Glass Shore

by Stefan Jackson

  “That’s strange.” Nikki says.

  I nod in agreement. “Where is he?”

  Nikki’s cell pings. She answers by the third ping. “Talk to me.” She turns to me scared, shocked, and looking at me with sober-wide eyes, “Ezra! Where are you?”

  Now my phone sounds off. I want to stay with Nikki’s drama but I have to answer this call. “Yo, Lynch?”

  “No. I am Malcolm Space. Is this Apollo?”

  “Yes. Hello Mr. Space.”

  “I believe you have something for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. Come immediately to my office at four-forty Madison. Someone will wait for you in the lobby.”

  “Be there in less than ten minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Space hangs up. So does Nikki.

  “We have to get to Ezra now!” she says.

  “Damn. Look….”

  “I heard what Space said,” she says, “I want to know what’s on the drive. Let’s keep it until Ezra’s has had a chance to look at it. I’d like his opinion on it.”

  “What?”

  “C’mon, what can it hurt?”

  A deep sigh rolls from my chest. Thinking about it… “Alright, so where is your boyfriend?”

  “Lower east side. Seventh and Avenue A. Bar called Niagara.”

  “I know where that’s at. I used to date a bartender that worked there.”

  “Oh yeah, tell me about her.”

  “No. You already know more about me than my mother.”

  “You should call your mother more.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  Nikki snubs out her cigarette in the ashtray.

  I punch up Liz’s. After three rings, the VM requests my name and number.

  “Apollo here, where you at? Call me back. Out.” I hang up.

  “Where the hell is everyone?” I say.

  17

  We hover past the bar. I want to get a feel for the scene.

  I don’t like the feeling I’m getting.

  “This ain’t right.” I tell Nikki. “Feels all wrong. Feels like a setup.”

  Before she can answer, her cell pings.

  “Don’t answer that,” I command.

  “Why? It’s Ezra.”

  “Cells are the best way to track and locate. Once you pick up, they’ll know where you are.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “You got any pictures of Ezra?”

  “You’re gonna walk into the bar and look for him? You look like a cop that would sacrifice his next of kin for information. If it’s a trap, they’ll cue up on you like flies on dog crap.”

  “That sums up a normal working day. So we’re in agreement, you stay in the mot while I look for Ezra.”

  She sits, a silent twisted laugh on her lips as she works on legitimate reasons why she should go with me or alone. She opens her computer.

  I park the mot about fifty meters east of the bar.

  I smell curry.

  Three, super thin, milk-white-skinned women, all with jet-black hair – Betty Page cut – and clad in black leather pants and jackets walk across the street. The dark dolls pass before my parked mot, then on the sidewalk, they turn east.

  “Maybe you’ll meet them in the bar,” Nikki says. She points to the monitor on her laptop. “Here’s a picture of Ezra.”

  “That milk-white skin is a full body tattoo.” I say to no one. “I like it better than the perfect tan.”

  I look over at her laptop. Ezra seems like a very concerned man, with a thin face that is cut hard with worry lines from years of learning too much crap about humans. He has deep, heavy folds of flesh beneath his eyes.

  “Damn, no regeneration therapy here,” I state the obvious.

  “He didn’t like that idea. Told me he wanted evidence that he’d been alive.”

  Before I can reply, the phone rings. It’s Malcolm Space. I think about it. Then let it ring. After three rings, the VM kicks in. Nikki and I listen to the message.

  “Apollo, it is regrettable that you are not at my Broadway office. I note that you are currently in the lower East Side. Either come to me immediately – or I will come to you.” The VM ends.

  Nikki and I look at each other. I grab the flash drive. “Tracking device implanted on the drive.” I say.

  “How do we beat that?” she asks.

  We both study the yellow unit with a metal band. In time, we both shake our heads in dismay.

  I look out and around. The park across the way is quiet. I get another wonderful whiff of curry.

  “Damn government – they are terrorists. Terrorist that control your life! Do not be terrorized!”

