Then Carol’s face fills a monitor screen: tidy eyebrows, complimentary cocktail. Just past the middle of her life, plays a bit of this, a bit of that — hopeful, but not a complete sucker. Never had a fancy job or shot junk up her arm. An optimistic tilt to her head, a hint of individual will behind that familiar foolish gleam. Perfect. Milk checks his controls, clears his mind and zooms in.
baseline check: heart rate 72 | base spend: $2 per min …
glow: soft amber | low metal slush | gold tumble plastic cup | bird chirps tiny bells | spend: $4 per min …
scent: four-leaf clover | glow: warm amber | subsonic: applause | low gold slush | $5 per min …
jasmine | dreamsound 14 | smell of velvet | tickle of dice | skin of a dark-haired man | gunpowder | heart rate 86 | $8 per min …
Oh yes, thinks Milk. Very nice.
[Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: proposal
No idea, Frank, your address is protected. Never heard of this guy, dunno what his game is. But I’m curious. What you think?
[Machine 942, main floor, Double Six Casino: Carol]
Three cherries, thinks Carol, three cherries means I cut my hair into a bob and stop eating cheese after seven p.m. (causes weird dreams, goes straight to the hips). A snappy little bob and a summer tint maybe. Come on, come on … Pft.
Oh Jesus. Did I turn the gas off? Bet the battery’s flat in the smoke alarm … Right, if I get a spade now I’ll get back tonight to find the house burned down, and the Elliots’ place, and the next one along … No spade, no spade, please … Phew. Heh. (Silly: don’t think like that.) Now … if a heart stops in the middle, that means he’s thinking about me. Or I get a clover on the left. Heart or clover, he’s thinking of me right now.
[Excerpt, audio interview, location unspecified: Milk | Damon]
Sure, that’s your job — ask questions. But you’ll paint the wrong picture if you misunderstand the motive here. Earning a living … Okay. Forget it.
Yeah, a very new field — but the potential. I mean, take hospitals: you’ve got sick people, women giving birth. Newborn babies, kids getting tonsils out, guys having heart surgery. So what do they get? Blank corridors, fluoro lights. And that smell: sickness and antiseptic, lukewarm plastic, boiled scalpels. Just a big people factory, a setting for bad dreams. Get well soon? I don’t think so.
Now imagine gentle light, warm colours, low-frequency sound pulses. At night, for the insomniacs: waves on a beach, so soft it’s almost imperceptible. You pipe in a subtle mix of ozone, jonquils, cut wood, maybe a hint of human breastmilk. Jonquils are almost guaranteed. Very few people can recall a negative experience with jonquils. Right, the cancer ward: you synthesise each person’s unique childhood scent, the smell of them in perfect health, dab it on their pillow. Grandpa wants morphine: he gets colour saturation, audio therapy, internal projections. And surgeons: always exhausted, right? So you tune the operating theatres to keep them alert. More skill per hour. The drop in medical misadventure suits would pay for the whole thing. And it’s altruistic.
Of course we don’t. That’s illegal.
I do my own tuning experiments around the city. As research, you know? I’ll just set up somewhere, tune up an atmosphere — usually a nostalgia-based mood, all nostalgia has some common ingredients — and monitor the effects. Times are hard enough already, so it’s all positive stuff I’m putting out there; people don’t even know it’s happening, but they feel good. Scores me brownie points for the soul, heh. Don’t put that in.
Not really. Mostly, ah, shopping centres so far. But that’s my point: the infrastructure’s there, we just have to realise the potential. And build up a greater respect for the art form too. Hopefully that’s where you come in.
[Main floor, Double Six Casino: Milk | Carol | unidentified male patron]
Three hours into Milk’s shift the casino is humming, but despite his best efforts Carol has left her blackjack table and headed for the bar. Doubt prickles through him; she didn’t look like a drinker. She still has credit, he’d set her into a nice rhythm, and according to his calculations she should have stayed put.
