She tips her head and blinks at me, girlish.
“The senator … well, he just needs a little convincing as to our merits. So we need you to pull him in, I take it from there. See our position?”
“I sympathize. But here’s the thing: if you’re asking me to do this, I can’t know what you’re gonna do with him. So I gotta know he’s guilty of this murder. Directly or indirectly.”
“Oh he’s guilty, Mister X. But that’s not why we want to talk to him, as I just explained,” says Rose evenly. “I see an opportunity here to open up a channel previously unavailable to us. But don’t worry yourself, he’s a guilty man. This is just history.”
“You saying you don’t crave some payback? Please.”
Rose shakes her head, expression like she doesn’t give a hot shit what I believe.
I put out my palms, show her my gloves.
“Yo,” I say. “Let’s back up. I gotta independently confirm this man, this very powerful man, is responsible for the murder of a young woman and her child. It’s a thing I have, a deal-breaker for me. Confirmation. And hey, you may not give a shit about Song—”
Rose snaps: “I cannot afford to give a shit. I have a business to run. A whole lot of people are watching me close, so I wouldn’t fuck me around, Mister X.”
A pause. Hit a nerve.
“Listen, I’m just trying to …” I stall out, then say, “Are you trying to tell me you want the senator’s business, and are willing to let Song slide, just like that? I don’t buy that noise for a heartbeat.”
Rose doesn’t respond, studying her glass.
“My read? You’re gonna do your Black Widow–Ice Queen gig, and you’re gonna look real good doing it. But it’s not you. Ain’t your heart talking.”
“You don’t know a goddamn thing about me,” Rose responds thickly, raising her eyes to rendezvous with mine.
“Maybe not, darling, but gotta say I think it’s truly fucked up that I’m the only dude around here who gives a shit about Song Ji-Won.” I’m trying to think fast through a cloudy head. “I don’t believe that’s the case, I can’t believe it. I see you struggling. Okay. I haven’t figured you out yet. But I will. Okay? I’m gonna work you out, lady.”
More silence from Rose. Then: “You are one strange man, Mister X.”
Shrug. Shaking my leg. “I’m a shade quirky,” I concede.
Rose chews on her lip. “You’re a shade shady. Can you not fucking shake your leg? Let me fucking think.”
I will my leg to stop. In my brain I’m still jiggling it. Rose puts her hand to her forehead, her nails carefully sculpted. See her hand shaking a bit. This is tougher than she’s letting on. I clam up.
She rises, clear-eyed. “What would that require, Mister X? Confirming the senator’s guilt, I mean.”
“So y’all have no evidence here on your end, a little something you could share with me …?”
She just looks at me. Take it as a no.
“Leverage. I’d need a heavy angle. I got nothing. I’m only one little dude, one little, slightly handicapped dude. I can’t go straight at this guy. As you well know, those are his people out there playing at tearing up your block.” I pause. Thinking. Say, “And more still. Gotta get past them, if I were to agree to your proposal.”
The girl looks at my knee, which is bouncing around again. I can’t help it.
“That’s something we might be able to assist on, Mister X.” Rose tilts her head, birdlike. “As for leverage, here’s a tidbit—do with it what you will: Howard’s wife arrives on the island this evening. We know when and where. Maybe that’s somewhere to begin.”
Upend my glass into my mouth. Chew on some ice, and this bit of new information.
“It is. Somewhere to begin,” I say.
“Good—”
Cut her off: “But please, now—how could you be privy to such info, Miss Hee? These people are beyond paranoid.”
Rose does her canary imitation again, a sideways tilt.
“We have resources. And this woman, she loves to goose her handlers. It’ll be the thing that gets her killed.” She runs her hands along her skirt again. “So. We’ll get you to that white bitch. We’ll get you that far. If we have an agreement, Mister X.”
Chew on it further. Homeless. On the lam. This whole thing not making sense, but what the hell: nothing better on tap. What the fuck. Say, “Swapsies. In exchange, Rose Hee. Regardless of how it goes down with the senator, you all help me get my library back a.s.a.p. We do that first, or no dice.”