  In the rear view-monitor I see a few people on the sidewalk, standing before a small convenience store, looking at a different kind of man walking in a circle. The circle walking man wears a hat made of folded aluminum foil with small pieces of mirror tacked on it. He is taking big strides in his tiny circle. He carries an antique, a boom box. Yet, it couldn’t be a real one because those old things ran on batteries. This one must have been converted to run on depcells. He stops short, close to the rear of my mot and begins to swear to the sky. I roll down my window to better hear his rant, and to make sure my mot wouldn’t receive the brunt of any delusional aggression.

  “What’s up?” Nikki asks.

  “Local entertainment.” I reply.

  “I like the music he’s playing.” she says as she leans over and looks back.

  “It’s ‘Curly Locks’ by Lee Scratch Perry.”

  “Never heard of him but I like it.”

  The man with the hat of foil and mirrors holds the attention of the sidewalk crowd, as well as a few people who look down with dreary ennui from the safety of their apartment windows. The man with the hat of foil and mirrors is really picking up a head of steam as he shouts at the sky.

  “It may be that the independent functional principle is functionally equivalent and parallel to an important distinction in mind control. We need not assume that you don’t know where my asshole is at because it is being continually tracked with a GPS. Thank you sky mother. In and of additional mission constraints may remedy and, at the same time, eliminate all deeper conceptualization. Summarizing, then, this aluminum hat keeps you mothersuckers out of my independent structuralistic concept. Furthermore and compounded, and taking into account the management-by-contention principal, the mirrors reflect it back at you! So to hell with you! Goddamn philistines!” He spits on the ground, then, hurries down the sidewalk with big strong strides.

  And with that, the crowd disperses.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Nikki says.

  “Mind control.”

  “See what paranoia will do to you. As a great poet once said, ‘Paranoia will destroy ya.’ There’s your proof.” Nikki eases back into her seat. “So what about Ezra?”

  I sit in silence. What about Ezra? What about Space? What about Lynch? What about Bobby Grant and Lynch? What about Bobby Grant and Fury Randall? What about the Glass Shore disc and file? What on the flash drive? What about Liz? And hell, what about Nikki? This isn’t the girl I used to know. The domino effect is in play and it’s a real trick to figure out how to dodge the falling tiles.

  Mind control.

  One thing at a time.

  Control.

  Pick a problem.

  The flash drive. Yellow with a metal band. What’s the metal band for?

  I set my front tooth against the metal band and grind upward firm and severe.

  A moment later metal ejects onto to back of my tongue and throat. I cough and spit up the metal into my palm.

  “Who’s your dentist? That’s insane,” says Nikki.

  “Government issue. Every inch of me.” I say as I inspect the drive. The band is off. Now comes the point when theory meets proof. I slip the altered drive back into my wallet. I’ll pitch the bent metal down a sewer grate first chance I get.

  “Looks like you’re coming along after a
ll. I want you with me.”

  Nikki secures her computer in her bag. “Let’s go,” she says as she loops the strap of the bag over her head.

  I hurry down the sidewalk. Nikki catches up and keeps pace. We pass a hot dog and pretzel vendor, pass some guy selling cloth finger puppets, and pass a blind woman whose sign promises accurate tarot fortune reading in one minute.

  I see a sewer grate and I drop the bent metal into it.

  “You know, it just dawned on me.” Nikki starts.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “Why it’s not your picture on your driver’s license or vehicle registration. Because of your military condition, you can’t be photographed. So who pretended to be you?”

  “Inquisitive little bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Enough compliments, just tell.”

  “It’s Liz in drag.” I say.

  Nikki stops walking and looks at me at though I have been struck by lightning.

  “Well c’mon. We haven’t got much time,” I say.

  I tug on her arm and we continue down the sidewalk in silence. I can feel her mind working, formulating, but so far no verbal offering.

  A pair of guys in dark suits and sporting thin dark glasses rush by us and continue down the street. Nikki and I hang out and watch the men come to a stop near the sewer grate where I had dumped the bent metal band.

  They stand, frustrated, and study the parked mots and storefronts.

