Bleeding Edge

by Pynchon, Thomas

  “How’re the kids making out so far?”

  “Pretty good, we may have to rent a U-Haul. Justin’s going around with them, working door-to-door. Some Hallowe’en, huh?”

  “Yeah. Can’t understand why I’m feeling all this class hostility.”

  “This? next to the Alley a couple years ago? the average start-up party? this is a footnote, my dear. Commentary.”

  “You’ve been in New York too long, Vyrva, you’re starting to talk like my father.”

  “Justin’s got his mobile, you want me to call and—”

  “It’s The Deseret, off-planet, likely to be roaming charges here nobody can afford, I’ll just cruise around, thanks.”

  Out into this overdue-for-exorcism building she has never found even marginally likable. Lining the streetlike corridors, where a hundred years ago pony-drawn delivery wagons, cranked up here on massive hydraulic lifts, brought directly to the doorsills of tenants cans of milk, bushels of flowers, cases of champagne, tonight Maxine finds elaborate mock-ups of Camp Crystal Lake, mummies’ tombs, Frankenstein’s Art Deco lab all in black and white. Tenant hospitality is you’d have to say proactive. Before long, without so much as raising an eyebrow, she finds herself schlepping sacks full of Hallowe’en plunder too heavy for a child even to lift.

  As the evening advances, so does the median age of the crowd of walk-ins, with much more emphasis on eye makeup, glitter, fishnet hose, axes in skulls, fake blood. It is inevitable that somebody should be masquerading as Osama bin Laden, and here in fact are two of them, whom Maxine recognizes sooner than she wants to as Misha and Grisha.

  “We were going to go as World Trade Center,” Misha explains, “but decided OBL would be even more offensive.”

  “So how come you’re not down in the Village someplace, where the TV coverage is?”

  They exchange a Can-we-trust-her look.

  “It’s for a reason,” she guesses, “private not public.”

  “It’s fuckin Hallowe’en, right?” sez Grisha.

  “Paying respects,” explains Misha.

  To whom? Here at The Deseret, of course, to whom else but Lester Traipse, the real Hallowe’en ghost tonight, Lester the jive-ass ballistic blade victim with the unfinished business, doomed to wander those century-old corridors until accounts are balanced, or for eternity, whichever comes first. Lester was a creature of Silicon Alley, Alley to the core, and down the Alley the stories are never that short let alone sweet, down there it’s not only a mediagenic neighborhood of dreams recently faded but also the latest in a tradition of New York Alleys It Is In Fact Best To Avoid, shadows full of mentally unstable voices, echoes off the masonry, cries of city desolation, metallic noises less innocent than ancient trash cans in the wind.

  “You guys were friends with Lester? Did business?” Or to put it another way, what earthly connection . . . unless that’s the point, and the connection is anything but earthly. It’s fuckin Hallowe’en.

  “Lester was fellow podonok,” Misha blushing a little, as if embarrassed at how lame this sounds, “friend of scumbag hackers everywhere.”

  “Including,” a thought occurring to her, “the former Soviet Union. Maybe this was even some secret-police business?”

  Misha and Grisha begin to giggle, watching each other’s face to see, as it turns out, who is going to slap whom first back into sobriety and respect for the departed. A prison thing.

  “You two,” noodging cautiously, “really did attend that Civil Hackers’ School in Moscow, didn’t you?”

  “Umnik Academy!” cries Misha, “those guys, no, uh-uh!”

  “Not us! We’re only chainiki!”

  “From Bobryusk!” Misha nodding vigorously.

  “Don’t even know how to sit facing keyboard!”

  “Not that I mean to pry, it’s only that Lester may have fallen afoul of Gabriel Ice, who as you must know is practically synonymous with U.S. security arrangements. So Russian intelligence would naturally have an interest in his activities.”

  “He owns this building,” Grisha sort of blurts, getting a look from his coadjutor. “If he’s here tonight, maybe we’ll run into him. Him or one of his people. Maybe they won’t like seeing Osama twins. Who knows? Little Mortal Kombat maybe.”

  Note to self. Noodge Igor, who must know what the fuck this is all about. Scribbled illegibly on a virtual Post-it, stuck on a little-frequented brain lobe it presently falls off of, but there for marginal nagging value at least.

