The Presence

by Paul Black

  Deja’s expression softened. “Oh, really? And what brings my handsome government agent to the Big Apple?”

  “Got some business that might keep me here for a few days.”

  Deja moved closer and filled the screen. “And where are we staying?”

  “Midtown, high up.”

  “With a view?”

  Chaco smiled.

  “Why, that’s funny.” She faked a small cough. “I’m feeling a little sick all of sudden.”

  “Then I’m here at the right time. You’re going to need someone to take care of you.”

  Deja rested her chin on folded hands and revved up that sexy look Chaco loved. “I’m thinking lots of bed rest.”

  “I’ll call you when I land.”

  Deja coughed again, winked, and kissed the screen.

  Chaco slowly folded his Netpad shut. “What the fuck am I doing?” he said, which earned him a sideways glance over the top of the Times from the suit next to him.

  13 MR. I’VE-ALWAYS-GOT-A-PLAN

  According to its marketing site, The Thin earned its name because it looked like it had been force-injected between two skyscrapers. Its marketing page said it had been a sweatshop a couple of centuries ago, but Deja wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Today, it was one of New York’s premiere hotels – “a vertical sanctuary of five-star elegance.” Only one side had windows, and the really great views were above the 12th floor. The rooms were styled like a designer had thrown-up her entire portfolio, but at least the linens were nice, especially the pillow Deja had tucked under her chest. It was practically as big as her and firm enough to be a major threat in any serious pillow fight.

  The room’s air conditioning sent a cool breeze across Deja’s back, which felt good since only moments before she had been sprawled on the window sill, reeling from probably the best orgasm she had ever had. She peered through the room’s darkness at her lover’s naked silhouette. He was by the window with his head pressed against the glass.

  “Sonny?” she asked, picking through the cheese and fruit tray that had waited patiently for them from the time they returned from dinner. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing, really,” he said. “Just checking out the city of lights.”

  “I think that’s Paris, lover. New York is the city that never sleeps.” She threw a strawberry and hit the middle of his back. He didn’t react.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He kept staring at the early evening cityscape.

  Deja rolled off the bed, walked to the window, and pressed herself against him. They smelled of sex and sweat, and she treasured the feel of his body against hers. She wrapped her arms around his waist and looked up at him through her bangs.

  “Nothing, I’m all right,” Chaco said heavily, still watching the endless river of yellow CitiCabs.

  Deja put her finger to his chin and guided his head from the window. She rose up on her toes and kissed him. “Come back to bed,” she whispered and stepped away, tugging him along by the hand.

  Chaco held his ground and gently pulled her into his arms. “Where are we headed?” he asked softly.

  Deja had never seen her lover so serious about them. It was wonderful. It was also a little scary. “I don’t know about our future,” she said, “but I do know that for the first time in my life, I’m happy. And that’s usually something I’m not very comfortable with.”

  Chaco smiled down at her.

  She tenderly began kissing his nipples and could feel him grow excited against her thigh. “Come on, lover, the night’s young.” She stepped away and tugged at him again.

  This time Chaco gave in and followed her to the bed. He nestled himself between her legs and began kissing her breasts.

  Deja tenderly cradled his head. “Make love to me, Sonny,” she whispered, then wrapped her legs around him and accepted him with all of her heart.

  * * *

  The waitress’s nameplate was hanging on for dear life. It dangled from a rather interesting sweater whose living fabric depicted the last seconds of the band Kryptic Kill before their tour plane slammed into oblivion on a Colorado hillside. The plane, with the heads of the four band members popping out of the windows like balloons, arched across her partly cloudy chest and exploded into a mountain that materialized with chilling realism over her right breast. Afterward, the whole thing dissolved into the words “Born to Die.” The logo was perfectly rendered in chrome and hung in the partly cloudiness as if it were somehow profound, then slowly vanished. Had the sweater been programmed for music, it probably would have faded into a guitar lick that could rip an eardrum. The handwritten nameplate pegged the waitress as “Gives-a-Shit,” which seemed to Deja to fit.

