Amy was sitting on the steps of Paula’s apartment building, head back against the brick, eyes shaded by pixie-specs. Paula’s stomach dropped and turned in on itself when she saw her. She walked up the steps, and Amy stood.
“Have you heard something?” Paula asked.
Amy nodded. “The Saints made an announcement on the local net.” She took a piece of paper from her jeans pocket. “‘A pilgrim who took the name Mixer was put to Saint Katherine’s Trial,’” she read. “‘The trial was a glorious event, producing holy immolation never before seen in the trials. Clearly, Mixer was a chosen, a prophet, whose dying cries provided profound revelations to the gathered Saints and witnesses. He passed the trial superbly, in spirit if not in flesh, and will be remembered as a glorious martyr in the family of Saints.’” She stopped, looked up at Paula. “That’s it.”
“He’s dead.” Paula looked down at the piece of paper in Amy’s hand. “Mixer’s dead.”
Amy nodded, but didn’t speak.
Paula could hardly move, could hardly breathe. She turned her head slowly, squinted against the glare of the sun that seemed so hot and huge in the sky. The street and buildings were bleached out all around her. She turned back to Amy.
“I’m tired,” she said. “I’m going to lie down for a while.”
Amy nodded. “I’m sorry.”
Paula gestured at the piece of paper in Amy’s hand. “Can I have that?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Paula took the sheet from Amy, folded it carefully, and tucked it into her pocket, next to the gravity knife. “Thanks.” She went to the building door, unlocked it, and stepped inside.
Several hours later, Paula climbed the stairs of her apartment building again, Tremaine just behind her. Her legs felt heavy, her breath was short and halting. Even her sense of hearing seemed to go in and out—one moment their footsteps were loud and echoing in the stairwell, Tremaine’s breathing clear and close, and the next a swirling filled her ears and she could hear nothing at all.
Tremaine was coming up to her apartment, and she knew where it all was headed, and she was half certain it was a terrible idea. She had no one to blame but herself.
They’d eaten dinner at Mai’s, good food and even better wine—an expensive bottle of Chardonnay bought by Tremaine. A long, relaxing meal, followed by coffee and mint ice cream, then a walk through the noise and energy of the Polk Corridor. The sexual tension was strong, almost suffocating, and it was crazy to try to deny it was there. She didn’t tell him about Mixer. She wasn’t sure why.
Tremaine had suggested going somewhere for a drink, and Paula had said, Why not my apartment? It was quiet, they could be alone, talk, have some peace. You sure? Tremaine had asked. She hadn’t been, but she’d said yes anyway, her heart pounding against her ribs.
And now, here they were, at her door. Paula unlocked the dead bolt, stuck another key in the main lock, punched in her security code, then turned the key. The lock clicked and she pushed open the door. The only light on in the apartment was a small fluorescent over the kitchen sink. Paula brushed her hand along the wall and turned on the overheads, which lit up the large room that served as kitchen and entry. She held the door wide, and Tremaine followed her in.
The kitchen half of the front room looked normal, with table and chairs, stove and refrigerator, but the other half was a mess, stacks and piles of boxes and bags and crates, all the stuff she’d kept from Chick’s apartment—tapes, discs, books, sound system, video sets and cameras, recording and mixing equipment, his guitars. Paula stood staring at it for a long time, hardly aware of Tremaine beside her, noticing it all for the first time in days. Ever since she’d moved it here in Nikky’s van, she’d been able to ignore it. Now, having invited Tremaine into the apartment, knowing what was going to happen, she felt like Chick’s things were everywhere, overwhelming the place.
“What’s wrong?” Tremaine asked.
Paula shook her head. “All this.” She waved at it, afraid it was going to move and grow. “Chick. All this stuff is his. I haven’t been able to do anything with it.” And there was Mixer, too, dead like Chick, but again she didn’t mention him.
There was a long silence, and Paula continued to stare at the clutter, not moving. She didn’t know what to do or say.
“Do you want me to leave?” Tremaine asked.
