Procession of the Dead (12 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“Take me to one.”

“Any special preferences, sir? Bowling, badminton, gymnastics?”

“I don’t care. I just want something that leaves me panting for—” Then I saw the face of
the woman
again and this time she was holding a tennis racket, laughing. “Do you know a good tennis court?” I asked hesitantly, trying to hold the image but failing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get me there quick.”

The club was one of the best. Champagne on ice in the clubhouse, immaculately maintained courts, umpires and ball boys, ex-professionals to teach beginners. All the players oozed money, tanned and greased, sporting the chicest gear, pausing between sets to ring their stockbrokers.

The receptionist was snotty at first. They didn’t favor blow-ins who turned up without appointments. But he warmed to me when I flashed my card from the Skylight. The Cardinal’s reach extended everywhere. Only a fool turned away one of the Skylight’s guests. You couldn’t afford to make those sorts of enemies.

I had to shop for my equipment first—no rentals here. I’d picked up a few credit cards since my time with Theo (all arranged through illegal channels), so I put the skimpy T-shirt, shorts and sneakers on one of them and tried not to look at the price.

My instructor had only played semipro but I didn’t hold that against him. He asked if I’d played before. I had an impression of
the woman
serving to me, and could vaguely recall hitting a few balls back to her, but that was all. I told him to treat me like a beginner. He started me slowly, stressing that since this was my first lesson I couldn’t expect too much.

I slipped him a tidy wad of notes and said I wanted to let off steam and while away a couple of sweaty hours without having to worry about work. I told him to hit balls at me hard. He was a practical man. He believed in putting the wishes of his clients first. Grinning, he pocketed the cash, moved to the far end of the court and let fly.

He slaughtered me to begin with. I chased hopeless balls, flew from one side of the court to the other, puffing and panting, feeling like an idiot. But toward the end of the first set I improved. In the space of a couple of games I shed my hunched pose, found my feet, adjusted my grip and shifted up several gears. A few games into the second set, I was returning everything he threw at me, beating him on my own serve, dictating play. He was chasing the game now. I was thrashing him soundly, ex-semipro or not.

I won the second set 6–4. The third 6–1. Match to me.

He stormed over angrily. “You’ve played before,” he snarled.

“No,” I said. “That was my first time.”

“Bullshit! You destroyed me!”

“Beginner’s luck.”

“Like fuck!” He poked me in the chest. “You’re a pro. No amateur could have torn me apart like that. Who sent you? Did Sheryl pay you to humiliate me? Is this her idea of a joke?” He poked me in the chest again.

I grabbed his hand and twisted it back until it was a creaking bone away from snapping. “Do that to me again,” I said as he yelped, “and the only thing you’ll be serving up is a plate of beans. Nobody sent me. I guess I’m a born natural or you’re simply not as flash as you think. My advice—take that money I gave you, grin and bear it, and get the fuck out of my face.”

I let go and walked away, high on the buzz of the action. Not having wasted as much time as I wanted to, I hit the squash and handball courts. I wasn’t as good there but surprised myself, displaying an athletic prowess I’d never suspected. If I was this good first time out, there was no telling where I might get with some practice. Maybe I’d missed my true vocation and a career on the tennis circuit beckoned.

I popped into Shankar’s later. I was feeling fresh and alive. This was shaping up to be a great day. I could see The Cardinal throwing his arms around me, giving me the keys to his empire and the freedom of his kingdom.

I dined with Y Tse and Leonora. Told them about my ensuing meeting. They were thrilled, especially Y Tse.

“This could be the start of it, Capac,” he crowed. “He probably won’t say much tonight—it won’t feel like anything big—but your entire future could depend on what happens at eleven.”

“How should I approach him?” I asked. “Should I act casual, treat him like an old pal? Keep my eyes down and speak only when spoken to?”

“Act naturally,” Leonora advised. “Dorry will have been monitoring you. He knows what you are like. Do not put on an act. Answer his questions truthfully. Be yourself.”

“Yes,” Y Tse agreed. “There’s no need to fawn or dazzle him. He just wants to see how his newest recruit is getting on. He might have a small errand for you. If he does, it’ll seem no different from any other task, but it will be important to
him
. Treat it like any other assignment, like it’s no big deal, but don’t fuck it up.”

