His interests lay mainly in social issues, crime and the activities of marginals and subversives: undocs and non-integrators, unverifieds and seditious elements. Anyone who tried to pass for a cleanskin but wasn’t, dissidents stirring up trouble against the government, or just crims running major scams. It would be great, for example, to get info on businesses employing illegals. Or the blood-selling racket he’d heard about. Or maybe just names … some of the key people lobbying against the new ID-Net scheme, perhaps. But, as she knew, stories often lurked in unexpected places — even out in the supposedly bland subzones, the gated communities of the middle classes, or the working classes further out; he’d take his cue from her, and hoped she’d feel comfortable making her own suggestions. And info would flow both ways, of course.
Luella let him finish, then gave a smile that lasted several seconds. ‘You’re direct, which I appreciate,’ she said. ‘Let’s agree on half an hour a week. I’d prefer to meet face-to-face, off-venue. There’s a safe cafe just over the road. And, yes, we’re running some projects that should interest you. One in particular.’ Quite openly, she checked her watch and stood up.
Damon moved back to let her go first. She only came up to his armpit, he reminded himself, and she used a biro, not a fountain pen. He could not smell the slightest hint of perfume. Luella Martin would not be a problem.
[Notebook entry: Tally]
Clues so far:
1. This might just be a weird fluke but last night I’m walking through the park by the river, down near the bridge where that guy with the beard sells his magazines. Nobody around. Then I walk under these trees — and something happens. All these lights start glowing up in the branches then a humming noise starts, like hundreds of bees only real soft. Then I get this beautiful smell, exactly like last summer.
Bang! Suddenly I’m back in the field behind our school, the one before last, that plum tree we used to climb. I always got down easy but Grace got stuck every single time. And last night that plum smell hits me right out of nowhere, like a signal, like memory coming back. Some things they just stick in your mind I don’t know why.
If Grace ever walks through that park with the plum smell she’ll remember it too, her stuck up the tree, me on the ground saying careful step on that branch — no not that one! Cicadas screaming, she puts her foot on a skinny branch I yell out No! She’s laughing but it’s getting dark, white legs swinging in the black branches.
Someone put those lights up in those trees. I seen them spark up right when I walked underneath, a real soft orange colour like before the sun goes down. The smell got me all dreamy and I got this funny feeling, sad and happy at the same time like when you see a bent-up old lady and you think you know her face, but you don’t really. I know that smell, it was us two back there together.
Or maybe it was just my dumb brain playing tricks on me. Maybe it means exactly jack shit.
2. Seventh tower from the left downtown where the people walk fast, that silver building shaped like the pencil we used to add up our money. Grace tapping it on her teeth. She must have grabbed the bag (notebook pencil $$) from our hidey-hole cos it was gone when I climbed back up there. Just like she thinks I’m gone, but I’m not, please don’t think that Gracie. Bet she kept that pencil. Mostly she draws stars spirals etc. but sometimes actresses, their faces and dresses, that’s my next clue …
3. Big billboard that’s meant to look like some old-school actor lady Grace likes, forget her name. Asked the magazine man he said fucked if I know mate some dead movie star chick way before old Cate Blanchett even, from those black-and-white films. Audrey something? The words just say Tiffany’s — forget about breakfast. Some kinda model place I bet. The lady’s smoking a cigarette in a black holder wearing big sparkly diamond earrings, dark hair piled up, looking down at everyone crossing the big road near the station where the news rolls around the building in red lights, right above the soup van you can’t miss her. Those old dead movie stars, Grace is a sucker for them.
4. Red stickers everywhere saying Street Profit and Gutter Bucks with dollar signs. Dunno what they are but like the billboards say: Keep Your Eyes Open, Be Alert Stay Safe, Report All Suspicious Activity, If You See Something Say Something, Every Piece of Information Helps.
