The City Under the Skin

by Geoff Nicholson

  She lurched forward, her black hair falling around her face like a hood. He hit her once, good and hard so she understood the situation, then took the pepper spray and blasted a jet of the stuff into her face. She fell back in the seat, coughing, retching, and he popped her again, just to be sure. He almost felt justified.

  “There’s more where that came from if you don’t behave yourself,” he said, hating the sound of his own voice.

  She whimpered indignantly and behaved herself. Billy delivered her to Wrobleski’s compound, received the envelope of money; this time he didn’t even bother to see how much was in it. It would again be too much, maybe even more than before. He knew he hadn’t earned it. He looked at his watch. He was in good time to pick up Carla from school. He hoped she wouldn’t notice the scent of artificial lilacs or the sting of pepper.

  * * *

  He thought he was doing well. Carla smelled nothing, but then she pulled something out from under the front passenger seat, an embossed real estate brochure. Billy hadn’t noticed it; Isabel Sibrian must have put it there, and he knew that was bad, he was supposed to be aware of these things. Carla turned the few heavy pages, looked at them in deep fascination.

  “Wow, we really are moving up in the world,” she said.

  “We’re not moving there, that’s for sure,” said Billy.

  “No? Why not?”

  Billy could think of a lot of reasons, all of them plausible, but he wasn’t sure which one would satisfy Carla.

  “I didn’t like the realtor,” he said at last.

  “Why not?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “What? She didn’t treat you right? She didn’t show enough respect?”

  Billy wished he’d never started this. “Sure, something like that.”

  “You see, Dad,” Carla said triumphantly, “if only you’d been wearing a suit…”

  17. OFF THE WALL

  Early morning, Marilyn got on her bike and rode out of the city center, thinking about Cadillacs in general and one Cadillac in particular. Supposing, she asked herself, you drove a classic metallic-blue Cadillac, where would you take it to have it serviced and maintained? You’d want somebody who knew what he was doing. But given the distressed state of the car, it obviously hadn’t been looked after by a fancy dealership or restoration boutique. Chances were it had been taken to some cheap, halfway-honest, gritty establishment out in the boonies. It would be a place that knew the car inside out and also, obviously, they’d know the name, phone number, and maybe even address of the owner. If she could find that garage, and charm a mechanic into revealing some or all of the above information, well then … well, she wasn’t sure exactly what, maybe another punch in the eye somewhere along the line, although she would try very hard to resist hitting him with her backpack if she saw him again.

  She had made herself a map of sorts, actually more of a loosely schematized list, names and addresses of garages that fit the bill to a greater or lesser extent, arranged by location and what she imagined to be relevance. She was surprised how many there were, less surprised that they were located in some exhaustingly out-of-the-way parts of the city, places she’d never been before and would never go again. It was a brave old world out there, one of industrial parks, service roads, freeway on- and off-ramps, chemical plants and landfills, waste lots littered with sagging huts made out of sheet metal. Were these the kinds of places Zak had said he liked to explore? She wished she’d asked him a few more questions. She also found herself wishing, to her considerable surprise, and not only because he had a car, that she’d brought him along. But that was not to be: he had a day job and a sense of responsibility. She imagined the latter could eventually be diluted, but for now this was something she had to do by herself.

  She started optimistically enough, and met a lot of hardworking men, caked in oil, grease, and road gunk. They seemed like good guys, but once she started asking questions, they all became similarly surly and tight-lipped. Showing them a picture she’d printed out, of the Cadillac and a man in a battered leather jacket, didn’t melt their hearts any.

  One or two wanted to know why she wanted to know. She tried a few fake answers: the guy in the picture was an old friend she needed to reconnect with (although this story capsized when it became evident she didn’t actually know his name), or she wanted to buy the Cadillac from him, or she’d accidentally scraped the car while it was parked and she wanted to do the right thing and pay for the damage. Her stories were greeted with sullen disbelief. The guys all said they knew nothing, and although they wouldn’t have any reason to tell her the truth, she suspected they weren’t actually lying. Her black eye surely was no help. She’d tried to cover it with concealer, but it was hard to keep makeup intact while riding a bike through various more or less threatening interzones.