But his human barometer, with her neat hair and cheerful handbag, has abandoned her seat and wandered away, distracted by something invisible. Milk has no idea what. But what does it matter? It’s not personal, and his test rabbit has done her job. So he scans the room for another type of subject.
Milk has made progress. The electricity in the room is fizzing somewhere near hip level. The grim downward slant repeated across each pokies player’s mouth has tilted upwards by half a degree. The hard-faced blonde is still at her machine, feeding in coins at a steady rate. He shoots out a squirt of peppermint to mask the sour feet of a baccarat player; women unwrinkle their noses, nearby seats begin to fill. He sees a Chinese woman in a red dress, stacking her tigers high, and outlines her shape in rosy velvet; three men soon converge. An elderly couple playing craps look limp and jaundiced so Milk softens their light, gives them a shot of oxygen. Any reminder of death, that futureless place where loot counts for nothing, must be banished.
In the Mahogany corner a tall Caucasian in a charcoal Savile Row suit observes the roulette wheel, hands behind back. Deep-set Spanish eyes, slight stoop, bony shoulders poking at the fine wool of his jacket. Money. Milk studies the man’s gold wedding band, his watch.
(But the cameras can’t penetrate the cloth of those well-cut trousers; the sensors miss the tiny creak of the prosthetic limb strapped, not quite comfortably, below the man’s knee joint.)
This one could absorb a decent loss: an extraction is called for. But first the entire room needs an extra push. Milk picks a young, good-looking group playing blackjack for a laugh; amateurs with university degrees and expensive clothes, slumming it amongst the tracksuits and perms, the gold flash and grim jaws.
When a caramel-blonde solicitor draws twenty-one twice in a row, winning enough to buy the silk dress she saw downtown this morning, Milk magnifies their whoops, flicks an acoustic pulse through the air and fills the whole room with scent 42: Competition. It smells like the start of a race. The room turns to watch — the young woman’s head thrown back, laughing; her friends touching her arms, shouting wordless delight. Adrenaline ripples across the floor. People lean forward, chips hit felt, cards flip. The casino’s take spikes sharply.
But Milk sees he’s overdone it. Some of the croupiers have lost their detachment: they’re dealing too fast, calling too loud. One young dealer, eyes too bright, scrapes away chips like a squirrel scooping nuts. A punter protests, a supervisor hovers. It takes Milk half a nervous minute to restore calm. A slow, subterranean heartbeat issues from his fingers; the pattern shifts slightly, the fright dissipates. Angles dissolve into curves. The room steadies. Focus.
Carol calculates her credit burn and lets herself choose a third cocktail, a Silver Bullet — the nickname, she recalls, of the star of some cop show she watched as a kid: stocky guy with a crew cut, patrolled the badlands, always got shot at, never got hit. Good-looking guy who lingered in your head long after the TV was turned off.
Now something calls Carol outside. With the dark swirl of alcohol in her blood, she disengages from her barstool, weaves through the jangle and flash, across the coin-spangled carpet, out to the balcony. She lights a cigarette and watches the car park, the koala sweeping the night with its searchlight eyes, people streaming up escalators and trudging down stairs.
Out on the perimeter, in the gloom beyond the floodlights, she spots them again: a small shadow huddled against a dumpster, and further along another thin little figure, hesitantly approaching a couple as they head for their car. More undoc beggar kids, the city’s lost causes — nothing to be done for them. Carol turns away. It all f
ades out. In a quiet corner of her mind sits something to dream about, something private.
Milk lets her go. He zooms in on the tall man in the fine suit.
[Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: proposal
Heard about this stuff. Couple of big joints in Japan use these guys to mess around with the room, minipullate the lights whatever. But dunno sounds like bullshit. Paying enough staff already.
[Mahogany corner, Double Six Casino: Milk | unidentified male patron]
The tall man hunches over the roulette table, right hand in his pocket, twirling his wedding ring on one bony finger. Since the crash, his wife farewells him from the porch whenever he leaves the house; arranges the specialists’ bills on the table, neatly marked up with a yellow highlighter pen; makes him listen in on the extension when she negotiates with the insurance company. Cooks the meals he used to love, reminds him of his exercises. And tries not to turn away, he thinks, when the lights go out.