5. The puppy guy dunno why just got a feeling, gotta keep an eye on him. That’s a real cute dog.
6. Seen two magpies yesterday like that old rhyme …
One for sorrow, two for joy
three for a girl, four for a boy
five for silver, six for gold
seven for a secret that can’t be told
7. The colour codes we made up: green means you being followed, yellow equals coast is clear, blue (Blue) always meant you can trust this person, sure hope that one’s right. Red means either keep walking or something strange going on so stay away from the house — yeah right, what house. Can’t remember what purple meant I’m real tired now.
Grace must be here somewhere. Wish I didn’t lose our phone. I try to send her a message in my head sometimes but I don’t reckon she can hear me. I reckon she thinks I’m kaput, finito. Like Max. Poor old Max, he didn’t mean to be like that, a kinda sickness is what they call it.
Hey Gracie, I’m right here. And I’m gonna find you. One for sorrow, two for joy.
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CHAPTER 4:
THE UNDERPASS
[Pink lounge, Tiffany’s, North Interzone: Grace | ‘Susie’ | ‘Josette’ | ‘Perry’]
‘Lesson one,’ said the older woman, tearing open the packet with practised teeth. ‘Watch me.’ Her name was Josette. Her fingers were loaded with flashy rings, her tan was too deep and her wig was slightly askew, but she had a nice face.
Grace and the other new girl, Susie, sat very still. Susie was a small, hungry-looking brunette, her jeans hanging off her narrow hips. While they’d been waiting out in the foyer, Grace had overheard Susie telling the receptionist she was here to see Tiffany, about the modelling work — the ad stuck in the phone box?
The receptionist had thrown back her head and laughed, but not unkindly. ‘There is no Tiffany, petal. Tiffany don’t exist. There’s just Josette.’
Josette had greeted the girls brightly, poured them each a glass of cask wine, and sat them on a pink sofa in a pink room where a middle-aged man in a dressing-gown lay on a pink couch, chain-smoking and watching the box bolted to the ceiling. Introduced as Perry, he’d given the girls a polite nod, aimed the remote control overhead and lowered the volume. He didn’t flinch as Josette un-knotted his belt, flipped back his robe and began her demonstration. His eyes remained fixed on the screen, where a chubby man was doing stunts on water-skis. Grace tried to imagine this was a scene from a movie, they were all actors, but this was not her kind of movie. And it wasn’t modelling either, like they’d told her on the phone.
First, explained Josette, you coaxed the flesh upwards, using the smooth underside of your arms, just above the
wrist. Or your thigh, once you got better at it. ‘Never your bare hands, girls — not these days.’ Hygiene was important. ‘Now watch how I do it. Once it’s properly up, you roll the condom on like this. Make sure you pinch the air out — stops it breaking. And now … See? Easy. Firm but gentle. Keep going awhile and eventually, bingo: you’ll strike oil. Though at Perry’s age it’s more like unblocking a drain.’ She laughed as the little column of flesh lurched wearily about.
The man just made a huffing sound and flicked through the channels, pausing to watch some cops kick in a door, before settling on a weight-loss infomercial with a mistimed laugh track. He lay propped against a pile of cushions, legs stretched out along the couch, feet crossed neatly at the ankles. He looked bored, almost sad. His breathing was slightly jagged, but nothing else above the waist indicated he was being touched.
‘Look — once it’s wrapped in plastic it’s no more than a little salami!’ Josette gave the man’s penis a gentle backhanded slap, and it bobbed around forlornly.
‘Hey,’ Perry complained. ‘Go easy.’ He frowned at Josette, shifted his ashtray to his chest and gave his cigarette an irritated tap. His eyes returned to the screen, where a bucktoothed blonde was StairMastering her way to heaven.
The door to their enclave was not completely closed. High heels clacked past in the hallway, and something slid down the laundry chute with a whoomph. They heard a door open and a girl call out, asking the receptionist for a small Hawaiian with extra pineapple. ‘Helllooo!’ exclaimed another girl in tones of astonished delight. A man’s voice replied, ‘Hey,’ all casual, like it was no big deal.