  The day slithered on, used itself up, and although Marilyn tried to sustain an air of energy and commitment as she pedaled, eventually she no longer knew for whose benefit she was keeping up appearances. The project had been a bust: there were still more garages to try, but they were long shots, they were miles away, and they might well be closing for the day by now. In any case, her legs and her butt ached: she’d had enough.

  And then, as she was pedaling back into the city, she saw another garage, not one from her list, a cube of purple-painted cinder block, with two metal shutters in the front, the first wide open, the other rolled firmly shut. There was no name on the building, but on the side wall was a clumsy and garish mural, a broad black road narrowing through sand dunes into a high vanishing point. On that road was a line of classic, cartoon-style Cadillacs.

  She slammed on her brakes, skidded the bike to a halt, and went to look more closely. She was aware of two men inside the garage, one older, one younger. The older man was elbow deep in the guts of a pickup truck; the younger was sweeping the floor with exaggerated care. She could hear a radio playing loudly inside, tuned to a religious station, a voice blustering something about grace and redemption.

  She stood and stared, saw that the mural was signed Carlos, and before long the man with the broom, not much more than a boy, she saw now, came out to talk to her. He had a wide, goofy smile; she hadn’t seen many smiles in the course of the day.

  “I did that,” he said, pointing at the mural with a little too much enthusiasm.

  “You’re Carlos.”

  He seemed both astonished and infinitely proud.

  “Yes, I am. My dad’s called Carlos too, but I’m the one who did the painting. How did you know?”

  “Your fame is spreading,” Marilyn said, hoping that didn’t sound like she was mocking him.

  He considered this. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, my fame is spreading, yeah it is.”

  The older man now stepped out of the garage.

  “Hey, Carlos, how’s that sweeping coming along?”

  “Really well,” said young Carlos, and he returned obediently to the job in hand.

  Carlos senior was an unthreatening Latino, short, fleshy, with a thick head of glossy hair, a thin band of mustache across his upper lip, and a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his oil-streaked forearm. He looked at Marilyn, looked at her bike, and said, “Yeah?”

  “Just admiring your son’s mural.”

  “It keeps the kid out of trouble. Mostly.”

  “Do you specialize in Cadillacs?”

  “The kid likes Caddies. I specialize in whatever anybody brings in.”

  She continued to gaze admiringly at the mural, and she hoped she sounded suitably casual as she said, “I used to have a boyfriend with an old Cadillac.”

  “What kind?”

  “Oh,” she said archly, “I never know about years and models and that stuff. But actually I do have a picture.”

  She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out the photograph of the metallic-blue Cadillac and its owner. She showed it to the older Carlos, who looked at it, but looked away just a little too quickly, or so she thought.

  �
�Nineteen eighty-one Seville,” he said. “Not one of their best years. The Eldorado is the one you want.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “You always carry your old boyfriend’s picture with you?”

  “He’s pretty recent. I really need to see him actually. I thought if you specialized in Cadillacs he might bring his car here. A long shot, I know.”

  “I’ll say.”

  The guy still didn’t seem very interested, but she decided to take a chance. He was good to his son, and it seemed he had some religious leanings. She patted her stomach.

  “It’ll be showing soon.”

  That stoked the man’s curiosity just a little, and maybe his sympathy. She turned her face so he could get a good look at her black eye.

  “He just left you?”

  “He’s disappeared. I don’t even know where he is.”

  Carlos junior found a reason to sweep very close to where the two of them were standing. He tilted his head to get a look at the picture Marilyn was holding.

  “Hey,” he said, “it’s Billy Moore.”