Paula turned to look at him. He would, she realized. If she asked him to, he would turn around and walk out. “No,” she said. “No.” Her heart was beating harder again; she could feel it in her throat. “Stay.”
Tremaine nodded, reached out and lightly brushed her cheek.
Still unsure, feeling sick to her stomach, Paula led Tremaine into the dark bedroom.
Shadows and dim light, the smell of sawdust and sweat. Tremaine’s weight above her, his body slick and heavy, dipping and thrusting. Paula wanted to push him away, wanted to scramble out of bed, wanted to cry. She could not stop thinking of Chick.
Tremaine was warm, gentle, caring with her, but it didn’t matter. It was a mistake, Paula thought, a terrible mistake, and it was way too late.
She saw Chick sitting by the open bedroom window, smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the night. She saw him sitting at the kitchen table, barefoot, wearing blue jeans and shirtless, drinking coffee, smiling at her. She saw him onstage beside her, wailing away at his guitar, hair sticky with sweat. And she felt his mouth on hers, his lips and tongue and fingers on her skin and inside her.
Paula squeezed her eyes shut, fighting back the tears, and held onto Tremaine with everything she had.
Paula woke, feeling strangely groggy. It was still dark. She was alone in bed. Had Tremaine gone? She glanced at the tiny glowing clock face next to the bed. Three-thirty. Would he have left without saying anything?
The apartment was quiet, but not silent, and she thought she heard faint sounds—tinkling, a click, a slight scraping. She was too exhausted to get up, and she was only half awake. She turned over, the bed creaking, and faced the wall. Was she even half awake? Paula put her hand out and pressed it against the wall. What did that prove? Where was Tremaine?
Time seemed strange, stretching out and closing in, spotted with fragmented dream images. Chick was dead, and now Mixer was, too. Then she heard the toilet flush, and the present seemed to lock back into focus. A few moments later she felt Tremaine get back into bed, settle in.
“Are you awake?” he whispered.
“No,” she answered. She felt his arm wrap slowly around her, holding her. She closed her eyes and drifted back into sleep, unsure whether things were somehow all right, or were terribly wrong.
PART THREE
16
CARLUCCI SAT WITH Andrea and Christina on the back deck in the fragmented shade of a tattered umbrella. Christina had cooked breakfast for them and they’d eaten outside, and now they were drinking coffee and talking. It was rare that all three of them had a free day together. Gazing out over the lush, overgrown garden, Carlucci thought of how he needed to get out there and do some weeding and pruning; and there was his appointment tonight with the slug. But for now he intended to do nothing but sit and talk and enjoy the company of his family.
There was a thump and scrabbling at the fence, and Tuffs face appeared, golden eyes wide. As he perched atop the fence, he seemed unsteady. Christina got up, hurried to the fence and picked him up, cradling him in her arms and bringing him back to the deck. “Poor guy,” she said, sitting down and holding him on her lap.
“Why?” Carlucci asked. “What’s wrong?”
“Didn’t I tell you? I was talking to Harry, and he said Tuff was having kidney failure.” She shrugged, holding Tuff closer. “He’s just getting old.” She pressed her face against the gray cat’s face, and Tuff tried half-heartedly to squirm away.
Carlucci felt bad for the old guy, and he found himself almost unconsciously reaching out and taking Andrea’s hand in his; he was thinking of Caroline again, who would never have the chance to g
row old.
Andrea smiled at him and squeezed his hand. Then, their thoughts running on similar tracks, she said, “I forgot to tell you. Caroline called last night, and she’s coming over for dinner next weekend.”
Carlucci returned Andrea’s squeeze, smiled, and said, “Good. I wish we could see her more.” Meaning more than one thing. He turned and stared at Christina, a terrible ache going through him—grief for Caroline and fear for Christina, fear of something taking her away as well.
The side gate squealed, and a few moments later McCuller came around the corner of the house. Carlucci wanted to tell McCuller to get the fuck out of his yard. He didn’t want the man in his house, his yard, even his neighborhood.
