Strange Flesh

by Michael Olson

  Then I call Xan.

  Any relief I felt at getting away dissolves instantly when she answers.

  “James. So glad you called.” She’s tentative, completely artificial.

  “Xan, what’s going on?”

  “Yeah. We’ve had a bit of a change of plans here.” Maybe it’s the pronoun, or maybe it’s the stress saturating her voice that warns me. She’s in danger. I picture her with a gun to her head.

  “Who’s there?”

  A shifting sound as if she’s put her hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. I hear what might be a male voice. Then she says, “I’m not going to be able to make our meeting.”

  “Right. Okay, what do they want me to do?”

  “We all need to get together. I hope you can bring our special friends.”

  “Fine. Where?”

  “There’s a warehouse in Secaucus.”

  New Jersey. One of Exotica’s local distribution hubs. Mondano’s turf. I don’t like it. I say, “How about the McDonald’s in Times Square?”

  Xan inhales. “Uh. No. It has to be . . . this other place.” The terror in her words makes me want to rip someone’s face off.

  “Fuck. Fine. Tell your friends they need to be careful starting now. And principals only. I see one of these guys from earlier today, things will get very ugly.”

  “Um . . . Okay, principals only. We, ah, hope things go smoothly.”

  “When?”

  There’s a short pause. “Immediately. We’ll have a car sent for you.”

  “No way. I’ll be there in ninety minutes.” I start to hang up, but she stops me.

  “James?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We may need to demo the products. And we don’t want any surprises. Nothing shocking, right? So with Ginger, be sure that you . . . Well, you know how she is. So we’ll see you soon.”

  The line goes dead.

  What was Xan’s incoherent addendum all about? I can understand that they’d want to confirm that we haven’t sabotaged the Dancers. But what does she mean by “nothing shocking”?

  “So with Ginger, be sure that you . . .” The words I’d use to complete that sentence are: “Don’t come.”

  She’s telling me to bail on the meeting. But I can’t bring myself to pull out now.

  I have the cab drop me at a twenty-four-hour karaoke place in Korea-town. One of their private lounges serves as an office for twenty minutes while I, taking a cue from Billy, compose an affidavit summarizing recent events. I bundle this with his final testament and attach everything to an email. I set my mail program to send it to my entire address list twelve hours from now.

  In less than a day I’ve gone from suppressing his message to potentially acting as Billy’s press agent. The threat of violent death has a way of changing one’s perspective. As a cadaver, I suspect I’ll be indifferent to being accused of involvement in his murder. So, like a video game paladin, I’ll be walking into this engagement clad in armor wrought purely of information.

  With that thought weighing on me, I decide to spend my remaining time making sure that the Dancers are ready for a memorable debut.

  75

  Mondano’s warehouse looks like a modest operation from the street. A run-down, one-story brick structure topped by a faded sign whispering EE LOGISTICS. But behind a screen of businesses installed in lots fronting the road hulks an enormous steel-sided warehouse.

  I walk through a narrow gap in a chain-link gate topped with a triple-stranded overhang of barbed wire. The tiny parking lot is lit by a pallid green security light. The building looks dark and deserted. As I approach the dented metal door, Blake Randall swings it open. He adopts a rueful expression intimating how sad it is that things have come to this. I just brush right past him.

  A reception area holds a bank of cast-off airport chairs opposite a tall counter like you might find at a car rental agency. Fake plants and inspirational posters round out the décor. The banality of this foyer is meant only to camouflage the eruption of carnal oddities beyond.

  Blake buzzes me through a security door and into a reprobate’s fantasy land. I stand on a thin catwalk overhanging a huge space filled three stories high with pallets of adult novelties sourced from nations spanning the globe. Hanging signs organize the aisles according to some innovative scheme of Dewey Decimal depravity. I can see a section containing enough rainbow-colored dildos to fill every orifice in the tri-state area. A miniature Library of Congress of pornographic DVDs. There’s an area where remaindered magazines are collated into “value paks” unlikely to satisfy anyone: Mature Foxes with Barely Legal, Footsie’s Petites with Rump-A-Dump. Under different circumstances, this place would provide for an amusing couple weeks.

