Sublett had this little white Eurocar called a Montxo. She knew that because she’d had to look at the logo on the dash all the way from Paradise. Sublett said it rhymed with poncho. It was built in Barcelona and you just plugged it into the house-current and left it until it was charged. It wouldn’t do much more than forty on a highway, but Sublett didn’t like to drive anything else because of his allergies. She said he was lucky they had electric cars; he’d told her all about how he was worried about the electromagnetic fields and cancer and stuff.
They’d left his mother with this Mrs. Baker, watching Spacehunter on the tv. They were both real excited about that because they said it was Molly Ringwald’s first film. They’d get excited about just about anything, like that, and Chevette never had any idea who they were talking about.
Rydell was just spending more and more time on the phone, and they’d had to stop and buy fresh batteries twice, Sublett paying.
It kind of bothered her that he didn’t give her any more attention. And they’d slept on the same bed again, in the room at the motel, but nothing had happened, even though Sublett had slept out in the Montxo, with the seats tilted back.
All Rydell ever did now was talk to those Republic of Desire people Lowell knew, but on the regular phone, and try to leave messages on somebody’s voicemail. Mr. Mom or something. Ma. But he didn’t think anybody was getting them, so he’d called up the Desire people and gone on and on about the whole story, everything that happened to them, and they’d recorded it and they were supposed to put it in this Mr. Ma’s voicemail. Rydell said they were going to stuff it there, so there wasn’t any other mail. Said that ought to get his attention.
When they’d got to L.A. and got a room in a motel, Chevette had been kind of excited, because she’d always wanted to do that. Because her mother had always seemed to have real good times when she went to motels. Well, it had turned out to be sort of like a trailer camp without the trailers, with these little concrete buildings divided up into smaller rooms, and there were foreign people cooking barbecues down in what had been the swimming pool. Sublett had gotten really upset about that, how he couldn’t handle the hydrocarbons and everything, but Rydell had said it was just for the one night. Then Rydell had gone over to the foreign people and talked to them a little, and came back and said they were Tibetans. They made a good barbecue, too, but Sublett just ate this drugstore food he’d brought with him, bottled water and these yellow bars looked like soap, and went out to sleep in his Montxo.
Now here she was, walking into this place called Century City II, and trying to look like she was there to pull a tag. It was this kind of green, tit-shaped thing up on these three legs that ran up through it. You could see where they went because the walls were some kind of glass, mostly, and you could see through. It was about the biggest thing around; you could see it forever. Rydell called it the Blob.
It was real upscale, too, kind of like China Basin, with those same kind of people, like you mostly saw in the financial district, or in malls, or when you were pulling tags.
Well, she had her badges on, and she’d had a good shower at the motel, but the place was starting to creep her out anyway. All these trees in there, up all through this sort of giant, hollow leg, and everything under this weird filtered light came in through the sides. And here she was standing on this escalator, about a mile long, just going up and up, and around her all these people who must’ve belonged there. There were elevators, Rydell said, up the other two legs, and they ran at an angle, like the lift up to Skinner’s. But Sublett’s friend had said there were more IntenSecure people watching those, usually.
She knew that Sublett was behind her, somewhere, or anyway that was how they’d worked it out before Rydell dropped them off at the entrance. She’d asked him where he was going then, and he’d just said he had to go and borrow a flashlight. She was starting to really like him. It sort of bothered her. She wondered what he’d be like if he wasn’t in a situation like this. She wondered what she’d be like if she wasn’t in a situation like this.
He and Sublett had both worked for the company that did security for this building, IntenSecure, and Sublett had called up a friend of his and asked him questions about how tight it was. The way he’d put it, it was like he wanted a new job with the company. But he and Rydell had worked it out that she could get in, particularly if he was following her to keep track.
What bothered her about Sublett was that he was acting sort of like he was committing suicide or something. Once he’d gotten with the program, Rydell’s plan, it was like he felt cut loose from things. Kept talking about his apostasy and these movies he liked, and somebody called Cronenberg. Had this weird calm like somebody who knew for sure he was going to die; like he’d sort of made peace with it, except he’d still get upset about his allergies.
Green light. Rising up through it.
They’d made her up this package at the motel. What it had in it was the glasses. Addressed to Karen Mendelsohn.
