As Pearl leaned forward in the Apple glow, I saw the pulse in her throat, and the beast inside me growled.
Mustn’t eat Pearl, I reminded myself.
She gave the other earphone to me, and I put it in. We looked into each other’s eyes from a few inches away, tethered by the split white cord. It was strange and intense—no one but Luz had dared get this close to me since I’d bitten that stupid doctor.
I could smell coffee on Pearl’s breath, the clean sweat of summer heat, the separate scent of fear. Her pupils were huge, and I remembered that to her eyes, my room was dark. My life was spent in shadows now.
There was a hint of moisture between her upper lip and nose, in that little depression the size of a fingertip. I leaned forward, wanting to lick it, to see if it was salty like the bacon had been. . . .
Then she squeezed the player, and music spilled into me.
It started abruptly—a rough edit, not even on the downbeat—but the riff was too gutsy to care. One guitar rumbled underneath, simple as a bass part, someone playing with three untutored fingers. Another guitar played up high, full of restless and cluttered energy, seductively neurotic.
Neither was Pearl, I could tell.
Then she entered on keys, spindly and thin but fitting perfectly. She was even leaving room for me, laying low, like she never had back in the System.
That thought made me jealous—little Pearl growing up a bit while I’d been lying here in shadows. Suddenly, I wanted to get up and put on clothes and sunglasses, go out into the world.
Soon, I thought, still listening. The music had me humming, venturing into the spaces Pearl had left open, finding lines to twist and turn. She was right—it was New Sound-ish, like all those indie bands we’d loved last spring. But less frantic, as smooth as water. My whole body wanted to jump into this music.
But when my lips first parted, only random curses spilled out, verses from the earliest, most unreadable scrawl in the notebooks under my bed. Then they sputtered to a halt, like the fading geyser from a shaken beer bottle, and I gradually gained control. I began to murmur a jagged, wordless song across the music.
For a few moments it was beautiful, a savage version of my old self, though with new spells in it. The sound of my own singing made the beast inside me burn, but clever Pearl had cheated it for a few moments: I could only hear myself with one ear. The other was filled with the riff, a dense and splendid protection.
But soon enough the sickness closed my throat, the song choking to a stop. I looked at Pearl, to see if I’d imagined it. Her eyes, inches from mine, glowed like her music player’s screen.
Catching my breath, I concentrated on the riff again, listening. She was right: They were way outside the System, this oddball pair of guitarists. They had pulled something out of me, slipped it right past the beast.
“Where did you find them?”
“Sixth Street. Totally random.”
“Hmm. The one who can really play, he sounds . . .” I swallowed.
“Yeah,” Pearl said. “He’s lateral and raw, like I always wanted Nervous System to be. No lessons, or at least not many, and no theory classes. He fills up whatever space you give him. Almost out of control, but like you said, controllable. He’s the Taj Mahal of random guitarists.”
I smiled. All those things were true, but I hadn’t been thinking them.
To me, he sounded more like . . . yummy.
PART II
AUDITIONS
The Plague of Justinian was the first time the Black Death appeared.
Fifteen hundred years ago, the emperor Justinian had just embarked on his greatest work: the rebuilding of the Roman Empire. He wanted to reunite its two halves and place the known world under Roman rule once more.
But as his vast war began, the Black Death came. It swept across the eastern Mediterranean, leaving millions dead in its wake. Thousands died daily in the Byzantine capital of Constantinople, and Justinian was forced to watch his dreams crumble.
Oddly, historians aren’t certain what the Black Death was. Bubonic plague? Typhus? Something else? A few historians suggest that it was a random assortment of diseases brought on by one overriding factor: an explosion of the rat population fostered by the Roman army’s vast stores of grain.
That’s close, but not quite.
Whatever caused it, the Black Death’s effects were clear. The Roman Empire slipped into history at last. Much of the mathematics, literature, and science of the ancients was lost. A dark age descended on Europe.
Or, as we said back then, “Humanity lost that round.”
NIGHT MAYOR TAPES:
142-146
7. STRAY CATS
-ZAHLER-
My dogs were acting paranormal that day, all edgy and anxious.
The first bunch seemed fine when I picked them up. In the air-conditioned lobby of their fancy Hell’s Kitchen building, they were full of energy, eager to be walked. Ernesto, the doorman, handed over the four leashes and an envelope stuffed with cash, my pay for that week. And then—like every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—I headed one block uptown to pick up three more.
I got the idea of being a dog walker from an old trick of mine. Whenever I was totally bummed, I’d go over to the Tompkins Square Park dog run—a big open space that’s just for dogs and owners—and watch them jumping on one another, sniffing butts and chasing balls. Huge dogs and tiny ones, graceful retrievers and spastic poodles were all jumbled together and all fawesomely ecstatic to get out of their tiny, lonely New York apartments and into a chase, a growling match, or a mad dash to nowhere in particular. No matter how depressed I was, the sight of scrappy puppies facing off with German shepherds always made me feel much better. So why not be paid to get cheered up?
