Lost By The River

by David Moynihan

  “I—err, well, yes. There are many good things that come from the Everglades, you know. Why the natural crops there can be used to synthesize—”

  “Forget the reference. You have property that might turn out to be full of oil. Or it might be dust, right? And others have property near you. And most of the time, folks are buying dust.”

  “Yes. That about summarizes it, Mr. Drake. But, you know, there is more to the land than just dust. Why, the techniques and sequencing algorithms I've developed alone are worth—”

  “Yuh-huh. Yuh-huh. I got, Doc. You improved the terrain. You have some patents or whatever. Somebody might want to get their hands on them. They come around now and again to check out the place. What's different this time?”

  “Well, the offer—it was a bit... higher. You see. I myself. I am still attached to my land. But my partner. And our investors, they saw it all as—well, as a good deal.”

  “And?”

  “And I'm getting a bit—tired, Mr. Drake. Not done, oh no, not done. But—I don't think that I can—well, Mr. Drake. I want the air conditioning to work. I want the people in my lab to be experienced enough so that I don't have to follow them around and make sure they shut the front door before opening the sanitized refrigerator, I want—”

  “Nicer cars. Faster women?”

  “Oh, well...”

  “Yeah, fine. You're not into roughing it anymore. With your boss gone, do you get a bigger slice of the company?”

  “I—well, oh, no, Mr. Drake. At least, I don't believe so. It's—the percentages are... set.”

  “So his kids or somebody gets his stake?”

  “Yes.”

  “It's not one of those partnerships that leaves both sides wanting the other dead more than they already do?”

  “I—oh, I never wanted him dead, Mr. Drake. I confess I found him quite frustrating over time. Why—putting money into a marketing budget when my sequencer was more than five years out of date. And they were slick glossy papers, advertising our company, wonderful illustrations, imagine how much those…illustrations cost? You can't imagine, Mr. Drake. And there was an extra fee on the brochure, a royalty, for a commercial! A commercial that told nothing about what it was exactly that my company did.”

  “Doc, I thought you were trying to convince me you got along OK with the boss.”

  He sat silently for a moment, fuming at the memory. I made a note to myself, next time I ran a large medical corporation, be sure to give my physicians up-to-date equipment. Or hookers. Preferably both. I'd already begun strategizing a cost-saving system involving kickbacks from desperate salesmen where the staff knew I was the one signing off on the gifts when Ansbach spoke again.

  “You are right, of course. It isn't, perhaps, all that important. And they were right to keep me away from the broader client base. I confess I don't understand how much of this works. Or why the public only seems to care about the managers. They—they don't do much, really.”

  “Yeah, but they talk to the press for you. It's an old scam, and something we won't fix in a night. Anyone else chatting you up on the side? Other Agate folks who've since split the scene? Buds, you know, people you'd be meeting off-hours.”

  “Well, Mr. Drake, I can only say that my friends at the company—or colleagues, or—well, you know, the ones you'd trouble to have a cordial word or two with...”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “They all, well, they left some time ago, Mr. Drake. Saw the message on the wall, as it were. There weren't that many, and of course they were snatched up quickly by firms in Carolina, or California, of course. Where the action is.”

  “Too warm for me in those places, Doc.”

  “There is that on them. We do have winter. They seem to have modern sequencers, though.”

  “Riigght. How 'bout assistants? I know they train them at the high schools here to help out. Anyone like that? Dumb enough to think Agate had money? Smart enough to go out of state for a couple of firearms and some gear?”

  “I—assistants. Mr. Drake, you know—there were a few. But—hmm. Firearms, that's—well, I couldn't say precisely. You know, sometimes the younger employees might seem a bit angry, well—angry's not the right word. Peeved. Envious, perhaps. Of course, there are other firms in the area—across the river especially, that pay quite a bit more even for entry level help. I do know one staffer, he—little more than an intern. And of course, Mr. Drake, we are paying that salary to a person 17 years of age. But he, how did I know his salary? What was it? Made him so—That's it!”

  “What?”

