34. PELT
Billy Moore stood beside Wrobleski, shaking just a little. For reasons he couldn’t fully understand he’d wanted to step in, to smack the stuffing out of that little jerk Akim. So why hadn’t he? Because he was afraid of Wrobleski? Well sure, that might have been reason enough, but it was the symptom, not the disease. He knew that somewhere inside him, at his core, there was a growing, curdling reservoir of cowardice. That was perhaps worth knowing, but it didn’t make him like himself any better.
Wrobleski put his hand on Billy’s shoulder and squeezed it with what might very well have been his idea of affection.
“For you, old man, the war is over,” he said. “You’re free and clear. You’re no longer in the Wrobleski business.”
Billy couldn’t yet allow himself to feel any relief.
“It’s a shame,” said Wrobleski. “I saw quite a future for you.”
“Not sure it’s quite the future I see for myself.”
Wrobleski looked at him slyly. “Well, I’d never ask a man to do a job he didn’t want to do.”
Billy knew that wasn’t true, but he still said, “Thanks.”
“Nothing I can do to change your mind?”
“I don’t believe so,” Billy said solemnly.
“Don’t look so worried,” said Wrobleski. “I’ll prove there’s no hard feelings. You remember back at the beginning I said I’d show you the really good stuff?”
“The maps?” said Billy. He had no desire whatsoever to see Wrobleski’s collection, but he knew he would have no choice, and he suspected it would not be a simple “showing.”
“The maps, of course,” said Wrobleski.
They began by following a route that Billy had walked before, past locked metal doors, as though again heading for that oddly cheerful waiting room and the elevator that led up to the roof. But before they got there, Wrobleski stopped at one of the other doors and, with more show and ceremony than Billy thought necessary, produced a bunch of keys on a globe-shaped fob, and painstakingly unlocked it.
“I can’t show you everything,” Wrobleski said. “That would take forever. I just want you to experience the broad scope of my interests.”
And so Wrobleski walked Billy Moore through just a few rooms of his collection: large, cold spaces that must have been offices when the building was first used. There were maps thick on the walls, crammed together, edge to edge, and more stacked in piles on the floor. The light from fluorescent tubes overhead seemed deliberately harsh and ugly. The collection was not so much displayed as exposed.
The role of tour guide didn’t suit Wrobleski. He preferred to let the maps speak for themselves. They were a wild and miscellaneous bunch: some gigantic, some miniature, a few ancient and crumbling in the frames, others very modern, very high tech, printed on Lucite or aluminum. A lot of them inhabited the disputed territory between cartography and art. Many were hand-drawn, intense, obsessive, massively detailed, perhaps drawn by madmen or disturbed children. Some showed mythical, invented, oddly formed countries, not from this planet or any other, one in the shape of a giraffe, one like a phallus, one like a slice through a human brain. There were plans of fantastical cities, the streets arranged in geometrical figures, some cruciform, some in the shape of pentagrams, some fashioned after crop circles or fractals. There were maps of cities in chaos or in ruin, after bombings or natural disasters. There were maps of the stars and planets, maps of the oceans, maps of the inside of the earth. There was far too much going on in most of them: the colors were eye-popping and unsettling, designed for show, not clarity; the cartouches were overelaborate; gods and mythical beasts, mermaids and angels ranged through the few otherwise empty spaces.
Despite Zak’s brief attempt to educate him, Billy still didn’t “get” maps, and perhaps he never would, but it did occur to him (and this was certainly a thought he’d never have had if he hadn’t stepped inside Utopiates) that this collection was actually a map of Wrobleski’s world, his psyche, a menacing, dangerous, and primitive territory, a place of lurid, angry colors, jagged edges, and dragons that were not quite imaginary. Billy tried to make the right noises, to show the appropriate degree of interest and quiet enthusiasm, but it wasn’t easy, and unless Wrobleski was an idiot, and he quite conspicuously was not, he must have realized that Billy wasn’t impressed.
