She had the hat back on, when he took the helmet off, but she was holding those sunglasses in her hand. Just looking at him. ‘I don’t think I made sense of much of that,’ she said. She’d only been able to hear his side of it, but it had been mostly him talking, there at the end. ‘But I think you’re flat fucking crazy.’ ‘I probably am,’ he said. Then he got the time and charges on the call. It came to just about all the money he had left. ‘I don’t see why they had to put the damn thing through Paris,’ he said. She just put those glasses back on and slowly shook her head. 36 Notebook (z)
The city in sunlight, from the roof of this box atop the tower. The hatch open. Sound of Skinner sorting and resorting his belongings. A cardboard box, slowly filling with objects I will take below, to the sellers of things, their goods spread on blankets, on greasy squares of ancient canvas. Osaka far away. The wind brings sounds of hammering, song. Skinner, this morning, asking if I had seen the pike in the Steiner Aquarium. -No. -He doesn’t move, Scooter.
Sure that’s all Fontaine said? But he’d found her bike? That’s no good. Wouldn’t go this long without that. Cost an arm and a fucking leg, that thing. Made of paper, inside. Japanese construction-paper, what’s it called? Useless, Scooter. Shit, it’s your language. Forgetting it faster than we are … Tube of that paper, then they wrap it with aramyd or something. No, she wouldn’t leave that. Day she brought it home, three hours down there spraying this fake rust on it, believe that? Fake rust, Scooter. And wrapping it with old rags, innertubes, anything. So it wouldn’t look new. Well, it makes more sense than just locking it, it really does. Know how you break a Kryptonite lock, Scooter? With a Volvo jack. Volvo jack fits right in there, like it was made for it. Give it a shove or two, zingo. But they never use ’em anymore, those 271 locks. Some people still carry ’em, though. One of those up ‘side the head, you’ll notice it … I just found her one day. They wanted to cart her down to the end, let the city have her. Said she’d be dead before they got her off anyway. Told ’em they could fuck off into the air. Got her up here. I could still do that. Why? Hell. Because. See people dying, you just walk by like it was television? 37 Century city
Chevette didn’t know what to think about Los Angeles. She thought those palm trees were weird, though. On the way in, Sublett’s electric car had pulled up behind this big white trailer-rig with A-LIFE INSTALLATIONS, NANOTRONIC VEGETATION across the back of it, and the heads of these fake palm trees sticking out, all wrapped in plastic. She’d seen it all on tv once, with Skinner, how they were putting in these trees to replace the ones the virus had killed, some Mexican virus. They were kind of like the Bay maglev, or like what Rydell and Sublett said that that Sunflower company was going to do in San Francisco; these things that kind of grew, but only because they were made up of all these little tiny machines. One show she’d seen with Skinner, they’d talked about how these new trees were designed so that all kinds of birds and rats and things could nest in them, just like the ones that had died. Skinner told her that he’d run a Jeep into a real palm tree, in L.A., once, and about ten rats had fallen out, landed on the hood and just sort of stood there, until they got scared and ran away. It sure didn’t feel like San Francisco. She felt kind of two ways about it. Like it was just this bunch of stuff, all spread out pretty much at random, and then like it was this really big place, with mountains somewhere back there, and all this energy flowing around in it, lighting things up. Maybe that was because they’d got there at night. Sublett had this little white Eurocar called a Montxo. She 273 knew that because she’d had to look at the logo on the dash all the way from Paradise. Sublett said it rhymed with poncho. It was built in Barcelona and you just plugged it into the house-current and left it until it was charged. It wouldn’t do much more than forty on a highway, but Sublett didn’t like to drive anything else because of his allergies. She said he was lucky they had electric cars; he’d told her all about how he was worried about the electromagnetic fields and cancer and stuff. They’d left his mother with this Mrs. Baker, watching Spacehunter on the tv. They were both real excited about that because they said it was Molly Ringwald’s first film. They’d get excited about just about anything, like that, and Chevette never had any idea who they were talking about. Rydell was just spending more and more time on the phone, and they’d~ had to stop and buy fresh batteries twice, Sublett paying. It kind of bothered her that he didn’t give her any more attention. And they’d slept on the same bed again, in the room at the motel, but nothing had happened, even though Sublett had slept out in the Montxo, with the seats tilted back. All Rydell ever did now was talk to those Republic of Desire people Lowell knew, but on the regular phone, and try to leave messages on somebody’s voicemail. Mr. Mom or something. Ma. But he didn’t think anybody was getting them, so he’d