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“Now when I was a little chap I had a passion for maps … At that time there were many blank spaces on the earth, and when I saw one that looked particularly inviting on a map (but they all look that) I would put my finger on it and say, When I grow up I will go there.”
—Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Epigraph
1. Underground
2. What the Social Worker Said
3. Over
4. How Billy Moore First Met “Mr.” Wrobleski
5. Zak Webster Puts Himself on the Map
6. Billy Moore’s First Job
7. Night Under Glass
8. Backless
9. Scare
10. Deviation
11. Plasma
12. In and On the Grid
13. Suit
14. The Flash
15. Ray of Light
16. What Happened at the Loft
17. Off the Wall
18. Swing
19. Marilyn’s Own Devices
20. Billy Moore’s Next Job
21. Uncommon Pursuits
22. Zak Looking In
23. The Pedagogue
24. Treasure
25. What Happened in Greenland
26. Marilyn Off the Grid
27. The Coaching Manual
28. Trunk
29. The Skin Under the City
30. Marilyn Gives an Inch, Rose Scarlatti Takes a Foot
31. The Disappearing Kid
32. Tectonics
33. Human
34. Pelt
35. Road Rage
36. A Bigger Bang
37. The Best Laid
38. Shy
39. Wrobleski Descends
40. Penultimate Things
41. The Revolve
Also by Geoff Nicholson
A Note About the Author
Copyright
1. UNDERGROUND
The old man was walking to his car. He was dapper, sedate, serious, wearing a dark navy blazer, a plume of silver handkerchief rising from his breast pocket. His hair, similarly silver, glinted in the lights of the underground parking lot. There was only the slightest hesitancy in his step, and although he carried a walking cane—lacquered mahogany with a silver head in the shape of a globe—it might well have been just for show.
Another man stood in the shadow of a broad concrete pillar. He was a big man, but there was something compacted about him, so that his considerable size and weight didn’t suggest fatness but a concentration of flesh and energy. His face was flat, and carved into frown lines. His eyes were grave and sly. His name was Wrobleski. He watched the old man as he approached his car and produced the key. Wrobleski smoothed down his jacket. Some guys liked to put on special gear when they worked; wraparound shades, scarves, black kid gloves, but Wrobleski was not “some guy.” He preferred to wear a good suit—though not too good, given the task ahead.
The old man matched his vehicle: it was Wrobleski’s experience that they always did. They both looked sleek, polished, well-appointed, but maybe a little sluggish. Wrobleski stepped out of the shadow, hands by his sides, his face heavy but open, and he walked over to the old man.
“Nice ride,” he said, nodding toward the car.
The old man looked just a little surprised to find someone suddenly standing so close to him. He’d assumed he was alone. Even so, he was unruffled. He nodded back in agreement. Yes, it was a nice ride.
“What kind of mileage do you get from this thing?”
“I have no idea,” the old man said suavely, demonstrating that he didn’t have to care about such things.
“Right,” said Wrobleski, “you’re my kind of guy.”
“I doubt that,” said the old man; and then, “Do I know you?”
“My name’s Wrobleski.”
The old man did his best not to react, though that wasn’t easy. A slight stiffening of his bottom lip was all that showed.
“Really?” he said. “Wrobleski?”
“You’ve heard of me.”
“Yes, but I thought you were just an ugly rumor.”
“If only.”
“And you’re here to kill me?”
“Very good. It’s easier if we both know what’s going on.”
“I don’t think so,” the old man said calmly. “I think you’ve made a mistake.”
“I really don’t make mistakes.”
The old man’s eyes skimmed around him, from recessed shadow to bright burns of artificial light. Both men knew there was nothing to be seen, no escape routes, no panic buttons, no Good Samaritans. The security cameras had been put out of commission.
“Why exactly?” the old man said.
“Because I’m being paid to.”
“That’s no answer.”
It would have to do. Wrobleski wondered if the old man was going to make a run for it: some of these old guys prided themselves on being fit. He also wondered if he might have a gun on him: some of them liked to think they could defend themselves. They were always wrong about that. But by then Wrobleski had his own gun in his hand and he fired it into the old man’s right leg. The draped flannel of the pants and the flesh beneath splashed open and the victim sank to one knee.
“Oh good God,” the old man said quietly, and he grabbed his injured leg with one hand, his chest with the other. Wrobleski wondered if he might be having a heart attack. Well, wouldn’t that be a joke?
The old man didn’t have the strength to remain kneeling: he fell over onto his side, gasping for air.
“Couldn’t you do it ‘execution style’?” he sneered gamely.
“But where’s the sport in that?” said Wrobleski.
He fired again, into the other leg. The impact straightened the old man out, left him lying horizontally, legs apart, both arms now clutched to his torso. His car key was lying on the ground a couple of feet away, and Wrobleski picked it up and unlocked the car. He reached inside, popped open the trunk, then scooped up the wounded man and folded him into the trunk, as if he were a ventriloquist’s dummy. It was easy: there was plenty of room in there. It could have been designed for it. He slammed the lid shut.
