CHAPTER TWO
LA NUTRIKA
THE PRICE OF PURE EVIL. WELL, MAYBE NOT PURE, BUT DEFINITELY PRETTY SOLIDLY EVILISH
Yeah, yeah, Nutrika is Latin or something for nurse. Buy yourself a dictionary, cheapskate. Hey, you know what’s funny? People will buy anything if you position it right. Like a whole company, or a software program, or even the illusion that they are safe and sound. The illusion of normality. Let me tell you something, if things seem normal in this world, something has gone to vinegar. Something’s off. My advice? Don’t buy it. For even a second. Hey, but that’s just me.
Do you have any idea how hard it was to rise in the corporate world as an intelligent, capable woman? I didn’t think so. Well, it’s not just hard, it’s nearly impossible. But I did it. By being tougher. And smarter. And mostly just telling people what they wanted to hear. “Oh, I love you, I burn for you, I need your touch.” You know, something like that, but sprinkle in a little of the sincere. Or, you’re like, “Everything is okay now, just turn off this switch and you can go home.” You know, dangle a carrot. People believe what they want to believe. You just need to give them the room to convince themselves.
Yeah, so Dynatone/Glazo finally got over their “ethical” concerns, which really just means they found some expert who needed to settle his gambling debts, and decided to acquire the Virtuality. All of it. PopsicleMan 3.0, The Conduit 2.0, Assembly-Line 1.0. Hey, here’s the keys, so enjoy! Whatever happens now, happens. I’m an old woman, even if I don’t look it, and what old woman doesn’t need round-the-clock attention from a tanned manservant? Well, this one does. And that kind of thing costs some serious green. Just the kind of green I now have in my offshore account. Accounts. Anyway, my theory is, everything happens for a reason, and people end up where they belong. Like, for instance, in a virtual slum-factory screwing together Eye-Pods and Dikes on twenty-four-hour shifts. And, conversely, I belong here, on my travertine patio, with the Mediterranean gently lapping the foundation of my centuries-old villa, a nice wine and cheese plate laid before me. A woman has to do what a woman has to do to get by in this world. Have I mentioned that yet? And if some multinational bloodsucker of a company wants to reward that woman with millions of dollars in stock options, well, that’s their business, isn’t it? And if that company happens to be run by people with ties to the Chinese military, what does that have to do with me?
“Your minotaur, your problem,” as my grandmother used to say.
I like to lie here on my chaise and look at the sea, which just never stops coming in. And read my picture book. Man, do I look good. Page after page. I always wished I could draw.
O.S., for the record, does not stand for Organic Sample. Hasn’t anyone ever studied the classics around here? It’s Latin. Omnia suggestio. Which means All things are suggested. And that’s so true. All things are, in the end, suggested by all other things. O.S. is a fail-safe program that acts as a mirror. In the end, it allows a foundering program to recognize itself.
But enough job talk, it’s almost noon. Daiquiri time.
Put a scientist in a Speedo, and see how lazy he gets.
“Albert? Al-ber-to, where are you? I’m thirsty!”