  “What’ll it be?” asked Gives-a-Shit as the plane exploded.

  “What’s good?” Chaco replied.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ll take two eggs scrambled and some toast.”

  “And you?” she asked Deja, the band now once again approaching their destiny with the mountaintop.

  Deja studied the big faux blackboard behind the front counter. “I’ll take a protein shake and two honey ecobars.”

  “Figures,” Gives-a-Shit said while the boys went up in flames. She headed for the counter, and the back of her sweater animated the band’s image morphing with the “Born to Die” logo.

  “You come here often?” Chaco asked. He sipped his coffee and grimaced.

  “Only when I want to be alone,” Deja said. “This place has ... character.”

  “It’s got that.” Chaco glanced around the Bar of Soap’s eclectic mix of washing machines, dryers, Netport stations, and cafe. An old concept, but one that still worked in New York since retrofitting an apartment could set a person back years, and doing laundry had always been a traditional way for people just to get out.

  “Here you go, babes.” Gives-a-Shit set Deja’s shake down, and some its contents washed over the sides in a lather of green ooze. She motioned to Chaco. “Don’t like your coffee?”

  “It’s okay, just a little bitter.”

  “Here, try this.” Gives-a-Shit took a thin, rectangular bottle of golden liquid out of her apron’s pouch and poured a generous portion into Chaco’s cup. “Now it’s hazelnut.” She slipped the bottle back and walked away.

  Chaco tentatively took a sip. “It’s better,” he said, surprised, and leaned back into the booth.

  “Tell me again why you’re in the city?” Deja asked, attacking her shake.

  “Doing some field work on a new case. Profiling the financials on a capital investment group. They might have ties with organized crime.”

  “What happened to the Goya case I was helping you with?”

  “Low priority. Things shift fast, and I just go where they need me. You know I’ve been wanting field work for some time now.”

  “And in New York. How convenient.” She licked the straw.

  The waitress slid the plate of eggs up to Chaco and handed Deja two ecobars. “Here you go, you two lovebirds.”

  Chaco watched Gives-a-Shit shuffle to another table. “Do you think anyone saw us at the window last night?” He scooped a fork full of eggs that weren’t the right shade of yellow.

  “Nothing New York hasn’t seen before.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  Deja felt Chaco’s fingers walk up her inner thigh, and she almost coughed up some shake. She wiped her chin and slapped Chaco across the head with her napkin. “Stop that! You know how sensitive I get. Especially after, well, you know ...” She giggled.

  Chaco smiled around another forkful of the suspiciously colored eggs. “So, what’s been going on? I didn’t hear from you after you left Washington.”

  “Not much, really. Green is on a ratings tear again, and you know how he gets about them.”

  “How’s CeCe? Is she still as screwed up as ever?”

  “Oh, God, yes. Her new boyfriend is such a loser. He actually used her chipcard when she was out of
town doing one of those, you know, political things she produces – something for The National Lesbian Firefighters Association. Anyway, he ran up this huge debt.”

  “When’s the last time you made a new friend?” Chaco asked innocuously. He sniffed his second piece of toast, put it back on the plate, and pushed it aside.

  Deja shrugged, knowing that if she revealed her friendship with Goya’s wife – even if the case had been shifted to low priority – it could put Corazon in jeopardy. “No time,” she lied. “I’ve been too busy.” She sucked down the last of her shake.

  “You just need to get out more.” Chaco began to finish his coffee, but hesitated and set the cup next to his plate. “So what do you say we take in a play while I’m here?”

  “That would be great! Oh, wait, I think I can score us some tickets to Fracture Town.”

  “I was thinking something a little more on Broadway.” Chaco produced two ticket chips to The Giuliani Story. “Say, tomorrow night?”

  “Oh my God, where did you get those?” Deja said, accepting the tiny wafers. She held them in her cupped hands and watched as their vidgrams played a little snippet from the show’s famous third act.

