Antenna Syndrome (5 page)

What had Natalie said to me?
I don’t want to get
into it, but let’s just say it was no longer a healthy environment
and I needed to move on.

“Did Marielle have any friends at all?”

“None.”

“Not even on Facebook?”

“I thought you meant real friends.”

“She ever mention any virtual friends?”

Vivien bit her lip. “She swore me to secrecy. She’d
be furious if she knew I’d told anyone about her personal
life.”

“The girl’s disappeared,” I said. “If you want her
found, give me something to work with. If you don’t, you’ll never
see her again.”

Vivien lowered her face into her hands. “There was a
guy on Facebook she liked. They used to meet on a virtual reality
site, using 3-D goggles. But he’s never been here and she’s never
been out of the house.”

“This virtual Romeo got a name?”

“Eddie. Edward Crabner.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Only that he’s handicapped, but has a brilliant
mind.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Manhattan. East Village, I think.”

“You got coordinates for him? Phone, email…?”

“No,” she said. “Anyway, how close a relationship
could they have had without face-to-face contact? She wouldn’t just
run off with a virtual stranger.”

“You’d be surprised.” I’d worked on cases where
people had professed love, done business deals, exchanged kiddie
porn and plotted murder with people they’d only ever met online.
The truth is out there
, went that line from
The
X-Files
, but so too was a lot of deception and fabrication.

“There is someone else,” Vivien offered. “Not a
boyfriend. More like a life coach.”

“Name?”

“Joey Myers. An astrologer, owns a bookstore in
Chelsea. Marielle first got a reading from him a few years ago.
They stayed in touch. He advises her on all aspects of her
life...”

“Where’s this bookstore?”

“It’s called
Metamorphosis
. On 22nd near
Eighth. I was in the city one day to visit Schiller’s gallery, so I
went to see him.”

“He read your horoscope?” Jack said.

“The reading was Marielle’s gift to me,” Vivien
said. “Another cash transaction.”

“What did you learn that I couldn’t have told you
already?”

“You’d be surprised,” she said.

Jack shook his head. His cynical expression implied
what he was thinking. Marielle had lived a lonely existence,
housebound her entire life, and her mentor was some new age kook
who read horoscopes. How sad was that? I didn’t share the same
perspective, but I knew many did.

I took a last walk around the studio again, looking
at Marielle’s paintings. Her technique was flawless, but what was
it about bugs she found so beautiful? She should come live in my
part of town. Maybe after she’d been swarmed by cockroaches in the
elevator, she’d find better subjects for admiration.

Jack walked me out. The dogs followed us, and one of
them pissed on the Charger’s wheel before I left. By way of parting
gestures, I’ve seen worse.

Chapter 8

I took the Long Island Expressway back into
Manhattan. Now that I had a few leads, I wanted to run them down.
Natalie Jordan had promised a bonus if I found Marielle before the
weekend. I switched my goggles back into audio mode and searched
for the two names Vivien had given me.

Joey Myers’s name turned up in a few places. He had
an astrology site with a weekly celebrity blog, covering Hollywood
stars across the zodiac. He also covered crime, with analyses of
terrorist strikes, public school shootings, and the rampages of
serial killers, of which America had many.

He was Vice-President of the New York chapter of the
National Council of Geocosmic Research, which I assumed was a
euphemism for an association of astrologers. But he was also had a
degree in psychology from NYU, and worked one night a week as pro
bono counselor at the campus drop-in center near Washington Square.
Maybe an oddball, but an educated one with a social conscience.

More pertinent, he ran an occult bookstore called
Metamorphosis
, located at 270 West 22nd Street.

For Edward Crabner, the intel was scant. His name
turned up only in a few posts to chess club sites. They were
technical, typically critical of some gambit played out in major
competitions. Obviously a chess nerd, but an angry one, because his
exchanges with other chess aficionados turned into derogatory
remarks and expletives until he got ejected from the discussion.
John McEnroe of the chessboard.

I wondered what Marielle had found attractive in
him, but admittedly this was little by which to judge the man. I
was usually a nice guy too, but sometimes I succumbed to occasional
bouts of ranting at those who epitomized all that was wrong with
our brave new world.

