So Yesterday (5 page)

Chapter 6

ANTOINE HAD
TOLD ME THE HISTORY OF SHOES MANY TIMES:

In the beginning, the late 1980s, the client was king.
A certain basketball player (whose name basically became a brand) made them
king. An industry was transformed, and shoes grew air pumps and Velcro straps,
gel chambers and light-emitting diodes. New models came out seasonally, then
monthly, and Antoine started buying two pairs, one for wearing and one for
saving, like comic-book collectors with their plastic bags.

And of course that bubble burst. People wanted shoes,
not spaceships. Innovators began to search suburban malls for the humble sneakers
of their childhood. Trendsetters demanded whole new categories of shoes: for
skating, snowboarding, surfing, walking, running, and every other sport
(parachutists probably have their own shoes), and to save all those secretaries
time, hybrids appeared, dressy on top and rubber in the sole.

The client—with its flashy, gimmicky, jump-shooting
shoes—faded. The world it had dominated disappeared, broken down into a
patchwork of tribes and cliques and niches, like some neighborhood controlled
by a different gang on every block.

But the pair in front of us recalled the oldies in
Antoine's lovingly stacked boxes in the Bronx, those ancient, golden, simple
days. Not spaceships—just shoes with insane confidence, vitality, and flair.

Sheer cool.

***********

"Wow," Jen said.

"I know." Acting on instinct, I pointed my
phone and took a picture.

"Wow," she repeated.

I reached out, and my hand glowed in the shaft of
sunlight, as if the shoes were infecting me with their magic. The texture of
the panels was something I'd never felt before, as rough and pliable as canvas
| but with the silvery shine of metal. The laces flowed through my fingers as
softly as ropes made out of silk. The eyelets seemed to have tiny spokes that
turned when I flexed the shoe, using the same effect as those 3-D postcards
that change when you look at them from different directions.

But the individual flourishes weren't what made the
shoes incredible. It was the way they called to me to put them on, the way I
was sure I could fly if I was wearing a pair. The way I needed to buy them
now.

A way I hadn't felt since I was ten.

"So this is what Mandy wanted us to see."

"No kidding," I said. "The client must
be keeping this a total secret."

"The client? Look again, Hunter."

She was pointing at a circle of plastic set into the
tongue, where the client's logo stood out bright white and proud. With my brain
gradually recovering from its dazzlement, I saw what Jen had spotted right
away. The logo—one of the world's best-known symbols, up there with the white
flag of surrender and the golden arches—had been cut through with a diagonal
line in bright red.

Like a no-smoking sign. Like a
no-whatever sign. The bar sinister, a symbol of prohibition also recognized
around the world.
      
, ^

It was an anti-logo.
                                 

"Bootlegs," I murmured. That was another
thing that went on in the
I
shadows of Chinatown. In rows
of small, discreet shops on Canal Street you could buy watches and jeans,
handbags and shirts, wallets and belts, all with the labels of famous designers
sewn onto them by hand. All cheap and fake. Some were laughably crude, some
pretty much passable, and a few required an eye as expert as Hillary Hyphen's
to spot the telltale wrong stitch.

But I'd never seen any bootleg that was
better
than the original.

"Not exactly bootlegs, Hunter. I mean, it's
saying right up front what it's not."

"True. I guess a bootlegger wouldn't do
that."

"But who
would
do something like that? What's the point of a
non-bootleg bootleg?"

"I don't know," I said. "They're so
good.
Like the perfect shoe the
client never made."

Jen shook her head. "But Mandy called us here.
Does she work for anyone besides the client?"

"No. She's exclusive." I frowned.
"Maybe this really is their shoe. Maybe they have this master plan of
rebranding as the opposite of themselves. Or maybe these are supposed to look
like bootlegs when they're not. And after these get
too
popular, which they will, the
client will absorb the backlash and become cool again. Maybe they're ironic
bootlegs."

Confused? Trust me, it was making my head hurt, and
it's my job to think this way.

"That's so insane,"
Jen said. "Or pure genius. Or something."

"Something
really
cool."

"So where's Mandy?"

"Oh, yeah." Mandy
was still missing. What did that mean?

Jen and I sat there, sharing a
moment of befuddlement, contemplation, and the thirsty pleasure of simply
looking.

Then I heard a noise somewhere in the darkness behind
us.

************************************

I tugged my eyes away from the
shoe, looked up at Jen. She'd heard it too.

Glancing into the dark, I realized that my night
vision had been wiped out by staring at the sunlit shoe. I was blinded but
guessed that whoever was down there with us could see perfectly.