You don’t make much per dog per hour, but if you can handle six or seven at a time, it starts to add up. Most times it’s easy money.
Sometimes it’s not.
Straight out the door, the heat and stink seemed to get to them. The two Doberman brothers who usually kept order were nipping at each other, and the schnauzer and bull terrier were acting all paranoid, zigzagging every time a car door slammed, too jittery even to sniff at piles of garbage. As we battled down the street, their leashes kept tangling, like long hair on a breezy day.
Things only got worse when I picked up the second pack. The doorman realized that the owner of the insanely huge mastiff had forgotten to leave money for me and buzzed up to ask her about it. While I waited, the two packs started tangling with each other, nipping and jumping, their barking echoing off the marble walls and floor of the lobby.
I tried to unwind them and restore order, one nervous eyeball on the elevator. It would be totally unfool for my customers to see their dogs brawling when they were supposed to be getting exercise. So when nobody answered the doorman’s buzzing, I didn’t stick around to complain, just hauled them out of there and back into the heat.
I was already wishing I hadn’t been in such a hurry to show Moz our possible drummer. A trip to the anarchy of Times Square was exactly what my unruly dog pack didn’t need.
Here’s what I’ve learned about dogs:
They’re a lot like pretty girls. Having one or two around makes everything more fun, but when you get a whole bunch together, it turns into one big power struggle. Every time you add or subtract from the pack, everything gets rearranged. The top dog might wind up number two or fall all the way to the bottom. As I watched the Doberman brothers trying to stare down the mastiff, I was starting to wonder if being in a band was pretty much the same thing—more Nature Channel than MTV.
And really, all the jostling was a big waste of time, because Pearl was clearly the right girl to run things.
Don’t get me wrong, the Mosquito was my oldest and best friend. I would never have picked up a guitar if it hadn’t been for him, and he was the fawesomest musician I’d ever seen. But Moz wasn’t cut out to be in charge. Of anything. He’d never held on to even the crappiest job, because any
kind of organized activity—waiting in line, filling out forms, showing up on time—made him all buzzy. There was no way he could keep five or six unruly musicians on their leashes and pull them all in the same direction.
As for me, I thought the little dogs had the right attitude. The schnauzer didn’t really care whether the mastiff or the Dobermans took charge: he just wanted to sniff some butt and get on with the walk.
He just wanted the struggle to be over.
Today, though, nobody was in control—certainly not me. The seven leashes in my hand didn’t mean squat. Each time we got to an intersection, I’d try to pull us toward Times Square, but the pack kept freaking out about every stray scent, surging off in random directions. I’d let them wander a bit until they got it out of their system, then pull them back toward the way I wanted us to go. We weren’t going to set any crosstown speed records, but at least there was plenty of time before we were supposed to meet Moz, who, like I just mentioned, was probably going to be late anyway.
The weird thing was how much the vacant lots scared them. Even the mastiff was slinking past open spaces, when normally she would have charged straight in for a run.
How weird was that? A creature the size of a horse who’d been cooped up in a Manhattan apartment all day, and all she wanted to do was cling to me, shivering like a wet poodle.
In this mood, the commotion of Times Square was going to turn my pack into a portable riot. It seemed like Moz and I might have to see my drummer some other day.
Then we passed the mouth of a dark alley, and things really got paranormal.
The bull terrier—who always has to pee on everything—took advantage of the anarchy to pull us all in. He trotted to the piss-stained wall, cocked his leg halfway, then suddenly froze, staring into the darkness. The yapping of the other dogs choked off, like seven muzzles had been strapped on all at once.
The alleyway was full of eyes.
Hundreds of tiny faces gazed up at us from the shadows. Behind me trucks rushed past, and I could feel the warmth of sunlight on my back, the reassuring pace and movement of the real world. But in the alley everything was frozen, time interrupted. The bulbous bodies of the rats were motionless, huddled against garbage bags, their teeth bared, heads poking out of holes and crannies. Nothing moved but a shimmer of whiskers as a thousand nostrils tested the air.
In the farthest corner, a lone cat was perched high on a leaking pile of garbage. It stared down at me, unimpressed by my small army of dogs, offended by my presence in the alley. I felt tiny under its arrogant gaze—like some street kid who’d stumbled into a five-star restaurant looking for a place to pee.
The cat blinked its red eyes, then yawned, its pink tongue curling.
This is totally unfool, I thought. If my Dobermans spotted that cat, they’d go after it, dragging me and the whole pack deep into the alley. I could imagine myself returning seven rat-bitten, half-rabid canines to the doormen and never seeing another dime of dog-walking money again.
“Come on, guys,” I murmured, gently pulling the fistful of leashes backward. “Nothing to see here.”
But they were paralyzed, transfixed by the galaxy of eyes.
