Her feet seem to have been resting in his lap for a while, and she can’t help noticing he has this, well, hardon. Out of his trousers and between her feet, actually, and sort of moving back and forth . . . Not that this happens to her a lot, which may account for why she begins tentatively now to explore, whatever the foot equivalent of handle is, maybe “footle” the aroused organ, her toes always having been prehensile enough to pick up socks, keys, and loose change, her soles, could it be the cannabis? unaccountably sensitized, particularly the insides of her heels, which reflexologists have told her connect directly with the uterus . . . she slides the polished toes of one foot under his balls and with the pads of the others begins caressing his penis, after a while switching feet, just to see what will happen, all out of experimental curiosity of course . . .
“Eric, what’s this, did you just . . . come, on my feet?”
“Um, yeah? well not ‘on’ exactly, coz I’m wearing a condom?”
“You’re worried about what, funguses?”
“No offense, I just like condoms, sometimes I’ll wear one just to have it on, you know?”
“OK . . .” Maxine glances quickly at his dick, and her contacts flip inside out and go sailing across the room. “Eric, excuse me, is that some loathsome skin disease?”
“This? oh it’s a designer condom, from the Trojan Abstract Expressionist Collection I believe, here—” He takes it off and waves it at her.
“No need, no need.”
“Was that OK for you?”
Why, the sweetheart. Well? Was it? She angles her head and smiles, she hopes not too sitcomically.
“You don’t do this a lot.”
“Not that often, as Daddy Warbucks always sez . . .” Now he has that attentive kid-on-a-date look. So Maxine don’t be a schmuck all your life, “Listen. Eric. Total honesty here, all right?” She tells him about her arrangements with Reg.
“What? You came out to that strip joint deliberately, to look for me? Hey Reg, thanks buddy. What’s he doing, he’s checking up on me?”
“Rest easy, just think of me as the straightworld version of you, see what I’m saying. You’re the one gets to be the outlaw, adventures down in the Deep Web, which of us do you think’s having more fun?”
“Sure.” He flicks a quick look at her—she’s been watching him, otherwise she wouldn’t have seen it. “You think it’s fun, maybe sometime I should bring you down there. Show you around.”
“OK. It’s a date.”
“Really?”
“It could be romantic.”
“Most of the time it ain’t, just pretty straightforward, directories you have to access and search by yourself, because no crawler knows how to, no links into it exist. Now and then it can get weird, stuff somebody like hashslingrz wants to keep hidden. Or sites lost to linkrot, to bankruptcy, to who-gives-a-shit-anymore . . .”
The Deep Web is supposed to be mostly obsolete sites and broken links, an endless junkyard. Like in The Mummy (1999), adventurers will come here someday to dig up relics of remote and exotic dynasties. “But it only looks that way,” according to Eric—“behind it is a whole invisible maze of constraints, engineered in, lets you go some places, keeps you out of others. This hidden code of behavior you have to learn and obey. A dump, with structure.”
“Eric . . . say there was something down there I might want to hack into . . .”
“Ehhh. Here I thought you loved me for my psychosexual profile. Should’ve known. Story of my life.”
“Sh-sh, no, nothing like that—the site I’m thinking about, it may not even be there, one of those old Cold War sites, maybe some fringe fantasy, time travel, UFOs, mind control—”
“Sounds awesome so far.”
“It could be heavily encrypted. If I did want to get in, I’d need some alphageek crypto whiz.”
“Sure, that’d be me, but . . .”
“Hey, I’ll hire you, I’m legit, Reg will vouch.”
“Sure he will, he’s the one who fixed us up. He should be charging me a finder’s fee.” Holding one of her shoes now in you could say a hopeful way.
“You weren’t planning to . . .”
“I was, but if you have to get back, I understand, here, let me just slide these back on for you . . .”
“I mean, these are a little too casual anyway, don’t you think? You seem like more of a Manolo Blahnik person.”
“Actually, there’s this guy Christian Louboutin? Does these five-inch stilettos? Awesome.”
