by Tad Williams
“That’s true,” said Clarence from the other room. “You’re wired to be an asshole. My name is Harrison, remember?”
I went back to the living room and sat down heavily. “Look, I promised I’d try. I make mistakes sometimes. Do me a favor and don’t correct me every time, okay?” I started laying out the maps, waiting for the women to make their appearance. “How are you two, by the way? Everything okay with work? Not too many questions?”
“Most of the others don’t even know we’re a couple,” said Wendell, smiling at the kid. “We’ve been kind of keeping it on the down low, because of this.”
“That’s not really what I was asking.” I made a few marks on the museum map. “Maybe Wendell’s really keeping quiet because he’s ashamed of you, Harrison. After all, nobody likes a nag.”
“Trying to get you to behave with normal human decency is not the same as nagging, Bobby.” He rolled his eyes. “As angels go, you’re a complete pig.”
“Yeah, which is why I just shut the door on a couple of naked women in my tub without standing there long enough to read all their tattoos.”
“You couldn’t anyway. The words are all Ukrainian.”
“Hmmm. Wonder if they have a word in that language for ‘vicious, premeditated exhibitionism.’”
“The only people who needs medication is you, Bobby,” said Halyna, her hair up in a towel-turban, the rest of her clothed in a t-shirt and shorts. Things were swinging and bumping in there as she moved, but at least I didn’t have to see them live and in person.
“Not medicate, meditate. Shit, they run around naked, have loud sex in the next room, and then I still have to explain all the funny things I say. I’ve had better roommates in prison.”
“Probably you got more of the fucking there, too,” said Oxana, appearing in her bathrobe.
“Shit, and they tell jokes as well,” I said. “I assume that’s what those are. I’m sure they’d be rip-snorters on the Siberian gulag circuit. Come on, sit down. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
• • •
“I don’t want to stay outside if Harrison’s going in,” said Wendell. “I have experience in this kind of thing. He doesn’t.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Clarence, sounding like he was nine years old. But it reminded me that these were real people, and unlike the Harps or Wendell’s Clouds, I couldn’t promise them I’d get them into new bodies if anything went wrong.
“That’s not the point,” I said. “Don’t worry, I promise I’ll keep an eye on Harrison.”
“Hey!” he said. “I’m not a child.”
“But,” I continued, “he’s already sort of compromised. I mean, our bosses know he chose to stay an advocate after being their spy, and that he’s been hanging out with me. But nobody knows you’re with us, Wendell.”
“So?”
“So if things go wrong, we need someone on the outside to make sure they don’t just disappear us.”
“You think it go wrong?” asked Oxana.
“I don’t know, but let’s face it, it certainly could. We’re going into enemy territory. At the very least, even if there’s nothing there at all, we’re breaking into a very prestigious museum. I don’t know about you, but I sure don’t want to shoot my way out and kill any innocent humans, so it may come down to us surrendering. That’s why we need you to stay out of the worst of it, Wendell. Besides, you’ll have plenty to do on the outside. Can you do that trick with the cameras you mentioned?”
“What, looping the footage? Yeah, but it’s not foolproof. The clocks won’t move, if any of them are visible on the video feeds. Plus I’d really like to know how many guards there are.”
I consulted my notes. “Two in the Asian wing, from what I can tell. Four more and a supervisor in the other building, where they keep the video monitors. But I’m going to need you to watch the feeds and let us know where they are, so you have to stay on top of it.”
Wendell waved at this. Handled.
“But why all the weapons, Bobby?” Clarence asked. “If you don’t want to shoot anyone, you’re sure packing a lot of firepower.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to shoot anyone, I said I didn’t want to shoot any innocent humans. As far as we know, this may be Anaita’s second most important spot to protect in all of San Judas—maybe the most important, if the horn’s really there. I literally have no idea what we might find, especially if she’s got some kind of secret room. There are things that can sleep for years and only wake up when a stranger approaches. I know, because some of them have tried to eat me in the past.”
“Yeah, we know, we know,” said Clarence. “Bobby Dollar, deadly stud, no stranger to danger, a lethal combination of Sam Spade and Eddie Murphy . . .”
“I think that’s Audie Murphy,” said Wendell quietly. At least one of them watched the right movies.
“Whatever. But you can overthink this stuff, Bobby.”
“No, you can’t, Junior—not if you enjoy being alive. That’s why we’re going to go over it again.”
The Amazons were playing tic-tac-toe on one of my maps. Clarence groaned. “We’ve been through it all three times!”
“And we’ve got time for once more before I have to leave.” I gave them a stern look. “Daddy has a meeting in forty minutes at the Crown Roast.”
Clarence gave me the eyebrow. “The Crown Roast? Doesn’t seem like your kind of place, Bobby. Meeting an informant?”
I was going to lie, but I was asking them to risk their safety and even their lives, after all. “Sort of. Not really. I’m having dinner with Monica Naber, to thank her for setting up that Vanity Fair thing. She said to pick someplace that didn’t serve raw fish eggs or noodles made from radish whiskers—I’m quoting—so I decided we’d go to the kind of place she likes. Surf and turf. Endless Sangria pitchers.” I shook my head. “Just another sacrifice your fearless leader is making for the greater good. I’ll bring you back some jalapeño cream cheese poppers or something.”
