Rydell struggled out of his damp jacket, noticing the ripped shoulder, the cheap white stuffing popping out. He dropped it behind the couch. 'You got any tattoos?'
'No,' she said.
'So how come you know about this?'
'Lowell,' she said, flipping through half a dozen more images, 'he's got a Giger.'
'"Gigger"?' Rydell opened his Samsonite, got out a pair of socks, and started unlacing his SWAT shoes.
'This painter. Like nineteenth-century or something. Real classical. Bio-mech. Lowell's got this Giger back-piece done off a painting called "N.Y.C. XXIV." She said it x, x, i, v. 'It's like this city. Shaded black-work. But he wants sleeves to go with it, so we'd come in here to look for more Gigers to match it.'
'Why don't you sit down,' Rydell said, 'you're making my neck hurt.' She was pacing back and forth in front of the screens. He took his wet socks off, put them in the Container City bag, and put the dry ones on. Thought about leaving his shoes off for a while, but what if he had to leave in a hurry? He put them back on. He was lacing them up when she sat down beside him.
She unzipped her jacket and shrugged it off, the loose Beretta cuff rattling. The sleeves of her plain black t-shirt had been scissored off and her upper arms were smooth and pale. She reached over the end of the couch and put the jacket down, sort of propped against the wall, the leather stiff enough that it just stayed there, its arms slumped down, like it was asleep. Like Rydell wished he could be. Now she had the remote in her hand.
'Hey,' Rydell said, 'that guy in the raincoat back there, the one shot-' He was about to say the big longhair on the bicycle, but she grabbed his wrist, the handcuff rattling.
'Sammy. He shot Sammy, up at Skinner's. He … He was after the glasses, and Sammy had them, and-'
'Wait. Wait a sec. The glasses. Everybody wants the glasses. That guy wants 'em, Warbaby wants 'em…'
'Who's Warbaby?'
'The big black man shot the back window out of his car I was stealing. That Warbaby.'
'You think I know what they are?'
'You don't know why people are after them?'
She gave him a look like you might give a dog that had just told you it was a good day to spend all your money on one particular kind of lottery ticket.
'Let's start over,' Rydell suggested. 'You tell me where you got the glasses.'
'Why should I?'
He thought about it. 'Because youd be dead by now if I hadn't done the kind of dirt-stupid shit I just did, back there.'
She thought about that. 'Okay,' she said.
Maybe there really was something in the fat man's Mormon tea, or maybe Rydell had just crossed over into that point of tiredness where it all flipped around for a while and you started to feel like you were more awake, some ways, than you usually ever were. But he wound up sipping that tea and listening to her, and when she'd get too deep into her story to remember to keep flipping the tattoo-pictures on the wallscreen, he'd do it for her.
When you worked it around to sequential order, she was this girl from Oregon, didn't have any family, who'd come down here and moved out on that bridge with this old man, crazy by the sound of it, had a bad hip and needed somebody around to help him.
Then she'd gotten her a job riding a bicycle around San Francisco, delivering messages. Rydell knew about messengers from his foot-patrol period in downtown Knoxville, because you had to keep ticketing them for riding on the sidewalk, traffic violation, and they'd give you a hard time about it. But they made pretty good money if they worked at it. This Sammy she'd said was shot, murdered, he was another messenger, a black guy who'd gotten her on at Allied, where she worked.
And her story of how she'd taken the glasses out of the guy's pocket at this big drunk party she'd wandered into up in the Morrisey, that made as much sense to him as anything. And it wasn't the kind of story people made up. Not like the glasses crawled into her hand or anything, she just flat-out stole them, impulse, just because the guy was in her face and obnoxious. Nuisance crime, except they'd turned out to be valuable.
But from her description he knew her asshole up in the Morrisey had been the same one got himself the Cuban necktie, your German-born Costa Rican citizen who maybe wasn't either, star of that X-rated fax of Warhahy's and the one Svohodov and Orlovsky had been investigating. If they had been.
'Shit,' he said, in the middle of something she was trying to tell him.
'What?'
'Nothing. Keep talking…'
The Russians were bent, and he knew that. They were Homicide, they were bent, and he'd bet dollars to donuts they weren't even investigating the case. They could talk Warbaby's way onto the crime-scene, tap their department's computer, but the rest of it had just been window-dressing, for him, for Rydell, the hired help. And what was that that Freddie had said, about DatAmerica and IntenSecure being basically your same company?