McCuller approached the deck, smiling and looking too damn comfortable in his expensive suit. “I tried the front door,” he said, “but there was no answer.” He shrugged. “On the off chance, I came around.”
“Lucky us,” Carlucci said.
McCuller’s smile tightened briefly, but he turned to Andrea and softened it. “Good morning, Andrea, good to see you again. Sorry to intrude.”
Andrea forced a smile. “Hello, Marcus.”
“Christina,” McCuller said, turning to the young woman.
Christina nodded, but didn’t say anything, didn’t attempt to smile. She just held Tuff closer to her, as if trying to protect him.
McCuller turned back to Carlucci, no longer smiling. “Be ready at seven o’clock this evening. A car will be here to take you to a meeting.”
Carlucci shook his head. “I have a session scheduled with a slug tonight.”
“Cancel it. Your meeting’s with the mayor. His personal car and driver will pick you up and take you to his house.” McCuller put his right hand in his pocket, fingers of his left hand flexing. “Quite a privilege.”
“Sounds more like a commandment,” Carlucci said.
“If you choose to look at it that way.”
“Why are you here, Captain? Why not just call?”
“The mayor asked me to make sure you got the message personally. This meeting is important to him, and he didn’t want any…miscommunications.”
“All right,” Carlucci said. “I’ve received the message. I’ll be ready.”
McCuller seemed ready to say something else. But he shook his head, as though whatever he had in mind was pointless. Then, “I’ll see you, Frank. Andrea, Christina.” Without waiting for a response from any of them, he turned and walked away, around the corner and out of sight, the side gate squealing once more, rattling shut.
Carlucci stared at the spot where McCuller had stood, trying to ease the tension in his neck and head.
“Frank?” Andrea said. “Frank, he’s gone.”
Yeah, he thought, but it was too late. The man had soured his day, and Carlucci knew that no matter how hard he tried, it would stay that way.
At seven that evening, Carlucci stood on the sidewalk in front of his house, waiting for the mayor’s car. He waved to Harry and Frances, who were sitting on their front porch next door in the last of the sun, drinking iced drinks, Tuff at their feet. It was hot and muggy, and Carlucci was already uncomfortable in the suit and tie Andrea had insisted he wear.
Shit, he said to himself, seeing the large, dark gray limo come around the corner. He didn’t need this. What the hell would Harry and Frances think? The limousine pulled in to the curb, and before the driver could get all the way out, Carlucci was at the rear door and opening it for himself. He got in and quickly closed the door. The driver got back behind the wheel, closed his own door, and pulled the limo out into the street without a word.
The air inside the limousine was uncomfortably cold and dry, and Carlucci tried to open the tinted windows, but none of the controls worked. He did not want to ask the mayor’s driver for anything. The guy probably earned twice what Carlucci did.
The journey was silent, seemed almost motionless at times, and Carlucci felt cut off from the world. No wonder the mayor didn’t have a clue, traveling through the city like this, and living up on Telegraph. Or maybe the man knew exactly what he was cutting himself off from. Carlucci wondered if the mayor ever looked out the windows of the limo and watched the city go past him.
Carlucci did. Crossing the Panhandle, he looked out on the mass of tents and shacks erected on what had once been open park land; smoke rose from open fires, and shadows of people moved across the dwellings, stretched and flickered on fabric, wood, metal. Further on, they passed the fenced-in enclave of the University of San Francisco; through the chain-link Carlucci could see the outlines of the bunkers.
They drove through the Japan Center, heading north, passing between shiny, brightly lit buildings and glass-covered walkways, colorfully dressed men and women walking in complete security. They continued northward, avoiding the Tenderloin, then finally cut through Russian Hill, headed toward Telegraph. Crossing Columbus, they had to work slowly past a series of police barricades surrounding a block of burning buildings. Something heavy and hard crashed against the side window, but the glass didn’t break, didn’t show even a hint of damage, and the driver kept on as if nothing had occurred.