Milk just sees a tall guy with one hand in his pocket, a sure sign of holding back. He reads him again, notes the watch, the sharp attire, the high-denomination chips. Takes it all in. And begins.
glow: rose gold | scent: four-leaf clover, smell of good luck | subsonic: yesbigyesbigyes | a rise a roll a swell …
A neat flick of the dealer’s hand has set the wheel in motion. The players place their chips, the lanky guy stooping forward to stack his monkeys on eight; the ball spins, jitters, drops to silence. The dealer calls, ‘Number nine.’
subsonic: almost! | cognac glow | smell of good luck | an urge a surge a swell a dip | saltwater | subsonic: bet it all | scent: black liquorice musk petrol | accelerate | subsonic: luckluckluck | tic-tic-tic …
The wheel is back in motion, the ball dancing around its rim, almost weightless. The dealer calls last bets, and in one smooth movement the tall man leans over and slides everything — five tall stacks of $500 chips — back onto number eight. Then his black eyes observe the wheel and its jittering passenger calmly, almost politely, as if everything is settled.
But the ball drops into the slot on twenty-six. The croupier reaches across and scrapes away the plastic towers with a mechanical flourish. It’s all gone. He can afford it, Milk reminds himself quickly, feeling his own pulse jitter with adrenaline. That amount is nothing to a guy like him. He zooms out. No need to keep watching now.
The man just stands there with an empty face — some false certainty had swept through him, swift and tidal, leaving nothing in its wake. Deep in his pocket his mobile shivers and shivers, like a small sick animal. His wife always knows. This time he’ll have to admit it, and everything will unravel from there.
[Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: proposal
Okay Frank your call. But why not just meet him? If he’s a waste of time I’ll say no. We’re nine per cent down on last year. Uncertain times etc. Hate to remind you, but without changes I see worry ahead. Hey boss — is your spellchecker on?
[Excerpt, audio interview, location unspecified: Milk | Damon]
Good question. I’d say no, but it depends on the person: you get bad eggs in any profession. Remember that fake reporter, the Boston Headliner? Old Doctor Cyanide … and that hypnotist lawyer? There are sick people in every field, my friend, even journalism. But as a general rule … good people with true talent will use that talent for good.
No thanks. I don’t drink. You go ahead.
Well, it’s hard, being a pioneer, if I can use that word, because people don’t really get it yet. You should hear me trying to explain it to my father, what I do for a living. Do what — you call this job, to make some smells, make noises? Look, your brothers, proper job — dentist, lawyer. Not make some kind of smell. Is good for what? You know, all that immigrant-made-good stuff. No, don’t put that in. No, wipe it, it’s not relevant, it was just a personal aside. Off the record, or whatever you guys call it these days.
What? Hey, I said no photos. Man, we discussed this already: anonymity. Moodies, we have to be unobtrusive, subtle. We’re not, you know, celebrities … But you can use my first name. That was the deal, right, Damon? You promised to use my name.
[Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: proposal
Okay what the hell I’m entrigued, set up a meeting. Do what he said with the lights plants fish outside security patrols etc. And watch that new German croupier chick right, I don’t trust her. And JJ forget my spelling mate. You just look after the numbers.
[Coach 261, pick-up, Double Six Casino: Carol | female casino patrons | bus driver #642]
Out on the balcony Carol is draining her third cocktail and performing calculations in her head. She has spilled over as usual, but the rent is safe. Just. The casino fades out, as her mind heads for its own warm, dark corner. Her bus driver: tonight he greeted her by name. Just below eye level, pinned to his shirt, is a laminated photo ID, which she’s always been too shy to scrutinise. He could be anyone. But she recalls the details — the dim blue of old tattoo ink against a white cuff; his eyes, pale as gravel, tilting up as she hands over her ticket; that half-second of skin contact. His eyes always land first and fix steady, but hers arrive late and jump away fast. Neck, hands, skin. Tiny bus windows reflected in black pupils. She remembers it all clearly.