But Chevette Washington was on a roll of her own now, like sometimes when people get started talking they just let it all hang out, and she was saying how Lowell, who was the one with the hair and not the skinhead, and who actually had, sort of, been her boyfriend for a while, was a guy who could (you know?) get things done with computers, if you had the money, and that sort of scared her because he was always talking about the cops and how he didn't have to worry about them.
Rydell nodded, automatically flipping through a couple more pictures of tattoos-lady there with these pink carnations sort of followed her bikini-line-but really he was listening to something going around in his own head. Like Hernandez was IntenSecure, the Morrisey was IntenSecure, Warbaby was IntenSecure, Freddie said DatAmerica and IntenSecure were like the same thing— '-Desire . . .'
Rydell blinked. Skinny guy there with J. D. Shapely all mournful on his chest. But you'd be mournful, too, you had chest hair growing out your eyes. 'What?'
'Republic. Republic of Desire.'
'What is?'
'Why Lowell says the COpS won't ever bother him, but I told him he was full of shit.'
'Hackers,' Rydell said.
'You haven't heard a word I said.'
'No,' Rydell said, 'no, that's not true. Desire. Republic of. Run that one by again, okay?'
She took the remote, blipped through a shaven head with a sun at the very top, planets orbiting down to the top of the ears, a hand with a screaming mouth on the palm, feet covered with blue-green creature-scales. 'I said,' she said, 'Lowell bullshits about that, how he's connected up with this Republic of Desire, how they can do anything they feel like with computers, so anybody messes with him is gonna get it.'
'No shit,' Rydell said. 'You ever see these guys?'
'You don't see them,' she said, 'not like live. You talk to them, on the phone. Or like with goggles, and that's the wildest.'
'Why?'
'Cause they look like lobsters and shit. Or some tv star. Anything. But I don't know why I'm telling you.'
'Because I'll nod out otherwise, then how're we gonna decide if we're getting the creature-feet or the crotch-carnations?'
'It's your turn,' she said, and just sat there until he started talking.
He told her how he was from Knoxville and about getting into the Academy, about how he'd always watched Cops in Trouble and then when he'd been a cop and gotten in trouble, it had looked like he was going to be on the show. How they'd brought him out to Los Angeles because they didn't want Adult Survivors of Satanism stealing their momentum, but then the Pookey Bear murders had come along and they'd sort of lost interest, and he'd had to get on with IntenSecure and drive Gunhead. He told her about Sublett and living with Kevin Tarkovsky in the house in Mar Vista, and sort of skipped over the Republic of Desire and the night he'd driven Gunhead into the Schonbrunns' place in Benedict Canyon.
About how Hernandez had come over, just the other morning but it seemed like years, to tell him he could come up here and drive for this Mr. Warbaby. Then she wanted to know what it was that skip tracers did, so he explained what it was they were suppos
ed to do, and what it was he figured they probably did do, and she said they sounded like bad news.
When he was done, she just looked at him. 'That's it? That's how you got here and what you're doing?'
'Yeah,' he said, 'guess it is.'
'Jesus,' she said. Sort of shook her head. They both watched a couple of full body-suits blip past, one of them all circuit-patterns, like they stenciled on old-fashiohed circuit-boards. 'You got eyes,' she said, and yawned in the middle of it, 'like two piss-holes in a snowbank.'
There was a knock at the door. It opened a crack, and somebody, not the man who jingled when he walked, said: 'You having any luck picking a design? Henry's gone home…'
'Well it's just so hard to decide,' Chevette Washington said, 'there's so many of them and we want to get just the right one.'
'That's fine,' said the voice, bored. 'You just go right on looking.' The door closed.
'Let me see those glasses,' Rydell said.
She reached over and got her jacket. Got out the case with the glasses, the phone. Handed him the glasses. The case was made out of some dark stuff, thin as eggshell, rigid as steel. He opened it. The glasses looked exactly like Warbaby's. Big black frames, the lenses black now. They had a funny heft to them, weighed more than you thought they would.
Chevette Washington had flipped open the phone's keypad.
