The bus stops for a police action on Doheny. Eliot takes another sniff from his rag and settles in for the ride.
TWELVE
The Gun Club
A target with a silhouette of Lorca hangs by two clips attached to the pulley lines. Crosshairs centered on her face. Eliot aims at the target while his brother looks over his shoulder.
“Relax your arms,” says Shelley. “Look over the…”
Eliot fires.
“Good. Now try to line up…”
He fires again.
“Okay, don’t pull at it. Just squeeze…”
Bang.
“Good.”
Shelley slides the target back to the booth as Eliot loads another clip. Not a single hole is close to the silhouette. Says Shelley, “That’s the worst shooting I ever seen.”
Posters in the locker room read SAVE A LIFE—KILL A BOT and UNCLE SAM DON’T SPEAK BINARY and THE ONLY GOOD METAL IS DEATH METAL. This is where the Militiamen train, the trappers and death squads who load up their vans for drive-bys on boozy Friday nights during “the culling season.” This is where every right-wing politician stops for a loop-op to talk about the Second Amendment and the right to “stand your ground.” The staff checks for pulses at the door, and if they don’t like what they feel, they’ll check for a belly button instead of an outlet navel. Even a mechanical limb would probably get you thrown out, as Eliot is well aware.
“I took a job at Revealed!” Shelley says as he cleans his vintage Glock at a bench.
“Congratulations.”
“Sports section, but at least it’s a steady gig. They said if I want to get into hard news, I have to find my own loops. Capture something on my own and hope it goes viral.”
Branes on the wall warn of android conspiracies and a government secretly run by The Bot. There are listings for survival classes to teach heartbeats how to protect their families, how to live in the woods like a guerrilla army, how to attack the power plants and cut off energy to the grid. For the Militiamen, it’s just a matter of time before some reckoning in which the androids try to exterminate mankind. There’s one bot for every four Americans, and on their radio shows and branecasts, the pundits use terms like bopulation control or demographic management. They sell camping supplies and materials for building your own bunker. They end their loops with a Roman salute.
“And you’re confortable working for Revealed!?” Eliot asks. The paper has a nasty, right-wing tilt that came down hard on the boys’ father. After his assassination, a Revealed! op-ed celebrated that Dr. “Frankenstein” Lazar was killed by his own monster.
“Their checks clear.” Shelley shrugs as he puts the Glock away in its case.
Eliot gestures to the gun. “Can I borrow it for a few days?”
“What for?”
“Practice. I want to get better.”
Shelley wrestles with the request before emphatically declaring no.
“Why not?”
“’Cause you been actin’ weird,” he says as he locks the case. “First, you ask for my boat, then I offer it to you, and you ditch me in a brothel. Then I call for weeks to check up on you and hear nothing back. If it wasn’t for that Gita chick in your office, I wouldn’t have even known you were alive.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Add to that the fact that you’re sniffin’ drip again, and I’ve got to be frank, Eliot, you got me a little concerned.”
“I’m just asking if I can borrow the gun.”
“I don’t think you should have a gun. I don’t think you’re in any condition.”
A couple of Militiamen look on from the next bench. Eliot speaks softly so they can’t hear. “Shelley, if I wanted to kill myself I wouldn’t need a gun to do it.”
“Why don’t you buy your own then?”
“Because of the drip busts,” says Eliot. “I can’t pass a background check.”
“Then I’m breaking the law by lending it to you.”
“All of a sudden, you respect the law?”
“I’m not giving you the gun.”
“Fine,” says Eliot. “Forget I asked.”
“Let’s.”
Shelley takes the gun case with him as he walks to the counter to return the rented earmuffs and goggles. He leaves a box of nine millimeter ammo on the bench. Eliot smuggles the box into his pocket on the way out and waits for his brother by the car.
