I held up my hands.
“It sounds more than delightful.”
I gestured at my rumpled slacks and jacket.
“But I’d have to come properly attired for such a feast. Evening clothes. Nothing less would do.”
He smiled.
“You do that; you put on your tux and come down here. I’ll find a tablecloth. Somewhere in here, someone is selling linens. I’ll get a tablecloth and a napkin you can tuck in your collar. Real class.”
I took a handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my greasy fingers and lips.
“Something to look forward to.”
He dropped his cigarette butt and let it hiss out in a puddle of melted ice that had drained from the coolers.
“Yeah, something to look forward to. Who couldn’t use something like that?”
I carefully folded my handkerchief away.
“Vincent, there was something I did want to have a word with you about.”
He reached over the counter, took one of the empty frying pans from the grill, and banged it on the side of the El Camino. In response, the passenger door creaked open and a chubby brown teenager in a bloody white apron and checked pants climbed out, rubbing his eyes.
Vinnie rose and replaced the pan on the grill.
“Gonna take a walk, Ciccio.”
The boy nodded, yawning.
Vinnie pointed at the coolers.
“Push the eel before it goes bad.”
The boy scratched at a head covered in curly red hair.
“Sí, Zio Vincenzo. Anguilla. Sí.”
I rose, dusting my backside, and followed Vinnie away from his fish stand, winding through the aisles of the carnival, away from the food stalls and carts that clustered near the gates where they could be easily accessed by visitors who did not care to take in the esoterica that lay deeper within.
If those outer layers of the carnival bore the character of a frontier marketplace, long on commerce and short on law enforcement, the interior felt much like a war-zone souk, bristling with opportunities to lose oneself, figuratively, literally, mortally. It was entirely of your choosing how far you cared to penetrate.
As the desires catered to became more perverse, the density of the sleepless increased. Existing on the far verge of human experience, there were tastes only they could reasonably be expected to acquire. The appeal, for instance, of being injected with mass volumes of amphetamine and then sealed in a sensory deprivation tank escaped even myself. But it was a service with popularity attested to by a long and twisting line of the haggard.
The concentration of sleepless in the darker zones of the carnival had led to rumor and superstition. A belief among the ignorant that one could contract SLP in this area simply by breathing the air. As if the sleepless were shedding and exhaling the SL prion in thick clouds. Not so. Of course one could be infected if one inhaled a sufficient quantity of SLP, but the sleepless did not walk about in a miasma of the illness.
Now, if there had been an incinerator on the site cremating sleepless remains, that would have been a definite threat. Prions, notoriously resilient, remain active even when burned. Prion ash is every bit as infectious as a wad of it residing, for the sake of argument, in a hamburger. Early in the course of the pandemic, before it was even known as such, CDC guidelines had called for the burning of SLP corpses.
SL response teams in orange vests would appear at hospitals, and increasingly at homes, unpacking electric saws. The bodies of the sleepless dead were decapitated so that tissue from the brains could be catalogued. Anomalies were sought, anything that might give promise of a cure. No one wanted to throw away the brain that might hold the key. But once the heads were packed in dry ice and sealed in a bucket, the bodies had to be dealt with.
Infection rates around crematoriums and landfill incinerators were well above national and global averages. Eventually the incongruity was noticed. Sleepless were no longer burned. They were limed and buried in concrete-lined mass graves. Deep.
Some countries were still burning. If one cared to track such things via the many thousands of SLP-related blogs, one gathered that the hinterlands of civilization had not gotten the word. In wide swaths of Africa and Asia, corpse pyres burned nonstop, the new dead piled on by the lowest castes. The longer the fires burned, the larger they grew, their plumes of smoke and infection creating more fuel. I’d been told by a Navy airman I’d met in casual circumstances that his carrier strike group fighter wing had flown escort for tankers dropping flame retardant on those blazes. The natives restarted their fires in short order, and the strategy shifted. Before his group had been recalled to waters closer to home, the airman had flown multiple missions firing Maverick missiles at towering piles of burning human bodies. The logic behind this new strategy, if one can use the word “logic” in this scenario, was not only to decimate the burn site but to terrorize the populace out of the practice of corpse burning. The fact that the attacks rained SLP ash and mist upon the locals seemed to be considered an acceptable level of collateral damage.
