Spook Country

by William Gibson

  Tito looked over at the blue vase. He’d forgotten about that. He’d have to find a place for it. He thought he knew where.

  “Where did you go, after 9/11,” she asked, “before you moved here?”

  He had been living below Canal, with his mother. “We went to Sunset Park. With Antulio. We rented a house, red brick, with very small rooms. Smaller than this. We ate Dominican food. We walked in the old cemetery. Antulio showed us Joey Gallo’s grave.” He put the Casio aside and stood, removing the hairnet. “I’m going up to the roof,” he said, “I have something to do there.”

  Vianca nodded, sliding his foam-braced Sony into its carton.

  He put on his coat, picked up the blue vase, and put it, still wearing the white cotton gloves, into his side pocket. He went out, closing the door behind him. He stopped in the hallway, unable to give a name to what he felt. Fear, but that was in its place. Something else. Edges, territories, a blind vastness? He went on, through the fire door and up the stairs. When he reached the sixth floor, he climbed a final flight to the roof.

  Concrete covered with asphalt, gravel, secret traces of the World Trade Center. Alejandro had suggested that last, once, when he’d been up here. Tito remembered the pale dust, thick on the sill of his mother’s bedroom window, below Canal. He remembered fire escapes, far from the fallen towers, filled with office papers. He remembered the ugliness of the Gowanus Expressway. The tiny front yard of the house where they’d stayed with Antulio. The N train from Union Square. His mother’s wild eyes.

  The clouds were like an engraving in some ancient book. A light that robbed the world of color.

  The door to the roof faced south, opening out of the slant-backed structure that supported its frame. Against this structure’s wedge-shaped, east-facing wall had been constructed shelving of unpainted timber, long gone gray, and on this had been arranged, or abandoned, a variety of objects. A corroded bucket on casters, with a foot-powered mop-squeezing unit. Mops themselves, heads gone bald and gray, the peeling paint on their wooden handles faded to delicate pastels. White plastic kegs that warned with a black skeleton hand in a black-and-white diamond, but were empty. Several rusted iron hand tools of so great an age as to be unidentifiable, at least by Tito. Rusted gallon paint cans whose paper labels had faded past reading.

  He took the vase from his pocket and polished it between his cotton gloves. Ochun must have countless homes like this one, he thought, countless windows. He stood the vase on a shelf, shifted a can aside, put the vase against the wall, then moved the can back, leaving the vase concealed between two cans. In the way of these rooftops, it might be found tomorrow, or remain untouched for years.

  She rules over the world’s sweet waters. Youngest of the female orishas, yet her title is Great Queen. Recognizing herself in the colors yellow and gold, in the number five. Peacocks are hers, and vultures.

  Tia Juana’s voice. He nodded to the shelf, the hidden altar, then turned and descended the stairs.

  Letting himself back into his room, he found Vianca removing the drive from his PC tower. She looked up at him. “You copied what you wished to keep?”

  “Yes,” he said, touching the Nano around his neck. A charm. His music stored there.

  He removed his coat, hung it on the rack, and put his hairnet back on. Settling himself opposite his cousin, he began again the ritual disassembly, this meticulous scrubbing out of traces, erasure. As Juana would say, the washing of the threshold of the new road.

  26. GRAY’S PAPAYA

  Sometimes, if Brown was hungry at the end of the day, and in a certain mood, they’d go to Gray’s Papaya for the Recession Special. Milgrim always got the orangeade with his, because it seemed more honestly a drink, less juice-like. You could get actual juices there, but not with the Recession Special, and juice didn’t seem like part of the Gray’s experience, which was about grilled beef franks, soft white buns, and watery, sugary drinks, consumed standing up, under brilliant, buzzing fluorescent light.

  When they were staying at the New Yorker, as it seemed they were again, tonight, Gray’s was only two blocks up Eighth Avenue. Milgrim was comforted by Gray’s Papaya. He remembered when the two franks and drink that were the Recession Special had been $1.95.

