I hunted down the first bill Forget What had sent me, looked at its date, subtracted a day, maybe two, for them to figure out I’d blinked them and decided that whatever I’d done, I probably did it before September tenth. Thinking back, I couldn’t remember much from that time even though it was only a month or so earlier. Late summer, early fall tended to merge into one continuous highway. A few events stuck out; the eight-day rain, the day the fire melted Jummy’s, the day I spent with Jolie. But, for the most part, there weren’t many lumps in the pavement.
I printed a copy of the last bill, put it in my pocket and went to Reborn Street to see Chen. I remembered being on Quacker Street with Chen on the eighth. I knew it was the eighth because I’d had to go to a gov clinic and get my finger bandaged that night.
Chen was the only person I knew who I thought might do something while I was with him that I’d want to forget all about. He’s an ass-thatcher for fun. He comes up behind a guy and lasers his ass with a preprogrammed laser etcher. He just pops it out of his pocket, focuses the targeting beam on the middle of the crack of the guy’s ass and ticks it. The laser flashes around the guy’s ass for about a tenth of a second, and then there’s a lot of screaming and hopping up and down. I laughed thinking about it, then realized I would never purposely forget something as funny as that. I felt a pulse of guilt about the thatching, but Chen was good at picking out the most pretentious and pompous men from the crowd. Then I imagined the hospital write up, “Removed intricate drawing of Tweezy the Bumblebee from guy’s ass.” Tweezy. Chen was a whirl.
Reborn Street is near the Rocky Roads Expressway, right where it enters the new Chicago Automated Transit switching tunnel; about a fifteen-minute walk. The noise from the CAT trains there was thunderous, but the rents were low. Chen had a flat in the old United Nations World Police building, now called the Unapartments. It was all concrete with high narrow windows, and two large restaurants flanking the entrance like a pair of brown shoes poking out from under a ground-length, concrete trench coat. They had painted the building blue in hopes of making it look less institutional and less military. It helped a little. A painting of a twenty foot, twirling, kick-boxing bear in boxer shorts and sunglasses worked better, but the owners had painted over that not long after the artist created it. I still missed the bear. He’d always made me smile.
You never walked straight to Chen’s. He had some odd rules. I took the vator up to seven and over to cross thirty-two. Side slide vators make me woozy, but it only lasted a minute. I walked slowly back down two flights of stairs to Chen’s door.
Chen wasn’t there, but Paulo let me in. “He’ll be back in a tick,” Paulo said. He winked at me, just like Chen always did, but I didn’t wink back. “How ‘bout you come in and sit? Wait for him. Like a derpal?”
“No, thanks,” I said and took a chair in the music room.
Paulo was a small, no-fat guy who moved in short staccato bursts like a helper bot, but without a bot’s focus or clear intent. My name for him was Brownian Motion. He wore an apron, presumably with something else on underneath, though that wasn’t obvious. The apron showed two bibbed lobsters holding skewers and grinning. Grinning lobsters. Grinning lunch. Might as well have a smiling cow flipping real-beef hamburgers.
I sat in the music room and stared at the painting of Lena Horn which Chen had paid an out-of-work artist to paint on his carsicord. He never learned to play the thing, but he liked Lena, so he kept the instrument pushed backward up against the wall to display the painting. Chen liked to listen to her old recordings, and I’d acquired a taste for them as well.
Paulo was in the kitchen making dinner and noise. The apartment smelled like ginger and tomato sauce.
“Hey Paulo, you got any beer?” I yelled.
“Nah, just derpal.”
I didn’t drink derpal. I hadn’t acquired the taste, and since it’s illegal, I didn’t want to. In any case, I didn’t want that much bliss from a bottle.
Paulo stuck his head around the corner. “What brings you over here?”
“I got this bill from Forget What, and I wanted to talk to Chen about it. They’re getting cranky.”
“Oh!” Paulo ducked back into the kitchen. I heard some frantic stirring, metal on metal, then he yelled, “He should be back soon.”