THIRTEEN
Pound’s Antiques II
A customer on his way out holds the door for Eliot when he enters. A bell jingles as the door closes and locks. Eliot looks around to make sure he’s the only one there besides Pound, who sits on a stool reading a newsbrane behind the counter in the back of the store. He wears a pink, herringbone shirt, French cuffs, no jacket, and his collar buttoned to the throat.
Eliot approaches and tilts his fedora over his face. “I’d like to make a purchase.”
Pound looks up from his newsbrane and recognizes Eliot as the customer from two days before. “The Snapple bottle?” he asks.
“No”—you smug prick—“I’d like to buy an antique revolver.”
“What kind of revolver?”
“One that shoots nine millimeter rounds.”
“And you’re set on a revolver?”
“Please.”
Pound edges off the stool and reaches for his keys so he can open the display. “I believe the Smith & Wesson will suffice.” He pulls the gun from beneath the glass and lays it on a velvet cloth. “They stopped making them in the ’90’s. Police departments preferred the .357s.”
The weapon lies between them like a cross between an ancient tool and a child’s toy. It appears to be a clean and well-kept instrument. Eliot suspects it would hold up well if he bashed it against Pound’s head.
“I’m assuming it’s functional?”
“Quite.”
“May I?”
“By all means.”
Eliot picks up the revolver and points it toward the wall. He opens the cylinder and gives it a spin. He closes it and pulls the trigger to feel the action and hear the click.
“Heavy.”
“As it should be,” says Pound. “The lightness of modern weapons belies their purpose.”
“How much?”
“For two thousand, I’ll throw in a new holster.”
“Seventeen fifty if I pay cash?”
“Two thousand.”
Eliot lays the gun back on the velvet cloth and removes his wallet from his coat.
“According to state law,” says Pound, “I’ll have to enter a retina-scan into the database for a background check.”
“I’m aware,” says Eliot. He counts the money as Pound gathers a holster from the back wall. “Also, I had another question about the jewelry.”
“What jewelry?”
“The eyeball pieces with the red flecks.” Eliot exchanges the money for the holster. “Where are they from again?”
“Japan,” says the proprietor.
Eliot snaps the holster onto his belt and slides it to where it fits behind the small of his back. “The other day, you told me they were from India.”
“They are from Japan,” says Pound.
“Then why’d you tell me India?”
Pound rings up the purchase on a push-button register but the drawer fails to open. “I did not tell you India. I told you Japan.”
“I remember what you told me.”
“Well, clearly not, because I told you they are Japanese antiques that I bought at an estate sale in Bel-Air.”
“What estate sale?”
He tries again to open the register drawer. “The seller wishes to remain anonymous.”
“Then how can I verify their authenticity?”
Pound turns testily in Eliot’s direction. “Sir, this is not a Hollywood pawn shop. This is Pound’s Antiques on Canon Drive, and I am Arthur Hetherington Pound. I have been at this location for twenty years, and if you do not know or respect my reputation, then I do not requ
ire your business.”
He stands an inch away with eyelids wide in a manner he must have used before to intimidate his clientele. Eliot can’t help but feel a little embarrassed for being chastised—ridiculous since he knows the man is lying.
“I apologize,” says Eliot, cooling the man’s blood, even while his own is beginning to simmer. “I certainly didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Do you want the gun or not?”
“I do,” says Eliot.
Pound gathers the money and turns back to the register. Eliot takes a quick look toward the front window to make sure no one’s looking to enter.
“Do you sell ammunition?” he asks.
“Antique store,” Pound reminds him. “Not a sporting goods store.”
“Good thing I brought my own then.” Eliot pulls out the bullets he grabbed off the bench at the gun club. Pound turns back to the counter and eyes the shaking gun as Eliot loads the first slug.
“What are you doing?”
“Got to make sure it works,” says Eliot. He struggles to load a second slug.
“I told you before. It’s fully functional.”
“But you lied about the jewelry.” He loads another. “What’s to say you’re not lying about this?”
“I’m not lying.”
Eliot snaps the cylinder into the frame.
