Yamazaki rode Skinner’s lift down to where stairs began, its yellow upright cup like a piece of picnicware discarded by a giant. All around him, now, the rattle of an evening’s commerce, and from a darkened doorway came the slap of cards, a woman’s laughter, voices raised in Spanish. Sunset pink as wine, through sheets of plastic that snapped like sails in a breeze scented with frying foods, woodsmoke, a sweet oily drift of cannabis. Boys in ragged leather crouched above a game whose counters were painted pebbles. Yamazaki stopped. He stood very still, one hand on a wooden railing daubed with hyphens of aerosol silver. Skinner’s story seemed to radiate out, through the thousand things, the unwashed smiles and the smoke of cooking, like concentric rings of sound from some secret bell, pitched too iow for the foreign, wishful ear. We are come not only past the century’s closing, he thought, the millennium’s turning, but to the end of something else. Era? Paradigm? Everywhere, the signs of closure. 89 Modernity was ending. Here, on the bridge, it long since had. He would walk toward Oakland now, feeling for the new thing’s strange heart. 11 Pulling tags
Tuesday, she just wasn’t on. Couldn’t proj. No focus. Bunny Malatesta, the dispatcher, could feel it, his voice a buzz in her ear.
‘Chev, don’t take this the wrong way, but you got like the monthlies or something?’ ‘Fuck off, Bunny.’ ‘Hey, I just mean you’re not your usual ball of fire today. All I mean.’ ‘Gimme a tag.’ ‘655 Mo, fifteenth, reception.’ Picked up, made it to 555 Cali, fifty-first floor. Pulled her tag and back down. The day gone gray after morning’s promise. ‘456 Montgomery, thirty-third, reception, go freight.’ Pausing, her hand in the bike’s recognition-loop. ‘How come?’ ‘Says messengers carvin’ graffiti in the passenger elevators. Go freight or they’ll toss you, be denied access, at which point Allied terminates your employment.’ She remembered seeing Ringer’s emblem carved into the inspection plate in one of 456’s passenger elevators. Fucking Ringer. He’d defaced more elevators than anyone in history. Carried around a regular toolkit to do it with. 456 sent her to i EC with a carton wider than she was supposed to accept, hut that was what racks and bungles were for, and why give the cage-drivers the trade? l~unny buzzed 9′ her on her way out and gave her ~o Beale, the cafeteria on the second floor. She guessed that would be a woman’s purse, done up in a plastic bag from the kitchen, and she was right. Brown, sort of lizardskin, with a couple of green sprouts stuck in the corners of the bag. Women left their purses, remembered, called up, got the manager to send for a messenger. Good for a tip, usually. Ringer and some of the others would open them up, go through the contents, find drugs sometimes. She wouldn’t do that. She thought about the sunglasses. She couldn’t get a run today. There was no routing in effect at Allied, but sometimes you’d get a run by accident; pick up here, drop off there, then something here. But it was rare. When you worked for Allied you rode harder. Her record was sixteen tags in a day; like doing forty at a different company. She took the purse to Fulton at Masonic, got two flyers after the owner checked to see everything was there. ‘Restaurant’s supposed to take it to the cops,’ Chevette said. ‘We don’t like to be responsible.’ Blank look from the purse-lady, some kind of secretary. Chevette pocketed the fives. ‘2.98 Alabama,’ Bunny said, as if offering her some pearl of great price. ‘Tone those thighs…’ Bust her ass out there to get there, then she’d pick up and do it. But she couldn’t get on top of it, today. The asshole’s sunglasses…
‘For tactical reasons,’ the blonde said, ‘we do not currently advocate the use of violence or sorcery against private individuals.’ Chevette had just pumped back from Alabama Street, day’s last tag. The woman on the little CNN flatscreen over the door to Bunny’s pit wore something black and stretchy pulled over her face, three triangular holes cut in it. Blue letters at the bottom of the screen read FIONA X-SPOKESPERSON- SOUTH ISLAND LIBERATION FRONT. 92. The overlit fluorescent corridor into Allied Messengers smelled of hot styrene, laser printers, abandoned running-shoes, and stale bag lunches, this last tugging Chevette toward memories of some unheated day-care basement in Oregon, winter’s colorless light slanting in through high dim windows. But now the street door banged open behind her, a pair of muddy size-eleven neon sneakers came pounding down the stairs, and Samuel Saladin DuPree, his cheeks speckled with crusty gray commas of road-dirt, stood grinning at her, hugely. ‘Happy about something, Sammy Sal?’ Allied’s best-looking thing on two wheels, no contest whatever, DuPree was six-two of ebon electricity poured over a frame of such elegance and strength that Chevette imagined his bones as polished metal, triple-chromed, a quicksilver armature. Like those old movies with that big guy, the one who went into politics, after he’d got the meat ripped off him. Thinking about Sammy Sal’s bones made most girls want him to jump theirs, but not Chevette. He was gay, they were friends, and Chevette wasn’t too sure how she felt about all that anyway, lately. ‘Fact is,’ Sammy Sal said, smearing dirt from his cheek with the back of one long hand, ‘I’ve decided to kill Ringer. And the truth, y’know, it makes you free…’ ‘Ho,’ Chevette said, ‘you musta pulled a tag over 456 today.’ ‘I did, dear, do that thing. All the way up, in a dirty freight elevator. A slow dirty freight elevator. And why?’ “Cause Ringer’s ‘graved his tag in their brass, Sal, and their rosewood, too?” ‘Eggs-ackly, Chevette, honey.’ Sammy Sal undid the blue and white bandanna around his neck and wiped his face with it. ‘Therefore, his ass dies screaming.’ and must begin, now, to systematically sabotage the workplace,’ Fiona X said, ‘or be hranded an enemy of the human race.’ 93 The door to the dispatch-pit, so thickly stapled with scheds, sub-charts, tattered Muni regs, and faxed complaints that Chevette had no idea what the surface underneath might look like, popped open. Bunny extruded his scarred and unevenly shaven head, turtle-like, blinking in the light of the corridor, and glanced up automatically, his gaze attracted by the tone of Fiona X’s sound-bite. His expression blanked at the sight of her mask, the mental channel-zap executed in less time than it had taken him to look her way. ‘You,’ he said, eyes back on Chevette, ‘Chevy. In here.’ ‘Wait for me, Sammy Sal,’ she said. Bunny Malatesta had been a San Francisco bike messenger for thirty years. Would be still, if his knees and back hadn’t given out on him. He was simultaneously the best and the worst thing about messing for Allied. The best because he had a bike-map of the city hung behind his eyes, better than anything a computer could generate. He knew every building, every door, what the security was like. He had the mess game down, Bunny did, and, better still, he knew the lore, all the history, the stories that made you know you were part of something, however crazy it got, that was worth doing. He was a legend himself, Bunny, having Krypto’d the windshields of some seven police cars in the course of his riding career, a record that still stood. But he was the worst for those same reasons and more, because there wasn’t any bulishitting him at all. Any other dispatcher, you could cut yourself a little extra slack. But not Bunny. He just knew. Chevette followed him in. He closed the door behind her. The goggles he used for dispatching dangled around his neck, one padded eyepiece patched with cellophane tape. There were no windows in the room and Bunny kept the lights off when he was working. Half a dozen color monitors were arranged in a semicircle in front of a black swivel armchair with Bunny’s pink rubber Sacro-saver backrest strapped to it like some kind of giant bulging larva. 94 Bunny rubbed his lower back with the heels of his hands. ‘Disk’s killing me,’ he said, not particularly to Chevette. ‘Oughta let Sammy Sal crack it for you,’ she suggested. ‘He’s real good.’ ‘It’s cracked already, sweetheart. What’s wrong with it in the first place. Now tell me what were you doin’ over the Morrisey last night. And it better be good.’ ‘Pulling a tag,’ Chevette said, going on automatic, the way she had to if she were going to lie and get away with it. She’d been halfway expecting something like this, but not so soon. She watched as Bunny took the goggles off, disconnected them, and put them on top of one of the monitors. ‘So how come you never checked back out? They call us on it, say you went in to make a delivery, they scanned your badges, you never come back out. Look, I tell ’em, I know she’s not there now, guys, ’cause I got her out Alabama Street on a call, okay?’ He was watchiag her. ‘Hey, Bunny,’ Chevette said, ‘it was my last tag, my ride was down in the basement, I saw a freight el on its way down, jumped in. I know I’m supposed to clock out at security, but I thought they’d have somebody on the parking exit, you know? I get up the ramp and there’s nobody, a car’s going out, so I deak under the barrier and I’m in the street. I shoulda gone back around and done the lobby thing?’ ‘You know it. It’s regs.’ ‘It was late, you know?’ Bunny sat down, wincing, in the chair with the Sacro-saver. He cupped each knee in a big-knuckled hand and stared at her. Very un-Bunny. Like something was really bothering him. Not just security grunts pissing because a mess blew the check-out off. ‘How late?’ ‘Huh?’ ‘They wanna know when you left.’ ‘Maybe ten minutes after I went in. Fifteen tops. Basement in there’s a rat-maze.’ 95 ‘You went in 6:32:18,’ he said. ‘They got that when they scanned you. The tag, this lawyer, they talked to him, so they know you delivered.’ He still had that look. ‘Bunny, what’s the deal? Tell ’em I screwed up, is all.’ ‘You didn’t go anywhere else? In the hotel?’ ‘Uh-uh,’ she said, and felt this funny ripple move through her, like she’d crossed some line and couldn’t go back. ‘I gave the guy his package, Bunny.’ ‘I don’t think they’re worrying about the guy’s package,’ Bunny said. ‘So?’ ‘Lookit, Chev,’ he said, ‘security guy calls, that’s one thing. Sorry, boss, won’t let it happen again. But this was somebody up in the company, IntenSecure it’s called, and he called up Wilson direct.’ Allied’s owner. ‘So I gotta make nice with Wilson and Mr. Security, I gotta have Grasso cover for me on the board and naturally he screws everything up…’ ‘Bunny,’ she said, ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘Hey. You’re sorry, I’m sorry, but there’s some big shit rentacop sitting behind a desk and he’s putting fucking Wilson through about what precisely did you do after you gave that lawyer his package. About what kind of employee are you exactly, how long you mess for Allied, any criminal record, any drug use, where you live.’ Chevette saw the asshole’s black glasses, right where she’d left them. In their case, behind Skinner’s ~ Geographics. She tried to lift them out of there with mind-power. Right up to the tar-smelling roof and off the edge. Put those bastards in the Bay like she should’ve done this morning. But no, they were there. ‘That ain’t normal,’ Bunny said. ‘Know what I mean?’ ‘You tell ’em where I live, Bunny?’ ‘Out Ofl the bridge,’ he said, then cracked her a little sliver of grin. ‘Not like you got much of an address, is it?’ Now he spun himself around in the chair and began to shut the monitors down. ‘Bunny,’ she said, ‘what’ll they do now?’ ‘Come and find you.’ His back to her. ‘Here. ‘Cause they won’t know where else to go. You didn’t do anything, did you, Chevy?’ The back of his skull showing gray stubble. Automatic. ‘No. No… Thanks, Bunny.’ He grunted in reply, neutral, ending it, and Chevette was back in the corridor, her heart pounding under Skinner’s jacket. Up the stairs, out the door, plotting the quickest way home, running red lights in her head, gotta get rid of the glasses, gotta- Sammy Sal had Ringer braced up against a blue recyc bin. Worry was starting to penetrate Ringer’s rudimentary view of things. ‘Didn’t do nuthin to you, man.’ ‘Been carvin’ your name in elevators again, Ringer.’ ‘But I din’t do nuthin to you!’ ‘Cause and effect, mofo. We know it’s a tough concept for you, but try: you do shit, other shit follows. You go scratching your tag in the clients’ fancy elevators, we hassle you, man.’ Sammy Sal spread the long brown fingers of his left hand across Ringer’s beat-to-shit helmet, palming it like a basketball, and twisted, lifting, the helmet’s strap digging into Ringer’s chin. ‘Din’t do nuthin!’ Ringer gurgled. Chevette ducked past them, heading for the bike-rack beneath the mural portrait of Shapely. Someone had shot him in his soulful martyr’s eye with a condomful of powder blue paint, blue running all down his hallowed cheek. ‘Hey,’ Sammy Sal said, ‘come here and help me torment this shit-heel.’ She stuck her hand through the recognition-loop and tried to pull her handlebars out of the rack’s tangle of molybdenum steel, graphite, and aramid overwrap. The other bikes’ alarms all went off at once, a frantic chorus of ear-splitting bleats, basso digital sirennioans, and OUC extended high-volume burst 97 of snake-hiss Spanish profanity, cunningly mixed with yelps of animal torment. She swung her bike around, got her toe in the clip, and kicked for the street, almost going over as she mounted. She saw Sammy Sal, out the corner of her eye, drop Ringer. She saw Sammy Sal straddle his own bike, a pink and black-fleck fat-tube with Fluoro-Rimz that ran off a hubgenerator. Sammy Sal was coming after her. She’d never wanted company less. She took off. Proj. Just proj. Like her morning dream, but scarier. 