At the base of Telegraph Hill, they passed through a heavily fortified checkpoint, then started up the steep, winding road. At the top, just below the ruins of Coit Tower, the driver turned into a long drive as a metal gate swung out of the way and quickly closed behind them. As soon as the limo came to a stop, Carlucci opened the rear door, but this time the driver didn’t even try to get out of the car.
Mayor Terrance Kashen’s house didn’t stand out from those surrounding it, but then all the houses, condos, and apartments on Telegraph were worth small fortunes, especially those here at the summit, built on what used to be public park land. In the growing twilight, Carlucci could see the shimmering glow of a Kronenhauer Field surrounding the house and grounds. But he couldn’t see much of the house itself from the drive—most of the structure extended out from the hillside, facing north and slightly west, with what he imagined must be stunning views. Maybe even of the sunset, which was now blazing the sky and clouds with bright crimson and orange streaks, though the sun itself was no longer visible.
The front door opened and Mayor Terrance Kashen appeared, wearing both a smile and a dark silk suit with apparent ease. Carlucci walked up the stone path and shook the mayor’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks for coming, Frank.” The mayor stepped back to let Carlucci into the house.
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?”
Kashen’s smile broadened, and he closed the door. They were in a glass-walled, glass-floored entry, a pale creamy light diffusing from the glass. “There’s always a choice,” the mayor said. “It’s just a matter of consequences.”
He led the way from the entry, passing through a shimmering curtain of metallic fabric, then over a footbridge crossing a brook that flowed out of the right wall and into the left. Then they were in the main room: huge and jutting out over the hillside, three walls of glass, with the view every bit as spectacular as Carlucci had expected: Alcatraz, with its flame towers ablaze, directly in front of them; stretching away to the north, far on the left, the Golden Gate Bridge, spans alight, orange flickers in the deepening twilight. As they approached the windows, the city itself appeared below them, glittering silver and gold and red. More lights bobbed out on the bay—private security cutters circling two large luxury yachts. The last remnants of the sunset lit the western sky with wide slashes of deep purple and crimson.
Kashen gestured toward one of two small leather couches that faced one another, next to the main window. “Have a seat, Frank.” Carlucci sat, just back from the window, with the full view of the city below and facing the Golden Gate. Kashen remained standing. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Carlucci shook his head. Drinking with the mayor didn’t seem like a good idea. The mayor nodded once in return, then sat on the other sofa, facing Carlucci. He settled back, crossing his legs.
> “I’m told you’re a good cop,” Kashen said. “One of the best we’ve got.” He paused. “An honest cop.”
“Is that good or bad?” Carlucci asked.
The mayor smiled. “I’m also told you’re insubordinate. Would that be true, do you think?”
Carlucci shrugged. “I just try to balance out those who spend too much time on their knees.”
Kashen hesitated a few moments, then said, “Like Captain McCuller?”
Carlucci didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to get drawn in that deep.
“Well,” the mayor said. “There’s something to be said for both kinds of people. The world needs both kinds.”
“I don’t think so,” Carlucci said.
The mayor smiled again. “Okay, Frank. The political world needs both kinds.”
Carlucci wasn’t sure he agreed even with that, but didn’t think it really mattered. He wondered how long it was going to take Kashen to get to the point of this meeting. Or would all of this be part of the point?
“How old are you, Frank?”
Not a question Carlucci had expected. “Fifty-two.”
“Really? You’re in good shape for fifty-two. Well, perhaps ‘shape’ is the wrong word. You do look good for your age, though. Younger. I would have guessed mid-forties, maybe later.” He paused, as though waiting for Carlucci to say something. Like what? Carlucci thought. Thank you? The mayor went on. “Fifty-two,” he repeated. “If you had a choice, Frank, living another thirty years or so, your body slowing down, gradually falling apart—or living another hundred, hundred and fifty years, without aging, or aging so slowly you hardly notice it, which would you choose?”
At first Carlucci didn’t think the question was serious, but as he watched the mayor studying him intently, waiting for his response, he realized the question was serious. What the hell was all this about?
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