  Milgrim doubted that Gray’s comforted Brown, exactly, but he did know that Brown could become relatively talkative there. He’d have the nonalcoholic piña colada with his franks and lay out the origins of cultural Marxism in America. Cultural Marxism was what other people called political correctness, according to Brown, but it was really cultural Marxism, and had come to the United States from Germany, after World War II, in the cunning skulls of a clutch of youngish professors from Frankfurt. The Frankfurt School, as they’d called themselves, had wasted no time in plunging their intellectual ovipositors repeatedly into the unsuspecting body of old-school American academia. Milgrim always enjoyed this part; it had an appealing vintage sci-fi campiness to it, staccato and exciting, with grainy monochrome Eurocommie star-spawn in tweed jackets and knit ties, breeding like Starbucks. But he’d always be brought down, as the rant rolled to a close, by Brown’s point that the Frankfurt School had been Jewish, all of them. “Every. Last. One.” Dabbing mustard from the corners of his mouth with a precisely folded paper napkin. “Look it up.”

  Which was exactly what had happened, this time, after Milgrim’s long day in the laundry. Brown had just said that, and Milgrim had nodded, and continued to chew the last of his second dog, glad of something in his mouth to preclude answering.

  When they’d both finished their Specials, it was time to walk back down Eighth to the New Yorker. The traffic was moderate and there was something like a touch of spring in the air, a slight premonitory warmth that Milgrim suspected of being hallucinatory, but welcomed nonetheless. When the yellow Hummer cruised past, in the nearest lane, as they were walking south, he noticed it. You would, he’d tell himself later. Not that it was a real Hummer, just one of those half-assed ones, and not just that it was yellow, but because it was a Hummer and it was yellow, and it had those goofy counterweighted hubcaps that didn’t rotate with the hubs, just sort of rocked there. And these were yellow, matching yellow, and had a Happy Face on each one, or at least on the two on the sidewalk side, the two Milgrim could see.

  But what really held Milgrim’s attention, after the northbound yellow vehicle flicked past, was how closely its driver and passenger had resembled his two Moorish knights of the laundry, down on Lafayette. Black knit skullcaps snugged low over massy skulls, and sofa-like chest expanses of black, button-studded leather.

  Gilbert and George, in the front seats of a Hummer.

  27. THE INTERNATIONAL CURRENCY OF BAD SHIT

  Held psychically together by the thick white Mondrian robe, her sunglasses, and a room-service breakfast of granola, yogurt, and a watermelon liquado, Hollis sat back in one wide white armchair, put her feet up on the shorter of the two marble-topped coffee tables, and regarded the vinyl Blue Ant figurine on the chair arm. It was eyeless; or rather its designer had chosen not to represent its eyes. It had a determined smirk, the expression of a cartoon underdog fully aware of its own secret status as superhero. Its posture conveyed that too, arms slightly bent at its sides, fists balled, feet in a martial artist’s ready T-stance. Its stylized cartoon-Egyptian apron and sandals, she judged, were a nod to the hieroglyphic look of the company’s logo.

  Inchmale said that when you were presented with a new idea, you should try to turn it over, to look at the bottom. She picked the figure up, expecting to find it copyrighted Blue Ant, but the bottoms of its feet were smooth and blank. Nicely finished. It wasn’t a toy, not for kids anyway.

  It reminded her of the time their soundman, Ritchie Nagel, had dragged a militantly disinterested Inchmale to see Bruce Springsteen at Madison Square Garden. Inchmale had returned with his shoulders hunched in thought, deeply impressed by what he’d witnessed but uncharacteristically unwilling to talk about it. Pressed, he would only say that S
pringsteen, onstage, had channeled a combination of Apollo and Bugs Bunny, a highly complex act of physical possession. Hollis had subsequently waited, uneasily, for Inchmale to manifest anything at all Boss-like onstage, but that had never happened. This Blue Ant’s designer, she thought, as she stood the thing back on the chair arm, had aspired to something like that: Zeus and Bugs Bunny. Her cell rang.

  “Morning.” Inchmale, as if called forth by her having thought of him.

  “You sent Heidi.” Only neutrally accusatory.

  “Did she walk on her hind legs?”

