“Buell,” Rydell said, “they got a table or something reserved for you here? Someplace I could sit down?”
“Maryalice,” Creedmore said, thoughts elsewhere, waving in the general direction of the back of the bar. He set off, apparently after Shoats. Rydell ignored the man with the tanto and headed for the back of the bar, where he found Maryalice seated alone at a table. There was a hand-lettered sign, on brown corrugated cardboard, done in different colored felt pens, that said ‘~BUELL CREEDMORE*~ & HIS LOWER COMPANIONS, each of the Os done in red as a little happy face. The table was solid, side to side, with empties, and Maryalice looked like somebody had just whacked her in the head with something th~it didn’t leave a mark. “You A&R?” she asked Rydell, as if startled from a dream.
“I’m Berry Rydell,” he said, pulling out a chair and unslinging the bag with the projector. “Met earlier. You’re Maryalice.”
“Yes,” she smiled, as if pleased with the convenience of being so reminded, “I am. Wasn’t Buell wonderful?”
Rydell sat, trying to find a way to manage it that kept the rib from killing him. “They got an outlet around here, Maryalice?” He was opening the duffel, pushing it down around the sides of the projector, pulling out the power cable. “You’re A&R,” Maryalice said, delighted, seeing the projector, “I knew you were. Which label?”
“Plug this in there, please?” Rydell pointed to an outlet just beside her, on the scabrous wall, and passed her the plug end of the cable. She held it close to her face, blinked at it, looked around, saw the socket. Plugged it in. Turned back to Rydell, as if puzzled by what she’d just done. 20S The man with the tanto brought over a chair, placed it at the table, and took a seat opposite Maryalice. He did it, somehow, in a way that occuppied as little of anyone else’s consciousness as possible. “Now you,” Maryalice said to him, with a quick glance down to check the state of her bodice, “you are pretty clearly a label head, am I correct?”
“Lapel?”
“I knew you were,” Maryalice said.
Rydell heard the projector humming. And then Rei Toei was there, standing beside their table, and Rydell knew that once again he’d seen her naked for a second, glowing, white, but now she wore an outfit identical, it seemed, to Maryalice’s. “Hello, Berry Rydell,” she said, then looked down and tightened the strings at the top of the black thing she wore.
“Hey,” Rydell said.
“Well, suck me raw with a breast pump,” Maryalice said, voice soft with amazement, as she stared at Rei Toei. “I swear to God I didn’t see you standing there..
The man with the tanto was looking at Rei Toei too, the light of her projection reflected in the round lenses.
“We are in a nightclub, Berry Rydell?”
“A bar,” Rydell said. –
“Rez liked bars,” she said, looking around at the crowd. “I have the impression that people in bars, though they seem to be talking to one another, are actually talking to themselves. Is this because higher brain function has been suppressed for recreational purposes?”
“I just love your top,” Maryalice said. “I am Rei Toei.” “Maryalice,” Maryalice said, extending her hand. The idoru did likewise, her hand passing through Maryalice’s.
Maryalice shivered. “Had about enough, this evening,” she said, as if to herself.
“I am Rei Toei.” To the man with the tanto.
“Good evening.” “I know your name,” she gently said to the man. “I know a great deal about you. You are a fascinating person.” 206 He looked at her, expression unchanged. “Thank you,” he said. “Mr. Rydell, is it your intention to remain here, with your friends?”
“Time being,” Rydell said. “I have to phone somebody.”
“As you will,” the man said. He turned to survey the entrance, and just then the scarf came strolling in and saw them all, immediately.
More trouble, thought Rydell. 207 51. THE REASON OF LIFE LANEYS two favorite Tokyo bars, during the happier phase of his employment at Paragon-Asia Dataflow, had been Trouble Peach, a quiet sit-and-drink place near Shimo-kitazawa Station, and The Reason of Life, an art bar in the basement of an office building in Aoyama. The Reason of Life was an art bar, in Laney’s estimation, by virtue of being decorated with huge black-and-white prints of young women photographing their own crotches with old-fashioned reflex cameras. These were such modest pictures that it took you, initially, a while to figure out what they were doing. Standing, mostly, in crowded streetscapes, with the camera on the pavement, between their feet, smiling into the photographer’s lens and thumbing a manual release. They wore sweaters and plaid skirts, usually, and smiled out at you with a particularly innocent eagerness. Nobody had ever explained to Laney what this was all supposed to be about, and it wouldn’t have occurred to him to ask, but he knew art when he saw it, and he was seeing it again now, courtesy of the Rooster, who somehow knew Laney liked the place in Aoyama and had decided to reproduce it, off the cuff, here in the Walled City.