Beside the carsicord, I noticed a new decoration. It appeared to be a regular aquarium at first, but the fish turned out to be engineered to look like tiny people swimming around in the flow from the water pump. Their little faces looked frantic, as though they needed air, though of course they didn’t. They came up to the glass begging me for something, but I didn’t know what.
Chen came home then. He stopped by the kitchen to kiss Paulo and get a derpal, then walked into the music room. “What are you doing here, Benny?” Chen said warily.
Chen was a little shorter than me, and just as thin, usually. He had straight dark hair that day and a wide belligerent nose, which didn’t match his close-set eyes. He must have been wearing padding around his waist, because he looked a bit chunkier than usual. He walked with a swagger that was so dramatic it looked a bit silly.
“Yeah, it’s good to see you too,” I said. “Maybe I should just go.” I stood up, but didn’t start walking.
“Oh relax, Benny. Why are you so touchy? You got so many new friends now, you can afford to walk out on your old ones?”
“What did we do the last time I was with you?” I asked, sitting down again.
“I’d prefer to forget all that. At least I will if you will. I bought a new gun. Want to see it?” He pulled what looked like a kid’s space-blaster out of his coat pocket, handed it to me, then went to hang up his coat.
The gun was real enough. I’d expected a slap gun, one that shot what amounted to a slapfaint which made the victim faint and stay out for an hour or so. I popped the clip. It had room for fifteen bullets, but contained only three.
Chen came back. “What do you think? Doesn’t it look famous? Just like a toy. I could walk down the street with that in my hand and no one would take notice. You want a derpal?”
“No, thanks, and they would notice, Chen. The police know about these, although they’re usually green rather than yellow. Green’s a bit more subtle”
He looked around the room thoughtfully. “Where should I keep it?”
I told him that if he was worried about intruders, he should hide it in the bedroom somewhere. If he was worried about guests, he should put it at hand next to where he usually sat.
He sat down, then slid the gun into the drawer of his side table. Bright yellow, goofy looking plastic body wrapped around a businesslike gun. Very Chen.
“So, what did we do the last time I was with you?” I asked again. “I mean other than the fist fight. After that. Did I leave right after that?”
Chen was still looking at the drawer smiling. He liked his new toy. He sighed and looked at Lena as though for guidance. “Yeah. Fist fight. Beating you mean. You were pretty mad about me thatching part of your finger. It wasn’t my fault. You moved.”
“I know, but did we do anything together after that?”
“No. You ran off saying you had to go to the hospital. I haven’t seen you since. It was just a nick.” Chen stood, paused for a moment, then walked over and put on some low music; Lena singing, “I Gotta Right to Sing the Blues”.
I pulled the Forget What bill out of my pocket and showed it to him. “I’ve been getting these letters from Forget What. They say I had a memory removed, but I don’t remember it. They say if I don’t deposit the money, they’re going to tell the police about the contents of the memory I had removed.” I watched him for a reaction.
“I wouldn’t worry,” said Chen, looking a bit worried. “Maybe you never had a memory removed. Maybe they’re just blinking you. Could be they always do this when they’re low on trade. Gov isn’t real happy about the commercial forgetters anyway. The Senate is trying to pass a law that would require the police to attend every forget and
have the forgetter pay for their time and expenses. And anyway, the fact that you’ve had something forgotten isn’t admissible evidence. There’s no telling what you forgot. Of course, it might be admissible if the forgetters kept records, maybe even video, of the whole thing.”
“Can they do that? I thought it was confidential, like talking to a priest or something.” I watched a little fish person get temporarily sucked down against the gravel bottom of the tank where the pump intake was.
“I don’t remember hearing about the use of forget information at a trial before, but they probably keep that kind of thing quiet. What did the contract you signed say?”
“Contract?” I couldn’t remember my session, so of course I couldn’t remember a contract.