"Oh, shit," I said.

With a soft rustle of paper Jen picked up the shoes
and quickly laced them together. She draped them around her neck.

I stood up and realized that one foot had gone to
sleep. Not surprising. I could have happily died of starvation, staring at
those shoes.

Little lights danced at the corners of my vision, rods
and cones trying frantically to get back online and help me see again. A shape
moved in the blackness between us and the stairs, someone big and graceful.
Absolutely silent.

"Hello?" I said, my voice cracking in manly
fashion.

The figure stopped moving and faded back into the
dark. For a moment I was convinced it had been a hallucination.

Then Jen made her move.

She kicked one of the pieces of chained plywood,
opening the gap wide for a blinding second, the sunlight streaming in behind
me. It revealed a big guy with a shaved head—intimidating but less terrifying
than the phantom I had imagined—covering his eyes against the glare.

"Run!" Jen shouted, and I bolted forward
just in time for the tower of falling shoe boxes, her next brilliant move, to
miss me. Mostly. They scattered into my path, and my own suddenly unspeakably
lame shoes crunched into their virgin cardboard in a way that caused me pain.
(Antoine had always taught me to prize the original box as highly as the shoe.)
But I managed to get past the guy, arriving at the stairs just behind Jen.

We ran upward, pounding the steps. Jen slowly pulled
away from me, and I heard our pursuer coming up behind. I ran blindly, clawing
at the dirty stairs with my hands to pull myself up faster, bouncing off the
walls as the flights turned in a slow clockwise circle, my twisted ankle
throbbing with every step.

After four stories I was panting, and he was close
enough that I could tell he wasn't breathing hard at all.

Fingers grasped at my ankle on the last flight but
slipped off, the grip not firm enough to bring me down.

I burst out into the sun, blinked away the blinding
light, and faced the six-foot climb between me and the next roof. Jen was
already standing atop it, and I wondered if her rising-sun laces gave her
special powers of running and jumping.

"Hunter, duck!" she yelled.

I did.

The coolest shoes in the world passed over my head,
tied into orbit around each other, spinning like a bola. I heard a grunt and a
thump as they wrapped themselves around my pursuer's feet and brought him down,
as heavy as a sack of doorknobs.

If it hadn't happened so fast, I'm sure I would have
said, "Don't save me. Save the shoes!"

But instead I scrambled up the wall and saw Jen
already pulling on the cage door of the next building.

"It's locked!" she cried, running farther
down the block, disappearing as she jumped down to a lower roof. I followed in
a limping run.

Three buildings later we found an open roof door and
made it down to the street and into a cab.

Which is when I realized I had dropped my phone
somewhere back in the darkness.

 
Chapter 7

"MY
PHONE!"

The usual panic reaction: as if electrocuted, my body
stiffened in the back of the cab, hands plunging farther into my pockets, down
to the domain of lint and pennies.

But the marvelous Finnish phone didn't magically
reappear down there in the fluff. It was gone.

"You dropped it?"

"Yeah." I remembered scrambling in the dark,
using my hands to claw myself up the stairs. I'd never put it back into my
pocket.

"Damn. I was hoping you got a picture of that
guy."

I looked at Jen in disbelief. "Not quite. I was
more focused on the running away."

"Well, sure. The running away was a
priority." She grinned. "The running away was cool."

My face may have indicated disagreement.

"Come on, Hunter. You don't mind a little
running, do you?"

"I don't mind running, Jen. I do mind running
for my life.
Next time we break into some
place, let's just—"

"What? Take a vote first?"

I took a deep breath, letting the sway of the taxi calm
me.

"Let's just not." Then another groan.
"I had a picture of the shoes."

"Damn," she agreed.

We were silent for a moment, thinking of that perfect
balance of understated style, slow-burning desirability, and coffee-spitting,
jaw-dropping eye candy that was the shoes.

"They can't be as good as we remember," I
said.

"Nice try. They were."

"Crap." I checked my pockets again. Still
empty. "No phone, no shoes, no Mandy. This is a total disaster."

"Not quite, Hunter."

Jen held up what looked like my phone, except it was
the wrong color.

Of course. It was Mandy's. She had the same model as I
did (but with the red translucent clip-on cover). She was a fierce Early
Adopter, and, like me, she used the phone for business. Just the day before,
I'd phoned her my picture of Jen's shoelaces.

"Well, that's something."

Jen nodded. There's a lot you can find out from
someone's phone.