  Blake leads me down the catwalk along a series of offices with glass walls commanding views of the warehouse floor. At the end is a long conference room equipped with a ten-seat table. The walls are decorated with promotional posters for storied Exotica releases.

  Mondano and Xan sit at the far side of the table. Xan seems unperturbed, but she makes a tsk of exasperation as I walk in and set Fred and Ginger’s cases in front of her. Mondano stands slowly. He’s got a pistol tucked in the front of his pants.

  He catches me looking at it and winks. That little gesture frightens me more than any of his earlier gangster posturing. In contrast to Blake, Mondano’s become progressively jolly as events have spun further out of control. He’s no longer acting like some kind of Lucky Luciano manqué. Here he’s exposing the burbling molten plastic of his unhinged personality. After the Cloisters, I knew I’d underestimated him, but seeing him now makes me think I misinterpreted him entirely.

  Slowly, with the exaggerated motions of a street mime, he takes his gun by two fingers and lays it gently on the table. He nods at his piece and grins, inviting me to do the same.

  I do, and there’s another thud at the end of the table where Blake’s positioned himself.

  So he came strapped too. Will the wonders never cease?

  In front of him lies a U.S. Army standard-issue Colt .45 auto. In service between World War I and Vietnam, if I’m not mistaken. Call it his dad’s, or maybe even grandfather’s, gun. Reaching for his legacy even now.

  Blake assumes the seat at the head of the table and begins. “So this situation is unfortunate. But as long as we all keep ourselves together and stay, ah, courteous, I’m sure we can work this out.”

  “Is knocking out our partner your idea of courtesy?” I reply.

  “Garriott? Is he okay?” asks Xan.

  Blake’s eyes ignite. He says tightly, “I understand he attempted to disarm one of our employees.”

  “He was shitting his pants, Blake. He wasn’t ‘disarming’ anyone. I’d be happy to stick my pistol in your ribs and see how you react.”

  “Now, James, I don’t think threats are the way to go here.”

  “No? How are we supposed to interpret assault and kidnapping?”

  Mondano leans forward and levels a spastically wagging finger at me. “If you hadn’t started fucking around, he’d be sitting in that chair having a scotch right now.”

  “Oh. Does the chair have high-voltage lines attached?”

  Blake jumps in. “Careful, James. We need to come together to find a—”

  I’m about to protest, but Xan saves me the trouble.

  “You expect us to ‘come together’ after you send this shit stain”—she points at Mondano—“to my flat trying to mouth-rape me with his gun?”

  Mondano licks his lower lip. “I’ll do better than that, luv. I’ve got—”

  Everyone jumps as Blake slams his hand against the table. “Enough!” A tortured silence prevails as he collects himself. “Look, we can all walk out of here—”

  “I know we’re walking out of here,” I say. “Your roll-up didn’t work. So you must know that if Xan and I aren’t swilling mojitos at Foo Bar by happy hour, you two are going to be under heat that will melt your skin. Maybe you want to try to beat it
with an army of lawyers. But maybe cash-poor Benito here doesn’t want to spend the prime of his life rimming his ink-faced Latin King cell mate.”

  Mondano chuckles like that might be a rare delight, but Blake eyeballs him skeptically.

  I continue. “And, Blake, I’ll bet that if the DA doesn’t have your ass, your sweet sister—”

  “You say another word about Blythe, and this meeting will end badly.”

  “I thought you didn’t make idle threats, Blake. You’re not going to kill us. You have too much to lose. And you won’t be able to cover it up this time. I’ve been more thorough in my preparations than your brother was. So here’s how it’s going to be. We’re going to leave now. You can hang on to the Dancers as insurance. Once we get to a safe place, we’ll contact you about the files. It won’t be cheap, but maybe we can make a deal. But we’re not going to play ball with a gun to our heads. Because we know the gun isn’t loaded.”

