by Paul Neilan
I took a drink.
“Isn’t that what you want?” she said. “A fresh start? Or is it a do-over?”
She held my eyes across the table.
“Either way,” Evie said. “I’d hate to see you get hurt by somebody other than me.”
She’d never said anything sweeter. I stared at the picture of Stan Volga until it went sour. It wasn’t long.
* * *
Outside the bus station, my screen vibrated. I knew the number.
“Harrigan,” Leda Dresden said. “We need to talk. How soon can you get to the pier?”
I went back inside, found the Santa Monica bus line. A guy in a top hat was sucking a Tootsie Roll Pop and saying in a tiny voice “Don’t eat my brain! That owl’s a liar! It takes more than three licks! Help!”
I got on the bus, found a seat behind two guys in stained ponchos, one of them watching a screen.
“Who the fuck is that guy?” Ollie said, pointing out the window.
“That’s the mailman,” Wayne said.
“I’ve been watching him,” Ollie said. “He’s hiding shit in all those little boxes and then sneaking away. I don’t trust him.”
“That’s his job,” Wayne said. “He’s delivering the mail.”
“What the fuck is the mail?” Ollie said.
“It’s all the bills and letters people send you,” Wayne said. “Fucking postcards and shit.”
“That’s the mail?” Ollie said. “I thought it was how guys have a dick.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Wayne said.
“Like the opposite of female,” Ollie said.
“You’re thinking of male,” Wayne said. “It’s a different spelling.”
“What the fuck is spelling?” Ollie said.
“How do you not know what spelling is?” Wayne said. “It’s when you put the letters together to make a word.”
“I thought that’s what the guy was delivering in the boxes,” Ollie said. “The letters and bills.”
“What guy?” Wayne said.
“The guy we’re talking about!” Ollie said. “The fucking mailman!”
“Those are different kinds of letters,” Wayne said. “Ones in an envelope with a stamp.”
“What the fuck is an envelope?” Ollie said.
“It’s the thing you put the letter in,” Wayne said.
“I thought that was the fucking word!” Ollie said. “This is all bullshit.”
“Would you shut the fuck up,” Wayne said. “I’m trying to watch this.”
“What is that, the Muppets?” Ollie said. “What are they still doing around? That guy died like forty years ago.”
“Who?” Wayne said. “Jim Henson?”
“Yeah,” Ollie said. “Are they all ghosts now? This shit is terrifying!”
“They’re not ghosts,” Wayne said. “It’s his son that does it.”
“His son?” Ollie said. “Who the fuck is that guy? Nobody goes to Mr. Rogers’s neighborhood and says, Hey, is Fred’s nephew around? I want to watch him put on his shoes. These Muppets are bullshit. They don’t even sound like themselves. Kermit’s got a stick up his—Jesus Christ! What the fuck is this?”
He was staring down into his hand.
“What’s the matter with you?” Wayne said. “It’s a piece of lint.”
“What the fuck is lint?” Ollie said.
“I don’t know,” Wayne said. “It’s little bits of fiber.”
“Fiber?” Ollie said. “That stuff you eat when you want to take a shit? I can’t shit on the bus. They’ll throw me off.”
“You don’t eat lint, you fucking lunatic,” Wayne said. “It just shows up in your pocket and your belly button sometimes.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ollie said. “Are you even listening to yourself? What’s a laxative doing in your belly button? You need to see a doctor, man. Get yourself checked out.”
I stood from the seat as the city sailed by out the window, waited for my stop.
* * *
The pier was crowded, even in the rain. People lined the vendor stalls, plugged into screens, gathered around each other on Grid. They spilled from the old arcade, clogging the gangways, lights strung crisscrossing overhead. I found Leda Dresden in front of the Ferris wheel.
“Harrigan,” she said. “Let’s take a ride.”
We settled into the swaying carriage, the bar descending to lock us in. With a lurch we were off the ground, pulled back and up as the pier receded. There was water everywhere, sloshing under the long wood planks below, spattering the metal canopy above.