CHAPTER ONE
SCOOTER BECHTEL, JR., CEO
IT’S NEVER TOO LATE TO INVEST IN A WINNER
Hello, and welcome to the seventy-third annual shareholders’ meeting of Dynatone/Glazo Worldwide. I’m Scooter Bechtel, Junior, your chairman and CEO. Now, if you’ll all just open your prospectuses to page six, you’ll be pleased to see we’ve had a great deal of success with our construction and military support divisions, in particular with respect to the Middle East and the opening of another hundred branches of KFC—that’s Kuwaiti Fried Chicken. Also, the pharmaceutical division has exploded in the last decade, with our flagship Personal Male Performance line, which, of course, includes that little blue wonder pill, Mannish Jim.” [Titters from audience] “We’ve also done quite well with the Hey. I. Vee line of cut-rate drug cocktails/virus inhibitors we’ve successfully introduced to the sub-Saharan market, as well as Ol’ Comfy Sweater 2.0. Why pay three hundred an hour to lie on a couch and tell some balding Freudian your woes when you can just boot up your own custom therapist? But, in closing, I really want to talk about the division that I feel is going to carry this company into the twenty-second century, and that is our new foray into Individual Virtuality Software, Bio-Rite. This is a program, after all, that’s been beta-tested for eighteen full years!” [Whistles from the audience]
“We’ve finally acquired a few final stubborn patent rights, and we’re nearly ready to go to market. Maybe it’s just me, but I think every computer in the world should have it! Now, that’s enough from ol’ Scooter Bechtel. It’s time to eat and mingle and chat with old friends, so thanks for coming, and I hope you enjoy the banquet brought to you by our Catalyst Snacks division, and especially the Glazo Beverages Council, which invites you to enjoy everyone’s favorite Totally Xtreme Thirst Quencher, Sour White!” [Sustained applause]
CHAPTER NONE
THE POPSICLE CHICK
THE POOL, THE SNACK BAR, THE DEEP END, THE BIRTHDAY GIRL
The place was packed. I was in a lounge chair, Herb lay sprawled on the crusty cement, and Lake was wheeled between us, adjusting her tire pressure with little pfft, pfft sounds. In the parking lot, minivans pulled up in rows, disgorging knock-knees and beach towels and sloshy coolers. The lifeguard repeatedly blew his whistle. Candy wrappers fluttered like moths. The water shimmered and the sun beamed and a breeze softly blew.
It was a perfect day.
Near the diving board, Zac and Dayna snapped each other with towels. Bryce Ballar did cannonballs off the deep end. Kirsty Vester dove off the shoulders of Kirsty Waite. Even Trish lay in the shade, dark glasses on, reading the New Yorker.
“Where’s Kenny?” I asked.
Lake shrugged. Herb shrugged.
I got up and dove into the pool. Shafts of light came lancing through the water. It was nice down below. Quiet. Greenish. I let out air slowly, waving my arms like a sea horse, sinking farther. I began to feel a pleasant glow. Everything was thick. Everything was wet. I opened my mouth, making that weird underwater noise, like when you speak but don’t speak and it sounds metallic in your head. Bubbles rose from the bottom, all around me, like lines of numbers, sometimes clinging, sometimes rising, little zeros and ones, little sheets of memories settling like uneaten fish flakes.
I closed my eyes. It felt good to be sleepy.
The water wavered and undulated in a pulsing rhythm, dark and warm and dark and warm and dark.
A hand stabbed down beside me.
I wanted it to go away, but it was right near my face, outstretched. The fingers were curled, almost like a question mark, the palm, the wrist, the arm and shoulder. I thought about diving deeper. I thought about flattening at the bottom and listening to the ping and the hum of the filter, pressing against the drain and listening to the whoosh in my ears almost forever. I thought about it, and then saw the mark. Red and raw. In the elbow. Just like mine.
I reached out, grabbing Kenny’s hand. Our fingers locked. He gripped my wrist and yanked. It seemed like forever before my head broke the surface. The water was thick, clinging to me in gelatinous sheets. Kenny pulled again. I coughed, taking a breath of real air, like chunks of ice pouring into my lungs, as he yanked me completely from the pool.
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SALT RIVER HIGH CLIQUE CHART
CHAPTER I
HOW DALTON CAME TO SCHOOL
Dalton Rev thundered into the parking lot of Salt River High, a squat brick building at the top of a grassless hill that looked more like the last stop of the hopeless than a springboard to the college of your choice. His black scooter wove through groups of students waiting for the first bell, muffler growling like a defective chain saw. In Dalton’s line of work it was vital to make a good
first impression, especially if by good you meant utterly intimidating.
He parked away from a pool of mud, chained his helmet to the tire, and unzipped his leather jacket. Underneath was a crisp white dress shirt with a black tie. His work uniform. It tended to keep people guessing. And guessing was good. A few extra seconds could mean the difference between being stomped to jelly or not, some steroid case busy wondering, What kind of loser wears a tie with steel-toe boots?
