by Sue Perry
I was deciding the best spot for the chair when Ben came up the alley. "More in the corner there by the stairs." I slid the chair to the corner he indicated. The instant I touched the chair's frame, I knew this was the best spot. Ben handed me a bag from the pharmacy, fished a black coil from it. The coil was a bike lock, which he looped around the chair's leg and the fire escape rail. Anyone who wanted the chair enough to cut the bike lock should go ahead and take it.
"New York is weird, it takes forever to find a grocery store but there's a pharmacy on every—are you? You're checking for a receipt." Ben sounded resigned.
I pulled my hand out of the bag. "Still a habit." Habits like that get cemented when you're a first–time bride and your groom turns out to be a shoplifting junkie. But of course shoplifting junkie is redundant. And yes, I may still harbor a wee bit of resentment. I get rid of it then it crops up again. Mental crabgrass. "Thanks for the lock, that was a good idea. I need to go out and do detective stuff now, want to come with?"
We left Leon curled on the chair on the fire escape. I looked forward to finding out why the chair wanted to be outside in that spot.
I went to check out the social club building on Ma'Urth and Ben tagged along. Here on Ma'Urth, the building was decrepit. The first floor Chinese restaurant was padlocked and below its door stretched a rat that was not freshly deceased. As in Frivolous Bedlam, the second floor meeting space was one large empty room. Here, the meeting room smelled like rancid fries. No sign of the social club remained in the room, nor any indication of where I might find Sam Strongfellow.
As Ben and I exited the building after our look–see, something whizzed past our heads, splattered behind us, sprayed liquid that stung. I grabbed Ben's arm and he grabbed mine. At our feet steamed an empty Styrofoam cup. Someone had thrown hot coffee at us.
On the sidewalk stood a ruined woman with yellowed hair that looked broken not cut. Her skin drooped in elephant sags. "You people. Told you get out means stay out."
"By 'you people' do you refer to the social club that used to meet upstairs?"
"Social club? Kidding me?" She spat in my direction.
Ben interrupted me to speak to the woman like an old friend. "This neighborhood's bringing back memories. Good times! Does Joe the First still hang here?"
At the mention of Joe the First, the woman's hostility dropped a hundred notches. I had a flash into Ben's world. Joe the First would be a dealer, the ruined woman was an addict not pursuing recovery. Still, she could trust a fellow addict—even a sober one—in a way she wouldn't trust me. I appreciated Ben's help with my investigation, if not the reminder that his past could have dumped him here.
While the woman appraised us, I made a show of taking notes. "Not really a social club... Do you happen to know where the group went?"
"Not far enough," the ruined woman growled.
"How long ago did they leave?"
"Not soon enough," she sneered, then added warmly, to Ben, "They moved along. Use'ta get a lot of mail and now nothin'."
I raised a hand in thanks or surrender and headed for the corner. That last might be useful information – had the club forwarded mail somewhere else?
"Tell them, waiting for them. We are!" The ruined woman's ominous wave included a group of five souls, clustered behind a beat–up loading dock across the street. To my semi–trained eye, they looked like addicts who had just scored.
"They're fresh," Ben confirmed my suspicion. "They won't hear your questions."
After we rounded the corner, Ben slapped a rhythm on a dumpster. "Okay if I ditch you? I need to catch a meeting."
"Of course. Thanks for helping with that woman."
He was already across the street. To go to the subway station. Or. To circle back to score from those—did I really just think that? And had he really stared at those junkies as much as it seemed?
What had the social club done to earn such hatred from that woman?
My brooding cut itself short: Kelly Joe walked up the street toward me.
13. WHEN WE WERE STILL SAFE
I greeted Kelly Joe with a smile as wide as the Sahara, and added Egypt when I saw that he carried his guitar on his back. But he wasn't here for music. He slipped his guitar case onto my back and said, "Traveling with objects takes a special concentration." He adjusted the straps with tenderness which I pretended was for me, not his guitar.