  “Did you know about Jimmy’s money?”

  “Your money. I did, but I’d forgotten. He told me he had it, that he was going to give it to you. I told him to give it to Heidi, if he couldn’t give it to you. Otherwise, it would vanish down that hole in his arm without a hiccup.”

  “You didn’t tell me.”

  “I forgot. With major effort. Repressed the whole sorry episode, in the wake of his not-unexpected demise.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “I didn’t. He phoned me. About a week before they found him.”

  Hollis turned in the armchair, looking back over her shoulder at the sky above the Hollywood hills. Absolutely empty. When she turned back, she picked up the rest of her liquado. “It’s not like I don’t need it. I’m not sure what to do with it, though.” She took a swallow of watermelon juice and put the glass down.

  “Spend it. I wouldn’t try to bank it.”

  “Why not?”

  “You don’t know where it’s been.”

  “I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking of.”

  “The U.S. hundred is the international currency of bad shit, Hollis, and by the same token the number-one target of counterfeiters. How long are you going to be in L.A.?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because I’m due in there day after the day after tomorrow. Found out about twenty minutes ago. I can vet those bills for you.”

  “You are? You can?”

  “The Bollards.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bollards. I may produce them.”

  “Do you really know how to check for counterfeit money?”

  “I live in Argentina, don’t I?”

  “Are Angelina and the baby coming?”

  “They may later, if the Bollards and I are go. And you?”

  “I met Hubertus Bigend.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “Interesting.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “We had drinks. Then he drove me down to where they’re building new offices. In a kind of Cartier tank.”

  “In a what?”

  “Obscene car.”

  “What does he want?”

  “I was about to say it’s complicated, but actually it’s vague. Extremely vague. If you have time off from the Pillocks, I’ll tell you then.”

  “Please.” He hung up.

  The phone rang in her hand. “Yes?” Expecting an Inchmale afterthought.

  “Allo? Ollis?”

  “Odile?”

  “You have experience the poppies?”

  “Yes. Beautiful.”

  “TheNode man calls, he says you have a new helmet?”

  “I do, thanks.”

  “This is good. You know Silverlake?”

  “Roughly.”

  “Rough—?”

  “I know Silverlake.”

  “The artist Beth Barker is here, her apartment. You will come, you will experience the apartment, this environment. This is an annotated environment, do you know it?”

  “Annotated how?”

  “Each object is hyperspatially tagged with Beth Barker’s description, with Beth Barker’s narrative of this object. One simple water glass has twenty tags.”

  She looked at the white orchid blooming on the taller coffee table, imagined it layered with virtual file cards. “It sounds fascinating, Odile, but it will have to be another day. I need to make some notes. Absorb what I’ve seen so far.”

  “She will be desolate, Beth Barker.”

  “Tell her chin up.”

  “Chin—?”

  “I’ll see it another day. Really. And the poppies are wonderful. We must talk about them.”

  “Ah. Very well.” Cheered. “I will tell Beth Barker. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye. And Odile?”

  “Yes?”

  “Your message. You said you wanted to talk about Bobby Chombo.”

  “I do, yes.”

  “We will, then. Bye.”

  She stood up quickly, as if doing so would keep the phone, which she thrust into one of the robe’s pockets, from ringing again.

  “HOLLIS HENRY.” The boy at the no-name rental lot a short walk down Sunset looked up from her license. “Have I seen you on TV?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want full collision?”

  “Yes.”

  He X’d the contract three times. “Signature, initials twice. Movies?”

  “No.”

  “Singer. In that band. Bald guy with the big nose, guitar, English.”

  “No.”

  “Don’t forget to fill it up before you bring it back,” he said, staring up at her now with mild if unabashed interest. “That was you.”

  “No,” she said, picking up the keys, “it wasn’t.” She went out to her rented black Passat, the carton from Blue Ant under her arm, and got in, putting it in the passenger seat beside her.