12 Eye movement Rydell looked at these two San Francisco cops, Svobodov and Orlovsky, and decided that working for Warbaby had a chance of being interesting. These guys were the real, the super-heavy thing. Homicide was colossus, any department anywhere. And here he’d been in Northern California all of forty-eight minutes and he was sitting at a counter drinking coffee with Homicide. Except they were drinking tea. Hot tea. In glasses. Heavy on the sugar. Rydell was at the far end, on the other side of Freddie, who was drinking milk. Then Warbaby, with his hat still on, then Svobodov, then Orlovsky. Svobodov was nearly as tall as Warbaby, but it all seemed to be sinew and big knobs of bone. He had long, pale hair, combed straight back from his rocky forehead, eyebrows to match, and skin that was tight and shiny, like he’d stood too long in front of a fire. Orlovsky was thin and dark, with a widow’s peak, lots of hair on the backs of his fingers, and those glasses that looked like they’d been sawn in half. They both had that eye thing, the one that pinned you and held you and sank right in, heavy and inert as lead. Rydell had had a course in that at the Police Academy, but it hadn’t really taken. It was called Eye Movement Desensitization & Response, and was taught by this retired forensic psychologist named Bagley, from Duke University. Bagley’s lectures tended to wander off into stories about serial killers he’d processed at I)uke, auto-erotic strangulation fatalities, 99 stuff like that. It sure passed the time between High Profile Felony Stops and Firearms Training System Scenarios. But Rydell was usually kind of rattled after Felony Stops, because the instructors kept asking him to take the part of the felon. And he couldn’t figure out why. So he’d have trouble concentrating, in Eye Movement. And if he did manage to pick up anything useful from Bagley, a session of FATSS would usually make him forget it. FATSS was like doing Dream Walls, but with guns, real ones. When FATSS tallied up your score, it would drag you right down the entrance wounds, your own or the other guy’s, and make the call on whether the loser had bled to death or copped to hydrostatic shock. There were people who went into full-blown post-traumatic heeb-jeebs after a couple of sessions on FATSS, but Rydell always came out of it with this shit-eating grin. It wasn’t that he was violent, or didn’t mind the sight of blood; it was just that it was such a rush. And it wasn’t real. So he never had learned to throw that official hoodoo on people with his eyes. But this Lt. Svobodov, he had the talent beaucoup, and his partner, Lt. Orlovsky, had his own version going, nearly as effective and he did it over the sawn-off tops of those glasses. Guy looked sort of like a werewolf anyway, which helped. Rydell continued to check out the San Francisco Homicide look. Which seemed to be old tan raincoats over black flak vests over white shirts and ties. The shirts were button-down oxfords and the ties were the stripey kind, like you were supposed to belong to a club or something. Cuffs on their trousers and great big pebble-grain wingtips with cleated Vibram soles. About the only people who wore shirts and ties and shoes like that were immigrants, people who wanted it as American as it got. But layering it up with a bullet-proof and a worn-out London Fog, he figured that was some kind of statement. The streamlined plastic butt of an N&K didn’t exactly hurt, either, and Rydell could see one pecking out of Svobodov’s open flak vest. Couldn’t remember the model number, but it looked like the one with the magazine down the top of the barrel. Shot that caseless ammo looked like wax crayons, plastic propellant molded around alloy flechettes like big nails. ‘If we knew what you already know, Warbaby, maybe that makes everything more simple.’ Svobodov looked around the little diner, took a pack of Marlboros out of his raincoat. ‘Illegal in this state, buddy,’ the waitress said, pleased at any opportunity to threaten somebody with the law. She had that big kind of hair. This was one of those places you ate at if you worked graveyard at some truly shit-ass industrial job. If your luck held, Rydell figured, you’d get this particular waitress into the bargain. Svobodov fixed her with a couple of thousand negative volts of Cop Eye, tugged a black plastic badge-holder out of his flak vest, flipped it open in her direction, and let it fall back on its nylon thong, against his chest. Rydell noticed the click when it hit; some kind of back-up armor under the white shirt. ‘Those two Mormon boys from Highway Patrol come in here, you show that to them,’ she said. Svobodov put the cigarette between his lips. Warbaby’s fist came up, clutching a lump of gold the size of a hand grenade. He lit the Russian’s cigarette with it. ‘Why you have this, Warbaby?’ Svobodov said, eyeing the lighter. ‘You smoking something?’ ‘Anything but those Chinese Marlboros, Arkady.’ Mournful as ever. ‘They’re fulla fiberglass.’ ‘American brand,’ Svobodov insisted, ‘licensed by maker.’ ‘Hasn’t been a legal cigarette manufactured in this country in six years,’ Warbaby said, sounding as sad about that as anything else. I0~ ‘Marl-bor-ro,’ Svobodov said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and pointing to the lettering in front of the filter. ‘When we were kids, Warbaby, Marlboro, she was money.’ ‘Arkady,’ Warbaby said, as though with enormous patience, ‘when we were kids, man, money was money.’ Orlovsky laughed. Svobodov shrugged. ‘What you know, Warbaby?’ Svobodov said, back to business. ‘Mr. Blix has been found dead, at the Morrisey. Murdered.’ ‘Pro job,’ Orlovsky said, making it one word, projob. ‘They want we assume some bullshit ethnic angle, see?’ Svobodov squinted at Warbaby. ‘We don’t know that,’ he said. ‘The tongue,’ Orlovsky said, determined. ‘That’s color. To throw us off. They think we think Latin Kings.’ Svobodov sucked on his cigarette, blew smoke in the general direction of the waitress. ‘What you know, Warbaby?’ ‘Hans Rutger Blix, forty-three, naturalized Costa Rican.’ Warbaby might have been making the opening remarks at a funeral. ‘My hairy ass,’ Svobodov said, around the Marlboro. ‘Warbaby,’ Orlovsky said, ‘we know you were working on this before this asshole got his throat cut.’ ‘Asshole,’ Warbaby said, like maybe the dead guy had been a close personal friend, a lodge-brother or something. ‘Man’s dead, is all. That make him an asshole?’ Svobodov sat there, puffing on his Marlboro. Stubbed it out on the plate in front of him, beside his untouched tuna melt. ‘Asshole. Believe it.’ Warbaby sighed. ‘Man had a jacket, Arkady?’ ‘You want his jacket,’ Svobodov said, ‘you tell us what you were supposed to be doing for him. We know he talked to you.’ ‘We never spoke.’ ‘Okay,’ Svobodov said. ‘IntenSecure he talked to. You freelance.’ I 02. ‘Strictly,’ Warbaby said. ‘Why did he talk to IntenSecure?’ ‘Man lost something.’ ‘What?’ ‘Something of a personal nature.’ Svobodov sighed. ‘Lucius. Please.’ ‘A pair of sunglasses.’ Svobodov and Orlovsky looked at each other, then back to Warbaby. ‘IntenSecure brings in Lucius Warbaby because this guy loses his sunglasses?’ ‘Maybe they were expensive,’ Freddie offered, softly. He was studying his reflection in the mirror behind the counter. Orlovsky put his hairy fingers together and cracked his knuckles. ‘He thought he might have lost them at a party,’ Warbaby offered, ‘someone might even have taken them.’ ‘What party?’ Svobodov shifted on his stool and Rydell heard the hidden armor creak. ‘Party at the Morrisey.’ ‘Whose party?’ Orlovsky, over those glasses. ‘Mr. Cody Harwood’s party,’ Warbaby said. ‘Harwood,’ Svobodov said, ‘Harwood…’ ‘Name “Pavlov” ring a bell?’ Freddie said, to no one in particular. Svobodov grunted. ‘Money.’ ‘None of it in Marlboros, either,’ Warbaby said. ‘Mr. Blix went down to Mr. Harwood’s party, had a few drinks-‘ ‘Had a BA level like they won’t need to embalm,’ Orlovsky said. ‘Had a few drinks. Had this property in the pocket of his jacket. Next morning, it was gone. Called security at the Morrisey. They called IntenSecure. IntenSecure called me…’ ‘His phone is gone,’ Svobodov said. ‘They took it. Nothing to tie him to anyone. No agenda, notebook, nothing.’ 103 ‘Pro job,’ Orlovsky intoned. ‘The glasses,’ Svobodov said. ‘What kind of glasses?’ ‘Sunglasses,’ Freddie said. ‘We found these.’ Svobodov took something from the side pocket of his London Fog. A Ziploc evidence bag. He held it up. Rydell saw shards of black plastic. ‘Cheap VR. Ground into the carpet.’ ‘Do you know what he ran on them?’ Warbaby asked. Now it was Orlovsky’s turn for show-and-tell. He produced a second evidence bag, this one from inside his black vest. ‘Looked for software, couldn’t find it. Then we x-ray him. Somebody shoved this down his throat.’ A black rectangle. The stick-on label worn and stained. ‘But before they cut him.’ ‘What is it?’ Warbaby asked. ‘McDonna,’ Svobodov said. ‘Huh?’ Freddie was leaning across Warbaby to peer at the thing. ‘Mc-what?’ ‘Fuck chip.’ It sounded to Rydell like fock cheap, but then he got it. ‘McDonna.’