“What haven’t you told me about Eddie Lompoc?” Leda said, when we were in the air.
“He had a cucumber up his ass,” I said.
“I heard,” she said. “That kind of story gets around. What else?”
“He had a line on fvrst chvrch mvlTverse,” I said. “I still haven’t figured out what it was.”
“He was working the Versers?” she said. “There’s a lot of that going on. Basil Fenton was in with the Parallax Liberation Faction. They’re the only ones hiring these days. I’ve picked some work up from them myself.”
“Demolition jobs?” I said.
“Whatever they need,” she said.
The carriage came down, skimmed the ground and rose again, bright lights all around us.
“I’ve been looking at the Dunwich Academy,” Leda said. “Asking around. Nobody wants to talk, but Fenton was on to something. It was backed by Zodiac, before they shut it down. Another one of their feeders.”
“Pumping psychopaths into the system?” I said. “Sounds like a Grid simulation.”
“That’s how it starts,” she said. “We’re lab rats to them. Just another experiment.”
She looked down on the crowded pier below. “They’re all jacked in,” she said, surveying the bustling scene. “Eating it up. Even out here.”
“You can’t blame them,” I said. “It’s easier than going hungry.”
“I can blame somebody,” she said. “If Zodiac’s picking off operators, that puts us all at risk.” She looked at me. “How’s your Score, Harrigan?”
“I got pulled in for Conditioning yesterday,” I said.
“I had Assessment this morning,” she said. “They’re coming at us every which way.”
The wheel stopped with us at its apex, the carriage swaying gently as the rain came down.
“We’re getting fitted for a belt around the neck,” she said. “One way or another.”
“The cucumber comes for us all,” I said. “In the end.”
“I’m not waiting. I’m taking it out of Zodiac while I can,” Leda Dresden said, staring out at the waves in the bay. “How about it, Harrigan? You in?”
* * *
“It’s a funny thing, life. Nobody gets out alive, am I right?” Charlie Horse said into the microphone. “That’s not a rhetorical question. I’m right. None of you are getting out of here alive.”
He looked out at the tables, cocked his head when he saw me sitting in his chair.
“I don’t mean this room,” Charlie Horse said. “Or who knows, maybe I do. Maybe the exits are chained from the outside. Maybe I poured gasoline all over everything and the whole place is about to blow. You never know, do you? That’s not rhetorical either. You don’t. Death can come for you at any time. And it will. It’s just when and how my friend. When and how.”
He checked his watch.
“Couple minutes and brutally,” Charlie Horse said. “Soon and screaming.”
He stared straight at me, smiled.
“Then you get those people who say, Well, at least he died doing what he loved. Like that’s a plus,” Charlie Horse said. “Hey look, his favorite thing in the world killed him. He was murdered by what he held most dear, lucky bastard. In my book you’re better off dying doing what you hate. Then you can say, See? See why I always hated this shit? I fucking told you. And you know what? I was right. I was fucking right. Tha
t’s a satisfying death. I hope you all agree. Smell that gasoline? Don’t bother trying the doors. Everybody hates being on fire, right? Again, not rhetorical. Haven’t you always wanted to light up a room? Time to shine.”
“Harrigan,” Charlie Horse said, sitting down across the table from me. “I appreciate you being a fan and all, but this is getting ridiculous.”
“I’m with you on that one, Charlie,” I said.
“Where the fuck is my Danish?” he said.
“She’s not yours,” I said.
“What,” he said. “You sore about what Santos did to your little apartment? That was nothing. Nothing compared to what’s coming you don’t give me what I want. So I’ll ask you again. Where the fuck is my Danish?”
I looked at him.
“See that right there,” he said, setting his hands on the table. “That I don’t like. I asked you a fucking question, Harrigan.”
“Nobody talks about Schrödinger’s girlfriend,” Beatrix said into the microphone.
