Devil in the Wires

by Tim Lees

  But I was keeping an eye on things, and presently I saw her. Angel had a dog these days, a lively, low-­slung, powerful-­looking creature, always straining at the leash. I watched her as she stopped to talk with an older woman on the corner. The dog ran about, jumped up at both of them. I saw Angel with her arm raised, trying to make it sit. The woman laughed. The dog would settle for a moment, then, remember that it had an audience, leap to its feet and race around again.

  “Think of it,” said Seddon, “as a reconnaissance, prior to retrieval.”

  “But it’s not.”

  “We’re not sure what it is just yet, Chris, are we?”

  The angles were all wrong up here. I couldn’t see her face. I watched her give her friend a rapid, good-­bye hug, the dog already racing on, dragging her after.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  “Any word on Mr. Shailer’s ‘expert,’ then?”

  Now she was right below me. The dog shot forwards, proceeding by a series of leaps, pulled short each time by the leash. His back legs splayed. He bounced along, spring-­loaded.

  “I’ll find out what I can,” I said.

  “Do, Chris, please. But don’t make enemies. I know you have a tendency to be a little . . . oppositional. You know what I mean?”

  I pulled a jacket on.

  “I’m sure.”

  Made for the door.

  “Do try to be polite.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I told him. “Got to go . . .”

  I caught her just as she was turning round, heading back to her apartment.

  “How’s it going?”

  She was pleased to see me. At least I thought she was, thought it wasn’t just her PR grin making her face light up, that it was genuine, actual.

  I was full of enthusiasm then.

  “Walk down to the lake?” I said.

  “This time of night?”

  “There’s two of us. And no one’s going to bother us. Well, not with him here.”

  The dog’s name was Riff. He was a beautiful steel blue, and muscly, full of strength. I put my hand down with a certain caution, but all he did was lick it, frantically, his tongue as wet as a boxer’s sponge.

  “Hey. Hey boy.”

  I’d never known I was a dog lover, but it seemed I was. I cooed and fussed over him, tickled his ears, scratched his ribs, got his rear end ticking like a pendulum. Angel, wearing jeans and T-­shirt, said, “You wanna take him?” and I nodded, and she handed me the leash, said, “You got him firm, now?” and I said, “Yes,” and then the dog leapt forward, and he nearly pulled my arm out of its socket.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “Warned you.”

  She was laughing.

  “This,” she said, “is a genuine, human-­killing, toilet-­roll-­devouring, purebred authentic guaranteed pit bull. So you watch yourself, OK?”

  “Cute dog,” I said.

  “He is, he is.” Then she said, “Riff and me’ve been through some shit together. But that’s done now. And we’re not taking any more.”

  “Shit-­free zone,” I said. I held my free hand up. “Honest.”

  “Make sure it is.”

  Busy, I thought. B-­U-­S-­Y. I’d had my chance with her two years ago, and I’d blown it. Or walked out on it. One way or another. So this was going nowhere. I didn’t blame her either. But if it never got to be much more than it was now, the two of us, walking the dog—­that still felt good. That still felt right.

  We took a tunnel under Lake Shore to the promontory. Looking south, small and dull there in the distance, was the Beach House, visible against the lights from traffic rushing by.

  “Believe me,” she said, “I’ll be glad when this thing’s finished and I get my life back. It’s taking up just way too much time now.”

  “Tough, eh?”

  “Some,” she said, then, in a theatrical tone, “Prayers from the Past—­Fuel for the Future. Impressive, you think?”

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.”

  “Our new PR line.”

  “Nice.”

  “I thought so.” The waves whispered below us, hissing through the concrete blocks piled at the water’s edge. “It’s mine,” she said at last. “I made it up. In case they try to tell you differently,”

  Chapter 32

  Doorstepper

  Had I actually walked out on her?

  No, I hadn’t. But I’d promised to come back, and I hadn’t done that, either, which was probably as bad. Or worse.

