The City Under the Skin

by Geoff Nicholson

  Marilyn could see no point in debating the many illogicalities of that premise.

  “Maybe they’ll just throw you in a cellar and have rats do terrible things to you for a few months,” she said.

  “And maybe they won’t. Do you want to know what’s going on in there or don’t you?”

  “I do,” said Marilyn. “You know I do.”

  Zak emptied his pockets, handed Marilyn his wallet and keys, everything that would identify him if he got caught. He clambered out of the car and trotted briskly away in the direction of the compound, into the darkness, until Marilyn could no longer see him. She sat in the car, waiting, wishing that she smoked. Meanwhile, with a litheness Marilyn would scarcely have believed even if she’d been able to see it, Zak began to scale the nearest outer wall, like a surprisingly elegant spider monkey.

  22. ZAK LOOKING IN

  Zak ascended, negotiating a series of thin ledges and windows, a couple of loose drainpipes. He took it all in his stride, climbing skillfully, gracefully, without hesitation. He rather wished Marilyn could see him. At the top of the wall he paused just long enough to scan for cameras, motion sensors, trip wires, mantraps, and especially dogs, but there were none as far as he could tell. He hoisted himself over the parapet onto the building’s flat roof.

  He found himself close to the glass-walled living quarters, empty but brightly lit, and he glanced inside at the natty furnishings and some strange and interesting framed maps. Another man might have found this more surprising than Zak did: if you like maps, it doesn’t surprise you that other people like them too. In any case, he didn’t linger. He crossed a stretch of the roof, his thin-soled sneakers silent on the concrete, and he looked down into the courtyard below, where the Cadillac and a black, steroidal SUV were parked.

  There were lights on in some of the lower windows surrounding the courtyard, and a couple of guys in overalls stood around down there, but they didn’t look even remotely alert. Zak made a dash across a farther section of roof, to a cluster of vents and air-conditioning units that provided a decent hiding place, not far from the domed conservatory. That was apparently where the action was. Through the glass he could see people, movement, sharp, shadowy candlelight.

  He moved closer, close enough to see while still remaining unseen, an outsider looking in: a role that suited him extremely well. He could see this wasn’t a typical conservatory: not many plants, some kind of model of an island at the center. Under the glass, two men and four women were acting out an unfathomable dumb show. The first man was Billy Moore; the other was a solid, gray-haired man, a dense center of dangerous authority whose face Zak couldn’t see. The two men were fully clothed, suited, and they sat edgily on rattan chairs; the four women stood in a line and were completely naked.

  To Zak they looked like contestants in a sad nudist beauty pageant, lined up for display and inspection. But even the most modest beauty contest demands some smiling and preening, a show of confidence and self-presentation, and there was precious little of that here. One of them he recognized as the homeless woman Billy Moore had scooped up at Utopiates. Nothing so very terrible seemed to have happened to her: in some ways she looked better, or anyway cleaner, now than she had then. Another, he was pretty sure, was the stripper who’d just been brought there from the club; the other two were unknowns, a young, tough-looking little number and a fleshy woman with lots of dark hair.

  Zak shuddered, only partly from the cold. A sharp-edged wind flapped in from across the city. He hunkered down, tried to make himself smaller. He watched the gray-haired man rise from his chair, and now Zak got a look at his face. It was not exactly familiar, but he definitely knew who it was. He’d just been talking about him with Ray McKinley.

  This was Wrobleski, Mr. Wrobleski, a good customer of Utopiates, though he wasn’t someone who spent much time browsing the stock inside the store. On those few occasions when he’d been in, it was to buy directly from Ray McKinley, and he’d treated Zak like a serf. Meanwhile, Ray usually behaved as though he and Wrobleski were blood brothers, though that in itself didn’t mean a whole lot: Ray treated a lot of people that way when there was something in it for him. The fact that he’d said he wasn’t “very happy” with Wrobleski now seemed deeply, though incomprehensibly, significant.

  Inside the conservatory the four women moved together, though still not with any coordination or poise. This time Zak had the impression of a very amateur chorus line in its early days of rehearsal. They revolved through 180 degrees so that they now had their backs to the two men and to him.