“Think I’ve seen knockoffs around.”
“Hey, knockoffs, no problem.”
“Next time, maybe . . .”
“Promise?”
“No?”
When she gets home, the phone is ringing. Off the hook. A number of previous messages on the machine, all from Heidi.
Who basically wants to know where Maxine’s been.
“Networking. Something important, Heidi?”
“Oh. Just wondering . . . who’s the new fella?”
“The . . .”
“You were seen over at the Chinese-Dominican joint the other day. Quite intense, it is reported, eyes only for each other.”
“Like,” she probably shouldn’t be blurting, “he’s FBI or something, Heidi, it was work . . . I put it on Travel & Entertainment.”
“You put everything on T&E, Maxine, breath mints, newsstand umbrellas, the thing neither Carmine nor I can understand is why you keep asking us for so much help getting into the NCIC database, especially if you’re seeing Eliot Ness and whatever.”
“Which reminds me actually . . .”
“What, again? Carmine, not that he begrudges, far from it, is wondering if possibly you might like to return some of these favors he’s doing you.”
“By . . . ?”
“Well, for instance in connection with The Deseret corpse and this mafioso you’re apparently also dating concurrently?”
“Who—Rocky Slagiatt? he’s some kind of a suspect now? What do you mean, dating?”
“Well of course we assumed you and Mr. Slagiatt are . . .” Heidi by now with that trademark smirk all over her voice.
Maxine drops for a minute into one of Shawn’s visualizing exercises in which her Beretta, within easy reach, has been transformed to a colorful California butterfly dedicated, like Mothra, to purposes of peace. “Mr. Slagiatt has been helping me with an embezzlement beef, mutual trust here being of the essence, which I doubt would include ratting him out to the authorities, do you think, Heidi.”
“Carmine only wants to know,” Heidi implacable, “is, has Mr. Slagiatt ever mentioned his former client the late Lester Traipse.”
“VC talk? We don’t do much of that, sorry.”
“Wrecks the afterglow, I quite understand, though where you find the time for some D.C. bureaucrat on the side—”
“Maybe he’s more interesting than that—”
“‘Interesting.’ Ah.” The annoying staccato Heidi ah. “And Hitler was a good dancer, a wonderful sense of humor, I can’t fuckin believe this, we watch the same movies on the Lifetime channel, these are always the ones who turn out to be the sociopathic rat, shtupping the receptionist, embezzling the children’s lunch money, slowly poisoning the innocent bride with the bug spray in the breakfast food.”
“That’s like . . .” innocently, “a cereal killer?”
“Just ’cause I once pitched you a commercial about cops? You believed that?”
“He’s not a cop. We’re not newlyweds. Remember? Heidi, chill, for goodness sakes.”
21
After a day of wandering around in the vast shopping basin of the SoHo-Chinatown-Tribeca interface, Maxine and Heidi find themselves one evening in the East Village looking for a bar where Driscoll is supposed to be singing with a nerdcore band called Pringle Chip Equation, when sudden gusts of smell, not yet at this distance intense but strangely contoured in their purity, begin as they walk through the humid twilight to accost them. Presently from down the block, sc
reaming in panic, dramatically clutching their noses and occasionally heads, civilians come running. “I think I saw the movie,” Heidi sez. “What’s that smell?”
Turns out to be Conkling Speedwell, packing his Naser tonight, which looks in fact to’ve been recently deployed, its LED-studded delivery cone blinking truculently. He is accompanied by a small detachment of corporate security in designer fatigues each with a shoulder patch shaped like a flask of Chanel No. 5, with FRAGRANCE FORCE written across the stopper part and on the label the mirrored-C logo flanked by a couple of Glocks.
“Sting operation,” Conkling explains. “Truckful of Latvian counterfeit product, we were supposed to make a buy, but it all went stinko.” He nods at a forlorn trio of Pardaugava mini-mobsters semiconsciously collapsed in a doorway. “They’ll be OK, just aldehyde shock, caught ’em with the main lobe, maximized the prewar nitro musk and jasmine absolute, right?”
