by Rudy Rucker
“Bring a contract,” I told the Realtor. “If I like what I see, we can sign off right away. I’m starting a new company and I need a temporary base of operations.”
“I have some prime office space I could show you as well,” said Kay Harmid.
“I’ll be working out of my home until we finish our next round of funding,” I said. “That won’t be a problem, will it?”
“Not at all. The house is on a corner lot. You and your partners can come and go as you please. I’ll meet you at the property in fifteen minutes.”
The house was a small, frail, one-story wood structure on a corner next to a traffic light, with the Route 17 entrance ramp a hundred feet away. A fifty-year-old summer cottage, planted in such a crappy location that nobody had ever bothered to scrape it off the lot and build something new. The house was painted a brave light yellow, with green and brown accents on its spidery Victorian trim. The paint was totally coated with grime from the traffic. Kay Harmid was waiting in the house’s large parking area, sitting in a white diesel Mercedes with tinted glass, talking on her cell phone. There was a tiny one-car garage by the driveway, its door overgrown with glossy Algerian ivy. I pulled in beside Kay Harmid and she got out, a stocky woman with a large, double-jointed black leather purse. She had shiny skin, short hair, and an expensive suit cut from folk-art fabric. Little pictures of burros and farmers. Her smile was cursory. Real estate was a seller’s market these days. Take it or leave it.
I’d thought the traffic was loud at our house, but this was a different story. Just now a truck was idling at the light, and the noise was pretty much all I could think about. It was too loud for talking. And this was only Sunday! The Realtor and I stepped inside the house, me toting my cash-filled attaché case.
“It’s kind of busy here,” I said.
Kay closed the door and the sound level dropped down. “Not to worry,” she said, handing me a business card. “There’s double-paned glass and a brand-new heating-cooling system. I love these hard wood floors.”
The house did indeed have hardwood floors, reasonably clean and shiny. All the walls and ceilings were painted white-nor fresh painted, mind you, but not too scuffed either. It took about a minute to peek into the four tiny rooms: the front living room, the kitchen, and two bedrooms. Ancient fixtures in the kitchen. Back in Matthewshoro I could have flat-out bought this house with what these Californians wanted for a few months rent. Jena wasn’t going to be at all impressed. In fact she’d probably make fun of me.
But to hell with Jena. I needed a place to stay. With the right furniture, I could make the front room look like a real office. And it would be easy for investors to meet me here. Take the Los Perros exit off Route 17, and your first right turn is my driveway. I walked around the place again. One of the bedrooms in back wasn’t all that bad; it looked out onto a row of messy eucalyptus trees that pretty much hid the sight of Route 17. The long, curved leaves were green in the sun and the sky beyond them was blue. I used my third eye to form a full image of the house, and then let my viewpoint fly all around inside it. It felt like home.
The only thing was, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to he moving in here with Jena. In recent years it had always been the two of us looking for housing together. What the hell was I doing renting a house without asking Jena? But that was over now.
I hardened my heart and told Kay, “Let’s do it.”
“You’re going to love it here, Mr. Cube,” she said. “Now if you want to give me your social security number, I can run a credit check while you look over the paperwork.”
Kay phoned my number in to Welsh & Tayke. While we waited for the call-back, I filled out a rental application form and read through the fine print rental contract. Reading it calmed me down. I’m a businessman; I like contracts. As Kay looked over my form, her phone rang. She listened for a minute, then hung up and gave me a thoughtful look.
“You’re co-owner of a townhouse at 1234 Silva View Crescent?” she said.
“That’s correct. My wife and I bought it together. We’re splitting up.” It hurt to be saying it out loud. I half expected Kay Harmid to contradict me, to try and talk me out of it, to recommend a marriage counselor.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” was all she said. She glanced down at my form. “Will your wife be taking over the mortgage payments?”
I hardened my heart again. “That’s correct. And we’ll be putting the house on the market.” I’d just decided that. Might as well get my equity back. Let Jena really see how it was, being on her own.