Special concentration is not how I would describe the effort. Crippling, brain–eating energy suck was closer. But I got the hang of it. Eventually.
When Kelly Joe shouldered his guitar case again, the sun was a couple hours lower in the sky. "Well done, Nica. Be proud of your progress."
But we weren't done. He reached a finger to the bottom branch of a nondescript street tree. A ladybug walked onto his finger. He touched his finger to my shoulder and the ladybug climbed aboard. "All beings can Travel by walking through Connectors. Only beings of power can Travel as we have done today."
"Does that mean I'm a being of power?"
"It just might."
I curtailed my victory dance, mindful of the ladybug on my shoulder.
"It takes special skill to share your power so that another being can Travel with you. That is what you'll learn next and you'll start with this one." Kelly Joe gestured to the ladybug.
"How will we keep it on my shoulder?"
"It will stay. You have affinity with them. Take your guest to Frivolous Bedlam."
"How do you know that I have affinity with ladybugs?"
"Someone told me."
I touched finger to lips—our symbol for Anya—and he nodded. I noted, "Ladybugs do always seem to be around."
"That's an honor few receive." He resumed walking, stopped when I didn't follow.
"I had no idea."
"Now you know."
"Now I do." I propped my butt against a bike rack.
"Are you stalling?" Kelly Joe asked.
"Kinda, yeah. I want all the training I can get and thought I had endurance. But. Could we sit for a bit?"
"Our time is short. Better exhausted than untrained."
"Are you leaving soon?" Kelly Joe looked puzzled so I explained. "You said, 'our time is short'. 'Our', meaning you and me?"
"By 'our' I mean all who live in the free Frames."
No more stalling. I sucked it up and knuckled down and gave it all I had.
From then on, every training session was more brutal than the last and had an urgency that fed my growing sense of dread. Ironic, because someday I'd look back with nostalgia at this time when we were still safe.
I've got enough of the athlete gene to enjoy getting pushed, but not over cliffs. Still, I practiced and I repeated until I learned the subtleties of Frame Travel. Traveling to the same Frame as Kelly Joe without holding hands. Changing Frames while stationary. Changing Frames while in a moving object—bus, subway train, bicycle. Defensive Travel. How to resist Travel if being forced.
I got enough practice with Frame Travel to become a professional barfer, but it took more and more to trigger the emeto reflex. I really was getting used to Travel, trip by trip. No matter how much I practiced, though, I failed to transport any being larger than a ladybug.
On the second Tuesday of that week, Kelly Joe answered a couple questions.
"What happens if I Travel to a space that is occupied?" I wondered.
"You will be repelled and Travel to the closest available space."
"What do I do if someone notices me vanish or appear?" I inquired.
"You nod to greet your fellow Traveler. No Neutral will notice someone Traveling."
The days merged and blurred. I marked the passage of time by the emptying of Leon's food bowl. Each day, I'd scout construction sites until Kelly Joe appeared. I'd train then I'd limp home, and on the last block Leon would flank me. I'd cringe to find Ben in the sentient lawn chair. But the chair conveyed no messages. Apparently, it enjoyed being outside with a hint of river view. Each evening, Ben fixed a snac
ky dinner while I went on the internet to try to identify the construction companies behind suspect building sites. The building ownerships were an opaque web of LLCs Incs LLPs Ltds DBAs. I didn't have enough experience with that world to know whether this was odd but I couldn't identify a single owner.
Coming home one evening, I ran into Lilah at Columbus Circle subway station. She jumped up from the bench like she had sat there longer than she wanted me to know. "You haven't phoned. Does that mean nothing is new with your investigation into Sam's disappearance?"
"I've talked to every tenant and building manager near the social club meeting room and his apartment. I've talked to the mail carriers. I've talked to his old firm. Sam and the social club attracted no attention. No collection notices, no police visits, no forwarding addresses. They weren't friendly but they weren't rude. No one remembered seeing Sam with a girlfriend but frankly no one remembered seeing Sam." I didn't mention the junkies who hated the social club. That would trigger questions I couldn't answer. Although I suspected that held the key to the case—the discrepancy between their view and that of allegedly polite society. "I did warn you that results could be slow or disappointing."