'Hey,' Rydell said, touching her hand, 'they'll have your number for sure. You dial out on that, or even take a call, they'll be in here in about ten minutes.'
'Won't have this number,' she said. 'It's one of Codes's phones. I took it off the table when the lights went out.'
'Thought you said you didn't just steal things.'
'Well,' she said, 'if Codes had it, it's stolen already. Codes trades 'em off people in the city, then Lowell gets somebody to tumble 'em, change the numbers.' She tapped the pad, held the little phone to her ear. 'Dead,' she said, shrugging.
'Here,' Rydell said, putting the glasses down on his lap and taking the phone. 'Maybe it got wet, or the battery's knocked loose. What's old Codes trade for these, anyway?' He ran his thumbnail around the back of the phone, looking for the place whtre you could pry it open.
'Well,' she said, 'stuff.'
He popped thc case. Saw a tightly rolled mini-Ziploc wedged in there beside tie battery. It had pushed the contacts out of alignment. He took it out and unrolled it. 'Stuff?'
'Uh-huh.'
'This type of stuff.'
'Uh-huh.'
He looked at her. 'If this is 4-Thiobuscaline, it's a controlled substance.'
She looked at the bag of grayish powder, then at him. 'But you aren't a cop anymore.'
'You don't do this stuff, do you?'
'No. Well, once or twice. Lowell did, sometimes.'
'Well, just do~i't do any around me, because I've seen what it does. Nice noTmal people do a couple of hits of this, they go snake-shit crazy.' He tapped the bag. 'Enough in this to get half a dozen people fucked up like you wouldn't believe.' He handed it to he~ and picked up the phone, trying to get the battery back where it belonged.
'I'd believe it, she said. 'I saw what it did to Lowell. . .'
'Dial tone,' he said. 'Who you want to call?'
Thought ahoit it, then she took the phone and flipped it shut. 'Guess thee isn't anybody.'
'That old man have a phone?'
'No,' she sad, and her shoulders hunched. 'I'm scared they killed him,too. 'Cause of me . . .'
Rydell couldn't think of anything to say to that. He was too tired to flick the remote. Some guy's arm with a furled Confederate flag on it. Just like home. He looked at her. She sure didn't look anywhere near as tired as he was. That could just be being young, he thought. He sure hoped she wasn't on any ice or dancer or anything. Maybe she was in some kind of shock, still. Said this Sammy had been killed, two others she was worried about. Evidently she'd known the guy plowed in Svobodov on that bicycle, but she didn't know yet that he'd been shot. Funny what you miss seeing in a fight. Well, he didn't see any reason to tell her, not right now.
'I'll try Fontaine,' she said, opening the phone again.
'Who?'
'He does Skinner's electricity and stuff.' She dialled a number, put the phone to her ear.
His eyes closed and his head hit the back of the couch so hard it almost woke him up.
'Smells like piss,' Skinner said, accusingly, waking Yamazaki from a dream in which he stood beside J. D. Shapely on a great dark plane, before a black and endless wall inscribed with the names of the dead.
Yamazaki raised his head from the table. The room in darkness. Light through the church window.
'What are you doing here, Scooter?'
Yamazaki's buttocks and lower back ached. 'The storm,' he said, still half in his dream.
'What storm? Where's the girl?'
'Gone,' Yamazaki said. 'Don't you remember? Loveless?'
'What are you talking about?' Skinner struggled up on one elbow, kicking off the blankets and the sleeping-bag back, his gray-stubbled face twisted with disgust. 'Need a bath. Dry clothes.'
'Loveless. He found me in a bar. He made me bring him here. I think he must have followed me, earlier, when I left you-'
'Sure. Shut up, Scooter, okay?'
Yamazaki closed his mouth.
'Now we need a bunch of water. Hot. First for coffee, then some so I can wash off. You know how to work a Coleman stove?'
'A what?'
'Green thing over there, red tank on the front. You go jiggle that tank off, I'll tell you how to pump it up.'
27 After the storm
Yamazaki stood up, wincing at the pain in his back, and stumbled toward the green-painted metal box Skinner was pointing at. 'Gone off fucking that no-ass greaseball boyfriend of hers again. Useless, Scooter.. .'