  “I know now why I remember him. It was startling to me.”

  “Yeah? Go on. And he worked in your lab, knew your habits? When he split?”

  “He—what? No? The gentleman in question gave us all—companywide, you know—gave us all a profane announcement of his new salary, benefits and vacation time. It was… inappropriate. The man was 19.

  “Huh?”

  “Yes. As I was saying, there was a copy of the contract there, and he would be making more, in salary, than some of our most senior researchers, including a pair of post-doctorals we'd acquired after their contracts weren't renewed at one of the universities here. Oh, yes, that was quite the afternoon, as I recall.

  “Not that helpful, Doc.”

  “Yes, hmm, I suppose not. Err, tell me, Mr. Drake. What shall we do for the rest of the day?”

  “Doc, you've given me everything you know about the staff at Agate, besides yourself?”

  “Yes. Just about. Just about. There is nothing more that I can think of, now.

  “And as far as you know, nobody was really out to get you there? No threatening notes left behind? Windows shattered, tires slashed?”

  “I—no. There was a bit of a security feature put in after the fact. Anyone sending out a companywide email had to have it approved by the staff. Well, really, honestly, I think it was Richard—poor Richard—who did the checking. They'd installed a new feature for him. Got to be a bit of a burden. I can remember a few times asking if anyone knew how to get tickets to the new baseball team, when my son would come up to visit—so I asked around, they were supposed to be a sellout and—”

  “Right, Doc. Right. I get the picture. You'd had my hopes up there for a minute, but I suppose it isn't to be.”

  “Hopes for what, Mr. Drake?”

  “Finding Someone else to the police might think was as whacked as you.

  “Any luck?”

  “Not so far. Did you want to try on your costume for the show we're heading too? Like, would it fit. And conceal?”

  “Hmm. Well, not right now, Mr. Drake. Perhaps later. Is there something else you want to do today? It seems a bit... tedious, the two of us here in this hotel room.”

  “Doc, I don't think either of us should move around that much. And the way the papers'll describe your boss might upset you. Hotel's got a video game hookup, I'll head for breakfast in a bit when the stores around here slow down. I don't want you moving around or calling anybody while I'm gone, so unless you can give me your word, I may have to seal you in.

  “I give you my word, I won't try to contact anyone, Mr. Drake.”

  I took that for what it was worth, and duct-taped him to the bed, with a gag in place, after I'd assured the hotel people there was no need to clean the room that particular day and received permission to dump the previous night's empties into an available trash cart. The passed a few towels my way and I hit the markets again.

  There was nothing about the Doc above-fold, and I had to hit a few shops before I found one with fresh Jamaican meat pies. Protein after a long day. Ansbach would also need vitamins after his ordeals over the past few days, so I got him chips. In the beer line, I hung with the other day laborers. The clerk politely rapped an extra drink in paper bag for convenient carrying, and I brought the goods back.

  With the silver binds off, Ansbach struggled eating through the food I'd brought, yet agreed, politely, staying quiet was for the best. He
wasted most of the afternoon trying to solve Tetris, and kept to himself.

  Like a tubby teenager on prom night, I smoked and waited for women to give me a call. Sadly, I was reliving Ansbach's teen years. Flat-out lost in social situations, driving a lousy car, not wearing the right clothes, and self-conscious about the whole thing. No surprise they blew me off for the day, but I vowed I'd make something of myself and show them.

  FIFTEEN

  Morning came again. The Doc had been up for hours, pondering his wardrobe. I didn't check the contents of his luggage or wait on a fashion show. I knew I'd be seeing too much of it later. Outside I visited the nearest shop. Its owners knew me by now and were about to signal which beer was coldest when I disappointed them and grabbed a copy of every newspaper in the rack.

  I took the rags and a six of fluid-replenishing sports drinks to the counter, added meds from the impulse rack, dropped the equivalent of 3 800 milligram ibuprofen tabs into my stomach, and waited at a crosswalk for the world to stop spinning.

  Back in the room, Doc was too excited to eat. I chomped his food down while he blathered.