“Ooh, does that mean you will be doing some sex tonight, too?” asked Halyna.
“Maybe then not so grumping.” That was Oxana.
“Bite your tongues. I mean, really, don’t even say that. This is going to be complicated enough without any of that crap. And remember, we go in forty-eight hours. Get everything ready and get your cover stories straight. You all know what to do, right? But just in case, I’m going to tell you one more time.”
• • •
By the time Monica had brought me up to date, we had almost finished our meal. I had prime rib, a baked potato, the whole schmear. Being female, Monica had a tiny little steak you couldn’t put on a hamster’s black eye, and a huge salad. If you’d dumped that salad on the same hamster, the little bastard could have lived in it for weeks.
We drank sangria. We gossiped a little. Apparently Young Elvis had a new girlfriend, a mortal. “She’s exactly what you’d expect,” said Monica. “False eyelashes, ratted hair. If she was wearing a poodle skirt, you’d be positive she was waiting for poor Buddy Holly to come home from his tour. But he never will.”
I smiled. “If she goes for Young E., she’d be more the Big Bopper’s type.”
It was good to see Monica. For one thing, she understood the same things I did. For another, she didn’t have a Ukrainian accent. “How about our friend Sweetheart?”
“The same. A succession of broken hearts, usually his, occasionally some poor boy’s that Sweetheart loved and lost the next day. But it’s all a part of the parade of fabulousness. I swear, Bobby, I’ve never known him to be actually sad about anything. Even when he’s upset about some tragic romance, it’s like hearing the plot of a really good sitcom.”
“And the rest of the gang?”
“You know. Same old, same old. Walter’s getting back to his old self. He told me to pass along his greetings. And how
are things for you?”
Caught by surprise, I handled it with my usual flair. “Huh?”
“You, Bobby. You ask about everyone else—you even asked how Teddy and I are doing—but you don’t say anything about yourself. What’s going on?”
“You never did finish telling me about you and Teddy, now that you mention it. You two getting on all right?”
She gave me a look—she knew I was changing the subject again—but gave in with dignity. “We’re okay. I wanted something different than you. I got it. He’s dependable, kind, always returns phone calls. He opens doors for me.”
“I used to open doors for you!”
“Only because you had that stupid little car where the doors wouldn’t stay open by themselves and kept shutting on my head when I tried to get out.”
“Oh, yeah, that ragtop Buick. I miss that car. You could feel every bump—like riding a giant, high-powered skateboard.”
“My tailbone is still bruised.”
“I had to sell my Matador, you know.”
“Was that the one with the checkerboard upholstery?”
“Yep.”
“I’d like to say ‘too bad,’ but honestly, it was like being in a clown car. No, like a booth in an imitation fifties diner.”
“Yeah, pile it on, now that my poor Matador Machine isn’t here to defend itself.”
“You’re still avoiding the subject, Bobby.”
“What subject?”
“The subject of what’s going on with you. And something is definitely going on.”
I had a little tingle up the back of my neck. “Why do you say that?”
She laughed. Sourly. “Oh, come on. You take me out to dinner? When was the last time you took me out to dinner, even when we were sleeping together?”
“I’ll have to go through my canceled checks.”
“For the early two-thousands. Seriously, you take me out to dinner, you ask politely about all the old friends you never bother to come see, even though they hang out in the exact same bar as always—hell, most of them are in the exact same booths.” She frowned. “I know you, Bobby. You can’t wake up with a guy for three years, admittedly off and on, without learning a little something about him. You’re worried. No, you’re scared shitless about something. You’ve got a new girlfriend, but I never hear anything about her from anyone, and it’s not because they’re protecting me. Nobody knows, and you never talk about her either. And the only time I hear from you is when you want help to sneak into some rich lady’s house. What? Did you get your new woman knocked up? Were you planning to steal some Persian art treasures to pay for her to get it dealt with?” Suddenly her face changed. “I’m sorry, that was terrible. I didn’t mean it to sound so mean. But what’s going on with you? I thought we’d agreed to stay friends.”
“We are friends. Look at us, sitting here all friendly. Me eating your leftover croutons.”
“I’ve seen nearly every cute trick you have, Dollar, and heard every excuse you make. I’m not that easy to distract. If I am your friend, talk to me.”
And I would have. At that moment, I was dying to talk to someone. It was why I’d insisted on taking her out to dinner. Monica was the one person I could talk to who would both understand and sympathize. It wasn’t even the Caz thing, not anymore. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell Monica something that she would have to keep secret, especially if everything went badly sideways at the museum. At the moment, the Vanity Fair ploy was her only involvement, and she didn’t know what she’d done or why. How could I change that and make her part of this, just to have a shoulder to cry on, just to have someone who would pat me on the back and tell me everything would be all right? Shit, even I’m not that selfish.
No, this whole thing had been a bad idea, and the fact that it felt so good to see Monica again, and to be reminded how much fun she could be to hang out with, only made it worse. “I can’t,” I said at last. “You have to believe me. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I don’t want you involved.”