  Zak sensed he was on the verge of something, as if some of the dots could be joined up, could be made to reveal a grand design. He felt both excited and disablingly anxious. This was what he’d come to see, but now a part of him wished he didn’t have to look at it. He saw that each woman’s back was marked with a bad, ugly, tattooed map. They were not identical to one another by any means, but you’d certainly assume they were all done by the same lousy tattooist: the clumsy lines and forms had a consistency about them. And it occurred to Zak that the tattooist wasn’t simply inept but rather that he’d scrawled all over these women’s backs as a deliberate act of desecration. The lower the tattoos came on the body, the more ugly and confusing they got, until they dissolved into a collection of abstract lines and patterns, circles, arches, spirals. And while the maps on the women’s backs all looked different, below the waist they all seemed very much the same, including the presence of a compass rose, at the base of each woman’s spine, just above the cleft of the ass, right on the coccyx.

  Zak watched as Wrobleski stood up, took a few steps forward, and reached out to touch the women. His hands trembled just a little, both eager and faltering. With infinite gentleness his fingers made contact with the back of the woman from the strip club, began to trace the shapes of the tattoo, the rough gouges and grids that bore no relation to the shape of the flesh beneath. The woman whipped around, straightened her neck, and unleashed a gout of saliva that hit Wrobleski sloppily on the side of his broad, flat face.

  Wrobleski steadied himself, raised his hand as though to slap the woman, but something stopped him, maybe something that Billy Moore said, or maybe some deep, personal uncertainty. He lowered his hand, and the woman turned her back on him, resuming her position in the line.

  Zak moved forward, pressing right up to the wall of the conservatory. The light wasn’t good, there were reflections and streaks on the glass, and his view was obstructed by a large golden barrel cactus, but the map-obsessive in him wanted to know more. He tried to get a better look at the tattoos. Those markings begged for interpretation. Zak was well aware, professionally aware, that all maps demand a degree of decoding, and these maps could surely make sense only to a strictly limited number of people. He clearly wasn’t one of them.

  He watched in taut anticipation, fascinated yet dreading what might come next, how this ritual would play out, but suddenly Wrobleski had had enough. He stepped back from the line of women. He stood very solemnly, held his chin up, and stretched his arms straight out to his sides at shoulder height. It would have been an ambiguous gesture at the best of times, a sign of affection, as if he were trying to embrace and enfold the women, an attempt to grow wings, an indication that he was ready for his crucifixion.

  Then Wrobleski dropped his arms to his sides and turned around, moved away from the women, toward Billy Moore, who remained gazing inertly at the spectacle, bafflement and dismay on his face. Wrobleski said something to him, but if it required a response, Billy Moore didn’t give it. And then Wrobleski looked away so that he could stare at his own reflection in the glass of the conservatory wall, and now Zak got a perfect look at his face. There were long thick streams of tears running down his cheeks, bubbles of snot in his nostrils, and his mouth was contorting as he tried, but failed, to prevent himself from sobbing. Wrobleski couldn’t bear to see his own reflection. He closed his eyes tight, and his head and shoulders quaked. To Zak he looked like a big, fat
, murderous baby.

  * * *

  The show was over. Zak was relieved, more for the women than for himself. He watched as a young black man came into the conservatory, attentively helped the naked women cover themselves up, then led them away, solicitously, maybe even obsequiously, into some other part of the compound. They didn’t resist; they went as if floating, sleepwalking. Billy Moore and Wrobleski remained behind, though they didn’t seem to be talking to each other. They didn’t seem to be doing anything.

  Zak remained where he was, wondering what to do next, whether he should wait for something else to happen, and how long that might take. There were surely any number of inferences, though not conclusions, that might be drawn from what he’d just seen, but lurking in the dark on the roof of the compound seemed no place to do that. He decided he’d wait a while longer, make sure the coast was clear, and then he’d descend, go back to Marilyn. He’d be the proud hunter-gatherer returning with his stash of precious information.