“You all right in there?” Wrobleski yelled.
The voice from inside said something that answered the question, however unintelligibly. Wrobleski only needed to know that the old man was still breathing, still able to feel.
He got in the driver’s seat, started the car, revved the engine just a little, selected reverse, then floored the accelerator, so that the vehicle shot backward at speed, across to the wall on the other side of the parking lot. The trunk slammed into the pale, rubber-streaked concrete. Wrobleski was pretty sure that once would be enough, but he did it again anyway, just to be sure. Then he got out, surveyed the damage, the crushing and crumpling of the car’s bodywork, which indicated similar damage to the old man.
Wrobleski gave no signal, made no phone call, but precisely as arranged and scheduled, a tow truck lurched down the ramp from the parking level above and positioned itself in front of the damaged car. A young, long-limbed black man in indigo overalls levered himself out of the cab and walked languidly to the back of the truck, where he began hooking up the old man’s car.
“Thank you, Akim,” Wrobleski said to the driver with exaggerated formality; then added, “It�
��s good to see a man who believes in the dignity of labor.”
Wrobleski scrutinized the area where he’d driven the car into the wall. There were various liquids smeared across the concrete floor, pools and rivulets, forming a pattern, a not quite random design, that to a certain kind of eye might look like the map of some undiscovered country. Satisfied that none of the liquids were blood, he allowed himself a small flicker of pride at a job well done.
2. WHAT THE SOCIAL WORKER SAID
She said, “This is a rather unconventional living arrangement you have here, Mr. Moore.”
“Thanks,” said Billy Moore, and he gave her a smile that he knew in most circumstances would be read as charming. He understood that he had a good face: trustworthy to a degree; pale, strong, hard-edged; the face of a tough guy but a decent one. He was also wearing an unfamiliar, uncharacteristic, brand-new white shirt, so fresh out of the pack that the folds still showed. The scarlet tie he wore with it felt like a noose. He wondered if the woman was trained to notice things like that, if she could tell he was a man who normally wore a beautifully scuffed leather jacket.
“I didn’t necessarily mean it as a compliment,” said the social worker.
“I didn’t really take it as one,” said Billy. “I was being flippant.”
The social worker, Mrs. Janet Marcus (“Call me Jan”), was a large, well-padded woman on the lower slopes of middle age. She seemed, worked hard at seeming, warm, sympathetic, perhaps even motherly, but she sounded less than warm or sympathetic when she said, “It’s probably better not to be flippant in the current circumstances, Mr. Moore.”
“Right. I guess I’m nervous.”
“There’s no need to be.”
“Isn’t there? You’re here to check on my parenting skills. You’ve got the power to take my daughter away from me. That makes me nervous.”
“All right, I can understand that. So let’s discuss this unconventional living arrangement.”
They were standing in a parking lot on the edge of downtown, at the corner of Hope Street and Tenth. In front of them was a long, low trailer, a mobile home, old, a minor classic, humped rather than streamlined, its outer walls paneled in eye-popping blue and yellow, with a striped aluminum awning overhanging its porthole-shaped windows.
“You’re living in a trailer in a parking lot, Mr. Moore.”
“Well, I do own the parking lot.”
“You do?”
“Sure. This is what I do. I’m in the parking business now.”
“That’s your job?”
“My career. My passion, Mrs. Marcus. My old life’s behind me. I’m here to serve the people who need somewhere to park.”
He said it jauntily, though it wasn’t entirely a joke. The social worker nodded noncommittally but not dismissively.
“And the trailer?”
“It’s not just a trailer,” Billy Moore said. “It’s a Lofgren Colonist.”
“Is that good?”
“Well, it’s not as good as an Airstream, but it has its fans. Come on in, take a look around.”
Dutifully she followed him up a couple of steps, through the low doorway, into a brightly colored though dimly lit blob of space.
“This is the living room, the famous Lofgren Luxury-Look interior,” said Billy. “This is the dinette, the step-saving kitchen, the patented Thermograce windows. The full-size bathroom is through there.”
“It seems a little poky.”
“Feels like the wide-open spaces to me.”
“And there are two bedrooms?”
“Sure.”
“One for you, one for your daughter?”
“Oh no,” said Billy, “she has her own place.”
“Excuse me?”
Billy Moore pulled back the bamboo-patterned drape from a Thermograce window to reveal a view of another trailer, just a few yards behind this one, similar in most respects but scaled down, only half its length.
“Your daughter has her own trailer?”
“It’s a Lofgren Scamp,” said Billy. “The budget model. Carla’s in there right now.”
“Let’s go see her,” said the social worker.
“Sure.”
Billy Moore opened the rear door and took the few steps necessary to get from one trailer to the other. With some ceremony he tapped on the glass of the small trailer’s window, and a moment later Carla Moore, Billy’s twelve-year-old daughter, appeared. She was wearing a school uniform, had her long black hair in a ponytail, glasses perched uncertainly on the end of her nose. She was holding a weighty math textbook, her thumb lodged inside to keep her place.