‘Once you’ve got the condom on,’ continued Josette, ‘make sure it stays on. Some of them try to slip it off when you’re not looking.’ Her face darkened. ‘You don’t want to catch diseases, do you? Get gonorrhoea and wreck your reproductive systems, so you can never have kids — do you?’
The girls shook their heads in unison. Grace was watching the whole scene, herself sitting there on the pink couch, as if from far away.
‘Jesus Christ, Josie,’ griped Perry. ‘You really know how to make a man feel good.’ Susie’s wine was already half gone; Grace, who had barely sipped hers, had begun to feel sick.
The lesson concluded quickly. Josette’s hand shuttled up and down; Perry closed his eyes, letting his cigarette droop into the ashtray. His toes curled, he shivered, and a jet of pale goo filled the end of the condom. He sighed once and opened his eyes. Some of the creases had fallen out of his face, but little else had changed. He lay still as the woman demonstrated how to remove and knot the filmy sack without spilling its contents.
‘This stuff,’ she said, dabbing at Perry’s crotch with a wad of tissue, ‘must be treated as hazardous waste. Never touch it directly.’ The tissue and condom went into a special plastic bag. Josette’s bejewelled fingers whipped up a speedy knot and fired the whole package into the bin. Perry sighed again, covered himself with a towel and changed the channel.
‘End of lesson one,’ said Josette, washing her hands at a sink. Wiping them on a towel, she turned to face the girls. ‘So. What do you think?’
Susie just sat there, her expression unreadable.
Grace stood up. She couldn’t take this role, she wasn’t cut out for it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just can’t.’ There was a rushing sound in her ears and she felt nauseous.
Josette nodded, gave a little half-shrug. ‘That’s okay, sweetheart.’ Her voice was gentle. ‘It’s not for everyone. But if you change your mind, come back and see me. Most places treat their girls like dirt, but not us. You’re gorgeous. With a scrub-up and a smile, you’d do very well here.’
Grace wasn’t sure of her next line.
The older woman looked at her carefully. ‘I take it you’ve got no papers. So what are your options? How do you plan to get by?
‘I don’t know. I’ll work something out. I’ve still got about three hundred dollars left.’
‘That’s not much, soon be gone,’ said the woman. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘This old guy’s place, just for a few days. He’s got a spare room, but I got to leave this week. Says his daughter’s coming to visit.’ There was no daughter, she knew. Nick, the cafe owner, just wanted her gone — young girl like her staying over, didn’t look good. Kindness had its limits.
‘You’re not using, are you?’ Josette said. ‘You look a bit dazed.’
‘I hate drugs,’ Grace answered. ‘It’s not that. Some stuff has happened.’ She knew what the woman meant; she had seen that blankness in the mirror, and in a way she was grateful for it. It kept the other stuff at bay.
Josette nodded. She ran her eyes down the length of Grace’s body, head to feet, then walked over to a wardrobe and swung the door open. A row of garments hung there: purple, fuschia, jet-black, emerald. Hangers jangled as she pulled out two knee-length dresses: navy blue velvet with short, puffed sleeves; and a green silky dress with beads sparkling across the neckline. They looked expensive but worn, some of the hemlines sagging, buttons missing. ‘What’s your shoe size?’ she asked.
‘Eight,’ Grace replied automatically.
Josette folded the dresses, put them in a plastic bag and placed a pair of low black heels on the carpet at Grace’s feet. ‘Try them,’ she instructed.
The shoes fit perfectly. Grace took a few steps and smiled. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as Josette tucked her old sneakers into the bag with the dresses.
‘It’s just spare stuff. Girls leave things behind all the time. Want me to call you a cab?’
Grace shook her head. ‘That’s okay. I’ll walk.’ No money for cabs.
‘Good luck, pretty girl,’ said Josette. ‘And remember where we are. Just in case you change your mind.’