  Then he heard a man’s voice, a deep, constrained whisper: “And who the fuck are you?” At the same moment he felt a metal snout pressed into the side of his neck: a gun, he supposed, though he had never actually had a gun pressed into the side of his neck before. So the ARMED RESPONSE sign hadn’t been bogus after all.

  “I’m … Steve,” he said. The hesitation was natural enough, and at that moment Steve was the only name he could possibly think of.

  “And what the fuck are you, Steve?”

  “I’m a trespasser,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, you are. But why?”

  Out of the corner of his eye Zak saw that the man with the gun was the same one who’d helped cover up the women, an all-purpose assistant, it seemed.

  “I’m an urban explorer,” Zak said tentatively.

  “You’re a fucking what?”

  “Well, in this case I guess I’m more of a builderer. A freakclimber. That kind of thing.”

  “I still don’t know who the fuck you are, or what the fuck you’re talking about,” said Akim.

  “There are a lot of us,” Zak said, then quickly added, “but I’m on my own now. We climb buildings. We like a challenge. I saw this place, and wow, I had to climb it. Really. That’s all. I’m done now. I was all set to leave. I won’t make trouble.”

  “I know you won’t.”

  Akim patted down Zak, went through his pockets, finding absolutely nothing. Still pressing the gun into Zak’s neck, Akim steered him into the conservatory, into the presence of Wrobleski and Billy Moore. Zak couldn’t help looking more closely at the relief map. He recognized it immediately as Iwo Jima, and he could tell it was a fine thing: he could think of quite a few collectors on the Utopiates mailing list who’d pay an arm and a leg for a specimen like that. Then he thought he ought to concentrate on matters at hand. Wrobleski turned to him. He no longer looked like a man who did much crying. He didn’t look at all like a baby.

  “Do I know you?” Wrobleski said to Zak.

  “No, you don’t,” Zak said, and Wrobleski seemed prepared to believe that part of the story, at least for now. Zak was well aware that if this went on too long, then serf or not, he would surely remember him from the store. He set his features in what he hoped was an uncharacteristic expression.

  “Do you know this guy?” Wrobleski said to Billy Moore.

  Billy Moore looked at Zak for just a second, his face a mask of utter indifference, then said, “No. He’s a nobody. How would I know him?”

  Zak tried to breathe normally. He didn’t understand why Billy Moore would say that, but he wondered if he was allowed to feel the very slightest relief.

  “He says he’s a freak,” said Akim.

  “A what?” said Wrobleski.

  Zak tried again to explain the joys of urban exploration and freakclimbing, all the time keeping his head down, his face away from Wrobleski.

  “Can you believe this guy?” said Akim.

  “I have actually heard of this shit,” said Wrobleski; then to Zak, “And what, you were going to spray your name on the side of my building?”

  “No way,” said Zak. “I respect the places where I trespass. And anyway, you can see I don’t have any spray cans with me.”

  There was no denying that.

  “You’re not just some common or garden-variety burglar, are you?” said Wrobleski.

  “No,” said Zak.

  “Can you imagine what I’d do to a burglar?”

  “No, I can’t,” said Zak.

  “That’s probably just as well,” said Wrobleski, and he scrutinized Zak’s face, looking for evidence. Zak was terrified at what he might find.

  “Is that a black eye you’ve got there?”

  “Yes, yes, it is,” Zak said, and allowed his eyes to turn just a couple of degrees in Billy Moore’s direction. Billy remained reassuringly blank.

  Wrobleski continued to stare at Zak. It was true enough that he didn’t look much like a burglar, and just as he was carrying no spray cans or climbing equipment, he wasn’t carrying any burglary gear either.

  “What do you think, Billy?” said Wrobleski. “You think he’s worth soiling my hands on?”

  “That’s your decision, Mr. Wrobleski,” said Billy.

  “Fucking right it is,” said Wrobleski; then to Zak, “You weren’t spying on me, were you, kid?”

  “Who’d employ me as a spy?”

  It wasn’t a bad answer, and Wrobleski seemed inclined to accept it. Even so, he said, “You understand I can’t just have people waltzing into my place. That would be very bad for business.”