I descended Ninth Avenue, turned onto 22nd Street
and looked for a parking spot. I found one near Eighth, where two
Afro-American gentlemen in their command post, an ancient Hummer
that looked like it hadn’t turned its flaccid tires in a decade,
stood guard over a string of parked cars. I pulled into an empty
slot among them. One guy sauntered over, his hand on the butt of a
machine-pistol. I powered down my window.

“One hour deposit,” he said, quoting a two-digit
figure.

I gave him the money and locked the car. He returned
to his Hummer. I went down the street to visit
Metamorphosis
, which I suspected was one of the last
bookstores in New York.

Outside the bookstore, a man with a bloody forehead
lay on the sidewalk. He had white hair and a few days’ growth of
silvery chin-whisker. He snorted in his sleep and fidgeted at his
crotch like a kid in a wet dream. I stepped around him and went
through the door.

Inside, the lights were off. From the rear wall,
down aisles of
Batman
,
Spiderman
,
Wolverine
and
X-Men
, day-glow posters pulsed like heat lightning.
Nostalgia was big these days, everyone wishing we could return to
yesteryear before all this shit happened. Memorabilia was popular,
anything that could transport us back in time. Surprising for this
digital age, old comics and some magazines like
Playboy
commanded a decent price. Hence, my collection of
Rolling
Stone
magazines that were waiting for the day...

Behind the front counter sat a balding young man
with his nose in a paperback,
Spiders of Mars
. On its cover,
four huge red spiders were attempting to defoliate a leafy green
lady. A stud with a sword and a codpiece was chopping away at them
with heroic abandon.

Opposite the counter were shelves of bottled water,
coffee, canned milk, oatmeal, rice, beans, pasta, soups, liquor.
Probably he had Cuban cigars under the counter too. Just about
every retail outlet had turned into a flea market, whatever the
proprietor could get his hands on.

“Looking for something?” the guy asked me.

“An astrologer.”

“Occult, end of aisle eight.” He pointed the
direction.

“Not astrology books. A real live astrologer. You
know a guy called Joey Myers?”

“Yeah. This used to be his store.”

“Not any longer?”

“He sold it.”

“When?”

“Just a month ago.”

“Who owns it now?”

“Me and the bank.”

“What’s your name?”

“Who’s asking?”

I gave him a business card and showed him my
license. “I’m looking for a missing girl. She was friends with Joey
Myers. I need to talk to him, see if he knows her whereabouts.”

“I’m Dave Jenner. When Myers left, he gave me a
forwarding address, but I don’t think it’s valid. A few things for
him showed up in the weeks after he moved out. I forwarded them to
the address he’d given but they all came back. I’ve tried calling
him but it always goes straight to voice-mail. It’s like he didn’t
want to be found again.”

No surprise. Ever since the Brooklyn Blast, the
population was jumpier than a colony of cockroaches exposed to
daylight. Half the city had fled for greener pastures. Those who
couldn’t or wouldn’t leave were moving upscale, jockeying for
better housing, or getting closer to work or family. The courier
business had delivery problems, and a lot of parcels went
missing.

“Landlord?”

He pointed at the ceiling. “Third floor.”

“Is he... you know... normal?”

I had to ask because ever since the Brooklyn Blast a
lot of weird shit was happening. Some people had been affected
physically – by ambient radiation or pollution – while others had
gone off the rails psychologically – having lost loved ones, gone
bankrupt, or just couldn’t handle a disaster covering so many
fronts. And everyone had a gun.

“Normal weird, if you know what I mean. What can I
say? He’s a slumlord but he quotes Nietzsche. I asked for an
exterminator because the rats in the basement are eating the
wiring. He says, ‘
Once you had wild dogs in your cellar, but in
the end they turned into birds and lovely singers
.’ He’s as
twisted as a pretzel.”

“He in today?”

“Third floor. Outside door on your left. Knock
loudly, he’s got a bad ear.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey, do me a favor? If you find Myers, give him his
mail.”