He stood on Skinner's roof, pantlegs flapping in a breeze that gave no hint of last night's storm, looking out at the city washed in a strange iron light, shreds of his dream still circling dimly … Shapely had spoken to him, his voice the voice of the young Elvis Presley. He said that he had forgiven his killers.
Yamazaki stared at Transamerica's upright thorn, bandaged with the brace they'd applied after the Little Grande, half-hearing the dreamed voice. They just didn't know any better, Scooter.
Skinner cursing, below, as he sponged himself with water Yamazaki had warmed on the Coleman stove.
Yamazaki thought of his thesis advisor in Osaka.
'I don't care,' Yamasaki said, in English, San Francisco his witness.
The whole city was a Thomasson. Perhaps America itself was a Thomasson.
How could they understand this in Osaka, in Tokyo?
'Yo! On the roof!' someone called.
Yamazaki turned, saw a thin black man atop the tangle of girders that braced the upper end of Skinner's lift. He wore a thick tweed overcoat and a crocheted cap.
'You okay up there? How 'bout Skinner?'
Yamazaki hesitated, remembering Loveless. If Skinner or the girl had enemies, how could he recognize them?
'Name's Fontaine,' the man said. 'Chevette called me, told me to get over here and see if Skinner got through the blow all right. I take care of the wiring tip here, make sure his lift's running and all.'
'He's bathing now,' Yamazaki said. 'In the storm, he became.. . confused. He doesn't seem to remember.'
'Have some power for you in about another half an hour,' the man said. 'Wish I could say the same for over my end. Lost four transformers. Got us five dead bodies, twenty injured that I know of. Skinner got coffee on?'
'Yes,' Yamazaki said.
'Do with a cup about now.'
'Yes, please,' Yamazaki said, and bowed. The black man smiled. Yamazaki scrambled down through the hatch. 'Skinner-san! A man named Fontaine, he is your friend?'
Skinner was struggling into yellowed thermal underwear. 'Useless bastard. Still don't have any power…'
Yamazaki unlatched the hatch in the floor and hauled it open. Fontaine e
ventually appeared at the bottom of the ladder, a battered canvas tool-bag in either hand. Putting one down and slinging the other over his shoulder, he began to climb.
Yamazaki poured the remaining coffee into the cleanest cup.
'Fuel-cell's buggered,' Skinner said, as Fontaine pushed his bag ahead of him, through the opening. Skinner was layered now in at least three threadbare flannel shirts, their tails pushed unevenly into the waistband of an ancient pair of woolen Army trousers.
'We're working on it, boss,' Fontaine said, standing up and smoothing his overcoat. 'Had us a big old storm here.'
'What Scooter says,' Skinner said.
'Well, he's not shittin' you, Skinner. Thanks.' Fontaine accepted the steaming cup of black coffee and blew on it. He looked at Yamazaki. 'Chevette said she might not get back here for a while. Know anything about that?'
Yamazaki looked at Skinner.
'Useless,' Skinner said. 'Gone off with that shithead again.'
'Didn't say anything about that,' Fontaine said. 'Didn't say much at all. But if she's not going to be around, you're going to need somebody take care of things for you.'
'Take care of myself,' Skinner said.
'I know that, boss,' Fontaine assured, 'but we got a couple of fried servos in your lift down there. Take a few days get that going for you, the kind of backlog we're looking at. Need you somebody go up and down the rungs. Bring you food and all.'
'Scooter can do it,' Skinner said.
Yamazaki blinked.
'That right?' Fontaine raised his eyebrows at Yamazaki. 'You stay up here and take care of Mr. Skinner?'
Yamazaki thought of his borrowed flat in the tall Victorian house, its black marble bathroom larger than his bachelor apartment in Osaka. He looked from Fontaine to Skinner, then back. 'I would be honored, to stay with Skinner-san, if he wishes.'
'Do what you like,' Skinner said, and began laboriously stripping the sheets from his mattress.
'Chevette told me you might be up here,' Fontaine said. 'Some kind of university guy …' He put his cup down on the table, bent to swing his tool-bag up beside it. 'Said maybe you people worried about uninvited guests.' He undid the bag's two buckles and opened it. Tools gleamed there, rolls of insulated wire. He took out something wrapped in an oily rag, looked to see that Skinner wasn't observing him, and tucked the thing behind the glass jars on the shelf above the table.
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