  Two years earlier, I’d been in an exchange deal with the Registry’s US branch, one of those hands-­across-­the-­water things, meant to foster partnerships, exchange ideas, and look just wonderful on everyone’s C.V. (or resumé, depending which side of the pond you were on). In practice, it was more like going on a package holiday. I’d done a lot of sightseeing, helped out in a ­couple of retrievals, and, just to make sure everybody got their money’s worth, assisted in the training of a half a dozen new recruits.

  One of whom was Angel.

  I’d shown her basics, when it came to field ops, taught her how to use the gear, then told a lot of stories about where I’d been and what I’d done, and did all the things men do when faced with an attractive and intelligent woman they’re suddenly smitten by. In spite of which, perhaps, she’d fallen for me.

  The relationship had been intense, fired by the knowledge I was due back home within a few weeks. For a time we’d talked about her joining me—­moving to Europe, if we could handle all the immigration issues. But it soon became apparent that her studies and her new job with the Registry would keep her in Chicago for a year, at least. Probably more.

  We didn’t talk about it, but I think we both knew pretty much how things were going to play out after that.

  Short-­term relationships are easy. They stay shiny in the memory. You drop them while they’re still warm, before they’ve got the chance of going bad.

  I’d told her I’d be back. I’d told her lots of things. I’d made promises, and meant them, too. But when it came to it . . . it had been easier—­safer, perhaps—­to keep the memories, rather than struggle with the real thing. To keep things short. Maybe it’s a fault of character, maybe it’s something in my job, with its constant traveling. But in my version, we’d split up for a simple reason: “Life got in the way,” I’d tell ­people. Which roughly means, I am afraid to say, it got too difficult. And I gave up.

  Strolling with her now, this warm Spring night, those issues seemed to hang between us, never quite acknowledged, never quite ignored. Like something very ugly watching me over my shoulder, waiting for a chance to interrupt.

  Two years, three months . . . etc.

  I could have tried explaining. I could have made excuses—­even apologies. Some might have been good. A few might even have been true. But if I said them, I knew they’d all come out the same—­just juvenile, self-­serving, self-­obsessive bullshit. And for once, wisely, I kept quiet.

  So instead, we talked about Chicago. We talked about the Beach House. We talked about her studies, and she sounded several notches less excited by the subject than she had been two years earlier.

  “I’m analyzing Sousa marches. This is not the life I planned . . .”

  On a footbridge over Lake Shore, we stopped to watch the lights downtown, and, trying to cheer her up, I told her, “We’ll be lighting those lights soon.”

  “Not us.”

  “Your slogan, though.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “All you need to do,” I said, “is keep at it. You’re nearly finished, you’ll be Dr. Farthing, yeah? I mean, that’s great! And then—­”

  “Please, Chris. Don’t tell me what I need, OK?”

  “Sorry . . .”

  “I’m just kind of sick of it, right now. That’s all.”


  We paused, waiting to cross the road, Riff straining at the leash.

  The lights changed.

  “ ‘Music and the Idea of America.’ I’m sort of wishing I had never been persuaded to try that one. I was listening to these CDs, African stuff, totally amazing, and . . .”

  “You’re stuck with Sousa.”

  “Oh, not just Sousa. I’ve got George M. Cohan, as well. The original ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’ And Aaron Copland.”

  “No relation.”

  “No. Actually, I don’t mind him. But—­”

  We had gone full circle now. Riff panted along, always a few steps ahead, tugging at her arm. Then, as we approached her building, all at once she stopped.

  “Oh, shit.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Wait a minute. Let’s . . . ah, fuck. He’s seen us. God damn—­”

  “Angie . . . ?”

  “This guy I know.”

  She swore under her breath.