“Why not?” I held out my hand. Always a nice touch,
when approaching someone who was trying not to be found, to
hand-deliver some overdue bills.

“This came just yesterday.” He pulled a large
mailing envelope from under the counter.

It was a couple of inches thick, bubble wrapped,
felt like it contained a hardcover book. Addressed to Myers at this
location, with a month-old NYC postmark, but no return address.

I put it in my tote bag and went outside to find the
upstairs door. The small foyer was lit by a naked bulb at the foot
of a stairwell. I took out my DDT spray and climbed the stairs.
There were dozens of silverfish, some as long as my middle finger.
I stomped the slowest and sprayed the fastest of them as I advanced
to the third floor.

~~~

I knocked a dozen times before the landlord answered
the door. He was a round little man with a shiny black suit and a
nose you could have built a synagogue on. He glanced at my hands to
see I wasn’t carrying a gun, and my feet to see I didn’t have
cloven hooves. Apparently I passed inspection. He hooked his hand
towards me like a bear snatching a salmon.

“Don’t stand in the hall. I wouldn’t want the
ceiling should fall on you. What are you, a bill collector?

He went behind his desk, an elephantine construction
of teakwood that couldn’t have weighed less than a ton. It was an
excellent testimonial to the structural solidity of the building.
Heavy wire mesh covered a dirty window behind his desk, while a
wooden bookcase of musty old tomes leaned against one wall.

“I’m looking for Joey Myers, who used to own the
store downstairs.”

“Myers!” He banged his fist on the teakwood desk. I
could hear gorillas and rhinos fleeing through the jungle timber.
“He owes me six months’ rent.”

“Know where he lives?”

“If I knew, would he still owe me?”

“Ever get a collection agency after him?”

“Good agencies won’t take small jobs these days. And
they want thirty percent. I look like I have that kind of
money?”

“Any idea where I can find Myers?”

“Two weeks ago I saw him outside a games arcade on
14th and Seventh. By the time I got off the bus and walked back, he
was gone.”

“Can you describe him?”

“About forty. Good teeth, shaved head. Flashy
clothes. Snake tattoo around his neck. Fit, like a guy who works
out. Maybe if I was younger, I’d have got him in a head-lock and
hurt him a little, showed him I meant business. But I’m too old for
that now.”

“You don’t believe in living dangerously?”

He looked at me thoughtfully and took a walk around
his desk. He ran a hand over the dusty bookcase and raised his eyes
to a cluster of cobwebs in the corner of the ceiling.

“I love those who do not know how to live, except
by going under, for they are those who cross over.
”

“Troubled times for the superman, huh?” I wished I
had time to sit and talk with him. There was a holy quietude about
his office. But I had an appointment with an elusive astrologer and
I couldn’t linger.

Chapter 9

I checked out Myers’s forwarding address, at 18th
and Tenth. The super was a beast with facial tats and teeth
sharpened to canine points. She knew all her tenants’ names and
pointed out that Myers had given his apartment as #69 in a building
with only 24 units. She was still laughing at my expense as I
headed back to the car. I went looking for the games arcade where
Myers’s ex-landlord had seen him hanging out.

14th Street in the Meatpacking District was a gritty
conduit of commercial traffic, tough guys riding shotgun in trucks
transporting contraband, stolen goods, industrial supplies,
anything for the black market. I left the Charger in front of a
bodega on 12th whose Hispanic owner, armed with a sawed-off
shotgun, promised my car would remain untouched for a flat fee. I
was thinking I should have taken a taxi to make my rounds, but
cabbies were also extortionists on wheels, so what could I do?

I put on my eMask and followed the traffic up to
14th. Kids in motley gear, with chains for belts and knives in
boots, slumped on the sidewalk in dopey stupors while others
panhandled. In the last two years, most kids under sixteen had been
taken away by families intent on self-preservation. Those that
remained were strays.

After the Brooklyn Blast, society had split along
economic lines. Most upper class folk had fled the state. Many in
the middle class cashed in and moved to distant suburbs or
up-state. The lower class had hunkered down to hope for the best.
But these days, hope had a short shelf life.