“Got you.” I bit into my burger. They cooked them magnificently here. Black as sin and packed with just the right amount of sauce and salad. “Have either of you seen Adrian the last day or so?” I asked between bites.

“Who?” Leonora said.

“Adrian. My driver.”

“I do not think I know him. Have we met?”

“I’m not sure, but you’ve probably seen him with me. Young guy, always smiling, a bit of a clown.”

“It rings no bells,” she said.

“You?” I asked Y Tse.

“One young man looks pretty much the same as any other to me.”

“A lot of help you are,” I complained.

“It is our age, dear.” Leonora smiled. “The mind starts to go when you are old. Memories fragment. Some days I struggle to remember my own name. Do you agree, Y Tse?”

“Who?” He laughed.

“If I ever live to be as old as you two,” I said, “I hope someone has the good grace to put me out of my misery.” I stood. “I’d love to stay but I’ve a career to build. See you later.”

“Good luck,” Y Tse said.

“Yes, luck, Capac,” Leonora added.

From there it was back to the Skylight. I had a shower, my third of the day—the city knew how to make a man sweat. Conchita was waiting when I stepped out, towel wrapped around my waist. “Hello sailor,” she said in a passable Katharine Hepburn impression. “I’m up for
The African Queen
tonight. You game?”

“Sorry,” I said. “That’s one river trip I’ll have to skip. I’m meeting my boss. Could be in for a promotion.” I opened the wardrobe and searched for clothes. Nothing fancy. Neat trousers, a shirt, a loose tie. No jacket—too hot.

“What time will you be back?” Conchita asked.

“Don’t know.”

“Should I wait up?”

“Not too late. Stick around a few hours. I’ll ring from Par—the office if I get away before midnight.” I didn’t want her hearing about The Cardinal. She still thought I was an insurance agent. I wanted to keep it that way. What she didn’t know about me couldn’t hurt her.

Thomas drove silently to Party Central. He didn’t speak much, responding to my conversational questions with short, curt answers. The sooner I got Adrian back, the better.

Party Central thrummed with the sounds of the night shift. It wasn’t as hectic as it got in the middle of the day, but it was by far the liveliest building in the city at that time of night. The Cardinal’s interests stretched across the face of the globe. His company was a twenty-four-hour-a-day machine, an economic monster that required constant feeding.

The Troops were on guard, cold and alien as ever. There’d been a bit of bother in the press lately. It happened every few years as young politicians tried to make names for themselves by pushing for the disbanding of The Cardinal’s personal army. It normally went on for a couple of weeks, giving the citizens time to vent their anger and get it out of their systems. Then the aggravating hotshots were either bought up or plowed under and that was the end of it.

I checked in at reception and passed over my shoes. There were bottles of foot deodorant for those who were feeling the effects of the heat but mine were fresh from the shower. I was in loads of time—thirty minutes too early—and waiting for the elevator to arrive when I noticed the door to the stairs. I’d been in the building a lot since my first night, dealing with the administrative heart of The Cardinal’s empire. In the beginning I’d had to come for new papers, official forms and ID cards to legitimize me (I must have left my own papers behind when I came to the city). I’d also done a lot of business here, making use of the building’s enormous records rooms—spread over eight floors—which were the most comprehensive in the city, with files on everyone who was anyone, as well as lots of people who were nobody. Access was limited and I was allowed on only three of the floors, but the amount of paper I’d encountered was incredible, enough to account for a rain forest or two. The Cardinal didn’t believe in transferring his files to computer—hacking was too easy and the risk involved far outweighed the benefits.

In all my visits I’d never used the stairs. There was no need, when the building was equipped with a fine array of efficient elevators. But I was feeling brisk after my exercise earlier in the day. The thought of jogging up fifteen flights appealed to me. It would waste some of the time and I could slip into a toilet up there and dab under my armpits to get rid of the sweat it would draw.