She closed her eyes, told herself Bunny Malatesta would bongo on her head if she didn’t make the tag, and pushed the button.
‘Yes?’ It was one of those computers.
‘Allied Messenger, for Karen Mendelsohn.’
‘A delivery?’
‘She’s gotta sign for it.’
‘Authorized to barcode—’
‘Her hand. Gotta see her hand. Do it. You know?’
Silence. ‘Nature of delivery?’
‘You think I open them or what?’
‘Nature of delivery?’
‘Well,’ Chevette said, ‘it says “Probate Court,” it’s from San Francisco, and you don’t open the door, Mr. Wizard, it’s on the next plane back.’
‘Wait, please,’ said the computer.
Chevette looked at the potted plants beside the door. They were big, looked real, and she knew Sublett was standing behind them, but she couldn’t see him. Somebody had put a cigarette out on one, between its roots.
The door open, a crack. ‘Yes?’
‘Karen Mendelsohn?’
‘What is it?’
‘Allied Messenger, San Francisco. You wanna sign for this?’ Except there was nothing, no tag, to sign.
‘San Francisco?’
‘What it says.’
The door opened a little more. Dark-haired woman in a long pale terrycloth robe. Chevette saw her check the badges on Skinner’s jacket. ‘I don’t understand,’ Karen Medelsohn said. ‘We do everything via GlobEx.’
‘They’re too slow,’ Chevette said, as Sublett stepped around the plant, wearing this black uniform. Chevette saw herself reflected in his contacts, sort of bent out at the middle.
‘Ms. Mendelsohn,’ he said, ‘afraid we’ve got us a security emergency, here.’
Karen Mendelsohn was looking at him. ‘Emergency?’
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Sublett said. He put his hand on Chevette’s shoulder and guided her in, past Karen Mendelsohn. ‘Situation’s under control. Appreciate your co-operation.’
38 Miracle mile
‘Wally’ Divac, Rydell’s Serbian landlord, hadn’t really wanted to loan Rydell his flashlight, but Rydell had lied and promised he’d get him something a lot better, over at IntenSecure, and bring it along when he brought the flashlight back. Maybe one of those telescoping batons with the wireless taser-tips, he said; something serious, anyway, professional and maybe quasi-illegal. Wally was sort of a cop-groupie. Liked to feel he was in with the force. Like a lot of people, he didn’t much distinguish between the real PD and a company like IntenSecure. He had one of those armed response signs in his front yard, too, but Rydell was glad to see it wasn’t IntenSecure. Wally couldn’t quite afford that kind of service, just like his car was second-hand, though he would’ve told you it was previously owned, like the first guy was just some flunky who’d had the job of breaking it in for him.
But he owned this house, where he lived, with the baby-blue plastic siding that looked sort of like paint
ed wood, and one of those fake lawns that looked realer than AstroTurf. And he had the house in Mar Vista and a couple of others. His sister had come over here in 1994, and then he’d come himself, to get away from all the trouble over there. Never regretted it. Said this was a fine country except they let in too many immigrants.
‘What’s that you’re driving?’ he’d asked, from the steps of the renovated Craftsman two blocks above Melrose.
‘A Montxo,’ Rydell said. ‘From Barcelona. Electric.’
‘You live in America,’ he’d said, his gray hair plastered neatly back from his pitted forehead. ‘Why you drive that?’ His BMW, immaculate, reposed in the driveway; he’d had to spend five minutes disarming it to get the flashlight out for Rydell. Rydell had remembered the time in Knoxville, Christmas day, when the Narcotics team’s new walkie-talkies had triggered every car-alarm in a ten-mile radius.
‘Well,’ Rydell said, ‘it’s real good for the environment.’
‘It’s bad for your country,’ Wally said. ‘Image thing. An American should drive some car to feel proud of. Bavarian car. At least Japanese.’
‘I’ll get this back to you, Wally.’ Holding up the big black flashlight.
‘And something else. You said.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘When you pay rent on Mar Vista?’
‘Kevin’ll take care of it.’ Getting into the tiny Montxo and starting up the flywheel. It sat there, rocking slightly on its shocks, while the wheel got up to speed.