A sharp horn blast, the flash of headlights. A second of shame as she recognises that shape down there behind the windscreen, arms slack across the steering wheel. That face tilted up at her, light grey eyes watching from the blue space of the waiting coach. Arranging her emotions back beyond her face, pushing away the imaginary smell of his skin, Carol hurries down to the car park and climbs aboard the rumbling machine.
He could be smiling. ‘Sorry to startle you,’ he says. ‘These ladies put me up to it.’ Carol glances around: a non-committal shrug, an indifferent look, one woman dropping into a boozy sleep. With nothing to say, she takes the empty seat nearest to him. The women and their driver roll onto the highway, sweeping the night behind them. Light by light the city blinks out, and the dark hush of the subzones begins to fill the coach windows. Carol can’t read his name from here, but their eyes connect briefly in the rear-view mirror. Something shoots through her, bright and swift. A little subtraction is nothing, when you weigh it up. She’ll be back next week.
heart rate 92 | pulse flicker | sudden pupil dilation | spend: zero per minute
[Taxi 91163, pick-up 19, Double Six Casino: Milk | Tally | unidentified male patron]
It’s dawn when Milk finally makes for the taxi rank. Walking home would clear his head, but he can’t risk carrying his equipment through the streets.
The big boss had come down personally to shake his hand and give him a box of expensive cigars he’ll never smoke. Then he offered him a job working the high-roller rooms and introduced him to an embarrassed lingerie model. Milk excused himself with a polite promise to return next week.
He’s exhausted by the thousands of moments he’s processed. He tries not to swallow the emotions of strangers, but he can’t help it: he always gets too close.
A fine rain sifts over the casino car park. There are bodies in some of the vehicles: a small dog, two sleeping toddlers, a child sitting silent behind the wheel of a battered ute. In the grey morning light the koala mascot is just a concrete lump, its sparkle switched off at the mains. He can see someone huddled under its bulk: a street kid sheltering from the drizzle. Sharp little tomboy face, dirty feet. She squints at Milk as he passes, lifts so
mething silver to her eye: a small flash explodes in the gloom. On reflex he ducks, turns his face away. Stolen camera, he thinks, tightening his grip on the handle of his case and signalling for a taxi.
The driver is wearing a spotless lilac turban. Windows rolled up tight, they slide past the pier where a tall, well-dressed man with an almost imperceptible limp is watching the oily water, into which he’s just dropped his phone. How deep will it sink before it stops shivering? Can a machine drown? He’s rehearsing a conversation that will begin when he wakes his wife to tell her there’s a taxi driver parked outside, waiting to be paid. Anyone who caught his eye would notice a peculiar lack of light in there. But no one does: he’s just a man in a suit, looking the other way.
Milk is bothered by a vague, faceless need. Tonight something changed: certain people proven wrong, certain plans clicking into place, his own brand of poetry taking a solid form. He is being validated, at long last. So why this itch?
Then he registers the smudge of dirt across the toe of his new sneaker, the left shoe. He scratches at it, but the mark stays put. Pressing the intercom to speak to the driver, Milk feels his anxiety begin to dissolve, his blood slide back to its regular rhythm. New shoes, he thinks with relief, as he gives directions to the all-night mall.
CHAPTER 3:
THIRST
[Frontage, So Yum, budget restaurant strip, New Docks, South Interzone: Tally | Diggy | miscellaneous unverified persons]
The first time Tally saw the guy with the golden puppy, he was holding the animal slung over his shoulder like a rifle, ears bobbing cartoon-style in time with its owner’s jolting steps. It was a chubby, optimistic-looking pup with yellow eyes — part-dingo, maybe — and it rode the guy’s shoulder with dignity, its wet chops flapping in their wake. But its owner was moving fast, and Tally soon lost them in the crowd.
Black Glass Page 4