Dalton did.
He was, after all, a professional.
Who’d come to do a job.
That involved a body.
Wrapped in duct tape and hanging from the goalposts at the end of the football field.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #1
People have problems. You can solve them for cash.
Dalton needed to figure out why The Body was at the morgue instead of snoring its way through algebra. Then he’d get paid. But until a big wad of folding green was tucked safely into his boot, he was Salt River’s newest transfer fish.
“Nice tie, asshat!” someone yelled. Kids began to crowd around, hoping for a scene, but Dalton ignored them, turning toward a chrome sandwich truck in the corner of the parking lot. His cropped hair gleamed under the sun, dark eyes hooded with a practiced expression. Long hours of practice. In the mirror. Going for a look that said justifiably ruthless.
Or at least ruthless-ish.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #2
Be enigmatic. Be mysterious. Never explain.
The sandwich truck’s awning sagged. The driver sagged with it. There were rows of chocolate donuts that looked like they’d been soaked in Ebola. There was a pile of cut-rate candy with names like Butterfingerer and Snuckers and Baby Ralph. A big sign on the counter said NO CREDIT—DON’T EVEN ASK!
“Hey,” Dalton asked. “Can I get an apple on credit?”
The driver laughed like it was his first time ever. “What-canIgetcha?”
“Coffee. Black.”
“That’ll be twenty even.”
“Cents?”
“Dollars.”
Dalton considered not paying—ten minutes on the job and already over his expense budget. But people were watching. He grabbed the cup, flash-searing his palm, and took a sip. It tasted like coffee-colored ass. People laughed as he spat it out in a long, brown sneeze.
“It’s a seller’s market,” the driver admitted. “No one eats in the cafeteria no more.”
“Why not?”
“Caf’s Chitty Chitty,” answered a kid who seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, hair poking from his scalp as if it were trying to escape. He cocked his thumb like a pistol and fired off a few imaginary rounds. “As in Bang Bang?”
“You serious?”
The kid selected a donut. “Or, you know, maybe the food just sucks.”
Dalton needed to check out the crime scene. First stop, football field. The kid followed, plump and sweaty, huffing to catch up. He held out his knuckles for a bump. “My name’s Mole.”
Dalton didn’t bump back.
Mole sniffed his fist and then shrugged. “So, you affiliated, new guy?”
“Independent.”
“Ha! That’d be a first. You must be with someone, yo. No one transfers to Salt River alone.”
Dalton pushed through dumped girlfriends and dice nerds, hoodie boys and scruffy rockers twirling Paper Mate drumsticks. People mostly made way, except for an expensively dressed girl who towered over her speed-texting posse.
“Who’s that?”
“Lu Lu Footer. Your basic Armani giraffe. Also, she’s head of Yearbook.”
“That a clique?”
“They’re all, Hi, my book bag’s shaped like Hello Kitty! They’re all, Hi, I crap pink and green polka dots! ”
Lu Lu Footer glared. Mole ducked as they passed a circle of large girls in black. “Plaths,” he explained. “Total down-inthe-mouthers.” He pointed to a girl in hot pants. “But check her out. Used to be a Plath and now she’s flashing those Nutri-system legs like no one remembers last semester.”
Dalton rounded the edge of the building and stood under the goalposts. They were yellow and metal. Tubular in construction. Regulation height. There were scratch marks in the paint that could have come from a coiled rope. Or they could have just been scratches. Dalton wanted to consult the paperback in his back pocket, The Istanbul Tryst and the Infant Wrist. It was a Lexington Cole mystery, #22, the one where Lex solves a murder at a boarding school in the Alps. But he wasn’t about to yank it out with people around.
“You ready to bounce?” Mole asked nervously. “We’re not really allowed to stand here, yo.”
Dalton wondered what he was looking for. A map? A videotaped confession? Lexington Cole would already have intuited something about the grass, like how it was a nonnative strain, or that its crush pattern indicated a wearer of size six pumps.