I never saw the airman again, naturally, but I have occasionally thought about him. He woke in the middle of the night, crying. He had reason. And I held him until the sun brought some light into the room and he said he had to go. His CSG was setting sail again, for where he was not certain. But the George Washington was soon offshore of Venezuela, and I am certain he became embroiled in that bit of twenty-first-century gunboat diplomacy. Finding new raw materials for his nightmares.
No, contagion was not an issue, no matter how deeply or extensively one chose to plumb the Midnight Carnival. Which is not to say that there wasn’t an ample supply of unpleasant deaths available to the unwary. Along with perversity in their desires, many sleepless also brought with them an absolute disregard for their own well-being. So it was that Vinnie and I maintained a prudent watchfulness as we strolled.
A thick-bodied boy in a faded Los Angeles Raiders hoodie shuffled past, offering a whispered chant.
“Dreamer. Dreamer. Dreamer.”
It would be bootleg, of course. A compound of heroin and ketamine most likely. Called double horse, it was the most popular home brew version of the real drug. So potent, it could knock even a late-stages sleepless to his knees and offer a brief period of sensation that I’d been told felt much like severe food poisoning without the diarrhea and vomiting. That this should be desirable was all one really needed to know about the ravages of SLP.
At a table filled with hand-painted miniatures of stock nonplayer characters and creatures from Chasm Tide, Vinnie paused to look over the selection.
“The kid back there, Ciccio, he loves the game.”
I stood at an angle to him, keeping an eye on the aisle at his back.
“A nephew?”
He shook his head, inspecting the detail on an ogre.
“Grandson of one of my uncle’s war buddies. His mom is Italian. His scumbag dad who split on the kid and his mom, he’s American. We were able to get some paperwork done, make something happen. Got him out of the Mid-European Quarantine Zone. Traveling with that accent, kid must have caught shit everywhere. You know, they still haven’t unsealed the Italian border. Known for how long that SLP and FFI aren’t the same thing, but the UN still won’t open the damn border.”
He put the ogre down and picked up a Chasm Wraith.
“Once he was out of the MEQZ, he went into the pipeline. A guy who used to handle mostly Bulgarian girls for the skin trade when you had to reach overseas for that kind of thing, got him across for us. Dealing with INS once he was here, that was an exercise in bullshit that I never want to repeat. Finally, I asked some guy in an office downtown what the hell it would cost, theoretically, to get the kid out of processing, with or without papers.”
I nodded.
“And what was the theoretical cost?”
“Ten theoretical grand. U.S. Cash money. Asshole. I could have done double that if he’d asked. Cheapskate corruption.”
He held a K
raken between thumb and forefinger.
“How much?”
The proprietor looked up from the elf he was painting, squinted.
“Fifty.”
From the neck of his fish gut-stained butcher’s smock Vinnie pulled a plastic card on a chain. The miniatures painter took an RFID interrogator from below his table, aimed it at the card, and pulled the trigger, reading the details from the chip embedded in the card as they scrolled on the small screen at the butt of the interrogator.
“Fishmonger?”
Vinnie nodded.
“I got eels, fresh as daisies, give you ten pounds.”
The man set the plastic gun down.
“I’ll pick them up before morning.”
They shook hands. And we walked away, Vinnie dropping the card all carnival-licensed vendors were meant to carry back inside his smock.
“The kid’s mom, her we couldn’t do shit about. Child of an American, sure. Full-blooded Italian wife of an American, no. Kid plays that game every chance he gets. His mom is in there. They meet up. Talk. Walk around. Whatever. I don’t really get it, but it’s what they do.”
He looked at the Kraken, shrugged, put it in his pocket.
“So before I start up again with another story, you want to tell me what’s on your mind?”