Friend: So what do you think, Anny? Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. Does Schrödinger pop the question?
Girlfriend: I don’t know, Gertie. We’ve been together long enough, I suppose. It seems like it’s time.
Friend: Do you love him?
Girlfriend: He’s fucking brilliant. And my parents absolutely adore him. He can be so sweet.
Friend: Do you love him?
Girlfriend: I don’t know! What does that even mean?
Friend: Hey, I had the most profound relationship of my adult life with a Belgian waffle this morning, but I asked you first.
Girlfriend: I don’t know. I don’t know! But I’ll tell you one thing. If he gives me another dead cat tomorrow I’m going to fucking lose it.
Friend: I don’t know how you’ve kept it for this long.
Girlfriend: Neither do I! I thought it was a joke, at first.
Friend: Uh—
Girlfriend: A sick fucking joke, all right? He has that nervous laugh. And all his theoretical experiments, I thought maybe—
Friend: What, he was a dog person? Like a really militant dog person?
Girlfriend: But then the second time—I know, I know. There should’ve never been a second time. Or a third. Or—
Friend: Hey, I’m not judging. But if I was on the jury. Or the prosecution. Or the bailiff—
Girlfriend: You want to know the worst part?
Friend: It gets worse?
Girlfriend: I was lying. I hope he gives me a dead cat tomorrow. That would be better than a ring. It would be a familiar kind of horror, at least.
Friend: You’ll never be the crazy old lady with all the cats. He’ll make sure of that. And really anything’s better than flowers. You have to wait around and watch them die. Your guy gets right to the point.
Girlfriend: I’m opening another bottle.
Friend: That’s my girl. What should we toast to?
Girlfriend: You can toast to your empty glass. I’m drinking it all myself.
Friend: Now you’re just being mean.
Beatrix stepped offstage, headed to the bar where Sidowsky was waiting.
“You think your little cop buddy can protect you?” Charlie Horse said, following my eyes. “Not from me, Harrigan. Not from me. So I’ll ask you one last time. Where the fuck is my Danish?”
“Enough,” I said.
“What was that?” he said.
“It’s finished, Charlie,” I said. “Leave her alone.”
“I’ll tell you what’s finished you motherfuck—”
His hand went quick to the gun inside his jacket. Stayed there.
I looked at him. Watched the mole under his left eye, until he blinked.
I stood up from the table. “See you around, Charlie,” I said.
“Fucking right you’ll see me around! My hands around your fucking neck, Harrigan!” he said to my back.
I went to the bar.
“Your friend doesn’t look happy,” Beatrix said, her arms around Sidowsky’s shoulders.
“I’d tell you you’re in deep shit, Harrigan,” Sidowsky said. “But you’ve been soaking in it for a while now. You’re stinking up the place.”
I took a drink.
“They say when God closes a door he opens a window,” the Rev said, leaning into the microphone. “But what if you’re not home when He does it? Then you get back and it’s like Who opened my window? Is my house haunted? I never leave this door closed. I must be losing my mind! Or what if you are home but it’s cold outside? I know You work in mysterious ways Lord, but You’re letting all the heat out! Jesus Christ this guy’s costing me a fortune!”
“Lompoc wouldn’t have minded,” the Rev said, grinning as he came offstage. “The hack.”
“Where’s CMB Roach?” Beatrix said, unclasping her arms from around Sidowsky.
“I haven’t seen him,” the Rev said.
“I did some looking around,” Sidowsky said, quietly, as Beatrix and the Rev talked shop. “There’s been a few inquiries on fvrst chvrch mvlTverse downtown. Nothing official, as far as I can tell. The Zodiacs down there play it tight to the vest, stick with each other mostly. But I heard a few rumors.”
He leaned closer, dropped his voice again. “People are disappearing off Grid.”
“Chop shops,” I said. “Yeah I heard those rumors too.”