  “Let’s just say someone owed me a big favor.”

  “No doubt! These are impossible to get.” She watched Giuliani’s monologue at the 9/11 memorial; it then shifted to the play’s logo, theme music, and ticket information. She handed them back, their vidgrams looping, and leaned on the table. “Why do I think you’ve got this all mapped out?”

  Chaco wiped up a little spot of egg with his finger and mashed it into a fine paste. “Oh, yeah,” he said, his attention firmly on his fingers, “that’s me. Mr. I’ve-Always-Got-a-Plan.”

  14. TO PROTECT AND SERVE

  The St. James was one of the oldest working theaters on the Great White Way. It and the Helen Hayes were the only two musical houses left that hadn’t converted to HoloShow technology. Others had switched because of escalating production budgets, driven ever higher by union costs, not to mention unruly celebrities, which the world had raised to such a status that leveraging their star power usually cost as much as an entire production. Besides, what self-respecting megastar would be caught dead in some cramped theater playing to real people night after night?

  Deja had told Chaco to meet her in the lobby because her boss wanted her to finish something before he left on one of his European PR junkets. Chaco had worn his best suit – the one with the fibers that moved in sync with his steps – and as he walked through the crowded lobby, his old police sense told him that a few people were giving him the once-over. Since most of them were women, he didn’t mind too much. He was studying the people when someone from behind tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Hey, sexy.”

  Chaco turned and found Deja standing there like she had stepped out of a Vogue spread. Her hair, which usually was in a whacked-out spike-do, had been styled into an elegant wave. A pair of five-inch heels lifted her up to his face, and they were the perfect platform for a silky black cocktail dress that made her look more beautiful than Chaco had ever seen her. The fabric’s sheen made her brown skin even darker, like rich chocolate wrapped in black foil. She was ¬– to use one of his father’s phrases ¬– “gorgeous on a stick.”

  “Damn, woman, let me look at you.” He took her hand and spun her around.

  “Your girl cleans up pretty well, doesn’t she?”

  Deja wrapped her arms around him, and her perfume filled his being. The room seemed to slide away – leaving him embraced with this stunning creature for whom he was definitely falling.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” Chaco said, oblivious to the rush of people around them.

  “Thank you,” she replied.

  Chaco kissed her, and the lobby lights dimmed.

  * * *

  “I just love traditional theater, don’t you?” Deja asked as they stepped into the lobby.

  Chaco hardly heard Deja’s question. His mind was back in the theater. Like an old scar, the events of 9/11 – even in the post-Hawaii years – still conjured up an intense sense of loss. The end of the play, with its gripping reenactment of the tragedy, almost brought Chaco to tears. He hadn’t been even remotely close to that emotion since the death of his mother.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, stopping him in the middle of the lobby.

  “No.... Well, it’s just that the ending, I mean ...” He felt that same emotion rise again.

  Deja squeezed his hand. “That really got to you, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Chaco said and instantly forced back the emotion. “Come on, let’s go get a drink somewhere.” He took Deja by the waist and edged into the flow of people shuffling toward the front exits.

  Just as they reached them, a large, heavy-set man emerged from the crowd like a barge from an ice flow. His attention was firmly on Deja.

  “Miss Moriarty?” he asked, removing his black fedora.

  Deja turned. “Mr. Pavia!”

  “Ms. Goya was wondering if you would join her for drinks.” He motioned to a woman standing near a side wall. Chaco recognized her from his case file. She was wearing a pair of custom micropore sunglasses, the kind the super-rich wore when they wanted to make a statement. These glasses screamed: Don’t fuck with me.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Deja said. “I don’t want to impose.”

  “Come on, Dej,” Chaco urged. “We were just about to go have a drink anyway.” He gave her waist a little squeeze.

  “Are you sure, Sonny?”

  “Absolutely.” Chaco moved his attention to Pavia. He extended his hand. “I’m Sonny Chaco.”