The cat opened its mouth again, letting out a long, irritated mrrr-row. . . .
And the Dobermans ran like scaredy-cats.
They both leaped straight up, twisting around in midair, and charged past me toward the sunlight. The others followed in a mob, wrapping their leashes around my legs and dragging me stumbling into the street.
It was all I could do to stay on my feet as the mastiff charged ahead, opening up into her full gallop. She pulled the rest of us straight out onto the road, where a yellow flash of taxi screeched past dead ahead of us. A squat little delivery van squealed around us, horn blaring, scaring the mastiff into a sharp left turn.
We were headed down the middle of the street now, a garbage truck thundering along in front of us, the delivery van behind. We were in traffic, as if I’d decided to take a dog-powered chariot out for a little spin.
Unfortunately, I’d sort of forgotten to bring the chariot, so I was stumbling and staggering, seven leashes still tangled around my legs. And if I fell down, I knew the mastiff would keep going, galloping along until my face had been rubbed off completely on the asphalt. Even if my face friction somehow brought the pack to a halt, the pursuing delivery van would squash us all flat.
It was still blaring its horn, because that was clearly helping, and the two guys on the back of the garbage truck were laughing, pointing their giant-gloved fingers at me. A pair of bike messengers shot past in polka-dotted Lycra, me and my dogs just another bunch of clowns at the rodeo.
The whole procession swerved around some street work ahead, and suddenly my feet were slipping across an expanse of loose sand. I spotted an abandoned pizza box and planted my sneakers on it. Then I was skidding, my free hand in the air, riding the box like it was a boogie board at the beach.
Just when it was getting fun, the garbage truck began to slow, pulling up in front of a big apartment building with long, turd-shaped garbage bags piled outside. The truck filled the whole street, leaving nowhere for the pack to go.
Our momentum stalled, and the pack’s energy wrapped itself into a tightly wound bundle of nipping and barking. By now the little dogs could hardly even stand, reduced as they were to a spaghetti mishmash of leashes and legs. Even the mastiff was tired out, her long, curving tongue lapping at the air.
One of the garbage guys swung himself down to work a big lever on the side of the truck, its huge maw opening in front of us with a metal screech. The other jumped off and shouted at me through the din.
“Hey, boss! You didn’t take those pooches into that alley back there, did you?” He pointed over my shoulder, but I knew which one he meant.
“Um, yeah?”
He shook his head. “Bad idea. Even we don’t go down there no more. Not worth it.”
I blinked, still trying to catch my breath. “What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear about the crisis? Way things are going, you got to be respectful. Let the rats have some of the city back, you know?” He laughed, patting the rumbling metal expanse with his gloved hand. “Especially if you don’t got a big truck to protect you. Bunch of pooches isn’t enough these days.”
He turned to the pile of bags behind him and kicked one viciously. Waiting for a second to make sure no tiny creatures scattered from it, he shouldered the bag and began to feed its length into the giant steel maw.
I blew out a slow breath, knelt down, and started to untangle my dogs, wondering what they and the Sanitation Department knew that I didn’t. Moz had said some paranormal stuff about the woman who’d tossed him her guitar—that she was part of something bigger—and I’d read there was a crime wave now, to go along with the heat and the garbage.
But wasn’t it always like this in the middle of every long summer, brains beginning to zigzag in the fawesome temperatures?
Of course, the day before, Moz and I had watched that black water spraying out of a fire hydrant, as if something old and rotten had been dredged up beneath the city. Despite the heat bouncing off the asphalt, I shivered, thinking about what I’d seen back in that alley. That cat was in charge of all those rats, one glance had told me. Like my dogs, those glowing eyes were one big pack, but the feline had total control, no jostling or butt-sniffing required, like they were all family. And that just wasn’t natural.
The delivery truck guy blared his horn at me one more time—like it was me in his way and not the garbage truck—so I gave him the finger. On the other side of his glass, his face broke into a smile, as if a little disrespect was all he’d been looking for.
Before the garbage truck was done, I got the pack unwound and back onto the sidewalk. We headed across town, toward the bottom end of Times Square, where we were supposed to meet Moz.
Maybe we could see my drummer after all. The hundred-yard dash had finally worn my dogs out, and the mastiff trotte
d ahead, tail high, having taken over through the mysteries of dog-pack democracy. Maybe it was because she’d led us down the street to safety, or because the Dobermans had fled first from the rat-infested alley.
Whatever. At least it was all decided now, and someone other than me was in charge.
8.CASH MONEY CREW
-MOZ-
Times Square was buzzing.
Even in broad daylight, the battery of lights and billboards rattled me, rubbing my brain raw. Huge video screens were wrapped around the curving buildings over my head, shimmering like water in the rain, ads for computers and cosmetics flickering across them. News bites scrolled past on glittering strips, punctuated by nonsense stock-ticker symbols.
The Last Days Page 5