Kay brightened at this bit of news. “Well that should work out, then. I hope you’ll consider using me as your agent. I’ve sold a lot of properties in the Silva View neighborhood. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised at how much your home there has appreciated in just these past few months. Now, regarding the move-in payment. I think I mentioned the amount on the phone?” She jotted it down on a piece of paper for me, as if not wanting to say the absurd figure our loud. “If you want to drop a certified check by the office, one of us can give you the keys.”
“How about cash?” I said.
Not even a ghost of surprise on her face. Things were crazy in the Valley these days. “No problemo,” said Kay Harmid pleasantly.
“Just a minute,” I said, and took my case out to my car. I didn’t want her to see how much I had in there.
The traffic noise was overwhelming. A bit like the ocean, or like a high wind through the trees, but without that wholesome natural quality. Jena would have talked me out of this, made a scene if necessary. But I was alone now, free to do everything as stupidly as I pleased.
The case shifted in my hand a little as I got into the car. And I almost thought I heard the sound of the money rustling. I set the case down on my lap, opened it—and screamed.
There was a giant red spider in there—a tarantula? I threw my hands up in the air, trying to squirm away. But the spider didn’t come for me. Actually it wasn’t a spider. It was a red hand. Long, skinny red fingers with pointed black nails. Talons. Like a devil’s hand. There were still a few bills in there with it. The hand gathered up the bills and made a crooked, twitching motion, shoving the bills vinnward into the fourth dimension. And then the hand paused, gave me the finger, and disappeared.
I sat there, my heart going a mile a minute, the empty metal attaché case in my lap. Finally I closed it up and went back in the house.
“On second thought, I think I’ll bring the money by your office,” I told the Realtor.
She looked me over again. “How soon?” she said finally. “We’ve had two other calls on this property already. It wouldn’t be fair to the owner to—”
I glanced at my watch. It was eleven. “I’ll be there by one,” I said.
“We can hold it for that long,” said Kay. “But let us know if you’ll be late. If I’m not in, the girl at the desk will take care of you.” She shook my hand. “It’s been nice working with you, Mr. Cube. And don’t forget to call me when you’re ready to put your Silva View Crescent house on the market.”
The Realtor drove off, leaving me standing there next to my car. What now? I needed to talk to Momo. The sun was going behind some clouds. I put on my leather jacket and walked around behind the house to its weedy backyard. There were some back steps and a little porch—a bare platform of warped gray boards.
“Hey Momo!” I called, sitting down on the edge of the porch. “Come talk to me. One of your friends just stole my money!”
No answer. I guessed she was still off fetching those antenna crystals she’d been talking about. Well, hopefully she’d be back soon. She could always get me more money. I opened the attaché case again, checking that it was really and truly empty, then lit a cigarette and sat there thinking. That red hand hadn’t looked like Momo’s hand one bit. Presumably the thief was some other kind of being from the four-dimensional All.
I had a vague memory of Momo mentioning a race called the Dronners. Momo was from t
he Kluppers; they lived up above our Spaceland—“up” in Momo’s sense of the word. She’d said something about the Dronners being another folk who lived down below. Like Heaven and Hell, with Earth in between. If that red devil hand had been a Dronner’s, I wasn’t looking forward to seeing any more of those guys.
For the moment I was all alone in the yard. I hate being alone. I focused in on my subtle vision, checking out my surroundings. Next door was a complex of doctor’s offices; not regulation MD doctors, but rather counselors, chiropractors, massage therapists, holistic healers and wellness consultants. And back behind the lot were the eucalyptuses and the bank down to Route 17. My third eye noticed some homeless people camped in a culvert under the highway. Just kind of sitting there staring at a strip of sky. They didn’t care about the traffic. If all else failed I could join them.
I turned my attention to the house, checking it out again. For some reason my third eye seemed to be getting misty, but with a little effort I could still focus it. There wasn’t any basement to the house, and the attic crawlspace didn’t have anything in it but wires and insulation. The tiny, sealed garage was dusty and empty. And the house, well, it wasn’t that bad. I kept on sitting there, not knowing what else to do.