“No,” he said. “I’m talking about disappearing from Grid itself. Records, pictures, financials. Whole lives, histories, rap sheets, gone. All of it scrubbed. Not even a ghost left on Grid. Zodiac’s not happy about it.”
“They’re looking at fvrst chvrch mvlTverse for it?” I said.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Place doesn’t keep records of its Versers apparently, and they aren’t hooked in to Grid. Maybe that’s the line Eddie Lompoc had. Nobody’s talking, and I’m not asking. Good way to get your Score twisted, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
He looked around.
“So I did it anyway,” he said. “Checked up on that Dunwich Academy. They were hush-hush about it, but sounds like it was a real school. Zodiac affiliated. Shady sort of graduates, when they shut it down, all their names redacted. Basil Fenton had some notes on it in his file. Eddie Lompoc too. Something I found on Lompoc that’s been bothering me—”
“I just want to sing a little song,” the voice onstage said.
I looked up and saw Moira Volga in the spotlight, her legs bent beneath her like a marionette. She gripped the microphone with both hands.
There was a farmer, had a dog
And Bingo was his name, oh
B-i…n-g, oh…
B-i…n…g, oh…
B-i…n…
And Bingo…was his name…oh…
She sang it slow and aching, a children’s torch song. I was caught between the swell and fall, holding on to the bar. I forgot about Sidowsky as she walked towards me.
“Got any more of that whiskey left at your place, Harrigan?” she said.
“I save that for emergencies,” I said.
“What do you think this is?” Moira said.
* * *
“I told you to stop following me,” I said as she sat at my table.
I poured two glasses, set the bottle down between us.
“You said I shouldn’t,” Moira said. “It’s not the same thing.”
She lit the cigarettes, made one appear in her other hand as she passed it to me, another magic trick.
“Did you like my song?” she said.
“I did,” I said.
“I’ve never sung in front of people before,” she said. “It just seemed like I should do something, it being an open mic and all. Kind of like a dare.”
She took a drink. “Do you go there much?” she said.
“Few nights a week, lately,” I said.
“Do you ever get up onstage?” she said.
“I don’t,” I said.
“Why not?” she said.
“I don’t like spotlights,
” I said.
“I think you’d get by,” she said.
I took a drink.
“That man with the slicked-back hair. The one who watched us leave,” she said, smoke drifting to the ceiling. “Who was he?”
I thought about it, where it would lead.
“His name’s Charlie Horse,” I said.
“Like the bruise?” she said.
“He’s more of an exit wound,” I said.
“Does he have something to do with Stan going missing?” Moira said.
I took another drink.
“Why won’t you talk to me?” she said.
“You don’t want to hear it,” I said.
“I have a right to know,” she said. Her hand was trembling, her chewed-down nails showing in the light. “He’s my husband. What are you hiding from me, Harrigan?”
I crushed my cigarette out in the tray. “Have another drink,” I said. I reached for the bottle.
“I don’t want another drink,” she said, glaring at me. “Is it because I haven’t paid you? You want money?”
She dug in her purse, came out with a handful of bills.
“Here! Take it!” she said, holding the cash out to me, her color rising. “Is that what you want? What do you want?”
I sat back, looked at her. The flush on her cheek. I took one of the Polaroids from my pocket, slid it across the table.
“Who is she?” Moira said.
“Her name’s Anna,” I said. “Your husband asked me to find her.”
She stared at the picture, looked up at me. “I think I’ll take that drink now,” she said.
I poured her a big one. She threw it back, steadied herself. Placed the Polaroid on the table, facing up.
“Please don’t make me ask,” she said.
“She worked at a club called Fatales,” I said. “It’s Charlie Horse’s place.”
I refilled the glasses.
“She’s a hooker?” Moira said.
“Hostess,” I said.
“What’s the difference?” she said.
“It’s about companionship, not sex,” I said.
“What is she, a cocker spaniel?” she said, her finger stabbing the Polaroid. “Does she look like companionship to you?”