  Blake says, “Okay, James. All I ever wanted was for this project to succeed.”

  And your brother’s head on a stick.

  Mondano leans forward in his chair. “Wait. These things don’t do us any good if dickface here lobotomized them.” He leers at Xan. “Maybe our little geisha can show us how they work with a horizontal pussy.”

  Xan just looks through him.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Is this actually going to work out? Are the Dancers really all they want?

  Xan and I configure them in silence for a few minutes until everything is connected. I start up the ErrOS test package on my laptop.

  As I’m doing this, my fragile hope that this meeting might remain civil is shattered. From watching Billy’s video, I must be sensitized to moving shadows. It’s slight and happens very fast, but in the far left corner of the back wall I sense motion. The smallest flicker in the profile of light coming through the glass.

  Someone is peering around the corner. I force myself to continue what I’m doing. Then an almost subaudible scuffing sound, this time coming from the right.

  Tentacles of acidic fear grip my stomach. There are people surrounding the conference room. Our partners have decided to continue politics by other means. I glance at Mondano, who leans back in his chair with reptilian complacency. Blake, on the other hand, is clearly on edge. Expectant.

  I type a few runtime parameters into Fred’s system. Xan starts Ginger’s software, and we put the Dancers into a test mode that dispenses with the visuals and associated body tracking. The setting makes the machines just a simple sensor/actuator loop, taking them back to their most primitive form.

  I say, “Since you’re both so excited to see them in action, why don’t you guys do the honors?” They both look askance at this suggestion, so I add, “Just use your hands, and you can tell that they’re working. We don’t have the gear to do full-service here.”

  Xan is quick on the uptake and grabs Blake’s hand to guide two of his fingers into Ginger’s opening. This would normally cause Fred to thrust outward a corresponding distance. But he stays in his plastic shell like a frightened turtle.

  Mondano smiles up at the ceiling. “What—the—fuck?” he asks in an unnerving singsong.

  “Relax,” I say. “Maybe he’s just having some performance anxiety with our new friends here.” I see Mondano catch Blake’s eye and shake his head sorrowfully. I take a small Allen wrench out of my bag and open the side flap of Fred’s head that allows us access to the hardware. I make a minor adjustment.

  “Try it now.”

  Again Blake slides two digits into Ginger. Again nothing happens. Mondano laughs like we’ve finally come to the punch line. “You think we can’t fix this? You think we need you to make this work?”

  I open Fred’s hatch again, and while I’m twiddling, I rotate his base slightly counterclockwise.

  Blake leans across the table and says, “James, this is very disappointing. What did you think was going to happen here?” Right behind him, I see a flutter in the light from the window. Mondano’s men responding to his raised voice. Checking on their boss.

  I guess it’s now or never.

  “Well, Blake, from recent experience, I figured you were going to try to”—I incline my head toward the mic in my laptop—“fuck me.”

  “Fuck_Me,” of course, is the voice prompt that stimulates Fred to action, and so I used it here, but with modified orders.

  A soft click sounds as Fred releases the latch restraining his manhood, and there’s another louder one as he shifts the cylinder on his primary control valve. During the minute we’ve been waiting, I let the air pressure build up to over 250 p.s.i., quadruple its normal value. So Fred’s plastic member shoots out of his pelvic casing and impacts with the force of a pro fastball into the right side of Mondano’s mouth.

  He’s flung hard to the ground behind the table, so I can’t see the exact effect, but I suspect a team of oral surgeons will send their kids to college on the proceeds from repairing the damage.

  At the same time, Blake cries out at the surprise I installed for Ginger. All of her internal air muscles inflate to their maximum extent, trapping Blake’s fingers in a vise-like grip. Her head then rotates while pulling down hard, hopefully placing his wrist in a painful position.

  I dive over the table to knock Xan to the floor. Mondano is screaming, a strangled whistling sound, and his men will be coming in fast.