  “So many costumes!” he said. “And the dancers. You wouldn't believe the way people can dance. Now, the clothes we wear, sometimes, they inhibit mobility. Of course, they enable other forms. But that's neither here nor there. It's quite the sight to see. And the parades—Mr. Drake, I tell you, the thing I'll miss most of all will be entry into the parade. Are you sure I can't—”

  “You can't.”

  “And my very best outfit. The one that's designed to attract—”

  “Will go in the trash if you ask me about it again.”

  “But what about yourself, Mr. Drake? What is it that you plan on—”

  I told him my own wardrobe would be a surprise. The Doc was about to offer suggestions, but I pointed out that fashion magazines for men my age and demographic had been going bust right and left in large part because heterosexuals did not want to hear how certain shirts would better set off our eyes.

  He didn't catch the drift, so I piled bags over top of him and sent the truck down pothole-infested roads into the District. Sure, all roads into the district are kind of pot-holed, but the route I took didn't cause me to skip any.

  Our destination was the main convention center downtown. Part of me wanted to leave the vehicle on a loading dock and run for it. After all, the police would check the truck on suspicion of explosives and let the Doc out before he died of heat exposure and thirst. But nothing nearby except a meter maid, and they'd been known to absent-mindedly give tickets to double-parked vans packed with gasoline-soaked fertilizer, moving aside the fuse cord where it blocked the offending vehicle's tag.

  I waited with the Doc for the right moment, saw it when a troupe came bundling in—kind of crew you'd catch at any chain coffee store, save for a better grade of clever T-shirt. They passed by, wheeling clothes of all shapes and sizes. The Doc snatched his bags and moved with them.

  He was badged in a heartbeat. I shelled out some of Execgal's cash, received a drinking cup, pair of tiny handcuffs, and a delightful satiny nametag. Babe at the counter, three piercings and a top that showed too much of what maybe ought not to have been had a proper diet been followed, demanded ID from us both to prove we were of age.

  I growled when the Doc reached for his wallet.

  “Not allowed to take the initiative?” asked the girl behind the desk.

  “Certainly not,” I said, continuing to glare at the Doc. “He was supposed to be dressed as a Chippendale. There was some excuse about Metro policies.”

  She eyed us both for a time, then looked the Doc over.

  “There are no rules against dressing as a Chippendale on metro. Particularly given the bags you're carrying,” she said, reprovingly.

  I waited a moment, glared at the Doc.

  “Get the bags!” I said.

  He picked them up, looking sheepishly at her, and a little too admiringly at me. So I kicked him through the entrance, and watched as he stumbled.

  A few of the other workers bent over to assist.

  “Don't help him!” I shouted. They looked back at me, at the snickering clerk, got in a few licks of their own.

  Vaguely, I began to understand the Doc's attraction for this community. As long as one didn't have to swap roles... Understanding only takes you so far, so I kicked again, sending him in the general direction of a changing area. Sucks to be remembered, but it's the sprawling boot and backside people recall. No doubt in testimony I'd be much taller.

  As a sign of progressiveness, all bathrooms were gender neutral. Gal with a press-on goatee did an exaggerated fumbling at her crotch as we entered, paid considerably more attention to hygiene than a male of her presumed age would, and left me and the Doc to our own devices, saluting what might have been a sports team as she exited.

  “We made it in,” he said.

  “Yeah. S'pose you'll find us a place to crash later?”

  “This is a special convention. It goes 24 hours. ”

  “Glad to know that.”

  “Well yes, Mr. Drake. You see, most other conventions are limited by rules. Tedious rules. They want to govern public nudity, at least in conjunction with the sale of so many delightful things.”

  “Right.”

  “But this show, Mr. Drake, won't have that problem. We can stay here, and stay awake through it all. Or we can sleep in the back. There's also a hotel.”

  “We don't have a reservation.”

  “Well,” he brightened, “we can rest at the foyer to the playroom. Why, you'd make the perfect guardian for it. I do so much want to go to the playroom.”