  Space is serious about his drive. Yet his hired muscle doesn’t know what I look like. It’s not like Lynch could show him a picture. The only picture they could have of me is from the arrest warrant. Space is going to have to be patient and wait for me.

  I open the bar door for Nikki.

  “Remember, don’t strike in anger,” she says.

  “Be quiet.” I reply.

  We stand in the vestibule while we’re scanned.

  I feel a slow and lazy bass pulse from the main room. A moment later we get the green light and we enter the bar on the downbeat. The band is parked right next to entrance so we’re slammed with mean blues guitar before we can get a breath. We scout around for Ezra. I also look for anyone looking at me. I see the dark doll triplets are tending bar.

  Nikki grabs my arm and we work our way to the bar. I spot the floorshow and I pull Nikki to a stop. Nikki looks at the performer – a topless skinny geek – shakes her head and says, “I can do without this. I’ll see you at the bar.”

  I, along with others, watch the topless skinny geek sitting on the floor. Blood wets her hands and spots the floor about her. Her tiny breasts and near-absent abdomen are painstakingly ascribed with henna designs. She lifts the sword above her as she tilts her head back. A live and squirming green frog, a live and wriggly red snake and a live and writhing black mouse are skewered upon the sword, a thick river of the victims’ blood streams from the tip of the sword and into the geek’s lipless mouth. The amphibian, reptile and rodent writhe, squirm and twitch. The geek opens her mouth wider … swallows the sword …

  Her throat muscles perform queasy and confusing divisions.

  A moment later she withdraws the sword, clean of frog, snake and mouse.

  The loud applause she receives shuts out the band.

  She bows with a sleepy gentle motion.

  The show is over.

  “Wow. That was insane. It must be illegal,” says the blonde girl next to me.

  “What’s illegal?” I ask her.

  “Well, killing animals – especially like that.”

  “They could be cloned,” I say.

  She nods. “Yeah, probably.

  I add, “Plus, she ate them.”

  The girl gives me a confused look.

  “There’s no law against eating raw meat,” I state.

  “I’m going over here,” she says, a touch of fear in her eyes.

  “I’m going this way,” I reply. I walk away from the girl and toward the bar. Nikki waits with drink in hand and another before her. I can see the guy behind her is thinking about talking to her. Then I step up and he jerks away as though bitten by a snake.

  I reach for the shot on the bar: it rests next to the Live, a rotating display of the bar band that stands about as tall as a pint glass. For a moment, it looks like the lead singer is pissing into my shot glass. I grab my drink.

  “Ezra is standing against the wall by the ladies’ room, under the large painting of Groundskeeper Willie.” Nikki says. “We made eye contact twice and he didn’t recognize me. But, I have changed my hair color since last he saw me. Yet, that shouldn’t throw him off. Maybe he doesn’t want to acknowledge me.”

  “Two more of these.” I say to the dark doll with a well-coifed, windswept hairdo and a brown rat resting on her slender shoulder.

  “Just tell her you want to screw her and get it over with.” Nikki says.

  “In time.” I take the shot. “So you say Ezra can’t recognize you, I can relate. You’ve changed on me so many times today, I don’t know who the hell I’m looking at.”

  “Adaptation is the key to survival.”

  The drinks arrive. The bartender holds her scan pen, ready to read my card, tattoo or implant. I place a twenty on the bar. The dark doll smiles and nods at me. She tucks the bill into her bra and floats to the next guy who wants a drink.

  Nikki nods at a space across the room. We move away from the bar. I cut through the crowd with ease. We take up residence in a small recess. I stand, my back against the wall. Nikki stands across from me. Between us, on the wall, is a small black and white photo of a sad Norma Jean wearing a fuzzy white sweater. We can see Ezra.

  I say, “You see the couple standing in front of the picture of Neo?”

  Nikki sips her drink. “Yeah.”

  “I think they’re watching Ezra.”

  The band kicks in with a hard bass line riding atop a naughty kick and trap. Then a steel guitar whines over the steamroller rhythm and the singer issues a guttural hum…

  I sip my drink. “They’re watching us as well.”