Rose blinks, confused. “Library,” she repeats.
“I live and work in the Main Branch Library up on—”
“I know where it is. Hence the nickname. What do you do up there, Mister X?”
I don’t know how to answer that. Say, “Point is I need to get back in there, I’m gonna need what files I have on Senator Howard in order to get his attention at all, wife or no wife. Everything I got on him is in there. Can you get me back there, Rose? Key to your request, can’t be done otherwise. I got those Cyna-folks in my way so it won’t be easy, they got the building locked down tight. Throwing a lot of resources at it. I wouldn’t be able to get five blocks from the place …” I trail off, realizing I’ve started to sound needy.
Rose is turning this over. I’m looking at her in profile. Both of us breathing. Watching the wall, the exotic underwater holograms.
The woman says, “You’ve got some balls, setting some pretty steep terms and all, hon. Look at you.”
“I’d much rather look at you,” I counter. It’s true. “Far more pleasant.”
Is she blushing? She averts her gaze, a small smile, vibing teenager. Flips her hair and gives me a stern look, gets serious again. So do I.
“Take it or leave it, sweet stuff,” I say. “My terms. Otherwise, I’m happy to go my own way and play it as it lays, even if the odds are bad. If you can dig that.”
Rose goes back to staring at the wall. She then starts to nod, almost imperceptibly at first, then decisively.
“Okay, Mister X. We’re going to have to do this so we sidestep the Chinese as well. Only way to do what you’re describing is to give you up.”
“Not gonna fucking happen, honey bun.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about handing over a body. Won’t be you, darling. It’ll buy us some time.”
Oh, I don’t like this.
“Body? What body?”
Rose wears a coy grin. I get it. My stomach churns.
“Oh, fuck no—”
“This is something we’re good for,” she says soothingly, “providing bodies. One of our primary exports. Now, we will do this your way, but you’ll have to cooperate, sweetie.”
I’m looking at bad bad and way worse than bad bad. Fish out my pill bottle and toss one back.
“Koreatown has a biohazard response team. Everybody else being so shorthanded,” says Rose, thinking aloud. Looks at me. “Basically, we send our people into holes to die, as we’re considered expendable like that. Anybody in town sees something suspect, they just call us and we get down there and remove it. At whatever cost. Anyways, that’s going to be the ticket.”
“I’m not following you,” I say, cause I’m not.
Rose waves her nails in the air. “You don’t need to. Do we have a deal, or what?”
Need time to process but I hear the survivor in me saying, “Deal.”
She stands, slides open a closet.
“Deal,” says Rose Hee, dropping a bathrobe in my lap and making air quotes. “Now, Mister X. Let’s have that suit, and get you over to the dentist.”
_______________
At approximately three thirty p.m. our biohazard response unit rolls up on the Forty-deuce Main Branch entrance. Kim is on my left, us sitting rigid in our gear like pastel-colored astronauts, he exhales audibly, I imagine at the sight of the concentration of soldiers, perhaps twenty-five heads total, who knows how many more at the other exits.
&nb
sp; I’m seeing straight U.S. military in addition to the black-clad Cyna-corps, it’s a two-vehicle-deep presence, NYPD as well, emergency bars cycling blue and red, the general energy frenetic, confused. All of which amounts to that snafu vibration.
Sigh. All this wasted energy. And for what? My damaged paw aches in anticipation of ill weather.
Fine, we’re coming off a bit shabby in our converted airport shuttle, but I’ve seen worse when looking legit really counted. At least the mustard-colored electric van bears the biohazard tribal tattoo. A single cop moving out into the street to flag us down, fat, red-faced, jaw flapping.
A whole lot of complicated shit went down back in K-town in a very short amount of time, and I don’t ever particularly want to read the fine print.
A pencil sketch:
I had a wax cast made of my teeth. Which I might add are like the Roman Forum in that they remain stunning, but a mere suggestion of their former majesty.
As I lay there in the dentist’s chair waiting for the mold to dry, I was informed about a biological “incident” at the Main Branch Library. I was further informed that no such incident had in fact occurred, but that I would be amongst the unit responding to this hoax.