  A flamboyance of French maids, street hookers, and baby dominatrices, none of then in junior high yet, comes jittering up the stairs. “Look! What’d I tell you?”

  “OhmyGod?”

  “Eeew, creepy?”

  Misha and Grisha beam, puts their hands on their hearts, and bow slightly. “Tha tso kalan yee?”

  “Tha jumat ta zey?”

  Sending the young ladies into rewind, all in a frenzy, back down the stairs, Misha and Grisha calling genially after them, “Wa alaikum u ssalam!”

  “That’s Hebrew?” sez Maxine.

  “Pashto. Wishing them peace, also how old are you, do you go to mosque regularly.”

  “Here come my kids.”

  Ziggy’s Empire State Building outfit has acquired spray-painted graffiti, and somebody has slipped a miniature souvenir Red Sox cap onto King Kong’s head. Otis’s hair is still defiantly vertical, and like the gent he is, he’s schlepping Fiona’s bag along with his own.

  “Fiona, nice getup, help me out, you’re supposed to be—”

  “Misty?”

  “The girl in Pokémon. And this is—”

  Fiona’s friend Imba, who’s got up as Misty’s chronically bummed-out companion Psyduck.

  “We flipped for it,” Fiona sez.

  “Misty’s a gym leader,” Imba explains, “but she has impatience issues. Psyduck has powers, but such unhappiness.” Synchronized, she and Fiona grab the sides of their heads like S. Z. Sakall and utter the characteristic “Psy, psy, psy.” It occurs to Maxine that Psyduck, though Japanese, could be Jewish.

  “Good evening, Tech Support, how may I abuse you?” Justin has come tonight as Dilbert’s power-freak dog, Dogbert, wearing indigo shades instead of clear lenses. Maxine introduces everybody.

  “You are the Justin McElmo?” First time Maxine has heard either of these goons say “the.”

  “Don’t know, there’s probably more of em out there.”

  “Of DeepArcher,” Grisha amplifies.

  “Just a couple of Game Boy fans,” Maxine mutters.

  “You guys have been down there? Since how long?” Justin not alarmed so much as curious.

  “Since 11 September maybe? Before then, was much harder to hack in. Then suddenly, day of attack, gets easier. Later, gets impossible again.”

  “But you’re still getting in.”

  “Can’t stay away!”

  “Pizdatchye,” kvells Grisha, “always some new story, new graphics, different each time.”

  “Everything evolving,” Misha sez. “Tell us, Justin. Did you design it that way?”

  “To evolve?” Justin looking surprised. “No, it was only supposed to be the one thing, like, timeless? A refuge. History-free is what Lucas and I were hoping for. Now you guys are seeing, what?”

  “Usual govno,” sez Grisha. “Politics, markets, expeditions, asskicking.”

  “Not gamer scenarios, you understand. Down there we cannot be gamers, we must be travelers.”

  A good enough basis to exchange business cards.

  Just before moving on to further shenanigans, the torpedoes draw Maxine aside. “DeepArcher—you know it too. You’ve been there.”

  “Um,” nothing to lose, “see, it’s only, like, code?”

  “No! Maxine, no!” with what could be either naïve faith or raving insanity, “it’s real place!”

  “It is asylum, no matter, you can be poorest, no home, lowest of jailbirds, obizhenka, condemned to die—”

  “Dead—”

 
“DeepArcher will always take you in, keep you safe.”

  “Lester,” Grisha whispers, eyes angling upstairs toward the pool, “Lester’s soul. You understand? Stingers on roof. That.” A head gesture out into the All Saints night, toward far downtown where the Trade Center used to stand, past the invisible swarming hundreds of thousands of masked celebrants in streets lighted and semi-lit, out to the reeking hole with the Cold War name at the lower edge of the island.

  Maxine nods, pretending to see what she can’t see. “Thank you. Go easy, guys.” She collects Ziggy and Otis, who are already scarfing down Teuscher truffles like they’re Hershey Kisses, and they make their way out the forbidding portals of The Deseret and homeward.

  “Top of the evening to yese,” calls Patrick McTiernan.

  Yeah and where was all that leprechaun jive when she could’ve used it.