"Yes, you did." Her voice had the it's not your fault you'll never get this of my ninth grade math tutor. The train arrived and she sat far from me. We stopped talking.
I don't know why Ben's leaving surprised me. He has a history of moves, sudden and frequent. That night, he was washing dishes while I did knee flexes and punches.
He broke a dish and he cursed. I stopped punching. When Ben is in a decent state of mind, anything smaller than an atomic bomb detonation counts as spilt milk. Now he slammed broken pieces of plate into the trash.
"I don't care about dishes," I reminded him.
He nodded, trashed the remaining fragments gently, kept nodding while he dried his hands and fished the ancient flip phone out of his pocket. He tossed it onto the couch.
"I don't call Hernandez until tomorrow."
"I know. I won't be here then. New York isn't good for me. I have lots of memories of other times here and they're all about using. That's not supposed to matter but. Everywhere I go. It matters."
At some level I had known this.
We went for an extra long walk that night, cracking extra–funny jokes and sharing extra–bizarro sights. We concluded with an extra–long hug.
He rubbed my scalp fuzz for good luck. "You gonna let your hair grow out again?"
"Undecided."
"What about Leon, will he stay shaved?"
"No, he'll need fur come winter. I'm hoping he'll learn to groom himself before then."
"My advice is to give him lessons before the fur grows too long. Avoid extra fur on your tongue."
"Lame."
"Thanks. See ya, Neeks."
"See ya, Benny."
He took off to the west and I watched him disappear. He must have turned at some point because he isn't the type to walk into a river.
When I got home, I wasn't alone because I had Leon and the lawn chair on the fire escape. I lowered myself into the chair and Leon curled at my feet, the way he did when Ben sat in the chair. It was too dark to see my vista above the river but I could enjoy the edges of the alley, which glowed with city light. I re–lived all the jokes and soul–searching Ben and I had exchanged on this fire escape, staring at the same sliver of view. My recollections were far more detailed than usual—the chair was sharing its memories.
"Thank you," I whispered. I squeezed its aluminum arms and went inside to get some sleep.
14. I KNEW THAT FLASH MOB
The next day was devoid of Kelly Joe. At some point, I stopped wandering the streets just in case he would show up and I went home. By now, I had seen dozens of construction sites with workers who could be from other Frames, but I had yet to figure out the ownership of any of those construction companies. That afternoon, I spent hours on the phone and internet, using all my illegal charms—cajolery, threats, misdirection—to get past the smokescreens of LLCs Incs LLPs Ltds DBAs. City departments and construction unions proved to be no use. Then I realized. Hotels are phobic about disgruntled guests.
I called ten hotels under renovation, with roughly the same line each time. "I've been a guest so many times but this visit could be my last. Those workers on that scaffolding outside! They were so rude. I'm shaking again thinking about what they said to me." Half the hotels met my request for a number I could call to complain to the contractor. The contractors all worked in different companies, but when I checked them on line, in the maze of owners and partners and dummy corporations, one name recurred. Lantana Ltd. I checked my other suspect construction sites. Every single site was involved in some way with Lantana Ltd. Bingo and eureka.
I called Hernandez. "Lantana Limited is Warty Sebaceous Cysts' construction company in New York." I ran down the evidence.
"Where else does Lantana operate?
"I don't know, I called you as soon as I got the name."
We put our phones on speaker and did internet searches together. We found lots of Lantana Ltd. projects in New York's five boroughs, plus Hoboken and Newark, New Jersey, but nowhere else on the eastern seaboard. Which made me wonder, "Are Digby and Lantana the only players or does every big city have its own troublemaker?"
"We don't have the personnel to answer that question. I'll let Anya and Anwyl know about Lantana."
"You're in touch with them?" It was my sixth birthday and nobody remembered.