Returned to an underlit room at Club Enjoy to “rest,” Rose no longer in evidence, where I was unenthusiastically offered an “enjoy massage” by a bony teenager with mournful eyes. I declined as gently as possible. She left, and I was alone.
At this point I experienced another freeze, during which I was convinced the area I inhabited was under siege. Not finding any physical clues as to my current situation in the unfamiliar bathrobe, nor in the foreign room, I effectively barricaded the door by disassembling one of the wall couches.
When forced open I attempted, nearly successfully, to throttle a large Korean man with the terry-cloth belt from the bathrobe. I was subdued and reminded of my location and current condition. Whereupon I did my best to apologize, which was lost in the rush to get me into a Chinese version of a yellow Tychem-encapsulated chemical head-totoe bodysuit, of the type I had worn in the military, the kind of suit I coveted and privately longed to be buried in.
At Walter Reed I as much as insisted I be outfitted in such kit at all times, which probably jacked up my ranking on the kook chart in a big way.
Additionally, the Koreans issued me a pair of “athletic” shoes, which I very reluctantly accepted. Picky about my kicks.
Prior to this, the surly Kim had returned my weapon wordlessly, and I was informed by an older man that Kim would not be leaving my side for the foreseeable future. The prospect of this seemed not to thrill young Kim to the degree it might, had he known me better. Hell, I can be a motherfucking blast. But you all know that already.
I was informed an agent would meet us at the library and facilitate things.
Before the helmet was lowered on me, I made sure to take another pill. Who knew how long it would be before I next had a chance to do so?
As I was hustled out the front entrance, duly impressed at the level of organization and the speed at which this had all come together, I blinked in the diffuse sunlight, amongst a group of a eight identically clad jokers. I did not see Rose again.
My eye was then drawn to a small clutch of soldiers around what appeared to be a charred, still smoldering body. Mostly Chinese, and two Cyna-corp dudes, both vibing authority, one peering at the body sideways, hands on his hips, the other with his back to me, mumbling into a walkie-talkie.
The weirdly untouched wing tips on the corpse looked very much like my own Florsheims.
Wonder where they got a black guy.
Tried to get a better look, but before this was possible I was boarding the shuttle bus, idling noisily, and off we went, the driver in a hurry, not bothering to secure the door.
_______________
The fat cop intercepts our crew, arriving in midsentence, hoarse-shouted Brooklynese: “… said cut that fuckin engine! Now, what I wanna know is what took you so goddamn long, but never frickin mind already! Who here speaks English and who does not speak fuckin English, show of hands! Aw, fuckin forget it! Look now, we got us an alleged, said SUSPECTED, biological hazard. If you ask me, a much-ado-about-nothing kinda deal, but what the fuck do I know! I want you boys in and out as quick as possible with this thing cause we got other situations percolatin elsewhere, so let’s fuckin get on with it! And don’t forget who got jurisdiction here, you people talk to uniformed NYPD and ONLY uniformed NYPD, this is a City operation, not some private-sector shit, now let’s move out!”
We do so, me thinking, damn, this guy is old-school, the kind of provincial street uniform we used to goof on and outrun up in Morris Heights, Keystone Kops–style. I’m stunned his kind still roams this earth.
Somebody swings wide the rear doors and we’re pulling out shoulder-mounted thermobaric weapons, SMAW-NE. Oh boys, kindly handle with fucking care. Used to call these babies “bunker busters” in the sandbox, and I don’t have to do any math to know it would be a very unfortunate thing to have such a weapon go off in the confines of the New York Public Library.
But I reckon this is how they clear a room, if they’re scared enough. That’s certainly how we did it back when: came up on an enclosed space thought to contain hostiles, you just hit it with one of these bitches first. Only then you took a look-see. And what you saw was generally nothing but ash.
