Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  Nikki has also kept her look, but of course sports new clothes. She wears a light gold shirt, a black mesh silver glitter skirt beneath a lean, black, body-hugging duster. She wears smooth black leather boots with a low heel.

  Cuban Geek sports fat leather pants with a huge black belt, a simple black shirt beneath a black leather vest, and rigid mud-stomping boots.

  “What’s our ETA?” I ask.

  “We’re here,” says Nikki.

  “Then let’s do this,” I state.

  “One moment, got a surprise for everyone,” Geek says. He displays a rectangular case with a seashell finish. The case is about the size of his palm. He opens the case and we see two sets of contact lenses.

  “Nikki, Liz, these contacts are for you and will register with your new identities. They won’t interfere with you Body Flourish implants.”

  “Nice. Thanks,” says Nikki.

  “Yeah, thank you, Geek,” says Liz.

  The girls give him a kiss.

  “You’re welcome.” He looks to me. “I installed your new eyes with the appearance upgrade.”

  I nod. Of course he did.

  I watch the girls apply their new contacts. Then they pull out tiny mirrors to check themselves.

  “All good?” I ask.

  “Shut up and wait,” Nikki replies.

  We exit Geek’s mobile home like the Kings and Queens of the World. The cobblestones beneath our feet are glossy black due to on and off showers. Geek presses a black button on his phone. The door of his mobile home closes. His mobile home then jumps into the flow of westbound traffic. A moment later the blue metallic covering of his mobile home shimmers, bends and flexes. Now Geek’s mobile home is invisible.

  I look up and see a slate gray sky crowded with air traffic and personals. I look southwest and find the bright, towering city.

  “Is this the Bronx?” I ask Geek.

  “Yep,” he replies

  The neighborhood is bustling with people. Small shops specializing in fine jewelry, clothing, day spas and other ways to spend time and money.

  Accosted by personals for financial services, IPOs, personal management advisors, and health spas; Nikki, Liz and I follow Geek down the sidewalks. From time to time, the sexy and sinister rhythmic clicking of the women’s heels striking smooth stone captures me. I just wanna get nasty when I hear that sound. I have a very low threshold for erotica. Cigarettes, heels, skirts, bras, red lipstick; all that makes me very happy, really fast.

  We hear the roar and rush of music and cheering people yet noise is muted due to the sound-absorbing properties of the reconstructed white stone façade of an old fort. I look up. A few meters above us, in what had been the fort’s main courtyard, now converted to a multifunction sports ground, a Dominican kid rules the handball court.

  Back on ground level, people mill about, the crowd grows thick, and so we know we’re about to dive into the heart and heat of the street. We turn a corner to find a huge gathering of people surrounding a lone musician. The music is hard and hits you like gravity but has a catchy guitar riff with a bouncy bass line and a solid, no-nonsense skip beat. Large cameras float overhead, dodging banners and balloons, a basketball sized orb that randomly fires confetti, and small hovering spheres that shine colored lights on the singer. All of this fanfare announces the musician’s presence, Marilyn Elvis, live on the Hudson.

  “In the eye of the reflective surface, I am love. I am strong. I can do anything,” sings the tall, thin man.

  Nikki, Liz, Geek and I look at each other. We wade through the bopping people.

  I yell at Geek, “Did you know this was going on?”

  He shakes his head. “Not at all. Is this a new song or an old song?”

  “About four years old. It’s his breakthrough hit. He’s been around for better than ten years.”

  Geek nods.

  I’m not bumping into people. How cool is this? We ease through the crowd and I’m not leading the way, the girls are. They are beautiful and people peel away from them as though afraid of their touch. I’m bringing up the rear, so I watch the men and women stare at Nikki and Liz with smiles and whispers and looks of awe. And the gawkers cast approving eyes upon Geek, and finally they see me, think about, and then nod as if it all makes sense. The girls take us front and center stage.

  I look up and note the cameras trained on Nikki and Liz. Okay, how do I tell my little dance whore that we should not stay and enjoy the show?

  Looks like I don’t have to. Nikki is shaking her super bonbon but she’s not hanging around. She and Liz shimmy with some of the boys in the crowd then move on.