  28. BROTHERMAN

  Tito and Vianca packaged the contents of his room as ten parcels of varying sizes, each one double-wrapped in contractor-grade black trash bags and sealed with heavy black tape. This left Tito’s mattress, the ironing board, the long-legged chair from Canal Street, and the old iron clothing rack. Vianca, it had been agreed, was taking the ironing board and the chair. The mattress, assumed to contain enough skin flakes and hair for a DNA match, would be on its way to landfill as soon as Tito left the building. Vianca had sealed it in two of the black plastic bags before she’d vacuumed the room. The black bags made a slithering sound, now, when you sat on the mattress, and Tito would have to sleep on it.

  Tito touched the Nano again, on its cord around his neck, grateful to have his music.

  “We’ve packed the tchainik,” he said, “and the kettle. We can’t make tea.”

  “I don’t want to wipe them again.”

  “Carlito called Alejandro and I tchainiks,” Tito told her. “It meant we were ignorant but willing to learn. Do you know that way of using ‘tchainik’?”

  “No,” Vianca said, looking like a very pretty, very dangerous child, under her white paper hairnet. “I only know it to mean teapot.”

  “A hacker’s word, in Russian.”

  “Do you ever think that you are forgetting Russian, Tito?” she asked in English.

  Before he could answer, someone rapped lightly at the door, in protocol. Vianca came out of her crouch on the mattress with a peculiar grace, at once tight and serpentine, to rap a reply. “Brotherman,” she said, and unlocked the door.

  “Hola, viejo,” said Brotherman, nodding to Tito and pulling off a black knit headband that served him as earmuffs. He wore his hair in a vertical mass, touched a peculiar dark orange with peroxide. In Brotherman, Juana said, some African had surfaced in the Cuban, before mingling with the Chinese. Brotherman exaggerated this now, to his own advantage and that of the family. He was completely ambivalent, racially. A chameleon, his Spanish slid deftly between Cuban, Salvadoran, and Chilango, while his black American was often incomprehensible to Tito. He was taller than Tito, and thin, long-faced, the whites of his eyes shot with red. “Llapepi,” he greeted Vianca with a nod, backslanging papilla: teenager.

  “Hola, Brotherman. Qué se cuenta?”

  “Same old,” said Brotherman, bending to catch and squeeze Tito’s hand. “Man of the hour.”

  “I don’t like waiting,” Tito said, and stood, to shake unease from his back and arms. The
bare bulb overhead seemed brighter than ever before; Vianca had wiped it clean.

  “But I have seen your systema, cousin.” Brotherman raised a white plastic shopping bag. “Carlito sends you shoes.” He passed Tito the bag. The high-topped black shoes still had their white-and-blue Adidas logo tags. Tito sat on the edge of the bagged mattress and removed his boots. He laced the Adidas shoes and pulled them on over medium-weight cotton socks, removed the tags, and carefully tightened the laces before tying them. He stood up, shifting his weight, taking the measure of these new shoes. “GSG9 model,” Brotherman said. “Special police in Germany.”

  Tito positioned his feet shoulder-width apart, dropped his Nano inside the neck of his T-shirt, took a breath, and backtucked, the new shoes missing the bare bulb in the ceiling fixture by less than a foot. He landed three feet behind his starting position.

  He grinned at Vianca, but she didn’t smile back. “I’ll go out for some food now,” she said. “What would you like?”

  “Anything,” said Tito.

  “I’ll start loading this,” said Brotherman, toeing the pile of black packages. Vianca passed him a fresh pair of gloves from her jacket pocket.

  “I’ll help,” said Tito.

  “No,” said Brotherman, pulling on the gloves and wiggling white fingers at Tito. “You twist your ankle, sprain anything, Carlito have our asses.”

  “He’s right,” said Vianca, firmly, removing her paper hairnet and replacing it with her baseball cap. “No more tricking. Give me your wallet.”

  Tito passed her his wallet.

  She removed the two pieces of identification most recently provided by the family. Surname Herrera. Adiós. She left him his money and MetroCard.

  He looked from one cousin to the other, then sat back down on the mattress.

  29. INSULATION

  There was something about Rize, Milgrim decided, reclining fully dressed across his New Yorker bedspread, that reminded him of one of the more esoteric effects of eating exceptionally hot Szechuan.