Strange Trades

by Paul Di Filippo

  “What’s this mean for me, then?” asked Honeyman. “Am I supposed to just close the shop down?”

  “No, not if you don’t want to. Of course, you could shut it up for good and just live off spondulix, like the rest of us. But I’ll understand if you want to keep it going, as a hobby, like. All I want is that you don’t take spondulix for sandwiches anymore.”

  “Wait just a minute. I’m supposed to be the one business in Hoboken now that won’t accept spondulix? Me, the guy who invented them?”

  “I know it’s kind of illogical, but it has to be. It’s a symbol.”

  Honeyman was trying to puzzle out the Wonderland logic of all this when an origami frog hopped into the room. Cardinal, spotting it, leaped down and batted at the paper creature, whereupon it promptly unfolded into a 500 spondulix note.

  Suki Netsuke stuck her head in the doorway.

  “Meeting adjourned,” declared Erlkonig.

  After everyone else had filed out, Honeyman was left standing alone with Erlkonig and Netsuke. The Black man, abandoning the formal style of speech in which he had conducted the meeting, hung an arm around Honeyman’s dejected shoulder and said, “Cheer up, moll, you’ve done your part. You can retire now, and take it easy.”

  “I don’t want to retire. I want—” But Honeyman was forced to stop speaking. He didn’t know quite what he wanted. Once he had wished for a little more money. And look where that had gotten him.

  Addie. He wanted Addie. That was the one sure thing in his life. He’d go see her now. She’d know what to do.

  “Bye, Rory,” called out Netsuke cheerfully as Honeyman left the Brewery.

  Over the past two months, since they had met at the ill-fated Outlaw Party, Addie and Honeyman had spent much time together. Honeyman had happily shared with her his past, checkered as it was with disappointments and failures: his Iowa boyhood; his Olympic protest; his flight from induction; his long tenure with Lispenard’s Pantechnicon and his deep affection for the Baroness von Hammer-Purgstall (although Honeyman, even in the throes of sexual passion, could not bring himself to mention how much Addie’s hair reminded him of the Baroness’s mane); his repatriation; his ten-year slumber at the sandwich shop, enlivened only by the antics of the Beer Nuts. Of all this and more had Honeyman gratefully disburdened himself to the patient ears of Addie.

  She, in turn, had told him—what? A little of her life in Manhattan, some few odd incidents from work, her taste in books and music, the bad points of a couple of ex-lovers. It didn’t amount to much, compared to Honeyman’s complete disclosure.

  But in the end it didn’t matter. Honeyman had fallen completely in love with Atalanta Swinburne. He didn’t demand all the intimate details of her past; she’d tell him when she was ready. It was enough simply that she chose to be with him now. He had reached a point where he couldn’t imagine life without her.

  How happy he would be at this moment, if not for spondulix.

  Honeyman clenched his fists as he walked hotly to Addie’s apartment. He had to put a stop to the spread of this alternate currency. But how? It was a juggernaut, a machine out of control, a runaway fiscal train on a track greased by greed. Too many people besides himself were involved now. The monster born of his desperate brain had been adopted by hundreds of foster parents. Could he even call it his own invention anymore? Did he have any right to intervene in something that affected the welfare of thousands? He hoped Addie would have some answers, because he sure didn’t.

  At her building, Honeyman buzzed the intercom. There was no answer. He sat on the stoop and waited.

  An hour later, around four o’clock, he saw Addie approaching. Spotting him, she quickened her pace. Honeyman’s heart lifted.

  “What’s wrong, Rory?” she asked after a quick embrace.

  Honeyman explained. Addie made sort of a modified Scout’s salute, laying the backs of two fingers across her lips in a habitual gesture betokening thoughtfulness. She spoke: “The first thing we both need is supper and a drink. Then we can sort things out.”

  Buoyed by Addie’s practicality, Honeyman felt instantly better. God, what would he do without her?

  They went to the Clam Broth House on Newark Street, where they ordered Fisherman’s Platters and big plastic steins of beer. In a booth, under the gazes of autographed portraits of local celebrities, they discussed spondulix.