  Horst is still awake, now watching Anthony Hopkins in The Mikhail Baryshnikov Story, intensely absorbed, a spoonful of Urban Jumble ice cream poised a foot away from his mouth and dribbling onto his shoe.

  “Dad, Dad! Snap out of it!”

  “Will you look at this,” blinks Horst. “Ol’ Hannibal dancin up a storm here.”

  • • •

  AFTER HER HALLOWE’EN ANTHRO EXPEDITION, Heidi has come back a changed person. “Children of all ages enacting the comprehensive pop-cultural moment. Everything collapsed into the single present tense, all in parallel. Mimesis and enactment.” She may’ve been having a little incoherence after a while. Nowhere did she see a perfect copy of anything. Not even people who said, “Oh, I’m just going as myself” were authentic replicas of themselves.

  “It’s depressing. I thought Comic-Con was peculiar, but this was Truth. Everything out there just a mouseclick away. Imitation is no longer possible. Hallowe’en is over. I never thought people could get too wised up. What’ll happen to us all?”

  “And because you tend to be a blamer . . .”

  “Oh I blame the fuckin Internet. No question.”

  • • •

  THE PHONE CALL TO IGOR isn’t one she’ s looking forward to. Whatever the karmic balance is outstanding between him and Gabriel Ice, she was deliberately avoiding it till Misha and Grisha, noodges from beyond the daytime envelope she would much rather keep inside, made this impossible anymore. Plus which, the happy torpedoes have now it seems been stalking hashslingrz for hidden reasons, and it probably behooves her to find out what, though she isn’t expecting much in the way of details.

  Igor is chirpy. Too chirpy. Acting like he’s been waiting for this call forever.

  “Look, Igor, it’s not as if anybody is paying me to find out who did Lester—”

  “You know who did it. So do I. Cops will not act. It becomes matter of . . .” Is he trying to get her to say it?

  “Justice.”

  “Restoration.”

  “He’s dead. What’s to restore?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I would indeed. Especially if it’s KGB business and you and your posse are embedded assets.”

  A silence she has to categorize as amused. “They don’t say KGB anymore, they say FSB, they say SVU. Since Putin, KGB means old guys in government.”

  “Whatever. Ice was deep into funding anti-jihadists. Russia has its own Islamic issues. Is it so crazy to imagine the two countries cooperating? Getting upset when Lester started collecting unauthorized bonuses?”

  “Maxine. No. It wasn’t only because of money.”

  “Excuse me? What then?”

  He waits a fraction of a beat too long. “Lester saw too much.”

  She tries to remember that last time she and Lester talked, in Eternal September. There must have been a tell she missed, a lapse, something. “If he understood what he was seeing, wouldn’t he have told somebody?”

  “He tried to. He called me on my mobile. Night before they got him. I couldn’t pick up. Left long message on voice mail.”

  “He had your mobile number.”

  “Everybody does. Cost of doing business.”

  “What was the message?”

  “Pretty crazy shit. Black Escalades trying to run him off LIE. Phone calls to wife, threats to kids. Me, my people, he thought we might have connections. Help broker some understanding.”

  “As in . . . ?”

  “He forgets about what he saw, they don’t kill him. Good luck.”

  “And what he saw . . . ?”

  “He was crazy by then. They already had his sanity. They didn’t have to kill him. One more thing which must be restored. You want secular cause and effect, but here, I’m sorry, is where it all goes off books. Lester said, ‘Only choice I have left is DeepArcher.’ I heard about DeepArcher site from padonki, so I have rough idea what it means, but not what he’s talking about.”

  Sanctuary. While she was being dogfucked by one of his murderers.

  • • •

  THE DAY OF THE NYC MARATHON, seven weeks into post-atrocity, the fearful day still reverberating, what you could call a patriotic atmosphere, thousands of runners come out in memory of 11 September and its victims in defiance of any chance it’ll happen again, security super tight, Verrazano Bridge deeply guarded, all harbor traffic suspended, nothing visible in the skies overhead but helicopters keeping industrious watch . . .