At the door Grace turned back to say goodbye. Perry half raised his hand in farewell, but Susie wasn’t looking. She was watching the box, where a cartoon cat had overshot a cliff and was pedalling empty air. ‘This one’s funny,’ the girl was saying, her voice deadpan, as Grace pulled the door shut.
[Unmarked shopfront, shopping strip 3, subzone 18: Milk | Chase]
‘Come in, man. Shut the door. How ya been, Milkman?’
‘Alright.’
‘Business good?’
‘It’s alright, Chase. Nothing to brag about. Everything okay with my order?’
‘All ready. Here, siddown, push that shit on the floor. Haven’t seen you this side of the tunnel in a while.’
‘I’m not shopping anywhere else, promise. Just been busy. Smells good in here. What is that — something new?’
‘Ah, you like it, huh. Something I’m working on. I blew out the room half an hour ago and vented this number. You like?’
‘Yeah. It’s … I’m thinking … You tested it in the field yet?’
‘Kinda. Shut your eyes. Go slow. Just breathe. You getting it?’
‘Hang on a minute.’
[—]
‘Yeah. I’m getting a feel for it. Or some of it, anyway.’
‘Aha. Right then. Give us the components — your best shot.’
‘Well … there’s definitely some girl in there, in the top note. Quite young. Maybe a bit too young, actually, Chase …’
‘Heh, smart guy. Ain’t nothing illegal about a smell, my friend. First thing you noticed too … interesting. What else?’
‘Ethics-wise, I’d bump the age up if I were you. This one might confuse the dads.’
‘Thanks for the moral advice, Milkman, but let’s just stick with analysis. What else you got? Come on, you’re a machine. Don’t censor, just interpret.’
‘You want my professional take, or personal?’
‘Hell, both. What’s the difference when you’re a fucking artiste like us, right.’
‘Okay … There’s boy in there t
oo, bit sweaty — but the girl’s stronger. And definitely some Beach in the core note. Sand, ozone, seaspray, negative ions. Waves — bit of a crash, but not too rough. Dry notes too: little flash of rock dust, like ignition. Rocks banged together, almost sparks.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘That gunpowder note, it’s one of my favourites.’
‘Me too. You’re a genius. Go on.’
‘There’s a touch of something adrenal halfway down. But not fearful, exactly — more anticipation, butterflies in the stomach. Lower down there’s greenery: moss, with some sharp stuff, juniper maybe. Actually it’s a bit lemony, I’d knock that back a bit.’
‘Why?’
‘Kind of clashes with the girl note.’
‘Depends what you’re using it for. Go on.’
‘Near the bottom, there’s what — cat fur? And a tiny dab of jet fuel, nice touch. But the best element’s your base note: Hope. Not the painful, misguided kind. Not self-delusion; something young and clear. Verging on elation. Not bad, Chase. What is it? You’ve spliced something new onto H18, right?’
‘Close, maestro. But like Mr Freud said, no cigar.’
‘You’re getting mixed up, Freud never said that.’
‘Whatever. What about the visuals? What kicks in?’
‘What have you spliced on the bottom there? On the H?’
‘Aha. Specialist information, my friend. Shut your eyes again. What can you see?’
‘You want visuals? That’s extra, Chase. Specialist info.’
‘Come on, don’t be like that. Gimme that special Milk magic. I always look after you, don’t I?’
‘Okay, okay … This is purely subjective, remember. Right: I can see sand dunes, beach grass. Well out of the city, but under a flight path. A gothic kind of beach: black sand, volcanic. Wildlife lurking around, just out of sight.’
‘Christ. Go on.’
‘Cumulus clouds. Sunny, but a chilly wind. Freedom — with just enough risk to feel exciting. That sense of hovering on the verge of being airborne, about to leave the ground … It’s definitely late adolescence, this one. Those sudden shots of self-belief you got in your late teens, with the hormones kicking in?’
Black Glass Page 6