called up the Desire people and gone on and on about the whole story, everything that happened to them, and they’d recorded it and they were supposed to put it in this Mr. Ma’s voicemail. Rydell said they were going to stuff it there, so there wasn’t any other mail. Said that ought to get his attention. When they’d got to L.A. and got a room in a motel, Chevette had been kind of excited, because she’d always wanted to do that. Because her mother had always seemed to have real good times when she went to motels. Well, it had turned out to be sort of like a trailer camp without the 274 trailers, with these little concrete buildings divided up into smaller rooms, and there were foreign people cooking barbecues down in what had been the swimming pool. Sublett had gotten really upset about that, how he couldn’t handle the hydrocarbons and everything, but Rydell had said it was just for the one night. Then Rydell had gone over to the foreign people and talked to them a little, and came back and said they were Tibetans. They made a good barbecue, too, but Sublett just ate this drugstore food he’d brought with him, bottled water and these yellow bars looked like soap, and went out to sleep in his Montxo. Now here she was, walking into this place called Century City II, and trying to look like she was there to pull a tag. It was this kind of green, tit-shaped thing up on these three legs that ran up through it. You could see where they went because the walls were some kind of glass, mostly, and you could see through. It was about the biggest thing around; you could see it forever. Rydell called it the Blob. It was real upscale, too, kind of like China Basin, with those same kind of people, like you mostly saw in the financial district, or in malls, or when you were pulling tags. Well, she had her badges on, and she’d had a good shower at the motel, but the place was starting to creep her out anyway. All these trees in there, up all through this sort of giant, hollow leg, and everything under this weird filtered light came in through the sides. And here she was standing on this escalator, about a mile long, just going up and up, and around her all these people who must’ve belonged there. There were elevators, Rydell said, up the other two legs, and they ran at an angle, like the lift up to Skinner’s. But Sublett’s friend had said there were more IntenSecure people watching those, usually. She knew that Sublett was behind her, somewhere, or anyway that was how they’d worked it out before Rydell dropped them off at the entrance. She’d asked him where he was going 275 then, and he’d just said he had to go and borrow a flashlight. She was starting to really like him. It sort of bothered her. She wondered what he’d be like if he wasn’t in a situation like this. She wondered what she’d be like if she wasn’t in a situation like this. He and Sublett had both worked for the company that did security for this building, IntenSecure, and Sublett had called up a friend of his and asked him questions about how tight it was. The way he’d put it, it was like he wanted a new job with the company. But he and Rydell had worked it out that she could get in, particularly if he was following her to keep track. What bothered her about Sublett was that he was acting sort of like he was committing suicide or something. Once he’d gotten with the program, Rydell’s plan, it was like he felt cut loose from things. Kept talking about his apostasy and these movies he liked, and somebody called Cronenberg. Had this weird calm like somebody who knew for sure he was going to die; like he’d sort of made peace with it, except he’d still get upset about his allergies. Green light. Rising up through it. They’d made her up this package at the motel. What it had in it was the glasses. Addressed to Karen Mendelsohn. She closed her eyes, told herself Bunny Malatesta would bongo on her head if she didn’t make the tag, and pushed the button. ‘Yes?’ It was one of those computers. ‘Allied Messenger, for Karen Mendelsohn.’ ‘A delivery?’ ‘She’s gotta sign for it.’ ‘Authorized to barcode-‘ ‘Her hand. Gotta see her hand. Do it. You know?’ Silence. ‘Nature of delivery?’ ‘You think I open them or what?’ ‘Nature of delivery?’ 276 ‘Well,’ Chevette said, ‘it says “Probate Court,” it’s from San Francisco, and you don’t open the door, Mr. Wizard, it’s on the next plane back.’ ‘Wait, please,’ said the computer. Chevette looked at the potted plants beside the door. They were big, looked real, and she knew Sublett was standing behind them, but she couldn’t see him. Somebody had put a cigarette out on one, between its roots. The door open, a crack. ‘Yes?’ ‘Karen Mendelsohn?’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Allied Messenger, San Francisco. You wanna sign for this?’ Except there was nothing, no tag, to sign. ‘San Francisco?’ ‘What it says.’ The door opened a little more. Dark-haired woman in a long pale terrycloth robe. Chevette saw her check the badges on Skinner’s jacket. ‘I don’t understand,’ Karen Medelsohn said. ‘We do everything via GlobEx.’ ‘They’re too slow,’ Chevette said, as Sublett stepped around the plant, wearing this black uniform. Chevette saw herself reflected in his contacts, sort of bent out at the middle. ‘Ms. Mendelsohn,’ he said, ‘afraid we’ve got us a security emergency, here.’ Karen Mendelsohn was looking at him. ‘Emergency?’ ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Sublett said. He put his hand on Chevette’s shoulder and guided her in, past Karen Mendelsohn. ‘Situation’s under control. Appreciate your co-operation.’ ‘Wally’ Divac, Rydell’s Serbian landlord, hadn’t really wanted to loan Rydell his flashlight, but Rydell had lied and promised he’d get him something a lot better, over at IntenSecure, and bring it along when he brought the flashlight back. Maybe one of those telescoping batons with the wireless taser-tips, he said; something serious, anyway, professional and maybe quasi-illegal. Wally was sort of a cop-groupie. Liked to feel he was in with the force. Like a lot of people, he didn’t much distinguish between the real PD and a company like IntenSecure. He had one of those armed response signs in his front yard, too, but Rydell was glad to see it wasn’t IntenSecure. Wally couldn’t quite afford that kind of service, just like his car was second-hand, though he would’ve told you it was previously owned, like the first guy was just some flunky who’d had the job of breaking it in for him. But he owned this house, where he lived, with the baby-blue plastic siding that looked sort of like painted wood, and one of those fake lawns that looked realer than AstroTurf. And he had the house in Mar Vista and a couple of others. His sister had come over here in 1994, and then he’d come himself, to get away from all the trouble over there. Never regretted it. Said this was a fine country except they let in too many immigrants. ‘What’s that you’re driving?’ he’d asked, from the steps of the renovated Craftsman two hlocks ahove Mel rose. ‘A Montxo,’ Rydell said. ‘I~rom Barcelona. Electric.’ 278 38 Miracle mile ‘You live in America,’ he’d said, his gray hair plastered neatly back from his pitted forehead. ‘Why you drive that?’ His BMW, immaculate, reposed in the driveway; he’d had to spend five minutes disarming it to get the flashlight out for Rydell. Rydell had remembered the time in Knoxville, Christmas day, when the Narcotics team’s new walkie-talkies had triggered every car-alarm in a ten-mile radius. ‘Well,’ Rydell said, ‘it’s real good for the environment.’ ‘It’s bad for your country,’ Wally said. ‘Image thing. An American should drive some car to feel proud of. Bavarian car. At least Japanese.’ ‘I’ll get this back to you, Wally.’ Holding up the big black flashlight. ‘And something else. You said.’ ‘Don’t worry about it.’ ‘When you pay rent on Mar Vista?’ ‘Kevin’ll take care of it.’ Getting into the tiny Montxo and starting up the flywheel. It sat there, rocking slightly on its shocks, while the wheel got up to speed. Wally waved, shrugged, then backed into his house and closed the door. Rydell hadn’t ever seen him not wear that Tyrolean hat before. Rydell looked at the flashlight, figuring out where the safety was. It wasn’t much, but he felt like he had to have something. And it was nonlethal. Guns weren’t that hard to buy, on the street, but he didn’t really want to have to have one around today. You did a different kind of time, if there was a gun involved. Then he’d driven back toward the Blob, taking it real easy at intersections and trying to keep to the streets that had designated lanes for electric vehicles. He got Chevette’s phone out and hit redial for the node-number in Utah, the one Godeater had given him, back in Paradise. God-eater was the one who looked like the mountain, or so he said. Rydell had asked him what kind of a name that was. He’d said he was a full-blood Blood Indian. Rydell sort of doubted it. 279 None of their voices were real, even; it was all digital stuff. God-eater could just as well be a woman, or three different people, or all three of the ones he’d seen there might’ve been just one person. He thought about the woman in the wheelchair in Cognitive Dissidents. It could be her. It could be anybody. That was the spooky thing about these hackers. He heard the node-number ringing, in Utah. God-eater always picked up on five, in mid-ring. ‘Yes?’ ‘Paradise,’ Rydell said. ‘Richard?’ ‘Nixon.’ ‘We have your goods in place, Richard. One little whoops and a push.’ ‘You get me a price yet?’ The light changed. Somebody was honking, pissed-off at the Montxo’s inability to do anything like accelerate. ‘Fifty,’ God-eater said. Fifty thousand dollars. Rydell winced. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘fair enough.’ ‘Better be,’ God-eater said. ‘We can make you pretty miserable in prison, even. In fact, we can make you really miserable in prison. The baseline starts lower, in there.’ I’ll bet you got lots of friends there, too, Rydell thought. ‘How long you estimate the response-time, from when I call?’ God-eater burped, long and deliberate. ‘Quick. Ten, fifteen max. We’ve got it slotted the way we talked about. Your friends’re gonna shit themselves. But really, you don’t wanna be in the way. This’ll be like something you never saw before. This new unit they just got set up.’ ‘I hope so,’ Rydell said, and broke the connection.