  Nikki reaches over and gives me a long kiss on the lips. Her soft lips tug on my greedy lips as she pulls away. Now, just inches from my face, she looks at me with pixie dust eyes and I’m damn happy to be me.

  “What was that for?” I ask.

  “Fun.”

  I smile, raise my glass to my mouth, glance over at the couple, and it seems that they are no longer interested in me. Nikki’s fun kiss just made me another dude in a bar.

  I sip my scotch.

  A couple, a few tables away, are having a discussion. The woman swipes her palm across the tabletop, closing the Live. Now she has his attention.

  A dark doll carrying a tray of dirty, used glasses stacked with chaotic calm makes her way through the thick wave of patrons. I glance back at the bar and see that three dark dolls dispense liquor. I scan the room and note seven girls with milky-white skin tattoos. Yeah, I could do seven. That’s a nice number.

  “We’re going to have to do this quick and hard,” I advise Nikki.

  “Just lay it down and I’ll stay out of the way.”

  “Smart girl.”

  I ease away from the booth; another dark doll – number five I believe – passes before me with a tray of drinks. She was the calm before the storm because the band has turned the crowd into dancing fools. I move through the mass as though I’m swimming in mud with a heavy granite stone tied to my waist. I can’t see Ezra.

  Through the crush of dancing bodies I catch a glimpse of a cell phone against Ezra’s ear.

  Nikki’s cell pings. Even over all this noise I recognize her annoying ring tone. I turn and see her holding her cell but she doesn’t answer it. Good girl.

  Close but using dancers as cover, I see one of Ezra’s watchers holds a palmtop, and has some gadget attached to his ear. The other guy seems to be scanning the room, perhaps looking for me.

  I come up from behind – he quickly turns to face me. I look into his eyes and see digital orbs like
mine. He’s Government Issue just like me. Which means he can take pain just as well as I can.

  I’m faster – I hit him with a vicious uppercut that spills him into his partner. Bodies and electronics crash to the floor. I grab people and toss their bodies at Ezra’s watchers. Nikki moves through the panicked crowd like a kite on a blustery day. She reaches Ezra a heartbeat before I do.

  “Ezra! It’s me, Nikki. Let’s go!” she shouts, tugging on his arm. His eyes light up after he studies her face for a moment.

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” he stammers, about to cry.

  “No time for love. Let’s jet!” I shout as I lead Nikki and Ezra toward the cellar exit. I shove them at the door – and feel a hand on my shoulder. It’s not friendly. I spin away and avoid the punch. His recovery is great so no advantage on the miss. I jab, he blocks and counter punches. I quickly slide my right foot between his slightly parted feet as I grab his left shoulder. Our hips kiss and roll and I toss him across the room. He’s lighter than I expected. He’s a newer model with better composites. He also could be designed for a different application, say civilian control. Those units aren’t built like me. I walk over to him. He stands and readies for my attack. I feign a kick and rocket my fist into his chest. He flails back into the wall and looks at me wide-eyed, he’s having trouble breathing. Yeah, he’s not built for hard combat. I step toward him, he prepares for the attack. I grab his right wrist and pull him to me – I greet his face with the crown of my skull. I hit him twice in the gut and he drops at my feet. He still has something in him, for he tries to rise. I pick him up and toss him across the full length of the room. He lands hard, rolls into a slide and finally slumps into a lifeless heap in front of the band.

  His tekkie buddy slams into my back. We both hit the floor and roll. I sweep my legs out and upend the new guy before he gains his footing. I kick him in the face, in the back of the head, and again in the back of the head, and again.

  Knee bent, I freeze because I note he’s not moving. Looks like the head kicks did it. I realize I may have used a bit more energy than necessary. I’m having a hard time today following that first rule. Sneak attacks just piss me off.

  I rush down the stairs, into the basement. I glance at liquor boxes and cartons of snack foods. I note a couple having sex, her back slapping against the brick wall, as he holds onto a thin overhead pipe for support.