  Pavia eyed Chaco’s hand warily for a split second, then engulfed it in his own. Chaco could feel the ridges of tiny scars across the surface of his palm. Pavia forced a smile that showed just a hint of gold at the edges of his teeth.

  “And you are?...” Chaco asked.

  “Oscar Pavia.”

  “Mr. Pavia,” Deja said, “is Corazon’s – Ms. Goya’s – ah, say, what is your title?”

  “Her assistant. Please, our car is in the alley.” He motioned to the side exit and moved into the crowd.

  Chaco took Deja by the waist. “I thought you said you hadn’t met any new friends,” he whispered into her ear.

  “I just met her,” Deja whispered back, “and she knows about you. But she doesn’t know about the case.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m off duty. Besides, I’m not working that case anymore.”

  “Good, because she’s my friend.”

  Chaco pinched Deja’s waist, and she flinched.

  Pavia glanced back.

  “I’ll be a good boy,” Chaco said, grinning.

  “You’d better.” She playfully kissed his ear.

  The sun-glassed woman opened her arms as they approached. Deja broke from Chaco’s grip and hugged her.

  “Deja, you look breathtaking.” She held Deja’s hands and admired her.

  “Thank you, Cor.”

  “And this must be Sonny. Deja has told me all about you.”

  Chaco shook her hand. “Oh, I’m sure she has,” he said, shooting Deja a glance.

  “Please, this way,” Pavia said, and with one hand he opened the massive exit door like it was cardboard.

  * * *

  “So, Sonny,” Corazon said, arranging her coat on the back of her chair, “I read somewhere that the NSA has a department that monitors worldwide communications, especially the Internet. I believe it’s called Echelon?” She scooted closer to the cramped table and tried to get some distance between herself and the press of people. The bar at Merge was beautifully designed, but what it had in style was eroded by its lack of square footage.

  “Well, Ms. Goya–”

  “Please, call me Cor.” She winked at Deja.

  “All right, Cor. Even if this so-called department did exist, I couldn’t tell you anything about it.”

  Corazon grinned. “Then tell me, what does a government agent do in
this modern age of biotech wonders?”

  “I’m a Net operative, or as we’re called inside the NSA, console-jocks. We build profiles and hunt down data that can be used against an individual or company, or even a country. But in my unit, we’re mostly working against organized crime like the Mafia.”

  “How about in Old Mexico?”

  “La Ema is one of our targets.”

  “What about in the corporate sector?”

  “Yes, but only if that corporation has ties to organized crime, or if they’re doing clandestine operations that would warrant federal attention.”

  “And what do you do with this information?”

  “Pass it on to a field team in the form of a brief. Or it can be entered into a case and used by our lawyers.”

  “Fascinating. Mr. Pavia was also in your line of work. Am I correct, Oscar, that you worked at the NSA?”

  A cold chill went down Chaco’s spine. He locked eyes with Pavia, who was sitting at the edge of the table’s light. They stared at each other for a second.

  Corazon laughed slightly. “You must forgive Mr. Pavia. He is a man of action, not words.” She raised her drink. “I propose a toast.”

  “To what?” Deja asked.

  Corazon thought for a moment. “To new friends.”

  They all raised their glasses and toasted, but as Corazon began to drink, a large man stumbled into the back of her chair.

  “Fucking excuse the shit out of me,” he said, obviously drunk. The pattern in his coat reverbed between two shades of blue.

  Corazon looked up. The man’s demeanor hardened, and he leaned down and studied her. His drink sloshed over of his glass, and Pavia shifted forward in his chair.

  Two other men, equally large and trashed, stumbled up to either side of the first drunk. One of them had a small tattoo of a bull behind his right ear – the mark of a mid-level enforcer in the El Toro crime family. They all wore suits popular with made guys: just pricey enough to fit into a good place, but poorly detailed. Chaco had profiled dozens of guys like this, and their look always labeled them as one thing: losers.