“You know what would be a nice idea?” said Wrobleski. “You should bring that daughter of yours. She’d get a kick out of all this, wouldn’t she?”
“I don’t think she’d be interested,” said Billy, making some nebulous attempt to protect Carla from Wrobleski, though, in fact, given what a weird little kid she was, he thought she probably would love to see this demented collection.
“I bet I could stimulate her interest,” said Wrobleski. And then he had, or pretended to have, a new idea. “You know, there’s a little something I really do want to show you. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe you won’t like it. But I’m going to show it to you anyway.”
This ambivalence struck Billy as completely fake. It seemed to him that Wrobleski had made up his mind some time back that he would definitely show Billy whatever it was, that this was perhaps the sole reason for giving him the tour.
Billy said, “It’s your decision, Mr. Wrobleski.”
“Yes, it is.”
Billy knew there must be some reason, some meaning, perhaps some threat, in what Wrobleski was proposing, but what choice did he have? They came to yet another door, one that from the outside looked little different from the others, and Wrobleski duly unlocked and opened it. A wedge of light from the corridor pushed into the room and revealed a section of a deep, unlit, windowless space. Together they stepped inside, and Wrobleski closed the door behind them, so that for a few long, ominous moments they were in complete darkness; then his hand reached for a dimmer switch that slowly brought to life two overhead spotlights trained across an all but empty room. Here the walls were completely bare, there were no stacks of maps on the floor, and the spotlights were angled on a single item positioned in a far corner. It was a glass display case, not quite as tall as a man, and it contained what at first looked to Billy like a patterned shawl, or perhaps a shroud.
“What do you make of that?” Wrobleski asked.
“From here, not much,” said Billy.
“Walk over there. Go take a good look,” said Wrobleski. “Then you tell me what you think it is.”
Billy moved toward the case. At first the thing inside appeared to be a pelt, a hide, a piece of unsuccessful taxidermy, but then he realized, with a twinge of delayed recognition, because somehow he’d known all along, that it was part of a bodysuit made from an actual body: a length of flayed human skin, mounted upright on a metal armature.
It wasn’t the whole body—just the skin from the back and buttocks, so that it looked like a stretched, painted canvas. It had a worn, yellowed, well-used look, and it was tattooed, intricately, skillfully: the style looked Oriental. And the tattoos did indeed form a map of a sort, although nothing remotely like the ones Billy had seen on any of the women. These tattoos showed a stylized but highly detailed rendition of a city: houses, roads, bridges, a river, a lake, a temple, a pagoda, and at the very center, in the very middle of the back, there was a volcano.
“Now who’d build a city around the base of a volcano?” Wrobleski said, as if addressing a dim child.
Billy’s revulsion was instinctive, visceral, and although he tried telling himself there might be something fake about this skin, that it could be a horror-movie prop, a leftover from an elaborate Halloween party, he knew that was wishful thinking. The glass case also contained a photograph of the skin in situ, on its original owner, while she was still alive, a Japanese woman, small, dignified, serene, displaying her bare back and looking forlornly over her shoulder into the camera lens. The skin looked much better on her than off.
“You can see why it might resonate with me, can’t you, Billy?”
Billy gave a little groan of consen
t.
“Now, I’m no scholar,” said Wrobleski, “but I understand there was a time when it was common for people with tattoos to sell their skin. They made the deal while they were alive, got the money and spent it, and then when they died, the buyer went and picked up what he’d paid for. Sometimes I bet they had trouble finding the seller. Once in a while I bet they didn’t wait till he or she was dead.”
“I’ll bet.”
“Now, I know what you’re thinking, Billy. You’re thinking this would be the simple, elegant solution to all my problems. Get my women together, strip the skin off ’em—end of problem.”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” said Billy. “I don’t really know what your problem is.”