  “I’m not trying to hurt your business,” said Zak, having no idea what Wrobleski’s business was.

  “I believe you,” said Wrobleski, “but you also understand that I have to do something to you, right?”

  “No, I don’t really understand that,” said Zak.

  “Do you know why I’m not going to kill you?” Wrobleski asked.

  Zak shook his head gravely.

  “Because nobody’s paying me to,” said Wrobleski.

  Zak thought that might be a joke, but nobody was laughing, least of all him.

  “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” Zak offered.

  “No,” said Wrobleski. “It wouldn’t help in the least. Billy, would you do the honors?”

  Billy Moore crossed the conservatory, edged around the relief map, and, with a remarkable tenderness, put one hand on the back of Zak’s head, pulling him forward. For one bizarre moment Zak thought Billy Moore might be about to hug him, but then Billy tightened his grip and, with a deft, intense force, slammed Zak’s face down into the concentric, geometric heart of the golden barrel cactus. He twisted the head a little, rubbing it in, scuffing it around, then he changed hands, grabbed Zak’s hair and the back of his shirt, and tossed him all the way across the conservatory.

  Zak lay motionless on the floor, not the first time he’d been in such a position thanks to Billy Moore, though this time there was no supplementary kicking. There was no need for it. His face felt as though it had been in a losing encounter with a commercial-grade stapler, as if it had been excruciatingly refashioned, collaged into some new, though by no means improved, design, and when he raised a hand to touch his face, he felt the spines that remained in his flesh, perforating his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids. He could hear Wrobleski making some approving noises.

  By the time Zak had regained his senses, both Wrobleski and Billy Moore were gone from the conservatory and Akim was dragging him to his feet, pushing him out of the door and across the flat roof. Zak could barely open his eyes and had only an approximate idea of where he was going, into a descending elevator, it seemed, then out and through a room with many more framed maps on the wall. Akim pressed his lips way too close to Zak’s ear and said, with a horrible intimacy, “He’s getting soft. The old Wrobleski would have shoved that cactus up your ass and then thrown you off the roof,” and then they were in the courtyard, by the outer gate of the compound. Th
e old man slid the gate open just a couple of feet. Akim looked out suspiciously.

  “You really on your own?” he said to Zak.

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “Yeah, you probably would,” said Akim.

  What did it matter either way? Akim wasn’t about to go searching the streets. He kicked Zak in the butt, ejected him, booted him out into the real world beyond.

  Zak still had enough wit to stagger off in the direction away from the station wagon, and he kept going long after he’d heard the gate shut behind him. When he reckoned Akim and the guy on the gate were no longer able to keep an eye on him, he doubled back, plunged into the shadows, and kept going, eyesight smeared, his face erupting, until he could just make out the two wrecked dump trucks and the brown station wagon parked between them. He hoped Marilyn was the kind of woman who knew some first aid.

  23. THE PEDAGOGUE

  Late night, a lumbering darkness, the smell of solvents and hot dogs hanging low in the downtown air, and even at this hour Sanjay, Billy Moore’s sole employee, continued to tend the parking lot, to guard it. He paced the perimeter, inside the fence, taking slow, ponderous strides across the white pea gravel. There were no cars parked there now, not even his boss’s Cadillac, only the trucks from the subcontractor of the Platinum Line, not that they didn’t need guarding too.

  There was also the matter of Carla Moore. Sanjay could see that even though her father’s trailer was dark and he was obviously absent, Carla remained in the smaller trailer, the lights on, visible through the uncurtained side window, conspicuous and exposed. She was sitting at her desk, reading, making notes, and he found that touching: she was quite the little scholar. He also noticed that she had her father’s old leather jacket draped around her shoulders.

  He was experiencing some mixed feelings toward Billy Moore at that moment. He had signed on as a parking lot attendant, not as a babysitter, much less as a guardian, and in one way, being left alone here with the little girl in the middle of the night felt like far too much responsibility. At the same time, he felt flattered that Billy Moore trusted him with his own progeny. He was not entirely uncomfortable with this paradox: he thought paradoxes were to be embraced.