  As the four of us move by, I can see ME plays a clear multi-string device with a long neck and box body. His instrument is attached to a half dozen silver cubes by a hydra of colorful cords. Six black amps are suspended behind and above him, powering tsunami sound upon the masses. I have to say Marilyn is not the most beautiful boy to look at. His head is round and he’s basically pie-faced; set down by a poor complexion with wisps of hair along the sides of his flat face and on his puff-knob of a chin. I chuckle because his thin body, round head and pie-face remind me of a sunflower. Marilyn’s hair is long and unkempt and unwashed. He wears a hot white shirt highlighted with gold and silver threading about the neck, cuffs and hem. His trousers are tight and black. And true to his rebel agenda, he’s barefoot. I understand the barefoot thing is related to his non-regen agenda. He wants to age naturally, like that Ezra asshole.

  I realize his agenda is inline with the Pii program. It doesn’t matter what you look like; do your best and never give up and you will be rewarded. And so Mister Ugly up here on the stage is kicking the Bronx in the ass and they love it.

  We pass the musician, the small LCD display before his instrument case states, Give Your Money to ME. I see that the name inside his case, Marilyn Elvis in big gold letters. I’m feeling good and I like his music so I give him a few twenties. The money falls silently into the instrument case, mixing with other bills, credit flashes and panties with phone numbers or emails addresses scrawled upon them.

  Geek walks with Liz, leading us away from the concert.

  I keep step with Nikki.

  We exit on the violin diminuendo for “Mirror is Lovely”. I turn to see ME draw a bow across the strings of his instrument. Knowing the ending, I watch as he drops the bow, flips a switch and using only the fingers on his left hand, plays the last few piano notes as he sings, “Lay down your weapon and lay down with me.”

  Nice. The beat breaks into a rapid hi-hat riff and I turn away.

  The music pauses for only a second then ME kicks back in with a song that brings a smile to my face. My pod used to play this tune whenever we hit hard resistance.

  Rock Lobster. Good times.

  I have to jog a bit to catch up to the trio.

  We make an abrupt left and our trail ends at the start of a dirty side street. A small mountain of wet bagged trash is staged sloppily against the wall at our left. I look to my right and up and see a large square hand-painted sign in Thai above the shabby front of the restaurant. I imagine that the hand-painted sign translates to Banana Cup, as indicated by the yellow neon sign in the window to the left of the door.

  The handwriting on the chalkboard to the right of the door is shaky and erratic as though it had been the first time the writer had used chalk. And English is not the writer’s first language. I laugh as I read the chalkboard. Flesh fishfood daly. No yesteday fish. No sosaa meat! No cat, dog, rat meat! Dont axx!

  “You want to eat here?” Liz challenges.

  “Trust me. They’re clean and the food is excellent.” Geek says. He opens the door. Liz and Nikki enter, I follow.

  Shredded dry banana leaves in shades of green, yellow, sunburst orange, sunset red and brown pad the weathered wooden floor. The interior is a honeycombed grotto with a high ceiling and has a feel as old as time. Faded and decaying posters and party banners (Happy New Year 2000) are fixed on the thick cherry wood
beams overhead. The old hardwood walls are dust free, dark and hold the scents of thousands of meals. The restaurant is crowded and noisy. Solo, couples, parties of ten or more. Everyone is dressed in fine clothes. The place is hopping. The food must be good.

  A skinny waiter with thin black hair that lies flat and lifeless on his head quickly approaches us. “Gee tee krap?” he says.

  “Four,” Geek states as he displays four fingers.

  The waiter seats us at a table by a window with a view of the rear of an apartment complex. He deals out the menus and hurries away.

  “You speak Thai, Geek?” I ask.

  “Just enough to get fed and laid,” he replies. Then with a polite raise of his finger to a passing waiter, he says, “Sung aa-haan krap.”

  The waiter nods with a smile. He eases over to a bank of waiters standing by the bar. He speaks to the very skinny guy on the far left.

  The waiter appears at our table with his order pad at the ready.