I reached inside my jacket and took out one of the pictures I had printed from the gold farm security DVD.
“He’s a police officer, Vincent. Undercover. I assume narcotics.”
He took a passing glance at the picture and stuffed it into a pocket, coming out with his Salems and his lighter.
“Quality’s not great.”
“No, it is not.”
He lit a cigarette.
“It’s been a long time for me. Finished my twenty years a long time ago.”
“I know, Vincent.”
He blew some smoke as we passed a tent that promised the spectacle of sleepless fighting barehanded, no quarter asked or given.
“Not too many of my people left on the force.”
“Yes.”
He held up a hand.
“Not that I won’t try. I’m just saying that this may be my last trip to that well. And I can’t say for sure than I’ll find any water this time.”
“Whatever you can do would be appreciated.”
“I’ll see what I see.”
I patted his arm.
“And if there is anything I could do for you?”
He stopped walking.
“Well, I hate to ask.”
“Please.”
He shook his head.
“Just those MS-13 cocksuckers. Nothing I can’t handle in the long run. But I’d rather not be looking over my shoulder.”
I nodded.
“Tattoos of red monster eyes on his eyelids, you said?”
“Yeah. Him.”
I smiled.
“Well, then, he should be easy enough to find.”
He put out his hand.
“Thanks, Jasper, that’s a load off.”
“My pleasure, Vincent.”
And we parted ways.
It was, in fact, easy enough to find the young Salvadoran gangster with the tattooed eyelids. And, as advertised, he did, when I presumed to confront him, close his eyes as a form of attempted intimidation.
An unfortunate choice of tactics on his part.
His posse, when I had finished with him, wisely stood down. Safe to say they saw no reason to avenge him, so certain it was that some other of them would have to assume his mantle of leadership.
No matter. Jefe or not, Vinnie’s antagonist would no longer be showing his monster eyes to intended victims. He’d not be closing his eyes at all. Not until such time as he might be able to find a plastic surgeon willing to perhaps take flaps of skin from his buttocks out of which to form new eyelids.
13
7/10/10
it’s just before dawn on July 10, 2010, 5:17 a.m. I am in possession of what appears to be a factory-manufactured bottle of Afronzo-New Day Pharm DR33M3R. The bottle’s seal appears to be intact. The identifying hologram on the label is clear; the borders of the three primary elements, a small cloud, the letter z, and a stick-figure sheep, are sharp. No indication that it is a counterfeit. The bottle is numbered #ff688-6-2648-9. If authentic, the bottle was manufactured in Farmington, IL, part of batch 688, from the sixth pod in that batch, twenty-sixth case in that pod, forty-eighth bottle in that case, with a use code of 9.
The 9 indicates the batch, pod, case, and bottle were meant for distribution by the National Heath and Wellness Administration. Public hospitals, federally insured patients. The radio frequency ID interrogator I removed from the gallery shows that the active RFID chip under the label is present and functioning. The chip is broadcasting the same manufacture and batch information. If it is undamaged, it should also detail when the contents of the bottle were manufactured, when the pod was loaded and left the factory, its precise intended destination, and whether it was ever received at that destination. But I do not have the reference manual to decipher anything beyond point of origin, etc. I’ve dusted the bottle for latent fingerprints and have removed several smudged prints, two clear partial impressions of both a right index and a right ring finger, and one very clear full impression of a right middle finger. The bottle was removed from a bag in my presence, and since then has been touched only by the person who gave it to me at that time. I believe that the smudges were already present on the bottle before it was removed from the bag. I believe that both clear partials and the clear full belong to the person who gave me the bottle of what I believe will prove to be factory-manufactured DR33M3R. For the record, that person was Afronzo Jr., Parsifal K. He didn’t even blink. He took the bottle from his bag and offered it to me like it was something he does every night. Like his bag is full of Dreamer that he has to use to make drug deals because his daddy cut off his allowance. Dreamer. He used it to get what he wanted, like that is all it’s good for.
Stay focused.