“I bet they record all the sessions.” Chen said, sighing back into his chair. “They replay the removal session in court, then what?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Then what?” I looked at my feet. Chen wasn’t helping at all.
Chen yelled, “Hey, Paulo?”
Paulo danced into the room waving a large spoon. “Doesn’t Carla work for Forget What?” Chen said, with an odd leer. “She could probably get a transcript of Benny’s last forget session, right?”
Paulo glared at Chen like he had said something tactless. He lowered his spoon. “Yes, yes she does,” said Paulo stiffly, “but I don’t think she can help with that. She’s a busy person.”
Chen winked at him. “Sure she can.” He turned to me and added, “Paulo will give her a call later.”
Paulo wasn’t happy with the idea, and I can’t say I was overwhelmed either. Chen’s friends generally weren’t reliable, but I couldn’t pass up the angle. Especially since friends usually work for free.
Paulo abruptly retreated to the kitchen. Chen smiled at me and took a long swig of his derpal. “Hey, you want to go over to Quacker tonight? Jon Tam built me a new thatcher. It cuts a picture of a rabbit diving down the victim’s asshole.”
Chen started laughing and couldn’t stop. That started me laughing. I couldn’t even imagine what that hospital write-up would say. “Sure,” I said, “just keep that thing pointed away from me.”
Chen laughed hard enough to snort and started wheezing. He had to rip off his fat fake nose to get more air. He held it in his fist with the tip jutting out between his index finger and his middle finger. “I’ve got your nose,” he said, then rolled onto the floor with tears in his eyes unable to speak.
Whatever Chen did for money, I figured it must be stressful.
Chapter 3
Paulo’s friend Carla from Forget What wanted dinner. Not all friends work for free, but the cost of a dinner would be close enough. She chose an expensive restaurant.
I was to meet her at Beef Tucuman, which was once an Argentinian style restaurant, but now they specialized in any cuisine that contained real beef. The restaurant took up the right half of the first floor of a marble faced office building on Bigbash just north of the Coop, the old business district in Chicago. The front facade was simple and deceptive with a short blue awning and a doorman who wore a long red coat and a sneer. A small brass plaque bolted to the marble just to the right of the door was the only indication that this was the entrance to a restaurant. If you were just wandering down the street hungry and looking for a place to eat, they didn’t want your business.
I strode purposefully past an end-of-the-earth guy who was hauling a huge wooden cross strapped to his back. Even if the wooden beams were hollow, it had to be heavy. He looked haggard and cold, wearing only carefully tattered pants and a tee shirt with a hole ripped in the side. He was handing out red fliers to anyone who would approach close enough to take one, “What You Need to Know About the Apocalypse!” I didn’t think I really needed to know any more.
The doorman glared at the spectacle with intense concentration, apparently hoping he could will him away. He glanced briefly at me as I ducked past him and through the door. Had I moved more slowly, or had he not been distracted by the cross, I felt sure he would have turned me away. I wasn’t dressed for the place.
Inside, I saw a woman who I assumed to be Carla posing in a large wing-back chair. Her slender wrists draped with apparent ease over the arms of the chair, fingers dangling and her long legs crossed under a navy dress that had a cream collar and belt. She wore her short dark hair as though she were looking into the wind, back and curled away from her face, which displayed her small perfect ears and clear gray eyes. Her expression conveyed displeasure, perhaps at my being late, but I thought rather it was to show the restaurant personnel that she meant to stay there without being badgered.
All this would have given the impression of money and the expected servitude of others, except that, as her crossed-over foot jumped up and down with impatience, I saw that her shoe was so worn through, it displayed part of her big toe.
I liked her immediately, which was odd because I didn’t think she was my type. I usually preferred smiling, carefree women who didn’t much care what others thought, but Carla was an odd combination, and her type wasn’t especially obvious on first glance.
She noticed me, finally.
“Hello,” I said, “I guess you must be Carla. I’m Benny. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
She gave me an appraising look, a brief smile, then stood, not saying anything.