  It was my first sight of Paul Gotowski—­I wouldn’t even learn his name till later—­and at a glance, he didn’t look like much. A tall, thin white guy with a scrubby blond beard, wearing a T-­short and shorts, and with a set of headphones hanging round his neck. He was waiting by her door. Looking at her. No wave, no smile, no acknowledgement, but his gaze had locked right onto her and didn’t budge.

  She handed me the leash again. “Here. Take him. Hold him tight, OK? He’ll probably want to pee some more.”

  I understood I was to stay put. I watched Angel march up to the doorway, looking as taut as sprung steel. Her hand was raised. The man, in contrast, had hunched down, his hands in his pockets. He was talking—­talking urgently, incessantly. I couldn’t hear him, nor what she said, but he moved back quickly, and his hands came up defensively, palms open. He was edging around to the street side of her. I didn’t blame him. I’d seen her angry once before, thankfully not at me, and I didn’t envy him one bit.

  He kept talking, though. I watched with a peculiar fascination. There were many times over the last few days when I’d composed a speech for Angel, justifying my neglect, attempting to explain why I’d acted as I had. Seeing this stranger, now, I knew that he was doing just the same—­and I was glad I’d kept mine to myself. The strange thing was, I felt an odd kind of sympathy for him, as if we were in some way kindred spirits, each vying for the favors of this talented, intelligent woman.

  That didn’t last.

  Riff cocked his leg at a bicycle chained to a nearby tree, and, pulling him away, I missed what happened next. Angel yelled. Her hands were in the air.

  “I’m going to call the cops,” she said. “Let them sort all this out.”

  The man kept talking. He made soothing motions with his hands, like smoothing out a tablecloth.

  He was saying her name, Angel, Angel, Angel, repeating it, over and over.

  “You get the fuck away from me, right now, you little shit! You come here one more time—­”

  He sprang up, suddenly, craning up at her, thinner and more angular than ever.

  “Do not threaten me!”

  Riff barked, jerking at the leash. Then we were both racing towards her, the dog making a furious noise. I could hardly hold him. The thin man, startled, stepped back. To Angel, he said, “Later!” then turned, walking quickly, and disappeared around the corner of the building. I went after him, but already he was halfway down the block.

  “What the hell—­?”

  Angel was shaking when I got to her, but her voice was steady, firm.

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing! Jesus! Who is that guy? What’s he want with you?”

  “He’s an asshole,” she said. Riff leapt up at her, and she fondled his huge head. He licked her hands.

  “Are you OK? I mean—­”

  “I’m fine.” And she was fine, of a sudden—­utterly calm, relaxed. She gave a small, halfhearted smile. “Like I told you. He’s an asshole. He won’t be back.”

  She reached in her purse for her front door key.

  “Thanks for the walk,” she said.

  “Hang on! Are you—­I mean, you’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I can’t just walk away. Not after that—­”

  “Why not?” She looked at me sideways, and she was still smiling. “Kind of what you’re good at, huh? Your specialty.”

  She touched her fingers to her lips, then touched them to my cheek.

  “Kidding,” she said, although I’m not so sure she was.

  There was a thing she used to do, those years ago, when we were in some crowded place: a busy, downtown street, or on the el, and once, as I remember, in an upscale restaurant where the nearby tables actually burst into spontaneous applause for her efforts.

  She’d sing opera.

  A few lines, a chorus or two, top of her voice, full expression. Then she’d crease up, laughing as I tried to hide my own embarrassment, an awkward, wooden-­looking smile pinned to my face.

  “It makes you look so English,” she’d explain, between her giggles.

  I missed that. Didn’t think I would, but I did. If she’d have just done it tonight . . . well. It would have meant we were OK. That she’d forgiven me.

  That we could start again.

  Chapter 33

  The Superman Analogy

  “L.A., Chris. San Diego. Phoenix. Back to New York. After that—­not sure. Philly, or Atlanta. Or is it Phoenix again? I dunno. I will admit, the timing could be better.”