  Addie knew everything about spondulix, had lived through all phases of the phenomenon save for their creation. Yet somehow she had remained aloof from the new money. She never spent it, and in fact refused all offers of spondulix from Honeyman—although she didn’t object too strenuously when he paid for their joint treats with them. He supposed her finickyness was a manifestation of her independence, and nothing more. Neither did she choose to hang out with the Beer Nuts, unless Honeyman was with her. In any case, her detachment from the communal madness of spondulix made her advice all the more valuable in Honeyman’s eyes.

  When Honeyman had finished bringing her up to date, he said, “I’ve got to get out of this whole business. Ill tell Earl to put his picture on the bills and withdraw all the old ones with mine. Then I’ll be free.”

  “No, I don’t think Earl will agree. It would look like a coup d’état, and that would shake people’s confidence in spondulix. He can’t risk altering the known equation that already works so well. He still needs you, if only as a figurehead. You’ve got to stay involved, as a voice of moderation.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes, I do. If you hope to change anything, you’ve got to maintain your contacts and work from within. You can’t let the Beer Nuts run things all by themselves.”

  Honeyman doubted how much of a difference he could actually make. Perhaps he was looking at the situation with blinders, though. Addie seemed adamant about his remaining involved.… He decided on the spot that he would follow her advice. “Okay, I’ll stick with them for a while yet. But this can’t go on much longer.”

  “Oh, I agree.”

  Honeyman pushed at some unidentifiable bits of batter-coated substance on his plate. “You know, it’s just tradition that makes anyone eat here. The food never gets any worse, but it never gets any better either. What do you say we go dancing?”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  They went hand in hand to Maxwell’s on Washington Street, where a zydeco band was playing. Addie slipped her glasses into her purse, and they danced till the sweat was rolling off them. A steady infusion of New Amsterdam beer insured against total dehydration. When the club closed at two in the morning, Addie and Honeyman were almost too drunk and tired to walk. They staggered laughingly down Washington Street until they came to Elk Lodge Number 74, with its life-size golden statue of an elk positioned on a pedestal outside. Honeyman was trying to show Addie how he had ridden the Baroness when the cops came. Honeyman dug his heels into the golden elk to spur it to greater speed. He went nowhere fast. The cops dragged him off while Addie rolled on the sidewalk clutching her sides.

  “Straighten up, buddy, you’re coming with us down to the station.”

  “Hold on a minute, Charlie. It’s that guy on the money.”

  “Mister Honeyman? Listen, you shouldn’t be cutting up like this so late. You’re gonna get in trouble. Lemme show you home.”

  Late the next morning Honeyman arrived at the sandwich shop with a tremendous headache. The busyness of the place depressed him. Why did there have to be such things as commerce and money anyway? Couldn’t we all live naked in the forest and eat nuts and berries?

  Honeyman instructed Nerfball to tell his crew about the new policy: no spondulix accepted. A sign was lettered and hung proclaiming same. Honeyman waited eagerly for business to drop off. Perhaps a wave of panic would spread through the community, causing people to abandon spondulix as quickly as they had embraced it.

  No such luck. People shrugged off the change as an eccentricity of Honeyman’s, and paid for their sandwiches in U.S. cash. If this place wouldn’t
accept spondulix, there were hundreds of others that would.

  Discouraged, Honeyman left the shop around three. He went to find Erlkonig, intending to admit defeat. He left Nerfball behind to conduct a class in Sandwich Construction Methodology:

  “Pay attention now, guys and gals. Hold the slice of bread squarely in your palm and spread the condiment of choice toward you, not away.…”

  Erlkonig was on the roof of the Brewery, supervising workmen who were constructing a kind of crow’s-nest high atop the tall smokestack that rose from one corner.

  “How do you like it?” he asked Honeyman. “We’ve put a spiral stairway inside the chimney. It’s going to be my executive penthouse.”

  Honeyman was too discouraged to rebuke Erlkonig for his delusions of grandeur. He related what had happened.

  Erlkonig clapped Honeyman heartily on the back, nearly causing him to lose his footing on the slippery slates of the roof. “Great, moll, I told you it would all work out for the best. There’s great things ahead for us, I can feel it in my bones.”