“Anybody would’ve done the same.” And on the topic of chemistry, what, excuse me, is suddenly up with Heidi and Conkling here?
“Say . . . is that Poison you’re wearing?” Conkling’s nose, in the dim light, having acquired a slowly pulsing glow.
“How could you tell?” with the eyelashes and so forth. Annoying enough, more so given the Poison issue, which has long simmered between Heidi and Maxine, especially Heidi’s practice of wearing it into elevators. All over the city, sometimes even years later, elevators have still not gotten over Heidi occupancies however brief, some even being obliged to attend special Elevator Recovery Clinics to be detoxified. “You have to stop blaming yourself for this, you were the victim . . .”
“I should’ve just closed the doors on her and defaulted to the roof . . .”
Meantime here comes the precinct, plus the bomb squad, a couple ambulances, and a SWAT team.
“Why, sure and if it isn’t the kid.”
“Moskowitz, what brings you out?”
“Schmoozin with some o’ the b’ys down to the Krispy Kreme, happened to pick this up on the scanner— Why, and is it itself theer with the blinkin lights, that infamous Neaaaser, now?”
“Oh . . . what, this? Nah, nah, just a toy for the kids, listen,” pressing a decoy button to activate a sound chip, which begins to play “Baby Beluga.”
“Lovely, and what sort of eedjit would you be takin me for, young Conkling?”
“The savant kind, I guess, but meanwhile look, Jay, there’s a whole van full of Chanel No. 5 over there that might get lost on the way to the property room unless somebody keeps an eye on it.”
“Why, it’s me dear wife’s own favorite scent, it is.”
“Well, in that case.”
“Conkling,” Maxine’d love to stay and chat, but, “you happen to know a bar in the neighborhood called Vodkascript, we’re looking for it.”
“Passed it, just a couple blocks that way.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Heidi struggling with the overeagerness.
“Don’t know how long we’ll be here . . .”
“Ah, c’mon.” Sez Heidi. She is wearing jeans tonight and a twinset in some ill-advised tangerine shade, despite, or because of, which, Conkling is enchanted.
“Guys, we’ll finish up the paperwork back at 57th, OK?” Sez Conkling.
That was quick. Thinks Maxine.
At Vodkascript they find a roomful of trustafarians, cybergoths, out-of-work codefolk, uptowners ever in search of a life less vapid, all jammed into a tiny ex–neighborhood bar with no A/C and too many amplifiers, listening to Pringle Chip Equation. The band are all wearing nerd eyeglass frames and, like everybody else in the room, sweating. The lead guitarist plays an Epiphone Les Paul Custom and the keyboardist a Korg DW-8000, and there is also a reedperson with assorted horns and a percussionist with a wide range of tropical instruments. In a special guest appearance tonight, Driscoll Padgett is heard on an occasional vocal. Maxine never imagined that Driscoll’s universe of three-letter acronyms might include “LBD,” but now look at this latest edition. Hair pinned up, revealing to Maxine’s surprise one of those sweetly hexagonal junior-model faces, eyes and lips underdone, the chin resolute as if she were getting serious about her life. A face, Maxine can’t help thinking, come into its own . . .
Remember the Alley,
each day was a party, and
we were the new kids in town . . .
geeks on a joyride,
all rowdy and red-eyed,
and too high, to ever come down . . .
South of the DoubleClick
welcome sign, hard to find
much status quo in the house,
techies just chillin there
morphing to millionaires
all at the wave of a mouse . . .
Was it real?
was it
anything more than a
dream through a lunch break, a
prayer on the fly,
Could we feel . . .
off the edge of the screen, somethin
meatspace and mean, that was passing us by . . .
When all of those high times
and lowlifes and good news
And bad moves have drifted away,
these streets are still thronging
With hustling and longing
just like they were
back in the day . . .
I’m in a new place now,
the rent’s high, the dates lie,
The town’s not as cozy as then,
Call me, keep try’n me,
Maybe you’ll find me . . .