  The father’s face puckered, and showed the briefest flare of anger before settling into a more customary resignation.

  “You’d better step inside for a moment,” he said to Marilyn.

  They walked into the garage. It was hot in there and smelled as much of French fries as of gasoline. An industrial-sized swamp cooler stirred the air to no noticeable effect. The radio station was now playing choral music. Marilyn checked out a row of hubcaps on the wall, some with bullet holes, and next to them was a pinup calendar showing a girl draped over a hot rod, and beside that was a picture of the Pope.

  “What’s the story?” Carlos senior asked.

  “Billy’s disappeared,” she said, picking up on the name. “He won’t answer his phone. He always did move around a lot. I have no idea where he is now. I hoped maybe you did.”

  “You’re not lying about being pregnant, are you?”

  “No,” she said, sounding offended. “It would be terrible to lie about a thing like that.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  She hoped he wasn’t going to make her swear on the Bible.

  “See,” he said, “I don’t know much about the guy. He brings his car here, that’s all. I know his car, not him. I’m sorry to hear about your troubles, but I think maybe you’re better off without this Billy Moore.”

  “Can’t you give me his latest address? Maybe where he works?”

  “I got nothing. All the work I did was off the books. No invoice, no sales tax. I got no address for him, nothing.”

  At which point Carlos junior edged into the garage, not wanting to be left out. Besides, he had some important information to deliver.

  “I’m not sure where he lives,” the kid said. “But I know where he parks his car.”

  “You serious, Carlos?” the father said.

  “Sure.”

  “Really sure?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “So where does he park?”

  “In a brand-new lot on the corner of Hope Street and Tenth.”

  Carlos senior shot Marilyn a look that said his son wasn’t always wrong about things, and he raised his splayed hands in her direction. It could have been a benediction, but it might also have indicated that he wanted to wash his hands of the whole business.

  18. SWING

  “You’ve brought me to a high place,” said Wrobleski. “Again.”

  “Is that a bad thing?” Ray McKinley asked.

  They were on a rooftop, twenty-one stories high, on the edge of Chinatown, at an underpopulated nighttime golf range. On three sides the parapet of the roof supported green netting that towered and billowed like perforated sails. Spotlights trained down from a great height, turning the darkness hazy and bordering it with white velvet flare.

  “I fucking hate golf,” said Wrobleski. “I hate the people who play it, people who watch it, everything about it.”

  He glanced at the nearest pair of golfers, a young Asian couple, three tees over, driving balls haphazardly into the netting. They were too far away to hear what he said. He thought that was a shame.

  “Maybe it’ll grow on you,” said McKinley.

  “If it grows on me, I’ll hack it off.”

  McKinley feigned amusement. Wrobleski did not.

  “You hit. I’ll watch,” said Wrobleski.

  The tees were automatic: balls popped up from the ground at the golfer’s feet, and one appeared now in front of McKinley. He concentrated, addressed the ball, did an exaggerated wiggle with his ass, drew back the club, swung, hit the ball effortlessly, straight, clean, if perhaps with more height than length. Even so, he looked quietly satisfied.

  “I hear you’ve been buying real estate,” he said.

  “It’s not a secret. Looks like easy money to me. I see you buying and selling property. I think, How hard can it be?”

  McKinley didn’t take the bait. He said, “Maybe you should sell that compound of yours. Turn it into quirky luxury apartments.”

  “No.”

  “Too many memories, eh?” Ray said, smirking. “Look, are you all right? What is it? Money troubles? Women troubles? Whatever it is, you can talk to me about it.”

  “No, I can’t. And I don’t want to.”

  “Okay then, just enjoy the view,” Ray McKinley said. “I like it here. You can see half the city from here. Don’t you like it?”

  “I’d like it better without the nets and the lights and the dicks playing golf.”

  “You have to see past all that stuff,” said McKinley. “That’s what I do. I look beyond. I see possibilities.”