“Yeah, see, this whole area, it’s sort of off-limits.”
Music blared as football players emerged from the locker room. They slapped hands and joked loudly and ran into one another with helmets clacking. Except for the ones not wearing helmets, who banged skulls anyway. Some of them weren’t wearing shirts at all, just shoulder pads. Their cleats smacked the pavement in crisp formation.
“I take it that’s the welcome committee?”
Mole dropped to one knee , retying his shoes even though they had no laces. “Don’t look directly at them!”
“Who are they?” Dalton asked, looking directly at them.
“The Balls. Between them and Pinker Casket, they pretty much run the show.”
“Balls?”
“Foot ball. Your Salt River Mighty Log Splitters? Their random violence level is proportional to the number of points surrendered the previous game. And, guy? We got stomped last week.”
“Your vocabulary has mysteriously improved. What happened to the ‘yo, yo, yo’ routine?”
“Comes and goes,” Mole admitted.
Dalton turned as the Balls busted into a jerky line of calisthenics. “Who’re you with again?”
“Euclidians.”
“The brain contingent?”
Mole gestured toward the picnic tables, where kids sat reading biology texts and grammar worksheets. The girls wore glasses and sensible skirts; the boys, sweater-vests and slacks. “You can’t swing a Siamese around here without smacking a nerd in the teeth, but, yeah, they’re my people.”
“Thanks for not saying my peeps.”
“Fo sho.”
“Looks like your peep could use some help.”
One of the players, built like a neckless bar of soap, yelled “Chuff to Chugg… touchdown!” as he pushed a Euclidian into the mud. The kid struggled to get away, slipped, and then knocked over a shiny black scooter. Other cliques were already jogging over to see the action.
Dalton looked at his watch. “Well, that didn’t take long. Nineteen minutes.”
Mole grabbed Dalton’s arm. “Seriously, guy? You want to leave those Balls alone.”
It was true. Dalton wanted to go home and lie in bed and pull the sheets up to his chin. He wanted to eat pretzels and sweep crumbs with his toes. But then he thought about Lex Cole. And the fearless pair of stones Lex Cole toted around in his impeccably ironed slacks. He also thought about last night, counting up the money he’d managed to save so far. Twice. And how both times it wasn’t nearly enough to save his brother.
“Stay here.”
Dalton pushed through the crowd, working his way past assorted pleather windbreakers and nymphets in yellow cowl. The football players turned as one, like it was written in the script: Test the New Guy II, starring Dalton Rev. He stood before a glistening wall of beef, a collective four dollars’ worth of crew cuts. The shirtless ones showed off their abs and punched each other’s shoulder pads like extras from a version of Mad Max where no one shaved yet.
Dalton waved. “Hi.”
Just like the Spanish Inquisition, no one ever expected f
riendliness. The players stared, chewing mouthpieces in unison, as a girl emerged from the crowd and began helping the Euclidian up. She had a blond pixie cut, a tiny waist, and a tinier skirt.
“Leave him alone, Chance!” she told the player doing the pushing. “Please?”
Dalton liked her voice, low and calm. And her eyes, almost purple. Sharp and intense. She stood with her hips forward, like a chorus girl who’d come to the city with a suitcase full of spunk, ready to do whatever it took to save Daddy’s farm. It was one very cute package. Actually, in both Dalton’s professional and decidedly unprofessional opinion, she was beautiful.
THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #3
Doing free things for beautiful girls is never the smart play.
In fact, it’s always a colossal mistake.
Avoid doing free things. Avoid beautiful girls.
Continue to charge maximum fees and take cold showers.
“This is none of your business, Macy,” the largest Ball said, getting up from a lawn chair. Dalton had thought he was already standing; the guy looked like a giant walking Krispy Kreme, one big twist of muscle. His head was shaved. A simian hairline hovered just above his eyes, radiating a hunger for raw veal. He was clearly the one person, out of Salt River’s entire student body, to be avoided at all costs.
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