Wally waved, shrugged, then backed into his house and closed the door. Rydell hadn’t ever seen him not wear that Tyrolean hat before.
Rydell looked at the flashlight, figuring out where the safety was. It wasn’t much, but he felt like he had to have something. And it was nonlethal. Guns weren’t that hard to buy, on the street, but he didn’t really want to have to have one around today. You did a different kind of time, if there was a gun involved.
Then he’d driven back toward the Blob, taking it real easy at intersections and trying to keep to the streets that had designated lanes for electric vehicles. He got Chevette’s phone out and hit redial for the node-number in Utah, the one God-eater had given him, back in Paradise. God-eater was the one who looked like the mountain, or so he said. Rydell had asked him what kind of a name that was. He’d said he was a full-blood Blood Indian. Rydell sort of doubted it.
None of their voices were real, even; it was all digital stuff. God-eater could just as well be a woman, or three different people, or all three of the ones he’d seen there might’ve been just one person. He thought about the woman in the wheelchair in Cognitive Dissidents. It could be her. It could be anybody. That was the spooky thing about these hackers. He heard the node-number ringing, in Utah. God-eater always picked up on five, in mid-ring.
‘Yes?’
‘Paradise,’ Rydell said.
‘Richard?’
‘Nixon.’
‘We have your goods in place, Richard. One little whoops and a push.’
‘You get me a price yet?’ The light changed. Somebody was honking, pissed-off at the Montxo’s inability to do anything like accelerate.
‘Fifty,’ God-eater said.
Fifty thousand dollars. Rydell winced. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘fair enough.’
‘Better be,’ God-eater said. ‘We can make you pretty miserable in prison, even. In fact, we can make you really miserable in prison. The baseline starts lower, in there.’
I’ll bet you got lots of friends there, too, Rydell thought. ‘How long you estimate the response-time, from when I call?’
God-eater burped, long and deliberate. ‘Quick. Ten, fifteen max. We’ve got it slotted the way we talked about. Your friends’re gonna shit themselves. But really, you don’t wanna be in the way. This’ll be like something you never saw before. This new unit they just got set up.’
‘I hope so,’ Rydell said, and broke the connection.
He gave the parking-attendant Karen’s apartment number. After this, it really wasn’t going to matter much. He had the flashlight stuck down in the back of his jeans, under the denim jacket Buddy had loaned him. It was probably Buddy’s father’s. He’d told Buddy he’d help him find a place when he got to L.A. He sort of hoped Buddy never did try that, because he imagined kids like Buddy made it about a block from the bus station before some really fast urban predator got them, just a blur of wheels and teeth and no more Buddy to speak of. But then again you had to think about what it would be like to be him, Buddy, back there in his three-by six-foot bedroom in that trailer, with those posters of Fallon and Jesus, sneaking that VR when his daddy wasn’t looking. If you didn’t at least try to get out, what would you wind up feeling like? And that was why you had to give it to Sublett, because he’d gotten out of that, allergies and all.
But he was worried about Sublett. Pretty crazy to be worried about anybody, in a situation like this, but Sublett acted like he was already dead or something. Just moving from one thing to the next, like it didn’t matter. The only thing that got any kind of rise out of him was his allergies.
And Chevette, too, Chevette Washington, except what worried him there was the white skin of her back, just above the waist of those black bike-pants, when she was curled on the bed beside him. How he kept wanting to touch it. And how her tits stuck out against her t-shirt when she’d sit up in the morning, and those little dark twists of hair under her arms. And right now, walking up to this terracotta coffee-module near the base of the escalator, the rectangular head of Wally’s pepper-spray flashlight digging into his spine, he knew he might never get another chance. He could be dead, in half an hour, or on his way to prison.
He ordered a latte with a double shot, paid for it with just about the last of his money, and looked at his Timex. Ten ’til three. When he’d called Warbaby’s personal portable from the motel, the night before, he’d told him three.
God-eater had gotten him that number. God-eater could get you any number at all.
Warbaby had sounded really sad to hear from him. Disappointed, like. ‘We never expected this of you, Rydell.’
‘Sorry, Mr. Warbaby. Those fucking Russians. And that cowboy fucker, that Loveless. Got on my case.’
‘There’s no need for obscenity. Who gave you this number?’