  “Yeah, Ray, you’re king of all you survey.”

  “No need to be a jerk about it.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” said Wrobleski, continuing to be a jerk. “You can see the tower of the Telstar Hotel from here, can’t you? You still own a piece of that?”

  “You know I do. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

  “I hear the mayor’s plans are going pretty well.”

  “Plans are made to be changed.”

  They looked out across the city, to the dimmed stillness of the empty Telstar. There were one or two lights dotted randomly amid the grid of its windows: squatters. Ray lofted another ball, harder, straighter, even higher.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Wrobleski, “you just want to talk.”

  “Is that so terrible?”

  “It’s a conversation we’ve already had,” said Wrobleski. “You’re going to ask me to do a job I’ve already told you I’m not going to do.”

  “I think you should be allowed to change your mind.”

  “There are jobs and there are jobs. This one is just suicide.”

  “What? You’re scared? The old Wrobleski wouldn’t have scared so easily.”

  “What’s wrong with being scared?” said Wrobleski. “Only an idiot’s never scared. And you can’t just rub out the mayor because she’s in the way of one of your development deals.”

  “Oh, I think you can,” said McKinley. “The mayor goes. Her little restoration plan collapses. The Telstar gets demolished. I make a killing.”

  “And I’m the one who does the killing.”

  “Sure. It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  Wrobleski didn’t respond, but he didn’t deny it.

  “Look,” said McKinley, “I’m not asking you to enjoy it. But I can’t see any other way. I’ve tried reasoning with her. I’ve tried bribing her. You got rid of the other old dude for me. That ought to have got her attention, made her rethink her position. But it didn’t. So what am I supposed to do?”

  A news helicopter, black and white, insectlike, hacked through the air not so far above their heads. There was a man in the passenger seat, leaning out, pointing a video camera down at them. McKinley raised thumb and index finger and mimed shooting down the chopper.

  “The mayor has people,” said Wrobleski. “She’
s never alone. She has armed security. She has cameras on her twenty-four hours a day.”

  “What is it?” Ray asked. “Are you trying to go straight, Wrobleski?”

  “No.”

  “Or maybe you’re squeamish about women.”

  Wrobleski didn’t answer.

  “Really? Is that it? Well, aren’t you the gentleman assassin?”

  At last Wrobleski picked up one of the golf clubs McKinley had rented for him. He held it like an ax. McKinley addressed the new ball that had appeared before him. He swung, the ball flew away, fast, straight, and low this time.

  “Why don’t you pay one of your other goons to get rid of the mayor for you?”

  “You’re the only goon I can trust,” said Ray. “I want to keep it neat. I want to keep it in-house.”

  “You could always do it yourself.”

  “What do you think I am?”

  “I know what you are,” said Wrobleski.

  “You sure?”

  Wrobleski at last stepped up to a place at the tee. A ball was there waiting. He wound himself up, took an almighty swing, as though he was trying to burst the netting, send the ball far across the city, to the outskirts, to the empty brown land beyond. The ball sliced fiercely, viciously off to the right, smacked the young Asian man standing three tees away, hit him clean and hard in the right shin. He fell down as though he’d been shot. Wrobleski strolled across, stood over him, and offered a thoroughly insincere apology.

  “You have to keep your head down and your elbows in,” said McKinley, unhelpfully.

  19. MARILYN’S OWN DEVICES

  Marilyn Driscoll wafted into Utopiates, a certain elasticity, maybe even bounce, in her step. Zak wondered if this was a good sign; at the very least it suggested that the place no longer gave her the creeps.

  “Your black eye’s not looking so bad,” Zak said by way of greeting.

  “You think?” said Marilyn. “Under the makeup it’s looking more purple edged with yellow than black. I guess that’s a step in the right direction.”

  “And how was your tattooist?”

  “My tattooist was a cranky old lady who has a lot more information than she’s prepared to give me. Especially about compass roses.”