  “Four Singha. Large bowl of tom kha gai for table.” Geek makes a circular motion with his hand about the table to accentuate for table. “Moo sateh, mieng-kum, fried quail eggs and tod mun,” Geek says.

  The waiter nods and exits, weaving his way toward the kitchen.

  “What did you order?” Liz asks.

  “Four Thai beers, soup and a bunch of appetizers,” Geek replies.

  “I heard fried quail eggs,” Nikki says with a sour scowl.

  “Yeah, top ‘em off with soy sauce and black pepper. Brilliant.” Geek says with a tasty grin.

  Nikki, not convinced, shakes her head and says, “No thank you.”

  We sit in silence and take in the action of the Banana Cup. From what I see around me, the portions are huge, plates thick with veggies, nuts, fish and meat, accompanied by dozens of tiny ceramic bowls filled with a multitude of sauces.

  Appearing like an apparition, a tall thin waitress serves our beers. She exits the scene in the same fashion.

  “A toast to life,” Geek says.

  And so we do.

  The waiter who took our order appears with friends. The servers place the food on our table with effortless expedience.

  I study the utensils. Chop sticks. “The old scoop and shovel, hand to mouth, school of dining.” I say.

  Geek nods and fills a soup bowl. He hands the bowl to Liz. Geek says, “Sip slowly, it’s hot.”

  He fills bowls for Nikki and I, then for himself. He takes a slow, dignified sip of the steaming brown liquid.

  I point to the red, hollowed, oblong dish placed in the center of the table with a dozen dainty and attractive shells covered with chocolate-brown speckles and stuffed with their fried former contents neatly plated.

  “Quail eggs?” I ask Geek.

  He nods. He reaches out with his chopsticks and snares one. He sprinkles ground black pepper over it, then dips it in soy sauce and pops it into his mouth. Instantly his face is awash in ecstasy.

  “Great,” he offers as if some hard-won victory has been achieved.

  I reach out with my chopsticks and follow Geek’s plan. And damn, it does taste great. It’s like being kissed by god. In my reverie, I notice the shell has a delicate shade of blue inside.

  “That’s a pretty shell,” says Nikki.

  I nod as I toss it aside and dive in for another. “You should have one before me and Geek knock ‘em out.”

  Liz reaches out with her chopsticks and picks up a quail egg. She dips it in soy sauce then dusts it with black pepper. She pops it in her mouth. She smiles, her head tilts to the side. She seems very content.

  It happens rather quickly, yet, I note the movement in slow motion.

  I see the two WEB agents enter from the left quarter, as we had.

  I see three more agents approach from the right. Now I can see four emerge from the kitchen. Geek and Nikki’s eyes tell me agents are behind me, just a sheet of glass between us.

  There is a family of seven at the table to my right. I can reach out the touch the child in the highchair. There is another large group of civilians at the table on my left, behind Liz. Geek and Nikki are hemmed in by a row of dining couples.

  Looks like I have to sit on my hands for this round.

  One of the agents places the barrel of a gun to Nikki’s temple.

  In sync, all around our table, barrels of slender, nasty black metal kiss flesh, except for me. The barrel of the weapon with my name on it points at my right eye.

  The restaurant grows from quiet to absolute silence.

  “Clear out the diners,” orders the all-too-familiar voice of the man I call Satan.

  Griffin eases into view. “Apollo. You had me thinking you were some kind of voodoo machine. Can’t track you, not even with the dozens of bugs planted on your ass. Not in the Allround and what is with your mind – petting puppies and flying kites? The memories you’re leaving in the Allround are jacking up the system.”

  He pauses, rubs his right temple with the whole of his palm. “Hell, I can’t even blow you up just for shits and giggles. It’s frustrating. Then it all came together when I learned you were with Geek. Geek and his special freak boy.”

  Griffin stands next to Geek. “My god man, I thought you had learned your lesson. What was her name – oh yes, Ofilia. She was a lovely woman. The House is very unhappy with you and we all wonder why you’re involved with Apollo. I look forward to discussing that later.”

  Griffin turns to Nikki and with a cobra flip, backhands her across the face. She takes the slap like a kiss. She smiles and him and I know she’s laughing inside.