“Come on in,” said Carla brightly.
Billy let the social worker go first. She stepped inside, looked around at the fold-down desk with the laptop, at the well-stocked bookshelf, at a vase of flowers, some fringed scatter cushions, at a large cuddly koala bear perched on top of the mini refrigerator. There was a plate of oatmeal cookies and some freshly made peppermint tea, and classical music played in the background, its volume pitched perfectly between the audible and the unobtrusive.
“That’s Bach,” the social worker said.
“Yes, it is,” said Carla. “Are you a fan?”
Mrs. Marcus surveyed the space again, more slowly this time.
“This,” she said, “this is quite lovely.”
“Isn’t it?” said Carla.
The social worker sat down carefully, helped herself to tea and cookies: that occupied her for a while. At last she turned to Billy, crumbs still dusting the corners of her mouth, and inquired, “So how is Carla’s … condition? You’ll have to remind me of the name, I’m afraid.”
Carla was quite capable of describing her own condition. “Dermatographia,” she said.
Carla had already pushed her right sleeve up and was drawing on her bare arm with the end of a key. She drew a heart and a peace symbol. On healthy skin a brief white impression would have been left behind, fading and disappearing within seconds. On Carla’s arm, however, the marks showed red, and a few seconds later cherry-colored wheals appeared in the exact shape of the lines she’d drawn.
“Dermatographia,” she repeated. “It’s exactly what it sounds like. ‘Derma’ means skin. ‘Graphia’ means writing: skin writing. The classic medical photographs always show a patient who’s had someone ‘write’ on them with the wrong end of a pencil, so that the word ‘dermatographia’ appears.”
Mrs. Marcus looked at the girl’s arm, tried to appear sympathetic and understanding, though she feared she might be gawking inappropriately.
Carla continued, “The skin cells become oversensitive to what they call ‘minor trauma,’ like scratching,” she explained. “When you touch the skin, the cells release chemicals called histamines. They’re what cause the redness. But really, it’s no big deal.”
“Does it hurt?” the social worker asked.
“No. It itches sometimes, but it’s not really painful. And it never lasts very long, and in any case, the doctor says I’ll probably grow out of it.”
“It must be a bit of a problem at school, yes?” said Mrs. Marcus.
Carla shrugged. “One of them,” she said.
“I hear there are worse problems in schools,” Billy Moore said, hoping he sounded intelligent. “There are worse problems everywhere.”
Half an hour later he was able to escort a satisfied Mrs. Marcus off the premises. She told him she was impressed by what she’d seen. If standards were maintained, if there were no “issues,” as long as Carla’s “condition” didn’t deteriorate, and as long as he didn’t break the terms of his probation, she saw no reason why his daughter shouldn’t continue to live with him, at least until his ex-wife was out of rehab, when the situation might have to be reassessed. For his part, Billy Moore told her that if she ever needed some good, secure downtown parking, there would always be a spot waiting for her.
He waved her off and returned to Carla’s Lofgren Scamp, by which time his daughter had torn off the schoo
l uniform, thrown aside the nonfunctional glasses, and turned off the music. She had already opened a can of beer for her dad, which she now handed to him.
“The Bach was going a bit far,” said Billy.
“What?” said Carla. “You think subtlety’s going to get us anywhere in this world?”
“Okay, probably not.”
“Just as well she didn’t see my other arm,” said Carla.
She pushed up her left sleeve to reveal, on her skin, a hastily drawn, and now faded but quite distinct, skull and crossbones.
“Aren’t I a pistol?” said Carla.
“That’s one of the things you are,” said Billy.
“And as a matter of fact,” Carla added, “I thought the shirt and tie looked pretty sharp.”
3. OVER
Something is over: something has stopped. Not the pain, that’s still completely with her, but for now there are no new shocks to the flesh. The process is finished, the damage has been done, though she can’t tell the extent or even the precise nature of what has just happened to her.
She was walking home, and yes, it was late, and yes, she’d been at a party, and no, she wasn’t completely clean and sober, and she was wearing heels, and she certainly knew the risks in this, or any other, part of the city. Perhaps she was trying to test herself, prove something about her toughness, her self-reliance, her ability to shrug off the all too obvious dangers, but when the moment came, toughness and self-reliance had nothing to do with it.
She had no sense that anything bad was about to happen. He was on her before she knew it. He came at her silently from behind and she never saw him, but she had the sense of a man who was strong rather than big, fiercely purposeful but not frenzied. He knocked her to the ground, pressed her down. She started to scream, not so much because she was afraid (though she was), but because she thought he might be and the screaming would scare him off, but it didn’t, and already there was something being placed over her head, a bag, a fetish hood made of leather, no openings for eyes or mouth, but with a small rubber valve to breathe through. Apparently he wanted her alive, at least for the time being. The smell of cowhide and somebody else’s sweat and saliva filled her nostrils.
The City Under the Skin Page 1