  An unseasonably cold wind blew in off the river, making them both shiver.

  “So can I,” said Honeyman.

  7.

  Taking the Big Dive

  A late September breeze brought the aroma of roasting coffee to Honeyman’s nose as he stood before the door to the Old Vault Brewery, wondering whether to enter. Suddenly, he was gripped by an enormous and melancholy sense of déjà vu. Had he not stood thus a mere four months ago, when his life was relatively simple and uncomplicated, that day he had come looking for Nerfball? And had he not experienced a premonition of all the grief and travails that would come his way, should he enter? If only he had heeded this inner voice. Too late, though. He was in this mess up to his neck, with no apparent escape. All the regrets in the world wouldn’t suffice to extricate him now. And there was no point in hesitating outside here any longer.

  Honeyman laid a hand on the medium-sized door inset in the largest one. At that moment he felt something butt up against his shins.

  He looked down.

  It was the head of Beatbox, emerging from the pet door.

  “Oh, sorry, man,” said Beatbox.

  “That’s okay,” replied Honeyman, stepping aside to let the fellow crawl completely out. Contrary to expectations, Beatbox did not immediately stand up.

  “What’s happening?” asked Honeyman.

  “Cardinal has been missing for three days now, and we’re trying to trace him. We figure, you wanna find a cat, you gotta act like a cat.”

  Suiting actions to words, Beatbox crawled off, pausing in his progress down Fourteenth Street to let off a plaintive “Meow” now and then—usually when a sharp pebble bit into his palm.

  Honeyman entered the Brewery. Immediately, someone shouted, “Hey, wipe your feet!”

  Honeyman did as ordered, looking around.

  The Brewery was now completely renovated. All the black paint had been scraped from the windows, allowing the sunlight to flood the cavernous interior of the first floor. The kettles and vats all gleamed, there were chairs and couches, Ping-Pong and pool tables, pinball and video games scattered about, and a thick rug covered the floor. There was even a tiled, paint-splattered target area where people could practice firing their Survival guns.

  A muted subterranean roar from the presses in the basement made Honeyman wince.

  Honeyman collared a passing woman he didn’t recognize. “Where’s Earl? He called me over.”

  “In Vat Number One.”

  Honeyman found the structure labelled Vat Number One. There was a door in its curving metal side. Honeyman knocked; the door swung open.

  “Rory, my moll,” said Erlkonig, “good to see you. C’mon in.”

  Honeyman climbed three stairs into the vat. Erlkonig shut the door.

  A padded couch ran along the interior wall of the vat, broken only by the door. The floor was carpeted. There was an audio-video center and a small refrigerator. A giant hookah gave off an aromatic pungency. Ventilation was accomplished through the pipe that had formerly fed in the liquid contents.

  “The Beer Nuts have really come up in the world,” said Honeyman with what he hoped was palpable cynicism.

  Erlkonig didn’t bite. “A pampered worker is a productive worker.”

  Honeyman snorted. “You call what you do work?”

  Erlkonig took umbrage. “Hey, man, you think running a worldwide fiscal empire is easy, why don’t you try it? This should be your job anyway. If you hadn’t jumped ship on us, I wouldn’t have had to pick up the reins.”

  “That’s a mixed metaphor.” Then: “Worldwide?”

  Erlkonig waved a hand negligently. “Forget I said that. And let’s stop bickering. I want to show you something.” Erlkonig dug in his pants pocket and came up with a spondulix. Honeyman took it. The ink was blotchy, the sandwich depicted on the front looked like a stack of pancakes, and Honeyman was portrayed on the reverse side with what seemed to be a wen on his nose and a downward cast to his eye.

  Handing the note back, Honeyman said, “I’d fire the guy at the mint responsible for this.”

  “We didn’t do it,” said Erlkonig with obvious relish. “It’s a counterfeit.”

  Honeyman had thought he had heard everything, but this took him completely by surprise. He felt personally violated somehow. Bad enough to have the Beer Nuts churning out spondulix in his name, but at least, when all was said and done, they were still his friends. To have strangers making free with his image, as if he were something from the public domain! He felt sullied and sick. Now he knew what it must be like to be the Mona Lisa or the Statue of Liberty.