She began to poke her way through the menu, squinting
at the glowing screen. The little beeps gave me a creepy feeling, like going
through someone's pockets.

"Shouldn't we call the police or something?"

"And tell them what?" Jen said. "That
Mandy missed an appointment? Don't you watch cop shows? She's an adult. She
can't be a missing person for twenty-four hours."

"But we found her phone. Isn't that
suspicious?"

"Maybe she dropped it."

"But what about the guy who chased us? What about
the shoes?"

"Yeah, we could tell the cops about that. About
how we broke into an abandoned building and saw the world's most amazing shoes.
And then a crazy bald guy appeared, and we ran away. That story should do
wonders for our credibility."

I was silent for a moment, out of arguments but still
not comfortable. "Jen, Mandy's my friend."

She turned to me, thought for a moment, then nodded.

"You're right. We should try the cops. But if
they do listen to us, they'll take Mandy's phone away."

"So?"

Jen turned back to the little screen. "Maybe she
took some pictures."

************************************

We stopped the cab, paid for it, and found a coffee
shop of the musty-living-room variety: old couches, high-speed Internet access,
and strong coffee, which came in cups the size of bowls.

Even before we walked through the door, I noticed
Jen's bracelet sparkling.

"What's that?"

She smiled. "It's a Wi-Fi detector. You know, so
you don't have to boot up your computer to see if there's wireless in the
house."

I gave the Nod. I'd seen them in magazines, useful for
detecting which coffee shops and hotels offered wireless service, but wearing
the gadget as jewelry was pure Innovator.

We claimed a couch and huddled over Mandy's phone, our
heads almost touching to align our eyes to the pixels of its little screen. Not
really designed for two viewers, that phone, but I wasn't complaining. That
close, I could smell Jen's hair stuff, a hint of vanilla cutting through the
musty couch and ground coffee. Her shoulder was warm against mine.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"Uh, no." Memo to self: It's uncool to be
overwhelmed by casual contact.

I brought up the camera
software, my fingers gliding over the cruelly familiar interface. (Maybe the
Finlanders would send me another one.) The menu showed five pictures, displayed
in the order they were taken. One thumb click later, a fuzzy orange face filled
the screen.

"That's Mandy's cat, Muffin.
He eats cockroaches."

"Useful beast."

Next click a young Latina
woman appeared, smiling and fending off the camera, breakfast in the lower
third of the screen.

"Cassandra, her roommate. Or girlfriend—no one's
sure."

"That would be girlfriend," Jen said.
"No one bothers to take a picture of their roommate."

"Maybe not, but when I
first got my phone, I was taking pictures of my sock drawer."

She gripped my arm. "How will you live without
it?"

"I don't call it living."

I clicked again. A guy wearing
a black beret, maybe a little floppier than the last beret craze. A
cool-hunting picture.

"Logo's too big, band's
too tight," Jen said. "And no berets in summer."

"And that shirt looks way
Uptown," I said. "Not the sort of thing you'd see in Chinatown."
I checked the picture's time stamp. "She took it yesterday."

The next picture brought a
small gasp from Jen. It was a
shoe, Jen's
shoe, the rising-sun laces instantly recognizable. I
could even see the hexagonal pattern of the East River Park promenade.

"Is that
...
? That's the picture you—"

"Uh, yeah, I sent it to
Mandy," I confessed.

She pulled away, turned to me
with narrowed eyes. I felt the musty-couch intimacy that had built up between
us swirling away.

"You're not still confused about what I do for a
living, are you?"

"No. But it's just sinking in." She looked
down at her laces. "I'm trying to figure out if I feel violated."

"Uh, try flattered, maybe?"

"Hang on—what exactly was Mandy going to do with
it?"

"Take a look at it? Maybe pass it up the food
chain." I cleared my throat, deciding to go for broke. "Possibly use
it in an ad or two. Put it into mass production. Make it available in every
mall in America. Run your laces into the ground, basically."

I saw questions crossing Jen's
face, the familiar ones:
Am I being ripped off? Is this a compliment? Am I
secretly famous? When do I get my percentage?

And of course:
Is this guy an asshole or
what?

"Wow," she said, after a long, awkward
moment. "I always wondered how that happened."

"How what happened?"

"How cool stuff became uncool so fast. Like one
day I see a couple of
cholos
wearing aprons on the street. Then ten minutes later
they're in Kmart. But I guess I didn't realize what an industry it was. I
figured at least some of it happened naturally."

