Dark City Lights

by Lawrence Block

  It made a difference. The better she looked, the more business improved. By the end of October that first year, she was turning away customers. By December, she had saved enough to take a few weeks off during the cold months.

  Bursting with newfound confidence, for the first time in years, she auditioned for a few Off-Off-Broadway plays. In February, she actually landed a small part in a staged reading (a long and not very interesting play by a middle-aged woman from Queens). Middle-aged—like me, she thought. Everyone else in the theater scene was so much younger. Liz lied about her age on her headshot, but even knocking off ten years didn’t help. Her theater days were over—except for her tours.

  BUT BY THE MIDDLE OF her second year of leading the tours, it was just another job. The kind of job you take when you live in a rent-controlled studio, don’t have a lot of bills and don’t want to work in an office or restaurant.

  She stopped going to the library for research. History is finite—there’s only so much you can learn about a six square block Historic District in New York City. She wondered how actors in long-running plays on Broadway could get pumped up for their roles after the three hundredth performance. That’s what it was now: performance. No need to improvise.

  She had figured out exactly how many steps a typical group of overweight mid-Westerners could waddle without getting sore feet. How many minutes they could endure without eating another nibble from one of the cafes they passed. She figured out exactly how much water they needed—or claimed they needed—to make it through a one-hour tour without fainting or whining about the heat. She even ordered bottled water with a custom label that had her website address printed under a cute caricature a friend had done for her back in the days where friends used to do that kind of thing for you.

  LIZ HANDED A CANNOLI TO the man and gave him a quick “back off” glare. He looked away, bored. Typical. She remembered the way he would say sweet things to the other women he’d been with, then ignore their reply. The disconnect. Scary.

  The cannolis were gone. The tourists looked up at her, wondering what was next. Insatiable. They’d already had a slice of pizza, sampled three kinds of cheese, a fresh-baked baguette, a prosciutto ball, gelato, and now a cannoli. Time to wrap things up with a bang and count the tips. Liz launched into her final spiel.

  “Aren’t these cannoli deee-lightful?” she purred sweetly, while the tourists chewed on their last bites. They nodded and grunted. “Told you so, didn’t I? Well, un-for-tu-nate-ly, folks, that wraps up our tour for today. Thanks so much for coming along. I hope you had just as much fun as I did!” The tourists applauded. Liz beamed.

  “So, as you know, a tour guide needs to eat between tours! Right now, you are invited to show your love and make your favorite tour guide a very happy lady with a dash of paper currency.” The tourists reached for their wallets and pocketbooks like obedient children. The middle-aged man handed her a crisp twenty. The other tourists, figuring that was normal, did the same. The tour guide smiled sweetly, trying to cover up her shock as the twenties filled her small palm. Five twenties. Ten twenties. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Three hundred-and-forty dollars! Holy shit! She’d never made this much in one tour before. She could barely speak her final lines.

  “Don’t forget to tell your pals back home to sign up for the Exclusive West Village Bits and Bites Walking Tour on their next visit to the greatest city on Earth.” More applause. Then it was done. Liz gently tucked the tip money into her pocket, shook a few hands, and waited for the last stragglers to ask their final questions (“Where’s the nearest ladies’ room?” “Where can we catch a taxi?”) and leave.

  “WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?” she asked the man, who lingered after the others had gone.

  “Don’t you know?” He looked earnest. Liz sneered.

  “Don’t give me that crap about how you just love my tours.”

  “Aww—but I do love your tours. You are the most interesting, most fascinating, most historically accurate, and most successful living tour guide in the neighborhood.”

  “What do you mean ‘living’? Sounds like a threat.”

  “You really should think better of me—after I helped you score all those tips today.”

  “Actually, pal, I can get plenty of tips without anyone’s help.”

  “For now,” he said. “My name’s Ken, by the way.”

  Liz rolled her eyes, then smiled sarcastically. “Goodbye, Ken,” she said, and turned away. She started walking up Bleecker toward Sixth Avenue, hoping he wouldn’t follow her.