  “And you’re the chameleon making life so miserable for the good guys. Where is the Jump One file?”

  “On Geek’s mot,” Nikki shoots back.

  “On Geek’s mot,” Griffin repeats. “Okay, Geek, where is your mot?”

  “I need to reach into my jacket pocket for my remote,” Geek replies.

  “No. You stay still. Just tell us where you parked?”

  “The mot travels. I call it when I need it.”

  Griffin nods, as if that’s the answer he expects. “Sergeant, please reach into – what pocket?” Griffin asks.

  “Right.”

  The sergeant locates Geek’s remote.

  “Show it to him.” Griffin instructs the sergeant.

  Geek studies the remote.

  “It’s about two clicks east of here.”

  “What button will call it back?” Griffin asks.

  “Blue.”

  Griffin nods at the sergeant, the sergeant presses the blue button.

  “How long will it take to get here?” Griffin asks.

  “About two minutes.”

  “Fine.”

  “How did you find us pork-butt?” I look at Griffin. “Not only the restaurant but we got this whole new look happening and you easily pick us out of the crowd.”

  “With a little help from your friend.” He walks over to Liz and extends his fat paw to her. “You’re a good citizen. You can go.”

  The agent withdraws his gun from her head. Liz doesn’t take Griffin’s hand. She stands unaided and with stone dry eyes she stares him down.

  “Tell them why I did it,” she says.

  Griffin smiles, it’s not a pleasant type of smile. He looks at her, then, glances at Geek, Nikki and I.

  “You did it because you are sensible,” states Griffin.

  “I did it because you promised to release my mother! So let her go!”

  Griffin is shocked. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that face. It’s funny. Then he spits his reply.

  “Don’t get demanding with me, citizen! I will put your ass in the cell next to her. Loving conversations without physical contact for the rest of your fucking lives. How does that sound to you?

  “Breakin’ my balls – I haven’t got time for this bullshit. Get her outta my sight,” he says with an offhand dismissal.

  The closest agent grabs Liz’s bicep and rushes her from the restaurant. I get the feeling she’s tr
ying to resist but she can’t match his muscle. She’s truly doing a good job to keep up with him and not fall to the floor and then get dragged from the room.

  Liz glances back at me before she flies around the corner…

  I’m not a happy man right now.

  “How long has she worked for you?” I ask.

  “I secured her services before you came out of the coma. Then Space snatched her and I didn’t know what the hell to do. Now, I understand what happened there. You rolled over on him after taking the man’s money. Have you no honor? What was it, oh yeah, one hundred million. You know you can’t keep that money.”

  “I knew about it.” Geek says to me. “I knew Liz was working with Griffin.”

  I study Geek and try to figure out his play. “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. I monitor all communication to and from my rig. Liz had sent fifteen text messages to Griffin. Her contact lenses are cameras. She’s really scared….”

  “She’s a smart girl who’ll listen to reason,” Griffin interjects. “I’ll lay it all out for her in a neat little package.

  “Once I retrieve the disc and files, I’ll personally hand them over to the President. Then it’s a cushy cabinet post for me. Respect. Perks. No more handling riff-raff.” He looks at each of us, just in case we don’t realize we are the riff-raff.

  The greedy bitch snatches a quail egg with his fingers. He even takes the time to dip it in soy sauce.

  “Damn – this is good.” He states with a flick of his wrist. Then he uses my napkin the clean his fingers.

  I say to Geek, “We gotta help Liz.”

  Geek nods. “Shouldn’t be much of a thing for you, me and princess.”

  “Sweet. I’m a princess now,” says Nikki.

  Griffin laughs. He says, “You better think about helping yourselves.”

  We are, asshole. I don’t know the play but I have a feeling Geek’s got the game in hand.

  “Where’s this mot of yours?” He snatches the remote from the sergeant’s hand and studies it. “What’s this? It’s blinking.”

  “That means the ship is outside.” Geek says.

  “Who’s outside?” Griffin asks the sergeant.

  “Mercer,” the sergeant replies.

  “Don’t tell me! Call him and confirm the vehicle.”