  “And you're about to tell me what that is, aren't you, Doc?”

  “Oh—no, Mr. Drake. Not yet. I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for you. That'd be bad of me. You'd have to—”

  “Right. Doc, one thing, some of the—ladies in your life. Do they know about your... interests?”

  “I—well, some do, yes.”

  “Some?”

  “One can be, Mr. Drake, a different person in a different place.”

  “Completely?”

  “Maybe not forever. It's like an actor in a movie—versus an actor on TV. In the movie, they're up for a limited time, you know. They change themselves utterly—the good ones, anyway. It's as though you're seeing another person.”

  “Huh.”

  “But on television, of course, it's different. That's a—a weight. A drag. It saps your energy. Your creativity. They go to work every day, appearing in people's homes. They're just playing enhanced versions of themselves. It's not art, but a job.”

  My idealizing of the Green Hornet lay before me, in great danger. “All right. So, which of your... friends were you making movies with?”

  “I—well, Mr. Drake, you must understand, I didn't actually film any of these encounters. I'm quite the soul of propriety. And I don't have a photographic memory, though of course I do like to recall some of the more... involved occasions.”

  “This is too much information, Doc. Among your—friends, who might think you're likely to be here?”

  “Well, but a man of my reputation... you see, anyone might consider that this would be just the sort of place where I'd be. It really is a special affair. I hope that you've been able to grasp that much, Mr. Drake.”

  “Right. So we're leaving. Now.”

  I swung him towards the door.

  “But on the other hand, Mr. Drake. Wait. Please. My arm, you're hurting me. And not in a good way.”

  His feet drug against the ground. Some kind of spike emanated from the heel, and I had trouble tossing him against the wall. Stalemate.

  “Yes. Mr. Drake. Well, of course. They might know that I'd love to be here. And, then, they'd know that here would be the first place people might look for me. So then, this would be the last place where I might be. And you know, Mr. Drake. I have the most exquisite mask to display...

  “To hide the bruises on your face?”<
br />
  “What?”

  “Nothing. Look, get that mask on, and stay away from anyone you know. And don't go doing that funny walk of yours.”

  “What funny walk?”

  “All of them. The stupid mannerisms too. Dump those. You're acting now.”

  “I am?” Prideful.

  “Like your life depends on it. I'll find a place to stand guard. I won't be hanging to close to you, either. People think I'm a freak anyway, so this isn't too far out. You got any pictures of those friends?”

  And of course he did, with the images saved on a camera so lame I was glad of the surroundings... at least nobody'd see me handling the overpriced under-pixeled garbage. Grumbling to myself, I had the unenviable task of committing faces to memory while striving desperately to forget bodies, clothes, positioning of same, and especially cellulite.

  SIXTEEN

  The official opening came soon, and like Ansbach had said, it was all about the wardrobe. The Doc was still in the back, alone, fighting it out with his getup. There'd be a private unveiling later. I wore jeans and a black tanktop that revealed cop arms and faded tattoos.

  Alone and wandering, the freaks were all over me. Men, women and indeterminate. Five minutes past booths still doing setup, I was offered MC status in the playroom, certain services in the restroom, and $200 a day to stand near handcuff vendor and let patrons write their own dialogues.

  Turned the freebies down. But a second career seemed auspicious, so I scored a job demoing for a shop out of New Orleans that included steady flowing booze as a perquisite. Stall was close enough to the only entrance. I could keep an eye and give advance warning—or that's what I told the Doc. And in a place like this, hopefully people would seek other novelties.

  It was a married couple I subcontracted to. Spent most of the morning lifting boxes for 'em. The husband was more standoffish, thinking his wife liked me a bit too much. But jealousy is cute, and as host he kept the beer cold, even if the cooler became a barrier between myself and the missus; hope and rejection packed into Styrofoam.

  I awaited the crowds, supposed to hit afternoon, and spent my time reading over clever t-shirts, tweaking some skill I had in lockpicking, stashing a few samples in my pockets for later use, listening to the presenters, and now and again looking for signs of the Doc.