  He did. Of course. The creeps always follow you. It happened once before, the first year she led tours. Some out-of-towner with big expectations launched into a monologue about his “special” skills, asked her out for lunch, then a movie, then a weekend stay in his Times Square hotel room. She turned down each request, hailed a cab and never saw him again.

  But this guy—this . . . Ken—ugh—stupid name . . . this guy had something else on his mind. And it felt like he would keep coming back until he got whatever it was that he wanted. And what he wanted wasn’t simply a friend with benefits for a weekend fling. She better figure it out quick—without letting him know that she knew.

  At the corner of Carmine and Bleecker, she waited for Ken to catch up to her, then suggested they talk in the corner park. They found a bench near the entrance and sat.

  “So, Ken—,” she said, trying to sound absolutely sincere. “You’re right. You deserve better treatment. You’ve been on the tour—what?—two other times?”

  “Three. Plus today.”

  “Ah, you’re right!” Liz chuckled. “Four times in all. You know, I think that’s a record.”

  “Thank you.”

  Liz purred. “I’m surprised that you’re here by yourself today, Ken. You always seem to have a lady friend with you. From out of town. . . . You’re from—where?—I forget . . .”

  “Cat and mouse? Must we?” Ken’s voice had an edge.

  “Just trying to get to know you a bit better.”

  “You want facts? Okay. Name: Ken Prather. Age: Forty-eight. Birthplace: Mamaroneck.”

  “Profession?”

  “Trust-fund baby.”

  “You don’t look like a trust-fund baby.”

  “I lied. I’m a writer.”

  “A waiter?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You writing about me, Ken—huh? Is that it?”

  “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “True crime?”

  “Memoir.”

  “Hope they’re not the same thing.”

  “You’re getting rude again, Liz,” Ken said, with a cold smile. “You’re much more agreeable when you are pleasant.”

  Liz figured he was lying about being a writer. Maybe trying to impress her, since she mentioned so many literary figures on her walking tours. Hell, the whole neighborhood was rife with literary history. Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg, Edna St. Vincent Millay all had hung out or lived in this area. Today, writers lived in Brooklyn, according to all the newspapers. No one could afford the West Village anymore, since prices skyrocketed after 9/11. The only writing most of the folks around here did was signing credit card receipts and checks.

  “Where do you live now?” she asked Ken. “Brooklyn?”

  “Of course,” he said flatly. “All writers live in Brooklyn these days.”

  “Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Liz replied.

  “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  “Why should I? What difference would it make?”

  Ken glanced down at his hands, examined them closely. Palms first, then the backside. He seemed to be looking for something in particular, some sign or a mark or the source of an itch. He became absorbed, seemed lost from the physical world. Liz saw small beads of perspiration form on his neck and forehead. A minute passed, without either of them saying a word. Liz knew she should just leave, but she couldn’t help herself—she had to find out what just happened to him.

  “Ke
n? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He snapped out of his trance, and looked suddenly joyful.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, standing up. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  And just like that, he left—walking up Sixth Avenue like a new man, like the kind of man who fits in with other men. His steps were solid, he smiled a bit. Just before he was out of sight, Liz saw him pull an iPhone from his pocket and start texting without breaking stride. Yep, just like other men.

  A WEEK WENT BY, THEN two, then three. Liz led tour after tour, but Ken wasn’t there. After a month, business seemed down a bit. She figured it was a temporary dip in the economy. But by the end of summer, people just weren’t booking the Exclusive West Village Bits and Bites Walking Tour. Liz cut out the mid-week tours first, then started scaling back on the number of tours she led on the weekends. On Labor Day weekend, she led only one tour a day, down from three a day the year before. Something was definitely wrong.

  SHE SPOTTED KEN A FEW weeks later. She was sitting in the corner park on the same bench they had shared the last time he took her tour. She hadn’t booked a single tour this weekend, and was desperate to figure out what had happened. Ken was near the park’s fountain, madly texting on his iPhone.