I snagged the maître d’s attention and held up two fingers. He glared, and sighed, then strutted into the dining area. I followed Carla, who followed the maître d’. She appeared to be fancifully imitating the maître d’s walk, shoulders back and head held high in dramatic disapproval. She was fun to watch.
He led us past a field of empty tables all the way to the back near the station where they fill the water glasses and make the coffee. I could hear the clatter of dishes in the kitchen, but I wasn’t there to talk.
“So, do you have my transcript?” I said as soon as we’d sat down.
“Yes, but that will wait till after dinner, I think.” She had a smooth low voice, not husky, but mellow. It was clear she didn’t trust me, which I could understand. She only knew me as a friend of Chen’s, and that was no character recommendation.
“Sure,” I said as I took the menu the waiter handed me.
The tables were covered with starched white tablecloths reaching most of the way to the floor and the maroon napkins had been folded into the shape of a bird. The pats of butter on each table were formed into tiny fish and set in a bowl of ice. The silverware, three forks, two knives, and two spoons, one set sideways above the plate, were set in exactly the same position around each plate. The plate would never be used for actual eating. It would be taken away and replaced with other dishes. Each table was set exactly the same. It sat a uniform distance from the next table, in a carefully arranged display of perfection. I imagined the head waiter going around like a drill sergeant after beds were made up, “You! Those two spoons are touching. Drop and give me twenty.”
I said, “I haven’t been here before. It looks pretty nice in an institutional sort of way.”
She smiled a tight-lipped smile. She was more nervous than I’d thought she’d be. Something bothered her. I guessed it was the fact that she was stealing and reselling her employer’s property, albeit for just a good dinner. “You seem familiar to me,” she said. “Do you use the grocery at Quacker and Morph?”
“No, I live too far from there. I might have stopped in for a bottle of citrus or something. I think I would remember if I saw you there, though.” I believe I grinned at her like some kind of letch, but she didn’t take it that way. She had a smile that went on like a light bulb, bright and instant.
Regrettably, her smile went off like a light too. I missed it as soon as it was gone. Her voice, her hair, her very presence, seemed familiar to me as well, though I couldn’t place why. It was just a feeling I got. I felt comfortable with her.
I quit grinning when the waiter stepped up beside the table, and I ordered a broiled butt steak, well done, alo
o gobi, and a glass of real orange juice. Another waiter hustled by with a tray, leaving a trail of steam. I tilted my head back slightly, closed my eyes for a moment and drew in a breath slowly through my nose. Restaurants like this one were to be enjoyed at many levels.
Carla stared at the waiter with a—why didn’t you take my order first—look. “What kind of beef cattle is your prime rib?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the waiter replied with a sigh and a look down at her still bouncing foot, which was picking up the drape of the table cloth and tossing it up and down.
“Well, you can stand there and wait for an inspiration.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stalked off and began talking to the maître d’.
Carla gave me a knowing look and raised her left eyebrow. Her expression jarred me with an intense sense of déjà vu. I thought that someone I’d seen before had that same cast of countenance; perhaps an actress or a previous girlfriend.
The waiter stepped back up to the table. “The prime rib is from Japanese Wagyu cattle, ma’am.”
“Oh, fine,” she said in such a way as to strongly imply that the waiter could find a more appropriate job at a beandog emporium, and that Wagyu beef was well below her usual standard, but that it would have to do. She paused for a moment, looking at the ceiling, apparently praying for the strength to order food from such an amateur. “I’ll have the prime rib, lightly peppered, rare to medium rare, a baked potato with sour cream, green beans with freshly cooked bacon, crumbled, and pearl onions, but I’d like the onions on the side. I’d like your house dressing, but mixed half with ranch. I like my dressings with a red tint. Oh, and a King Louis cognac.” It was an old-fashioned dinner, but conservative choices seemed to fit the Beef Tucuman. I avoided running a tab in my head. I would have run out of fingers and toes just counting up my own part of the bill.
Walking Shadow Page 2
