Silencio wonders if it is wet in the silver castle too.
267 68. THE ABSOLUTE AT LARGE BOOMZILLA in the Lucky Dragon, back in there for what he knows is the first time they work this Lucky Dragon Nanofax, not a game but how you copy solid shit from one store to another. Not sure he gets that but there’s free candy and big drinks for the kids, of which he is opting to be very definitely one, right now, but it’s gone sideways with the bridge burning, and those motherfucker bulklifters come drop a fuckload of water on it, got about a hundred fire trucks and everything here, police, tactical squads, helicopters up in the air, so Lucky Dragon can’t do the special thing for the first time they use the Lucky Dragon Nanofax, manager’s going lateral, walks the aisle talking to himself. But the store’s doing business big-time, home office won’t let him close, and Boomzilla’s started eating candy bars free because the securities are watching the smoke still rise off the wet black garbage, all that’s left this end, so you can see the real bridge there, the old part, black too, hanging out in the air like something’s bones.
And finally the manager comes and reads from a notebook, ladies and gentlemen, this momentous occasion, jaw jaw, and now they are placing the first object in the unit in our Singapore branch (Boomzilla sees on TV, out on the pylon, it’s a gold statue of the Lucky Dragon himself, smiling) and it will now be reproduced, at a molecular level, in every branch of our chain throughout the world.
Checker and two securities, they clap. Boomzilla sucks on the ice in the bottom of his big drink. Waits.
Lucky Dragon Nanofax has a hatch on the front Boomzilla could fit through, he wanted to, and he wonders would that make more Boomzillas other places and could he trust those motherfuckers? If he could, he’d have a tight posse but he doesn’t trust anybody, why should they?
Light over the hatch turns green, and the hatch slides up and out crawls, unfolds sort of, this butt-naked girl, black hair, maybe Chinese, Japanese, something, she’s long and thin, not much titties on her the 268 way Boomzilla likes but she’s smiling, and everybody, the manager, checker, securities, they jaw-hang, eyes popped: girl straightening up, still smiling, and walks fast to the front of the store, past the security counter, and Boomzilla sees her reach up and open the door, just right on out, and it’ll take more than a naked Japanese girl get anybody’s attention out there, in the middle of this disaster shit.
But the crazy thing is, and he really doesn’t get this, standing looking out through the doors at the video pylon, so that he has to go outside and fire up his last Russian Marlboro to think about it, after, is that when he sees her walk past the screens there, he sees her on every last screen, walking out of every Lucky Dragon in the world, wearing that same smile.
Boomzilla still thinking about this when his Marlboro’s done, but thinks it’s time for a Lucky Dragon Muff-Lette microwave, he thinks of that as his businessman’s breakfast, and he’s got the money but when he gets back in they got no Muff-Lette, fucking firemen ate them all.
“Fuck that,” he tells them. ‘Why don’t you fax me one from fucking Paris?”
So security throws his ass out.
269 69. EVERYTHING TAKES FOREVER RYDELL wakes to pain, in what has been the nearest approximation of heaven he’s known, this miraculously dry, brand-new, extremely high-tech sleeping bag, curled beside Chevette, his ribs on fire, and lies there listening to the helicopters swarming like dragonflies, wondering if there’s maybe something bad for you in the stuff that holds duct tape on.
They’d found this bag, hermetically sealed in its stuff sack, in the wake of the flood, snagged on one of the spikes that held the scarf’s hang-glider rack to the roof. And no more welcome find there ever was, to get out of wet clothes and into dry warmth, the bag’s bottom water-and probably bullet-proof as well, a very expensive piece of ordnance. And lie there watching two more bulklifters come, huge, slow-moving cargo drones diverted from their courses, it will turn out, according to a plan arrived at several years before by a team of NoCal contingency planners, to dump still more water, extinguishing the fire at the Treasure end and damping down the central span as well. And each one, depleted and limp, starting to rise immediately, free of ballast, in a sort of awkward elephantine ballet.