  “Hey, Ken!” she yelled, without getting off the bench. He glanced up, gave her a little wave, then turned his back to her and kept texting.

  Asshole. Liz stormed over to him.

  “Hey, Ken! I want to talk to you!”

  “Minute . . .” he mumbled. He kept his eyes on his cell phone screen, and kept texting, his thumbs moving like a violinist’s fingers, pressing strings that made no sound.

  “Hey, this is important.”

  “So’s this,” he murmured.

  Liz grabbed the phone out of his hand and scanned the last few lines of conversation.

  —LOL – just booked final slot for B&B GV eTour

  —WTF? 2 mo takeover? You rock!

  —Ha! App rocks

  —:p not to mention the $$$

  —O, F—she’s here.

  —Lz? Duz she no?

  “Hey, jackoff!” Liz shouted. “What the fuck did you do to my damn walking tour, asshole?”

  Ken looked sheepish for a moment, then stood tall and grabbed his phone back. “What tour? Doesn’t look like you do much of anything now, unlike—all these folks here.” Ken swept his arm toward the sidewalks. “Look at all of them, happy as could be.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Liz snarled.

  “Tourists—see?” Ken mused. “Hundreds of tourists.”

  The sidewalks did seem a bit crowded with small groups of two and three, a family here and there. They lingered in front of the bakery, the cheese shop, the bar, the old apartment building. If you looked closely, you could see most of them wore headphones or small ear buds. And everyone looked happy.

  Ken gleamed. “Personalized eTour app, can you imagine? I designed an algorithm that automatically gathers immense data for each individual user, then programs a unique user experience. They get the tour of their dreams for far less than what you charge—or should I say, ‘charged’—and they don’t tip anyone at the end. Ta-da!”

  “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “Still don’t trust me, huh, Liz?” Ken said with a smirk. “Let’s investigate.”

  He held her by the elbow and walked with her to the front of the bakery. A man was just finishing a mini cannoli, and smiling. He listened for a moment longer, then removed the sound buds in his ears.

  “Sir,” Ken said. “Excuse me, sir?”

  The man glanced up. “Yes?”

  “By any chance, were you just using the B&B West Village eTour app?”

  The man’s eyes grew wide. “How did you know?”

  “Lucky guess. I’ve heard so much about it. Tell me—didja like it?”

  “Loved it. Fantastic tour. My wife—she’s right across the street—she found out about it and I tell you what—she picked a winner. This area has so much history—did you know that Jack Kerouac used to drink coffee just up the block? I love Kerouac—bought a few eBooks of his last year. I feel like I’m following in his footsteps, can you imagine?”

  “Sounds great,” Ken mused. “But I’m not sure if that makes sense for me. I mean, I don’t know too much about this Kerry-ac fellow. Guess I’m just not really much of a reader. Oh, well . . .”

  “Wait—that’s okay, buddy,” the man chirped. “My wife’s like you—well, not exactly, of course.” He and Ken laughed. Liz brooded between them. “See, my wife is more into food—if it’s edible and sounds interesting, she is all over it. She’s what you call a ‘foodie,’ see?”

  Ken nodded, “That’s me.”

  “I knew it. Well this app knows just what you like—it took the both of us to the same places, and we each found out just what we were interested in. She found out about food, and I found out about those beatnik things, and it was just like magic. A total win-win for both me and her.”

  Liz felt sick. She had to say something. “Wouldn’t you prefer to have a real tour guide?”

  The man stared at her with a curious look. “This is real.”

  “I mean—human. A human tour guide, who could talk and answer questions and point out interesting things and give you free samples and . . . stuff like that.”

  Ken and the man glanced at each other and laughed.

  “I got free samples galore! And I ask all the questions I want. Here, let me show you.” He held his cell phone out, turned it on speaker and asked, “Where’s the nearest subway station?”