  Shailer was seated at the hotel bar, his luggage piled beside him. He was drinking mineral water. I ordered coffee. It was 8:30 a.m. Foolishly, perhaps, I’d said I’d come to see him off.

  “It’s the life we live, Chris. It’s the life we live.”

  He sounded tired, but I eyed his suit, his haircut, the cuff links peeping from his thousand-­dollar sleeves.

  “You don’t seem to be doing badly on it,” I said.

  “You neither, I hope. Been paid yet?”

  I nodded.

  “Nice, huh? This isn’t Field Ops, Chris. This is the new frontier.”

  He reached for his water glass the way another man might reach for a cigarette.

  “This thing, Chris—­this is the flagship. We need to do well here. We need one success. That’s all. In the next ten years, there’ll be an installation in every major city in the US. Imagine that? Every single city. But we need to keep an eye on this. OK?”

  My coffee arrived. I sipped at it. Hot, strong, black. Shailer felt in his pockets, checked his wallet.

  I said, “You trust me?”

  “I trust you implicitly.”

  He put his wallet away.

  “Our history’s not good.”

  He made a gesture, brushing it aside.

  “I’m saying,” I said, “we’ve had our differences. Why trust me? Perhaps I’d like to see you come a cropper. Perhaps I would. Perhaps I will . . .”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You’ll do the right thing, Chris. Even if you hate it, you’ll do it. That’s why I trust you. The right man for the right job.”

  He was reaching for his wallet again. It was like a nervous tic.

  I said, “And we all get rich.”

  “You know,” he put his hand down, “there’s something I’ve noticed. You English have an aversion to getting rich. Like it’s unfair or something. It’s not cricket. Right?”

  “I can’t speak for the whole country.”

  “I’m right, though, aren’t I? Anywhere else, a guy makes money, he’s a smart guy, he’s proud of himself. In England, it’s, oh, pardon me, old chap, but I rather seem to have made some money.” He held out a thumb and forefinger, close together. “A little bit of liberal misery, huh?”

>   “Wouldn’t know about that. Can’t usually afford it.”

  “Don’t be ashamed of money, Chris. Money is the bedrock of civilization. Money is the reason we’re not still living in mud huts. Or caves.”

  “You’ve been telling everyone else it’s electricity.”

  “Oh, it’s all the same. You’ve got to pay your power bills, right? But here’s the thing, Chris—­in the real world—­”

  He gave a nod to somebody behind me. His driver had arrived.

  I told him, “I’m all ears.”

  “Bear with me now, these are my parting words.” He looked me straight in the eye. “Superman,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Do you know Superman, Chris?”

  “Of course I know Superman. Everyone knows Superman.”

  “Exactly. But, see, I was thinking—­if Superman was real? Seriously? You think he’d waste his time with that stupid little job on a newspaper? When he could be out, saving the world?”

  “Is that what you’re doing? Saving the world?”

  “Bear with me here, Chris. You see, in my . . . vision, let’s call it, Superman is still a public benefactor. But he’s also an entrepreneur, you see? Because that’s real, that’s how things happen in the real world. He doesn’t spend his life working for a pittance as some journo. In my version, it’s, rescue your cat from a tree, ma’am? Certainly. That’ll be ten bucks. Save the world? You got it, Mr. President. Two million dollars to my usual account, thank you very much. Cheap at twice the price. You get the picture?”

  He grinned, pulled himself to his feet and straightened his jacket. The driver came forward, seized his bags.

  I said, “If you’re Superman, who are you working for?”

  “Who am I working for?” He looked around airily, until an answer seemed to show itself. “Humanity,” he said. “That’s all. Humanity.”

  I gave him a look, which he chose to ignore.

  “Think about it, Chris. You want shares in this. I’ll set you up with a broker if you like.” He straightened his collar, checked his wallet again. The driver headed for the door. “Besides,” said Shailer, “any guilt, well—­you can always pay off Angel’s school fees for her. That,” he told me, man to man, “should take you a very long way.”