Working in the bathroom, I lifted the prints and applied them to slides from my evidence kit. I placed the bottle of DR33M3R and the slides, in separate evidence bags, in the safe. Rose wanted to know what I was doing in the bathroom for so long. She wasn’t suspicious, she just knows the stress from the job gives me stomach and digestion problems. “Irregularity isn’t a joke, Park.” She gave me some tea once, but I spent the whole next day in the bathroom and never took it again. I think when I went in there after I got home she was just excited to think I might be using the toilet. “There is nothing more mysterious than a marriage.” That’s what my father told me when I called him and my mother to say I’d gotten married. Nothing in my marriage to Rose has proved him wrong. When I finally took her east two years later to meet them, he was strange with her. Not strange like he was with everyone else, not his standard detachment, something else. I don’t think he liked her, but I think he may have been impressed by her. Her directness. “Good to meet you, Ambassador Haas.” He’d shook his head. “Please don’t feel you need to use my title. Mr. Haas will suffice.” And she’d nodded back. “I think, sir, that we’ll both be more comfortable if I stick with Ambassador Haas.” And she was right. I think he’d have been more comfortable if my sister and I had called him Ambassador Haas instead of Father. He’d have preferred that from everyone but my mother. To her he was always Peachy. A reference to something that happened long before I was born. She called him Peachy everywhere except at what she referred to as “occasions.” Ambassador Haas to everyone else, Peachy to my mother. Is it any wonder he killed himself after she died?
Stay focused.
In exchange for what I believe to be FDA Schedule Z DR33M3R, I gave to Afronzo, Parsifal K., twenty-five grams of Shabu-quality Chinese crystal methamphetamine, which I then witnessed him distribute to five unidentified individuals. He was right about them in Chasm Tide. The sleepless did amazing things. They must have been heavy gamers to begin with, but their approach was
almost pure chaos. There was no indication that they were working together, they immediately split up; the barbarian stormed Forge, cutting down anyone in his path, and another, on an entirely different errand, healed anyone and everyone, including those the barbarian had wounded. It was all like that, every move at cross-purposes, using up their power unnecessarily, but by the time they reassembled, they had the weapons, tools, and keys they’d come for, and through some perfect calculation of costs and benefits, the overall power of the group had increased. It wasn’t random. They see holes in the game. Rules that can be slipped between. Moves that I’ve seen Rose attempt with Cipher Blue, they executed cleanly, proving that they are possible. Rose was playing when I got home. Francine was still here. She had the baby, was sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery with the baby on a pillow in her lap. The baby looked asleep. Really asleep. She only looks that way when Francine holds her and rocks her. I wanted to pick her up, but I knew if I did she would wake up. Francine said she’d been quiet for almost two hours. She said her eyes had been closed for over forty minutes. She looked asleep. Rose was in our bedroom, in bed with her laptop on her knees, trying the Labyrinth again. I went straight to the safe to lock up the guns and my stash. She didn’t look up, just asked me how “classes” had been. I told her I needed to go to the bathroom. I didn’t want to lie and say anything about the classes that I haven’t taught in over three years, and I didn’t have time to sit next to her and bring her back to here. When I came out of the bathroom and locked the bottle and slides in the safe and she asked why I’d been in there for so long, she seemed normal. Normal for how normal is now. Not the old normal. Not the old Rose. But she’s still Rose. Still concerned that I’m not getting enough fiber. She had put the laptop aside and was stretching her back on the floor. Her muscles are knotted into golf balls up and down her spine. Francine does kinesiology as well as being a doula. That was one of the reasons she was Rose’s favorite when we were finding someone to help us with the home birth. She’s massaged Rose’s back a few times. The first time, I heard the cracking from the office and ran out because I thought someone was breaking things. She gave Rose some exercises to do. So Rose was on her back when I got out of the bathroom, knees up and pointed to one side, arms out, head facing the other way. “Did you shit?” I saw the look on her face. And I lied. “Yeah, I did.” She looked so happy for a moment. Nothing more mysterious.
Sleepless Page 17