“Really? This isn’t one of your it’s-not-you-it’s-me speeches, is it?” She stared across the table, really stared, like she could see right into me. I used to think she could, sometimes, but most of the time I knew better. I mean, what woman would hang out with me if she really could see the inner Bobby? “Oh, shit,” she said.
“What?”
“Now I’m scared. I think you’re telling the truth. What are you into, Dollar? Tell me. Please, talk to me.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” And that was my biggest lie of the week, no doubt. “Honestly, don’t let it worry you. I’m just being cautious.” I handed the check back to the waiter, along with enough cash to cover the meal and the tip. “Keep it,” I told him. “You want a drink for the road, Naber?”
She was still looking at me like you’d look at a senile grandfather who had just announced he was going on a long trip. “I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to stop at the Compasses to meet Teddy, and I’ll probably have another glass there. Assuming I don’t get a call. Are you really on leave of absence?”
“Temporarily. Just ’til I get some stuff sorted out.”
I walked her to her car. She stopped, turned, and put her arms around me before I was ready for it, and got in a good squeeze before I could stiffen up and lean back a little. She felt very good, and without thinking I let my hands drop to her hips. They’re very nice hips.
“You’ll call me soon, right?” she said. “Let me know you’re okay?”
“Sure.” Usually I had no problem saying things like this to women without meaning it, even women I really liked, like Monica. “I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.” I paused. I should have let go then, but I didn’t. “And thanks for everything. You’re a wonderful person, Monica. Heaven’s finest.”
Her grip on my waist tightened. “You’re scaring me again. Unless you’re making a pass.”
“No. No pass.” I leaned and kissed her, gently and carefully, on the lips. Nothing romantic, not at first, but for a second we didn’t break apart either, and then it started to seem like something else was happening. I was lonely, I was scared, and she felt so good—not just familiar, but right, someone I knew and trusted. Someone I wanted to hold onto. Someone I definitely, at least for those few seconds, didn’t want to let go of. My hand started to slide up her back, and then I remembered why I was in all this trouble in the first place: Caz. Small, fierce, shiny-bright as a Fourth of July sparkler, and right now under house arrest in Hell. A prisoner forever, unless I did something impossible. And I had to try.
I let go and took a step back. “I’ll always care about you, Monica,” I said. “No matter what.” I turned and walked toward my car.
“Oh, my God,” I heard her say loudly from behind me, perhaps in part to wake herself up from what had just almost happened. “You got rid of the plaid-seats clown car and bought a taxi?”
“Not everyone can pull it off,” I said, still not looking back.
If she had said any number of things, I might have turned around. Luckily for both of us, she didn’t. “Nobody can pull that off, Dollar.”
I gave her my best casual wave. “Oh, ye of little faith. Just wait ’til you hear this baby roar. I’ve got seven or eight horses under the hood, minimum.”
“Take care of yourself, Bobby,” she called as I opened the door and got in. “Seriously. That’s not a joke. If you do something stupid and get yourself killed, I’ll . . . I’ll murder you.”
It was the nicest death threat I’d received in a long while.
twenty-eight
what happens in oceania
“OKAY,” I said into my walkie. “My turn. The rest of you, stay here and try to look grotesque.”
It wasn’t an insult or even a joke, really. We were in the sculpture garden behind the E. A. Stanford museum and, as everyone who’s eve
r been there knows, the place is full of really, really bizarre statues.
I found my first handhold and started up the wall. There was lots of ivy, mostly shriveled and leafless this time of the year, and I’ve learned from hard experience not to trust the stuff except in an emergency—you know, like when you’ve had to leap out a window unexpectedly. Instead I was going the slow, steady way, and the brick facade was a big help.
The museum is in the former Stanford family residence, deep inside the campus walls, and is what the British like to refer to fondly as a “pile.” The Brits should know, because the original version was still in England somewhere, named after some duke. You could look it up. Anyway, like the manor house it had been copied from, the museum was a monstrous assembly of reddish brick, with crenellated towers and the whole bit. The part we needed to get into was the new wing, which would have been the stables or something in the original, but here was a long two-story building with a glass roof. However, because the new wing had been built less than twenty years ago, it was going to be easier to make rooftop entry from the old building. That was why I was climbing up those bricks, carefully picking out toe-holds and finger-holds, almost exactly like someone who knew what he was doing.
I had a difficult moment when a rain gutter started wobbling under my feet, but I managed to get my belly up over the edge before anything noisy happened, then I just lay for a moment, breathing. I pulled the rope ladder out of my backpack, anchored it, and let it unroll with what I hoped wasn’t too loud a clatter down to my team waiting below. I didn’t wait for them. Once my legs stopped trembling, I inched along the top of the wing very carefully, because I was crawling over glass panes, until I reached the roof of the main building. Then I got up and moved (okay, scurried) from chimney pot to chimney pot ’til I reached the service door. The door was modern, and had a massive dead bolt, which would have been hard to get through without sounding like someone was holding military exercises on the roof, but it also had a card reader.