Which is probably just as well. Cause more than likely it wasn’t insurgents you just incinerated. Kids. Schools. Makeshift triage stations …
Mentally salute my lions as we jog up the stairs, the Cyna-corp people hanging back and letting the locals sort this one out, giving the scene a wide berth, uncharacteristic of them … Fat cop is still bellowing, apparently there’s some sort of territorial issue with respect to which outfit “owns” this particular situation. Feels mad intrusive to have all these costumed jackasses up in what has become my house, and I need to remind myself that this is a public space, others have the right to soak up its energy as well. Within reason. Once I get a leg up I’m gonna kick ’em all to the curb, and enjoy doing it.
“Decimal.” A lone female cop in a gas mask has materialized near me, not looking in my direction. “Confirm by tapping your helmet with your right hand, okay?”
She has a West Coast lilt that dips up at the end like she’s always asking a question. Am I that easy to spot? Guess I should calibrate my limp. I tap my helmet as requested, though I have to think left, right, shit.
Quip, in blackccent: “Sheet, I don’t know nothing ’bout nobody, occifer.”
“Gonna ask you to not speak, okay? Here’s what’s gonna happen, okay? Koreatown sent me, okay? I escort you people into the building, and from there you’re to proceed upstairs unaccompanied. Apparently you’re on point. Okay? If that’s clear, tap your helmet once more.”
Tap tap.
She raises her radio, there’s a static fart, then: “We’re moving, copy.”
Through the doors, into the empty atrium, eight yellowsuited individuals and one officer of the NYPD. Cathedral arches make beautiful shapes overhead.
Once inside the cop ushers me to the stairwell. My crew inspects their weapons with focus. It gets quiet in a hurry, this marble is thick. A man I believe to be Kim nods slightly in my direction.
“Okay,” says the cop in a low voice. “Here’s the Cliffs-Notes, okay? I’ve been the liaison between Cyna-corp and Koreatown for the last six months so I have special access, okay? We disabled the cameras on the upper floors and audio throughout the building. They’re working to get them back online, okay? So whatever it is you need to do, which is none of my business, you better do it fast. If you attempt to finger me I’ll deny we had this conversation. Okay?”
“No worries, sugar. I’m all about discretion. And by what name do I call thee, fair lady?”
“Officer Fucking Friendly, okay, smartass? Now, this has to happen fast. So listen up, okay?”
I listen up.
“Okay. The
incident report indicates a single specimen, okay? I should know, cause I placed it myself, okay? But you know how that goes—if you see one, there’s sure to be a whole mess of them nearby, this will be their assumption. Okay from here?” Neither her tone, nor the shiny black plastic mask, nor the reflection of my own headgear in her goggles, reveal anything I can grasp on to.
Specimen? I twitch my head. Mount the stairs. My goddamn stairs. Round the corner, ascending the second flight I lay the SMAW down. Specimen? Well hey, whatever I might stumble on, I don’t want to bring that amplitude of death jazz into my place of peace, it portends crazy ill.
Rather, I fumble with my straps and zippers, tough going with my half-broke paw, and at long last withdraw my CZ, which strikes me as much more to scale here. Rack a bullet into the chamber and carry on.
Yeah, my stairs, my halls, my floors, my silence, broken only by my respiration, Darth Vader–loud in this spacesuit. But this very structure, my space, violated by any number of interlopers, all of them respectless, all of them unwelcome.
Come around the corner and go into a crouch. Sight this way and that, plenty of midday light, visibility clear all the way down the hall. Don’t know what I’m looking for, could be an extremely small object, but all appears undisturbed. My improvised wall lights are out, remind me to check the generator. Get an eye-drop of sweat, which I blink away.
Nothing.
I check doorways, thinking about nooks and crannies but none come to mind, try to get a gander under the long display cabinet against the wall of the corridor …
Movement. Hadn’t seen it before, but hitherto motionless something that had been poised in the windowsill drops to the floor.
Get an adrenaline kick, hard, as I bring the gun in line with the thing. Down the barrel I peep: a cat.
A house cat. Like a generic cat. A mottled-gray domestic shorthair. Just as quickly as the fight-or-flight rush came, it’s replaced by fragile relief.
The Nervous System Page 12