  A female voice replied, “If you’re headed back to your hotel, Mr. Felton, turn around, and walk up Bleecker to Carmine, then turn left on Carmine and walk three hundred-and-fifty feet to the West Fourth Street Station. Take the A train to West Forty-second Street. When you get there, I’ll guide you to your hotel.”

  “Thank you,” the man said to the phone.

  “There’s a train in four minutes,” the phone replied. “If you like, I can contact your wife across the street, and let her know that it’s time to go.”

  “That’s okay,” the man said. “I’ll linger here a little longer.”

  “I thought you might,” the phone said. “Enjoy yourself.”

  The man put the phone away.

  “Cute, isn’t it?” the man told Liz. “And it’s never wrong. The difference is trust. A machine—you can trust. It makes all the difference in the world.”

  “What about the food?” Liz snapped. “Who gives you the samples?”

  “Oh, that’s the great part,” the man grinned. “If I want a sample at any place, I just text ‘Sample please.’ And the cool thing is, they know what I like and they know what I’m allergic to and this cute little number pops open and hands me the perfect sample for me and my wife. She got a chocolate éclair here. Me—I’m allergic to chocolate, so I got a cannoli. And what a cannoli it was! Best in the city, so I’m told!”

  Ken glanced at his iPhone. “Well, guess I’m just going to have to find out for myself. Thank you, Mr. Felton.”

  Liz wasn’t finished. “Wait—this is just a tour, and you trust your little app more than a live tour guide, right? What’s next? Dog walkers? Teachers? Political leaders? I mean—how far is this going to go?”

  “Who knows?” the man said. “Babysitter? Lifetime tour guide?”

  “You got it!” Ken said. “Those apps just keep getting better and better!”

  Ken and the man looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “So long, Mr. Felton,” Ken purred. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Same,” said the man, already texting his wife across the street, who waved.

  LIZ DRIFTED AWAY. HER RENT was due in a few days. If she was careful she could live off her savings for at least three months, maybe four. She wondered how long it would take to learn enough to make her own app. Something that destroyed all the other apps. A killer app. That’s what she need
ed. That’s what she would become. A killer app—one that everyone would trust—for the rest of their lives.

  WANG DANG DOODLE

  BY ANNETTE MEYERS

  ARTIE

  “THE THING ABOUT MA IS, she got no patience. One mistake and—” He sticks his tongue out, slurpy inhale, index finger across his throat. Hilarious. “You know Ma.”

  “Yeah, we know Ma,” Harry says.

  Artie laughs so hard, he’s a swamp. “She’s not my Ma, she’s nobody’s Ma.” He howls with laughter. “Magdalina Angelina, private snoop.” His head lands on the table with a thud.

  “Where you going with this?” Harry goes into his inside pocket and shoves over a handkerchief. Eyeballs Artie, mouths to Ray, “Shikker?”

  Artie lifts his head from the snotty pool. Dries his face with the handkerchief. Fondles his mustache. “You don’t think it’s funny?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Harry says. Punk’s a pothead, pinprick pupils. “You think Ma’s got no patience. I’m no fucking prince of patience either.” He rolls his eyes at Ray, who keeps mum.

  “Listen, we’re doing a routine investigation. That’s why we invited you here.” Ray takes a pack of gum from his pocket and offers it around. “Don’t fuck with us, Artie,” Ray says.

  “I thought you wanted to hear my story,” Artie says.

  “We do.”

  “So don’t rush me.”

  Ray says, “Tell it like you want.”

  Artie puts gum in his mouth and chaws. “Well, shit, she took me in when I was thirteen. You know all about it, right?”

  “Harry doesn’t.”

  “Look it up . . . Harry.” Artie’s smirk slips into hiccoughing giggles.

  “Later.” Harry slams his palm on the table.

  Artie stops in mid-laugh. “Okay, okay. Name: Arthur Ponzini. Age: twenty-four. Address: formerly, care of Ma, private snoop, MacDougal Alley, currently the Brevoort.” He yells at the mirror. “You got it?”

  “Let’s take a break,” Ray says. “You wanna Coke or something, Artie?”