“I don’t suppose you do,” said Wrobleski. “So maybe you were thinking, What’s this fucking guy Wrobleski up to? Is he the one who did the tattoos? Why would he do that? And if he didn’t, then who did? And what does he want to do now? What does he want from me? What did he ever want? That’s pretty much what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”
“Pretty much,” Billy agreed.
“Here’s the thing, Billy. I’ve had enough of these women. In the beginning I thought it would be better to have them here rather than wandering the streets. I was wrong. Having a collection of drugged, kidnapped, tattooed women in your basement is quite a liability.”
Billy had no problem believing that.
“But you know, I’m not some sicko, I’m not going to skin ’em alive, or bathe them in acid, or throw lye all over them. I just want somebody to dispose of them for me. And that’s where you’d have come in, Billy. I thought you had potential. Killer instincts. I saw a promotion for you: better pay, better prospects. Wouldn’t be such a big step.”
“Yes, it would,” said Billy. “For me that would be a very big step indeed.”
“Oh, you might surprise yourself,” said Wrobleski.
Billy wanted to protest, to insist that Wrobleski had got him all wrong, that he wasn’t that kind of guy, that he didn’t want to be surprised. But it wasn’t an argument worth having.
“Why don’t you kill them yourself?” Billy asked.
Wrobleski’s face coalesced into a stiff frown, as if this was something he had been asking himself for a very long time.
“Professional ethics,” he said, but it was only a suggestion, a theoretical possibility, not an answer he seemed especially to believe in. “Because I don’t kill people unless I’m being paid. Is that a good enough answer?”
“Maybe,” said Billy.
“And I don’t kill women, period.”
“But you think I do?” said Billy.
“Sure. I hold you to a lower standard.”
It sounded like another of Wrobleski’s jokes.
“I wasn’t bullshitting when I said I liked the cut of your jib. You did remind me of me. An early version, an alternate version. But more than that, I saw something corruptible in you. And I wanted to corrupt it. I wanted you to be worse than me. Does that make me a bad person?”
“Yeah,” said Billy. “I think it does.”
“Anyway, it turns out I was wrong. I couldn’t corrupt you. Good for you.”
Wrobleski’s face twisted into something that had the very slightest resemblance to a smile.
“And it’s all academic anyway,” he said. “You’re in the parking business now. You’re an ex-employee of mine. It’s been nice working with you. Let me know if you change your mind about taking this new job I’m offering. Maybe you’ll think of something I can do to persuade you. Or maybe I will.”
35. ROAD RAGE
Driving: one of the lower functions, a task that can be accomplished when the mind is a very, very long way off, absorbed in its own static of words not said and actions not completed. Billy Moore’s concentration was scattered like road salt.
He didn’t consider himself a naïve man, but he did pride himself on never thinking he was smarter than he actually was. He was wise enough to realize he had no idea where he stood with Wrobleski. Could you really walk away from a man like that? Could you turn your back and say, “Thanks for giving me the opportunity to be a cold-blooded killer, but I think I’ll pass, okay?” It seemed unlikely. He wanted to be on his own turf, with Carla. Turning down a job as a murderer might not be part of the standard definition of what it took to be a good father, but it was surely a start.
He wasn’t driving fast, and he didn’t think he was driving carelessly, but suddenly there was a sigh and a shudder from the car’s front end. Jolted back to attention, Billy yawed the Cadillac to the side of the broad, desolate street and got out to inspect the damage. It was nothing more than a flat tire. He felt angry at first, and then inexplicably melancholy. The pancaked rubber suddenly seemed like the saddest thing he’d ever seen. Then again, a flat tire was encouraging somehow, suggesting that the night was going to peter out in trivial annoyance rather than high drama. That was to be welcomed. If the road gods had really been against him, wouldn’t the car have burst into flames, wouldn’t he have died in a ball of fire?
He was in the middle of nowhere, by the skeletons of some old silos and an abandoned greyhound track. He’d have to change the tire himself, which only confirmed his lowly status: he couldn’t see Wrobleski doing something so banal. He opened the trunk to get at the spare and the jack. He found a woman’s shoe jammed in the wheel well—Carol Fermor’s, he supposed—and he tossed it into the gutter before manhandling the tire out of the car.