Maybe you’ll find me,
Again . . .
After the set, Driscoll waves and comes over.
“Driscoll, Heidi, and this is Conkling.”
“Oh, sure, the guy with the Hitler,” quick look at Maxine, “uh, thing. How’d that work out?”
“Hitler,” Heidi violently with the eyelashes, scattering pieces of mascara, as if it’s a pop star she and Conkling might have in common.
Fuck here we go, Maxine half-subvocalizes, having only herself recently learned of Conkling’s longtime obsession with, not so much Hitler in general as the even more focused question of, what did Hitler smell like? Exactly? “I mean obviously like a vegetarian, like a nonsmoker, but . . . what was Hitler’s cologne, for example?”
“I always figured it was 4711,” Heidi taking her beat a little faster than a normal person might.
Conkling is instantly mesmerized. The sort of thing you see in older Disney cartoons. “Me too! Where did you—”
“Only a wild guess, JFK used it, right? and both men, mutatis mutandis, had the same kind of, you know, charisma?”
“Exactly, and if young Jack borrowed his father’s cologne—in the literature we often find a father-to-son transmission model—we know the elder Kennedy admired Hitler, even plausibly enough to want to smell like him, add to that that every U-boat in Admiral Dönitz’s fleet got spritzed continuously with 4711, barrels full of it every voyage, and furthermore Dönitz was personally named by Hitler as his successor—”
“Conkling,” Maxine gently and not for the first time, “that doesn’t make Hitler a big U-boat lover, by that point there was nobody else he trusted, and somehow, the logic here?”
At first, assuming Conkling was only developing a thesis out loud, Maxine was willing to cut him some slack. But soon she began to grow vaguely alarmed, recognizing, behind a pose of wholesome curiosity, the narrow stare of the zealot. At some point he showed Maxine a “period press photo” in which Dönitz is presenting Hitler with a gigantic bottle of 4711, its label clearly visible. “Wow,” careful not to agitate Conkling, “talk about product placement, huh? Mind if I pull a Xerox of this?” Just a hunch, but she wanted to show it to Driscoll.
It drew an instant eyeroll. “Photoshopped. Look.” Driscoll opened her computer, clicked around some Web sites, typed in a couple of search terms, finally pulled up a photo from July 1942 of Dönitz and Hitler, identical to Conkling’s, except that the tw
o men are only shaking hands. “Angle Dönitz’s arm down a couple of degrees, find an image of the bottle, scale it any size you want, put it in his hand, leave Hitler’s where it is, looks like he’s reaching for the bottle, see?”
“Think there’s any point in telling Conkling any of this?”
“Depends where he got the picture from and how much he spent.”
When Maxine, not shy, asked, Conkling looked embarrassed. “Swap meets . . . New Jersey . . . you know how there’s always Nazi memorabilia . . . Look, there could be an explanation—it could still be a genuine Nazi propaganda photo, right? which they altered themselves, for a poster or . . .”
“You’d still need to get it expertized— Oh, Conkling, there’s somebody on the other line here, I have to take this.”
Maxine has tried since to keep their conversations professional. Conkling does ease up some with the Hitler references, but it only makes Maxine nervous. Wild talents like überschnozz here, she learned long ago at the New York campus of Fraud University, can often be nutcases also.
Heidi of course thinks it’s cute. When Conkling slides off to the toilet, she leans till their heads are touching and murmurs, “So Maxine, is there an issue here?”
“You mean,” switching to loyal sidekick, “as in ‘Bird Dog’ by the Everly Brothers, well, far as I know, Conkling is nobody’s quail at the moment, and besides you only poach husbands, isn’t that right, Heidi.”
“Aahhh! You will never—”
“And what about Carmine, passionate, Italian, goes without saying jealous, a recipe for Naser versus Glock at high noon, no?”
“Carmine and I are deliriously happy, no I’m only thinking of you, Maxine, my best friend, don’t want to get in your way . . .”
Bleeding Edge Page 23