Pound holds the money in his hand like a horse gambler with a losing ticket. “I have to ask you not to do that.”
“Go ahead.” Eliot aims the barrel at a bead of moisture swelling on the proprietor’s forehead. “Ask.”
What a strange effect, thinks Eliot, it has on a man’s attitude when one points a hunk of metal at his face. That he can barely hold the gun straight makes Pound all the more frightened. And Eliot, too. He feels as if he has entered some hastily abandoned country, lawless, with borders that aren’t clearly defined.
Pound’s lip trembles. His face is drenched in sweat. “There’re eight thousand ingots in the cash register. Go ahead and take them.”
“I’m not interested in the money,” says Eliot, the gun tapping lightly against the target’s head. “I just want you to answer some questions. Truthfully. I have a brane in my pocket that will vibrate if it senses you are lying. Do you understand?”
Pound’s eyes dart from the muzzle of the gun to the front window behind Eliot’s back and then to the muzzle again. Eliot can feel a layer of moisture form between the trigger and his finger.
“Now,” says Eliot. “Do you or do you not carry parts for a C-900?”
“I do not.”
“And the jewelry. The stones with the red flecks. Where’d you get them?”
Pound stutters. His neck fat wobbles above the collar of his shirt. His face reveals the flurry of thoughts racing through his mind.
“Tell me where you got them,” Eliot says again. “If you lie, I will know, and I will kill you.”
Eliot tightens his grip on the gun so it won’t slip from his hand.
“He-he-he buys old vinyl,” says Pound. “He fences things. He s-s-some-some-sometimes trades.”
“Who trades?” Eliot asks. “What’s his name?”
“P-P-P-.” He tries to answer, but his yellowed teeth won’t let the words pass. He tries to steady himself but knocks over a stool.
“Tell me his name,” says Eliot, concerned that this is taking too long. A fresh jolt of pain slides from his shoulder up his neck.
“P-p-p-please…”
“Tell me.”
“I-I-I…”
“Tell me his fucking name.”
“Pink!” he blurts out. His body shakes; his breath short, a puff of snot ejects from his nose.
“Pink?” Eliot asks. “That’s a name? Pink?”
“I-I-I don’t … don’t know … his real … his real…”
“His name is Pink?” Shit, that’s not a name. That’s just another bum lead. His shoulder throbs. His neck stiffens. “How do I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell me where he lives.”
“Pl-pl-please don’t hurt…”
“Tell me where he lives.”
“He’s so fucking beautiful.”
“Tell me where he fucking lives!”
Eliot cocks the hammer of the gun, and Pound falls. He hits the floor grabbing for his collar. His body spasms in the midst of a fit. The squeals and wheezes are harrowing. His legs kick and his head smacks against the floor.
This guy ain’t faking it, thinks Eliot as he backs away. I didn’t even pull the trigger, and I might have killed him nonetheless.
Eliot turns and holsters the gun. He exits the store onto Canon Drive where he walks a full block before he hears the alarm bell ring. Keep it cool, he tells himself. Don’t run. You’re just a guy walking down the street. He hails a cab on Little Santa Monica and tells the taxibot to head east.
The car moves quickly onto Burton Way. Eliot looks over his shoulder to see if he’s in the clear.
Pink, he thinks to himself. A thief named Pink. He bought vinyl. Must like music. A connoisseur and collector. Named Pink.
He feels the gun sandwiched between his back and the leather seat. His heart thumps so hard, he worries the driver can hear it.
Goes there to fence jewels and buy records. A thief, a musician, a trader. Likes music. Iris likes music, too.
He looks out the window onto the street. He knows he has heard this name before, this Pink, but where?
“There’s an extra ten if you step on it,” Eliot tells the driver.
Who names a man Pink? Who goes to an antique store? Trades new things for old. Knows jewelry and music and androids. He’s so fucking beautiful.
Eliot reaches into his pockets. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for, just digging around. He looks behind him to see if the cops are following.