"The last few days they've been here with some—guests—men and women, from what I can tell. I show them Digby sites, then I leave and they stay. I don't know what they're doing but I drive by the site the next day and work is shut down. No cops, no attention, but the construction stops and so far it stays stopped."
"I wish they would tell us what is happening! Next time you see them, tell them where I went."
"They know you're in New York."
"Hunh." After we hung up, I went for an extra run to improve my attitude. Running always helps. By the time I was on cool–down, I was no longer a six–year–old with a forgotten birthday. I was a high schooler without an invite to the cool party.
After my run, my block felt empty and dark, yet it was neither. I got my key out and was ready to open the Julian's front door well before I reached the front stoop. No Leon had materialized to slink alongside me. A large and immediate worry knot twisted my gut. Where was he? Was he okay? I forced my steps to maintain a normal pace.
Unlock the front door, take the stairs, unlock the door to my hall, unlock the door to my apartment. I was relieved to be home, where everything was per usual. Leon slept on the lawn chair on the fire escape, twitching with dreams. I exhaled so loudly I was surprised I didn't wake him. Now I felt silly for my concern. Focus on the Cysts' construction companies must have spooked me.
A skipped dinner—that was my problem. And Ben's absence at dinnertime. Fine, I would eat now and I didn't need Ben to enjoy my meal. In fact, I didn't need dinner food, which was lucky because I was out of dinner–like foods. In fact, I was well nigh out of food. I sliced my last banana into my last half–bowl of granola and curled on the couch to savor every bite. After I finished, I grabbed my shoes. I had time to make a quick grocery trip before bed.
That was when Leon's shrieks started. I ran to the kitchen window, saw him still asleep on the lawn chair. Dreaming of a cat fight, I figured—but the shrieks intensified. When they got to trapped in a garbage truck I headed for the bathroom window. When they reached attacked by coyotes I climbed out on the fire escape. Amazingly, the cat remained deeply asleep while screeching like a banshee in a torture chamber. Experience told me that if I touched the cat during bad dreams he could claw me unintentionally. But Leon's dream distress was unbearable.
I knelt beside the chair and blanketed him against my arms and chest. He awoke with the world's tiniest mew. As soon as my arms touched the chair, I was swept with the urge to get both of us inside pronto. But I could leav
e the chair outside. As I stood with my armful of groggy cat, the lanyard began to stab with warning pain. Ever since Kelly Joe had taught me how to calibrate it, I had felt nothing from it. Until now.
Out past the alley, street sounds had changed. At first, it sounded like a parade or an impromptu rave. People laughed and cheered, portable speakers blasted electronic dance music.
I locked the bathroom window behind us and set Leon on the couch. Outside, the party sounds grew closer. I went to my front window but couldn't bring myself to reveal my presence by moving the blinds. I slipped out to the hall. My apartment door locks automatically when it shuts, so I drew the deadbolt to keep it open behind me. I felt pretty safe in the hall with its locked door to the stairs. The street sounds were now more festive than a lynch mob.
The hall window looked toward the intersection, where traffic was stopped in all directions. It seemed that a flash mob was dancing its way up my street. It had stopped to dance in the intersection, but moved along as drivers honked. The flash mob swung its portable speakers and danced along my block, coming closer with each step. There were about 50 of them, all with silky platinum hair. Correction. There were about 100 of them: as many footsteps also came from the other direction, headed my way. By now, the footsteps sounded more like marching than dancing.
I ran to the other hall window and peeked between the curtains. The flash mobs converged outside the Julian, where they did a routine. A hundred left knees lunged and two hundred arms grabbed air with fingers like hooks. Spectators cheered the impressive coordination. By the time a hundred necks bent, heads tilted to gaze at this very window, I was reacting to my brain's scram command. I gave a mew even tinier than Leon's and sprinted to get behind my deadbolt.
I knew that flash mob. Outside my building was a giant economy size collection of Warty Sebaceous Cysts' Entourage. They seemed to accompany the Cysts everywhere. Did that mean the Cysts were outside too?