The staircase was dimly lit, the darkest place in the otherwise luminescent building. I didn’t encounter a soul until the eleventh floor. People simply didn’t use the stairs, even if they were only going up or down a flight. It wasn’t so much general laziness, more the decree of The Cardinal, which said that in his building, on his time, you better damn well get to where you were going in a hurry.

Somewhere around the seventh floor I began to think about
the woman
again. I slowed, narrowed my eyes, and got my best picture of her yet. I saw her in a variety of situations and poses, each segueing into another after a few seconds. She was in a kitchen, over a barbecue, serving a tennis ball, kissing me, lying by an open fire with a chessboard before her and no clothes on, driving a car, making love (I guessed to me), tossing a pancake, nervously twisting her wedding ring, watering flowers, laughing—laughing a lot of the time.

Whoever she was, real or a phantom of my imagination, she liked to laugh. A genuinely happy person, lines around her eyes and mouth from smiling so much. Every time her lips lifted, my chest constricted a notch, as if I was in love with her. I couldn’t understand it. Why should I feel so strongly about a dream woman?

I tried recalling past girlfriends. Maybe she was one of them, one I’d forgotten, or a conglomerate, my ideal woman pieced together from all of those I’d loved and left behind. I moved even more slowly, almost coming to a bemused stop.

I couldn’t remember them.

My girlfriends and previous lovers. I could recall many since coming to the city but before that,
nada
. I was drawing a blank again, the blank I’d been noticing more and more these last few months. There were gaps in my memory. I must have had girlfriends before I came to the city but I couldn’t remember any of them. Hell, it was hard enough for me to remember what my parents looked li—

With a sickening lurch I stopped short on the eleventh floor. I
couldn’t
remember! My mother, my father… Did I have brothers or sisters?
I didn’t know!
Everything was a blank. Every day, every face, everybody I may or may not have known before I stepped off the…

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a woman above me. I wouldn’t have bothered with her if she’d been moving normally, coming down loud and clear like a person with nothing to hide. But she was skulking, sneaking down the stairs. When she saw me, she stopped and tried to slip back into the shadows. Ironically, it was this attempt to conceal herself which alerted me to her presence.

She froze when I looked up. She was clad in black. As I stared, moving up a step for a better look, she resigned herself and came out of the shadows, affording me a proper look. She was tall, maybe my own height, long legs angling up to wide hips, narrowing to a trim waist, building up to what looked like a nice pair of breasts. She had a long face, not beautiful by any standards. Quite dark skin, though that might have been a trick of the dim light. A triangular chin, ears hidden by a long mane of black hair. I felt myself hardening as I looked her over and it took an effort to focus on the business at hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked sharply. She obviously wasn’t here on legitimate business. But how had she entered the building? I had thought Party Central was impenetrable. “Who are you?” I let my right hand travel to the small of my back, giving the impression—I hoped—that I was carrying a weapon. “What’s your name? Why are you—”

I stopped. She’d moved forward and was eyeing me intently, head bent to one side. Her face creased, as though she knew but couldn’t place me. Then, with a sexy grin that disarmed me completely, she brought her hands to her hips, undid her buttons and wriggled out of her trousers.

My hand fell away from my imaginary gun. She was wearing large, white panties. Nothing sexy about her choice of underwear but I didn’t have long to look at them, because seconds later they’d joined the trousers in a heap at her feet.

She moved down the stairs, her dark pubic hair the only thing my eyes could fix on. She probably had a knife but I didn’t care. I was like a man hypnotized.

She stopped four steps above me. “Hey,” she said softly. I tore my eyes away and looked up. She licked her lips and fell on me.

We went down instantly, kissing and tearing. My hands grabbed her breasts, then pushed down her body. She bit my neck hard. Found my zipper with her hands, ripped it open. Her fingers were cold as she pulled me toward her, urging me on (like I needed any urging!).

We rutted like cats. Rolled across the stairs to the wall, where we found our feet. I pushed her up against it, then she reversed our positions. Down again a few thrusts later. I’d never fucked so wildly. I freed one of her breasts and moaned as I sucked. I climaxed but kept pounding, still hard. She clutched me closer and bit my ear, muttering obscenities. Neither of us wanted to stop. Neither of us
could
. Until—