Old vinyl. Old albums that only play ten songs. A collector buys vinyl. Someone old. A musician perhaps.
He checks his suit pocket again.
Night of the riots, the situation on Beverly. The homeless guy. Underground every Thursday.
“Can you please hurry?” Eliot asks.
“I don’t want to get a ticket.”
The flyer from the night of the riot. It was in his pocket. The suit his brother gave him. What did he do with the suit?
He tips the driver and rushes through his front door, charging past the living room and into the bedroom to his open closet. He looks through the rack until he finds the suit, wrapped in plastic, unworn since that awful night. Afterward, he gave it to the tailorbot to dry clean and mend. There’s a small envelope pinned to the hanger. Eliot rips it open. Inside is an empty vial of cologne, a drip rag, a couple of receipts, a card from that detective, and a braneflyer with a hologram turntable on one side. Eliot touches the turntable; it makes a scratching sound.
Underground every Thursday, it reads. Orpheus, Eurydice, and DJ Pink.
Eliot sits on his bed and puts the flyer down beside him. He touches the stubble on his chin and exhales seven weeks’ worth of rotten air.
“Pink.”
FOURTEEN
Underground
Thursday. Before midnight. Night of the underground.
Eliot holsters the gun in the small of his back concealed by the tails of a stiff shirt and a black hoodie zipped to his chest. He checks the mirror to make sure the hood can hide his face. Hasn’t dressed like this in years. Hasn’t been to an underground since college. Hopes he’ll fit in.
He takes the bus past the river east of downtown. Rusted rails strut the streets half-buried in broken pavement. An occasional streetlamp flickers the way past the crumbling warehouses and a shanty town for homeless bots. Near the old, converted fire station, Eliot spots the first diggers drunk-straggling in their metal-weaved apparel. They arrive in groups, a mix of heartbeats and bots, indistinguishable from one another except for the girls in their belly shirts, showing off their outlet navels. It’s a part of the body they’d usually hide, but
not here, not tonight. Tonight is a celebration of bot culture, bot pride, a glimpse of their utopian vision of an android-dominated Earth.
The diggers espouse a theory, popularized by Eliot’s father, that the generation of machines that will survive beyond the wake of human existence represents a “natural step” for mankind; that the first million years of human evolution was but a preface to the long tome of the bot; that the androids are destined for more important endeavors than that of providing cheap labor for capitalism. In Lazar’s theory, modern androids embody a stage in evolution, but unlike their flesh-based ancestors, bots will be able not only to reproduce but also to redesign themselves to better master and alter their environment. As governments loosen their regulatory grip and unleash the progress of technology, as peak intelligence is breached, bots will receive hourly updates to their operating systems and will communicate trillions of bits of information to one another every second of every day. They will survive journeys of inconceivable length and time. They will build pyramids of immense proportions. They will be a species constantly in transition, evolving exponentially toward the ideal man God created in His own image.
Inspired by the dreamlike infinity of Lazar’s vision, liberal arts–educated heartbeats join androids on nights like these to dance, drug, and fuck in defiance of social norms. Hiding from their parents, Militiamen, and police, the diggers gather to celebrate the heartbeats’ fated extinction, the birth of a new species, the passing of the torch to a higher representation of intelligent life.
And yet there is another who also attends this naive bacchanal, one who arrives disguised in the clothes of the tribe, who might even appear as a leader, but who is, in reality, an opportunist for whom youthful idealism and the romanticism of rebellion provide the low-hanging fruit of his diet. He is whispered of and warned of by the attendees. They guard against him but admit they will not recognize him, cannot recognize him, until it is too late. He could be anyone, and this suspicion creates an anxiety that courses through the gathering. One could say that the presence of this Other, at the event, spoils the event, but one would more rightly say that without his presence, the event lacks that danger necessary to drive the event. One could even go so far as to say that if this Other did not exist, the organizers of the underground would have to create him, in rumor or actuality, so as to give the diggers something to risk once they’re inside.
Love in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction Page 11