  Around midday, headed for the weekly flea market at a nearby middle school, Maxine begins to notice, first one by one, then in a stream, yuppies in Mylar capes—the superhero business suddenly gone low-rent here—beginning to filter over from the park. By the corner of 77th and Columbus, it’s grown into a mob scene. Whooping and hollering and hugging and flags waving everyplace.

  Sitting exhausted on the sidewalk against a wall with a row of other runners recovering from the event their shiny official wraps announce they have just run, here seems to be Windust.

  First time face-to-face since that romantic evening down on the far West Side. “Don’t tell anybody you saw me,” still a little short of breath, “it’s a vice, especially this soon after eleven September, too much mortality around already, why go out of the way to embrace even more? And yet,” waving around wearily, “here we all are.” Unless he bought his souvenir cape from somebody down the street and Maxine’s in for another setup here.

  “Too deep for me.”

  A flirtatious smirk. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Then again, sometimes a centimeter is way too much. It’s all right, you’re having some chemicals from the running. Can you get up yet? I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.” Of course, Maxine, why not, maybe a cheese danish also? Is she crazy, this is the last thing she should be doing. But the Jewish Mother, sitting silent in the dark, has suddenly chosen this moment to jump up, switch on the tasteful lamp from Scully & Scully, and blindside Maxine into yet another shameful display of eppes-essen solicitude. For a second she hopes Windust is too exhausted. But fitness prevails, and he’s on his feet, and before she can think up an excuse they are sitting in a retro lunchwagon on Columbus, dating from the eighties when the neighborhood was hot, now more of interest to tourists who are into subcultural history. The place today is jittering with recaffeinating marathoners. Nobody is talking too loud, however, so the chances for conversation are at least fifty-fifty, for a change.

  What kind of ex, she wonders, would Windust ever have qualified as? ex-heavy date, ex-mistake, ex-quickie, maybe just x for unknown? By now she ought to be well into pretending none of it ever happened, instead here’s this lurid Day-Glo folder icon blinking at her, Unbalanced Accounts.

  Crowds outside push past the window screaming congratulations, laughing too loud, stuffing their faces, flourishing their capes. On triumph’s home screen, Windust is a solitary pixel of discontent. “Guess they showed those rugriders, huh. Look at them. An army of the clueless, who think they own 11 September.”

  “Hey, why shouldn’t they, they bought it from you, we all did, you took our own precious sorrow, processed it, sold it back to us like any other produc
t. Ask you something? When it happened? The Day Everything Changed, where were you?”

  “In my little cubicle. Reading Tacitus.” The warrior-scholar routine. “Who makes a case that Nero didn’t set fire to Rome so he could blame it on the Christians.”

  “Sounds familiar, somehow.”

  “You people want to believe this was all a false-flag caper, some invisible superteam, forging the intel, faking the Arabic chatter, controlling air traffic, military communications, civilian news media—everything coordinating without a hitch or a malfunction, the whole tragedy set up to look like a terror attack. Please. My wised-up civilian heartbreaker. Guess what. Nobody in the business is that good.”

  “You’re saying I don’t need to get too excited about this anymore? Well. Ain’t that a relief. Meantime you people have what you want, your War on Terror, war without end, and job security up the ol’ wazoo.”

  “For somebody maybe. Not me.”

  “Goonsquad skills no longer in demand? Aw.”

  He looks downward, at his abs, his dick, his shoes, some vintage Mizuno Waves in an eye-assaulting color scheme the years have not been kind to. “Retirement looming, basically.”

  “There’s exit options for you guys? Quit kidding.”

  “Well . . . considering what the exits are, we do try to make private arrangements instead.”

  “Saving up your spare change, Florida Keys, little skiff with an ice chest full of Dos Equis sort of thing . . .”

  “Wish I could be more specific.”

  According to the flash-drive dossier Marvin brought around last summer, Windust’s portfolio is stuffed with privatized state assets all across the Third World. She imagines a few blessed hectares down in the trackless retrocolonial, someplace “safe,” whatever that means, off the surveillance matrix, spared somehow from U.S.-engineered regime changes, children with AKs, deforestation, storms, famines, and other late-capitalist planetary insults . . . with somebody he can trust, some ultimate Tonto, keeping an eye on its perimeters for him as the years unroll . . . In the lives variously reported of Windust, are loyalties like that possible?