It was a long, awkward task: difficult to position the jack, and even harder to loosen the wheel lugs. As he examined the flattened tire, he noticed a small hole in the sidewall that looked suspiciously neat, as though somebody might have made it deliberately, to create a slow puncture that would ensure he’d be brought to a halt long before he got home. Did that make sense? Maybe he was being paranoid. And did it make any difference? He still had a tire to change. And only when the job was done did he realize he had oil, rubber streaks, and road gunk all over his new suit. Fuck it. You were so much better off wearing leather: the more you abused it, the better it looked.
For the rest of the drive home he tried to keep his mind on the road: that was a better place for it than any other he could think of. Sanjay would still be there, guarding the lot, keeping an eye on Carla. Poor guy, he didn’t seem to have anywhere else to go. And yet as Billy approached the lot, there was no sign of him. There was a folding stool lying on its side by the front gate, and there was a book tossed on the ground some feet away. That didn’t look right. But nothing else seemed amiss: the security lights were on, the gates, the subcontractors’ trucks, the trailers appeared the way they always did.
“Sanjay?” he called, not too loud, not too insistently. He didn’t want to wake Carla.
He thought he heard a groan, something feeble but close at hand, and then as he moved toward it, in the direction of the trucks, he saw Sanjay lying on the ground, the pristine pink and black of his clothes now smeared brown and red. His body was twisted into a position no body could easily adopt, legs tangled at improbable angles under him, head sagging against the truck with the CAUTION: EXPLOSIVES sign. Sanjay had been mashed, pulped, beaten with his own baseball bat. He was scarcely conscious, but he was still able to look at Billy, twist his lips into a sad smile, half-raise a pointing hand, and say, “Carla.”
Billy Moore looked toward Carla’s trailer, and he saw that the door was open, and not simply open but broken wide, dangling from its buckled hinges. He ran across the lot, having just enough time to wonder which was the greater terror: that Carla would be there and in the same state as Sanjay, or that she’d simply be gone. He stepped inside the trailer. It was the latter: silence, stillness, disorder, emptiness. There was broken glass, a kicked-over chair, skewed carpet. Carla had not gone quietly. Well, Billy had never thought she would. He was searching around the interior, looking for something that would tell him what had happened, when he saw that Sanjay had dragged himself all the way across the lot to
the trailer door.
It seemed he could barely speak, barely breathe, but he said, “I think, sir, they didn’t kill me, sir, because they wanted me to give you a message.”
“Who’s they?” demanded Billy.
“Several men, one of them of African heritage, who did most of the talking.”
“Akim.”
“We didn’t exchange names, sir.”
“Keep it simple, Sanjay,” Billy said, but simplicity wasn’t Sanjay’s way.
“This man told me to tell you that your daughter is temporarily in safe hands, being looked after by somebody named Laurel.”
“My daughter’s being looked after by a tattooed whore?”
“That I cannot say, sir. But the rest of the message is that ‘Mr. Wrobleski would like to see you again when you’ve changed your mind about the job.’ Does all that make sense, sir?”
His voice dribbled away with pain and exhaustion.
“Sense is one word for it.”
“Now, sir,” said Sanjay, “I wonder if you might be good enough to call an ambulance for me, sir?”
“I’ll drive you there myself. We’ll talk on the way.”
Sanjay readied himself to do some more talking.
36. A BIGGER BANG
Zak Webster had never given much thought to dynamite, but if he had thought about it, he’d have assumed that today’s mining and demolition engineers, such as those blasting the tunnels for the Platinum Line, the ones parking in Billy Moore’s lot, would have something rather more sophisticated, more modern, in their trucks. Billy Moore, repeating what he’d very recently learned from Sanjay on the way to the hospital, was able to tell him he’d have been wrong about that.
The City Under the Skin Page 18