Traffic wasn’t all that loud just now. It seemed to come and go. I could do worse than live here. Just then my shaky subtle vision noticed a Lincoln Towncar turn off from the 17 exit and roll into the lot in front of the house. There were two guys inside it, one of them very fit and tan, with a Latin-lover look to him. The pit boss from Nero’s. He was holding a cell phone like he was taking instructions from somebody as he drove. The other guy was pale and thin with a gimmie cap pulled down low over his eyes. Gus the shill. They were both wearing shades and, thanks to my third eye, I could peek under their coats to see that they were carrying guns in shoulder holsters. Gus had something like a knife strapped to his leg as well. Oh no. They jumped out of their car, one of them heading around either side of the house. It was like they knew I was back there.
I headed for the eucalyptuses, but Gus caught up with me before I got there. He was fast.
“Joe Cube,” he shouted. He’d pulled out his gun. “Don’t make me hurt you, bro.”
I stopped and turned to face them. Gus’s gun had a silencer, like in the movies. Sante was standing a little behind him.
“Hey, Joe,” said the pit boss smoothly. “Sorry to bust in on you like this.”
“Sante,” I said, trying to smile. “You guys scared me. What’s the problem?”
“Health problem,” said Sante. “You feelin’ okay? Can buy a lot of good care with a million bucks. Don’t stand over there by the trees like that. You look scared. Whatsamatter? There don’t have to be no problem. Come on and let’s go in your house.”
“It’s not my house,” I said. “Nobody lives there. I was just looking at it.”
“Nice and private here,” said Sante, looking around the yard. “This is a real good part of town. I grew up in downtown San Jose. My Mom’s still livin’ there. But enough with the light chit-chat. Let’s sit on the back steps. Where you was sittin’ before.”
“How do you know where I was sitting?”
“Little bird phoned me,” said Sante. “Little pigeon. You don’t got such good friends, Joe. Fella told us you cheated at the big game last night. Nero’s don’t like that. Good thing you got the case with you.”
“Go on,” said Gus, gesturing with his gun. “Go on over there and sit drown.” He took the case out of my hand as I passed him.
The three of us sat down on the edge of the porch. It pretty much had to be Spazz who’d phoned them. But why? He already had my wife. And I’d said I’d give her half the money. Why was Spazz doing this to me?
“It’s empty,” I said, just as Gus flicked open the case. Gus cursed and threw the empty case halfway across the yard.
Sante did that thing with his eyebrows. Looking all mature and long-suffering. A this-hurts-me-more-than-it-hurts-you kind of face. Jerk. “Help us out, Joe,” he said. “You cheat at Nero’s, you pay Nero’s back.”
“I didn’t cheat,” I protested. “I don’t know who you’ve been talking to. It’s a lie. I got lucky is all. How would I cheat? We played with your cards. I didn’t even freaking touch the cards. You can’t just go threatening everybody who wins at your casino.” I was hitting my stride now. “You can’t do this, Sante. I’ll tell the cops.”
“You ain’t goin’ to no cops, Joe,” said Sante. “We know where you got your seed money.”
“What are you talking about?” I said, trying to keep my voice level.
“The seventeen thousand dollars you used to buy your chips,” said Sante. “You stole them from the vault at a Wells Fargo in the north part of San Jose. We checked the numbers on your bills and matched them to a report come out on the police wire. Nero’s is connected, Joe. We got friends all over the place. We ain’t passed the word on you yet, though. None of us needs to snitch to no cops. You give us back our million and we keep your seventeen. It’s like a gentleman’s agreement.”
“Gee,” I said, a little recklessly. “Will you comp me next time I come to Nero’s?”
Gus grabbed me hard by the arm. “You think we’re playin’ with you, Joe? You ever step in a casino again, you’re a dead man. Where’s the million at?”
“It’s—it’s not here. Maybe I can get it for you.”
“Maybe?” said Sante, grabbing my other arm. “You’re disrespecting us, bub.” He pushed me down onto my back. “Show him the pick, Gus.”
