm to the touch) was what looked like a brownish mayonnaise but turned out to be a sensationally good piquant sauce that enhanced the flavor of every single thing in the sandwich.
Both men looked at the bartender for an explanation. “Orders from the management: everyone in here tonight gets one and they’re all on the house.” He moved down the bar and placed two more plates in front of a couple sitting there. The woman lit up when she heard the bartender’s explanation, clapped her hands at the unexpected gift, and without a word picked up the sandwich and took a big bite. A few chews later she let out a loud long groan of pleasure that was half sexual and half joy. “My God, Bryce, you’ve got to taste this; it’s a work of art.”
Her companion needed no further urging. He took a couple of big bites and chewed with eyes closed, all the while nodding his head, then held the sandwich out in front of him and pointed to it. He shook his head in wonder and appreciation. “Unreal! This is without a doubt the greatest thing I’ve ever eaten. I am not exaggerating.” His girlfriend, mouth full, could only nod in eager agreement. “But what’s just as amazing is my sandwich doesn’t have any meat in it like yours. How did they know I’m vegetarian?”
The woman shrugged and kept chewing.
Crebold and Rubin looked at each other. Rubin said, “Never look a free meal in the mouth.” Both men lifted their sandwiches and set to.
The couple was right—it was the most delicious thing either man had ever eaten. But how could that be when it was just a sandwich? It really confused Crebold, because he loathed human food. Anytime it had been necessary for him to eat it in the past had been a horrible experience.
But not this sandwich: how was it possible? He kept examining it as he ate, turning it this way and that, opening it several times to see what exactly was inside, recognizing ingredients he’d always found revolting before—waxy capocollo ham, slimy avocado, viscid Brie cheese … disgusting stuff. Normally just the thought of these textures on his tongue sent a slick shiver of revulsion down his spine. But not this time, not when they were combined with all the other ingredients inside this magnificent sandwich. And what the hell was in the dressing that fu
sed everything together so perfectly?
While he ate, Crebold swiveled on his bar stool and scanned the noisy room behind him. It was absolutely packed full; there must have been over a hundred people in there. It was loud, but a sexy intimate loud—murmurs, laughter, plans being made, plots being hatched, phone numbers exchanged, the tinkling of glasses, women saying yes. He watched waiters hurrying from table to table bringing trays of sandwiches to everyone. They kept moving in and out of the kitchen to get more.
“It’s a very strange idea to give these out during cocktail hour, don’t you think? Everyone in here is about to eat dinner; they’re going to ruin a lot of appetites. Sort of reminds me of the free lunch tables bars used to put out during the Depression.” Rubin wiped his mouth with a napkin. His face was flushed from eating too fast. There was something small and green stuck in his front teeth. “But hey, I’m not complaining, far from it. Whatever the reason for this grub, I am now officially in love with the management of this place.”
At a nearby table a very beautiful woman was served a sandwich but didn’t want it. She smiled sweetly but kept shaking her head, no thanks. She and the waiter talked back and forth until he finally got the point and just left the plate in front of her on the table. In contrast, the man with her devoured his sandwich with great gusto. Crebold watched this couple a while, wondering if the woman would give in and take a taste, but it didn’t happen.
“Do you know who she is?” Barry leaned in and spoke quietly to Crebold. “I’ve been watching her too; it’s Riley Rivers, the porn star. Isn’t she gorgeous? They say she’s never had one bit of plastic surgery done to her body, which is pretty hard to believe when you look at her, especially in person like this.
“I think the guy’s she’s with is her boyfriend. His name is Duck Tape. He’s the drummer with some famous band. I forget which one.”
Crebold narrowed his eyes and stared at the boyfriend, who although festooned with ornate, mostly illegible tattoos wore thick black eyeglasses, which made him look intelligent. “Duck Tape? Are you serious? That’s really the man’s name?”
Bathing the Lion Page 24