  “We’ve got to stop this,” said Honeyman. “Do you have any idea who’s behind this? Have you managed to track them down?”

  Erlkonig laughed. “Slow down, man. You’re looking at this all wrong. We don’t want to stop this, we want to encourage it. We’re not the government, and we don’t necessarily want a monopoly. The more spondulix in circulation, the better for all parties. There’s plenty of wealth in this country, once you free it up from government strictures. Let whoever it is duplicate spondulix. It all helps us undermine the dollar.”

  Honeyman stood. “I can’t believe this. I am now supposed to be known throughout the world as some kind of misshapen hunchback, just so you can keep filling your coffers? This is almost the last straw, Earl. I’m warning you, I’m tempted to blow the whistle on this whole deal.”

  Erlkonig seemed unconcerned. “How, man? We’ve got entire city and state governments in the bag.”

  “What about the Feds? You don’t control them yet. I bet they’d love to know about spondulix. In fact, I can’t believe they haven’t come down on us by now.”

  This possibility appeared to worry Erlkonig. “You wouldn’t really rat on us to the Feds, would you, my moll?”

  Honeyman folded his arms across his chest. “I just might.”

  Erlkonig switched suddenly to easy affability. “What are we doing, talking like this? Ain’t no one gonna betray nobody. Listen, did you hear about the big party tomorrow night? It’s the official housewarming for the Brewery. Be sure to come, and bring your girl.”

  The albino ushered Honeyman to the vat door. “Don’t worry yourself about nothing, my moll. Everything’s under my intense control.” The vat door slammed before Honeyman could explain that that was precisely what was worrying him.

  Outside the building a big flatbed truck was unloading under the supervision of Hy Rez and Special Effects. The cargo was a large wooden spool of some strange kind of thick wire.

  “What’s that?” asked Honeyman.

  The two men appeared surprised that Honeyman didn’t know.

  “Special polycarbon fibers twisted into the strongest cable known to man,” replied Hy.

  “For the party,” said Special. “You know—the Big Walk.”

  “Oh,” said Honeyman, nowise enlightened. Then he set off to see Addie.

  She had promis
ed that today she’d have an answer for him.

  On the way to her apartment, Honeyman passed a street musician. The man’s open guitar case was filled with loose change, dollar bills and spondulix.

  At an open-air automated teller machine set in a bank’s exterior wall, a woman removed spondulix from the cash-disgorging slot.

  A little kid on a scooter stopped to stare at Honeyman. He took a spondulix from his pocket, studied it, then said, “Wow.”

  Honeyman felt he was going mad. The world seemed topsyturvy, some dreamland where everything was a fractured image of his one obsession, spondulix. He fervently hoped Addie’s answer would be the one he sought, so that they could begin their lives all over again.

  He let himself into Addie’s building with his set of keys. (They had exchanged keys in August, after The Night of the Elk.) At Addie’s door, he knocked. No answer. He let himself in there too.

  Addie’s quarters had always been sparsely furnished, with a barely lived-in look, so for a second Honeyman didn’t notice that today they were stripped. Empty of personal effects.

  There was a sealed envelope on the dresser. In it was a letter:

  Dear Rory,

  Please forgive me. I’ve been living a lie all these months. I never wanted to hurt you. But marriage is out of the question. Forgive me. Someday soon you’ll understand I still love you. Honest.

  Addie

  Honeyman sat down on the coverless bed. His beard caught the tears before they could drip off his chin.

  He never remembered how he got back to the Brewery, and little more once he was inside. The main image he retained was that of a steady stream of commiserating Beer Nuts, faces looming up out of his personal fog, saying well-meant but totally dumb and irrelevant things which utterly failed to make him feel any better.

  Leather, with an arm around Stud’s waist: “She was a bitch, Honeyman.”

  Studs chimed in: “Yeah, we knew it from the start. You’re better off without her.”

  Hilario Fumento, reading off a library call slip: “Here’s an observation I made recently that might help you put things in perspective, Rory. ‘When we are traveling in another state, the sight of a license plate from home always inspires a sharp but transitory melancholy.’”