Gus pulled up his pant leg and pulled out the knife—or no, it was an ice pick. The dull gray of its steel was shiny silver where the tip had been ground to the sharpest of points. Gus pulled my shirt tail out of my pants and ripped my shirt open, popping the buttons and uncovering my bare belly. I tried to roll away, but Sante had me pinned tight. And now Gus sat down on my legs.
“Don’t,” I said. My voice wasn’t as loud as I wanted it to be. “Don’t,” I shouted, finding my volume, and then I broke into a shriek. “Help! Someone help me!”
“That’s loud traffic, huh?” said Sante pulling a rolled-up pair of cotton sweat socks out of his coat pocket. He forced them into my mouth, wedging my jaws so far open that the hinge made a pop. “We’re gonna give you a taste of what your Mom did to your Dad. What a piece of work she musta been, what a psycho. Yeah, Nero’s knows all about you, Joe. We done our research. Boss was laughin’ about this. Gut-stab this Cube guy, he was sayin’. That’ll get his attention. Boss is like a psychologist, he likes to tailor our approach, know what I mean?”
I tried to scream, to beg, to make promises, but nothing was coming out past the socks. I threw myself against Sante and Gus, struggling like never before.
“Take it easy there, Joe,” said Sante, enjoying this. “Don’t have a coronary. It ain’t really nothin’, gettin’ stabbed with an ice pick. We know a nice spot so you won’t even need a doctor. But next time we use the knife. Do him, Gus.”
“Right here?” said Gus, patting a spot on the left side of my pale, trembling stomach. Sante nodded, his eyebrows slanting down to the sides. I tried again to squirm away, but they had me completely immobilized.
Gus poised the ice pick like he was about to throw a dart, and then whipped it down towards me. With all my will, I drew my stomach away from the point.
I heard the ice pick thud into the wood of the porch. The musical sound of it quivering. Suddenly I remembered my dream of last night. It was like the dream had gotten me ready for this, had prepared me so I’d know what to do.
“What the—?” said Sante. “He broke in two?”
“Jesus, Sante,” said Gus. “We’ve killed him.”
I lay still, watching things with my feebly functioning third eye. A foot-wide strip of my body had disappeared; it had bowed vout into the fourth dimension. My legs had slid up the steps a little to take up the slack. I’d done just like Dad had done in Flatland. The spots where my body bent
away into higher space were sealed over with tough pink hide—the hyperskin I’d gotten when Momo cattleprodded me. There was a big pink oval at my waist and another at the bottom of my chest. With nothing in between.
I let my head loll to the side like I was dead. I was having a bad enough day that acting dead felt natural. Sante and Gus stood over me, not sure what to do next. And then Momo appeared in the yard, looking for all the world like an overgrown yuppie homeowner on the warpath.
“Foul villains!” she exclaimed, striding towards us. “You’ll pay for this crime!”
“Waste her,” said Sante. Gus already had his pistol out; he leveled it at Momo’s head and fired off a shot. With the silencer, the gunshot was nothing but a hissing pop. Like an air gun. The bullet struck Momo right in the forehead. A little dimple formed where the bullet hit; the bullet popped out and fell to the ground; the dimple smoothed over. She kept on coming. Sante got out his gun and shot Momo too, this time in the chest. The bullet had no more effect than a finger poking a loaf of dough.
Sante and Gus took to their heels. With my spotty subtle vision, I watched their Towncar go fishtailing out of the driveway and onto Route 17. My stomach slid back into visibility. I got to my feet.
7
Klupdom
“Well done, Joe,” said Momo, walking over to me. “Practice the motion again, before you forget the trick of it.”
I looked down at the ice pick, still stuck in the wood of the porch, and tried to reproduce my feelings of terror. But for the moment, my bare stomach stayed stubbornly in place, butt-white in the pale winter sunlight.
“Come come,” said Momo taking the ice pick in her hand and waving it at me. “You can do it.”
Seeing the ice pick move towards me was enough. It was like that first instant when your skis unfreeze and you start sliding down a run. It takes only the slightest twitch to get started. With a steady, even motion, my midsection rose vout into the fourth dimension.