‘I had it from Hernandez, before.’
Silence.
‘I got the glasses, Mr. Warbaby.’
‘Where are you?’
Chevette Washington watching him, from the bed. ‘In Los Angeles. I figured I’d better get as far away from those Russians as I could.’
A pause. Maybe Warbaby had put his hand over the phone. Then, ‘Well, I suppose I can understand your behavior, although I can’t say I approve…’
‘Can you come down here and get them, Mr. Warbaby? And just sort of call it even?’
A longer pause. ‘Well, Rydell,’ sadly, ‘I wouldn’t want you to forget how disappointed I am in you, but, yes, I could do that.’
‘But just you and Freddie, right? Nobody else.’
‘Of course,’ Warbaby had said. Rydell imagined him looking at Freddie, who’d be tap-tapping away on some new laptop, getting the call traced. To a cell-node in Oakland, and then to a tumbled number.
‘You be down here tomorrow, Mr. Warbaby. I’ll call you at your same number, tell you where to come. Three o’clock. Sharp.’
‘I think you’ve made the right decision, Rydell,’ Warbaby had said.
‘I hope so,’ Rydell had said, then clicked off.
Now he looked at his Timex. Took a sip of coffee. Three o’clock. Sharp. He put the coffee down on the counter and got the phone out. Started punching in Warbaby’s number.
It took them twenty minutes to get there. They came in two cars, from opposite directions; Warbaby and Freddie in a black Lincoln with a white satellite-dish on top, Freddie driving it, then Svobodov and Orlovsky in a metallic-gray Lada sedan that Rydell took for a rental.
He watched them mee
t up, the four of them, then walk in, onto the plaza under the Blob, past those kinetic sculptures, heading for the nearest elevator, Warbaby looking sad as ever and leaning on that cane. Warbaby had his same olive coat on, his Stetson, Freddie was wearing a big shirt with a lot of pink in it, had a laptop under his arm, and the Russians from Homicide had these gray suits on, about the color and texture of the Lada they were driving.
He gave it a while to see if Loveless was going to turn up, then started keying in that number in Utah.
‘Please, Jesus,’ he said, counting the rings.
‘Your latte okay?’ The Central Asian kid in the coffee-module, looking at him.
‘It’s fine,’ Rydell said, as God-eater picked up.
‘Yes?’
‘Paradise.’
‘This Richard?’
‘Nixon. They’re here. Four but not Smiley.’
‘Your two Russians, Warbaby, and his jockey?’
‘Got ’em.’
‘But not the other one?’
‘Don’t see him…’
‘His description’s in the package anyway. Okay, Rydell. Let’s do it.’ Click.
Rydell stuck the phone in his jacket pocket, turned, and headed, walking fast, for the escalator. The boy in the coffee-module probably thought there was something wrong with that latte.
God-eater and his friends, if they weren’t just one person, say some demented old lady up in the Oakland hills with a couple of million dollars’ worth of equipment and a terminally bad attitude, had struck Rydell as being almost uniquely full of shit. There was nothing, if you believed them, they couldn’t do. But if they were all that powerful, how come they had to hide that way, and make money doing crimes?
Rydell had gotten a couple of lectures on computer crime at the Academy, but it had been pretty dry. The history of it, how hackers used to be just these smart-ass kids dicking with the phone companies. Basically, the visiting Fed had said, any crime that was what once had been called white-collar was going to be computer crime anyway, now, because people in offices did everything with computers. But there were other crimes you could still call computer crimes in the old sense, because they usually involved professional criminals, and these criminals still thought of themselves as hackers. The public, the Fed had told them, still tended to think of hackers as some kind of romantic bullshit thing, sort of like kids moving the outhouse. Merry pranksters. In the old days, he said, lots of people still didn’t know there was an outhouse there to be moved, not until they wound up in the shit. Rydell’s class laughed dutifully. But not today, the Fed said; your modern hacker was about as romantic as a hit man from some ice posse or an enforcer with a dancer combine. And a lot harder to catch, although if you could get one and lean on him, you could usually count on landing a few more. But they were set up mostly in these cells, the cells building up larger groups, so that the most you could ever pop, usually, were the members of a single cell; they just didn’t know who the members of the other cells were, and they made a point of not finding out.
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