  Xan and I hit hard next to Mondano, who’s trying to go fetal under the table. I roll over and thrust my leg up into its underside with enough strength to topple it over so that its opposite edge rests on that side’s row of chairs. It forms an incomplete barrier between us and Mondano’s men. The giant glass wall explodes from the blast of a sawed-off shotgun. I nearly lose control of myself. Pistols are bad enough. But a shotgun in close quarters is a recipe for slaughter.

  Through the gap under the table’s edge I can see two sets of legs move into the room. I missed the chance to grab my gun as I vaulted over the table, but Mondano’s slid down with me, landing right next to Xan’s head. I snatch it and fire at their kneecaps. A startled shout indicates I hit someone, but I know it’s not going to be enough.

  The men will be on us before I can stand, so in desperation, I grab Mondano by the back of his jacket and turn him so that his body is mostly covering mine. I’m just bringing my pistol up when I see the face of Shades from the Cloisters emerge over the edge of the table. He’s looking down past the barrel of his shotgun. He takes in the situation and hesitates. With a handgun it would be an easy shot, but his pellet spread would take a large chunk of his boss along with me. It’s just enough time for me to squeeze off two shots into his chest, and he disappears from my view, firing into the ceiling as he falls.

  There’s still at least another shooter, maybe disabled, but probably not incapacitated. But I can’t see him through the table. I roll into a squat and jerk Mondano up onto his knees. He tries to grab at my face, but he’s wild with agony and can’t mount much of an attack. I lurch forward with him, my adrenaline-saturated muscles just able to propel him up over the lip of the table. I’m right behind him, again using his body as a shield. A muzzle flash from the floor just to my left, and Mondano’s head snaps back, spraying my face with gore. I empty my clip in that direction, but I can’t see shit with my eyes full of blood. Mondano becomes dead weight and slumps forward onto the edge of the table.

  I duck back down, frantic about what I’m going to do now that I’m out of ammo. I listen to try to get a sense of what’s happening, but a horrible silence has enveloped the room. Xan levers herself upright beside me, her breath coming in sobs. I put a finger to my lips. She holds her breath. The air is heavy with the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder. Then I hear a muffled thump to my left, maybe against the far wall. Someone is still moving. My brain seizes with terror.

  And then I see it. Mondano’s lifeless body hanging over the edge of the table has caused his pants to ride up enough to uncover an ankle holster. I grab the gun and rise, l
ooking for targets.

  It’s Blake leaning against the back wall. One of his hands is bent around at a disgusting angle, the wrist obviously mangled. I suppose that happened when I kicked the table over. Ginger would have come flying off with Blake’s hand attached. Despite what has to be unbelievable pain, his other hand is steady. It holds his gun, and is pointed straight at my chest.

  On seeing this, I almost start shooting immediately. But something holds me back. Mondano and his help planned violence from the beginning, but throughout, Blake has seemed legitimately shocked by what’s happened. He is someone I know, and regardless, there shouldn’t be any more bodies coming from this. My dreams from the past weeks of a triumphant demo are cruelly mocked by the blood drenching the room’s walls. Our unnatural vision of love replaced with this gory nightmare of war.

  I have to swallow hard to get my voice to work. “Blake, let’s just—”

  But then he fires.

  I guess I saw in his eyes the hysterical equations he was processing reach a solution. Maybe I noticed him adjusting his aim. Because as I hit the ground, I know that I got off a shot as well, and we both went down.

  I can’t say it hurts too much, but I know it’s bad. Partly because I can’t really move my head. In fact, I’m rapidly losing control of my whole body. I see Xan’s face swim into my line of sight.

  Her mouth opens in what must be a scream.

  76

  My cocoon goes from pleasant darkness to a brighter reddish brown. A light has been turned on, and if I open my eyes, I could find out why. I keep them closed.

  Hazy days pass in a swirl of numbness and pain. A surgery I think. I have a dim recollection of being moved onto a rolling stretcher. Some forms thrust at me. McClaren’s face close to mine, saying my name. These are only a few among some far more outlandish memories, so they may be nothing but the residue of a fever-fraught, opiate-laced dream.