I sighed. "It does, sometimes. But usually nature
gets a helping hand."

"Right. Like sunsets with lots of
pollution."

"Or genetically engineered bananas."

She laughed, glancing at her laces again. "Okay,
I'll get over it. You sure know how to flatter a girl."

I grinned happily—with that sudden and complete
failure of irony detection that occurs when irony most needs to be
detected—while questions rattled through my brain: Was she really flattered?
Was I a fraud? Had I blown everything? What was "everything," anyway?

To cover my confusion, I clicked to the next picture.

The shoe.

My brain settled, focused by the beauty. We huddled
again, pressed close for the best view on the little screen. The picture was
minuscule, badly lit, agonizingly blurry, but the elegant lines and textures
were somehow still there.

We sat for a solid minute, sucking in the beauty,
while around us trancy coffee shop music played, cappuccinos roared into being,
and would-be writers wrote novels set in coffee shops. In the bliss our shoulders
practically melted together, and I felt forgiven for stealing Jen's shoelace
mojo. The bootleg-or-maybe-not shoe was just that good.

Finally we pulled away from each other, blinking and
breathless, as if we'd shared a kiss instead of a cell-phone screen.

"When did she take that?" Jen asked.

I checked the time stamp. "Yesterday. A couple of
hours before the tasting."

"They look like they're on a desk."

"That's her office, I think." The shoe was
sitting on a paper-strewn expanse not unlike Mandy's desk up in the client's
Midtown tower.

"Which means
...
What does it mean?"

"Search me. Last picture?"

She looked at the screen for another greedy moment
before nodding.

I clicked. It was a picture of nothing. Or something
terrible.

Dark and blurry, an abstract gash of light across one
corner. Shades of grays all mottled together like a camo pattern. It was either
an accidental photo from the bottom of Mandy's pocket, the visual equivalent of
those random calls your phone makes when it gets bored, or it was a picture of
Mandy being mugged, kidnapped, or worse. Maybe she'd tried to record what had
happened to her, then thrown the phone away, hoping someone would find it.

But I couldn't make much out.

"Hang on." Jen pulled my hand closer, the
phone almost to her eye. "There's a
face...."
She turned away, shaking her head. "Maybe. You try."

1 took a closer look. Somewhere in the swirl of
indifferent grays, there was something recognizable. A thing that my brain
would, if I let it, twist slowly into a face.

Which freaked me out and also gave me a headache.

I checked the time stamp. "This was taken about
an hour ago."

"A little before eleven? That's about when I
showed up."

"But you didn't see anything?"

Jen shook her head and stared at the tiny screen
again.

"You can get these pictures onto a computer,
right? Maybe there's some kind of software we can run to make this
clearer."

I nodded. "I've got a friend. She does special
effects."

"What about the cops, Hunter?"

I took a deep breath. Lexa lived only two blocks away.
It wouldn't take long.

"They can wait."

Chapter 8

"YOU
HAVE TO TAKE YOUR SHOES OFFI I TOLD JEN OUTSIDE
Lexa's door.

"Okay." She bent to tug at a lace. "A
Zen thing?"

"No, a clean thing."

Lexa Legault vacuumed her apartment every day with a
small jet engine, leaving it as spotless as a biotech lab. I always felt like
she should have asked her guests to wear white jumpsuits and masks, but I guess
that would've been overkill. Lexa (short for Alexandra) didn't make her own
microchips yet.

What she did make was her own computers, which spent
their lives with their guts exposed, in a state of constantly being tinkered
with. In Lexa's apartment, dust was a Very Bad Thing.

I'd already buzzed from downstairs, but it wasn't
until I gave the special our-shoes-are-off knock that the door opened.

Lexa was dressed in immaculate khakis and a tight pink
T-shirt, a handheld clipped to her belt. She had all the hallmarks of geek-girl
beauty: a shy smile, chunky glasses, short hair framing elfin features, and the
fashion sense of a Japanese teenager. Her look was as effortless and clean as
those women that fashion designers draw with just a few sweeping lines.

When I'd first met Lexa, I'd spent several months
cultivating a massive crush on her until the terrible moment when she'd
mentioned that one of the things she liked about me was how much I reminded |
her of herself—back when she was younger and not so boringly
j
together. I never let on, of
course, but
ouch.

"Hi, Hunter." She hugged me, pulled back,
still looking over my shoulder. "Oh, hey
..."

"Jen," I supplied.

"Yeah," nodding slowly, "I liked what
you said yesterday, Jen. Very cool."

That brought a sheepish smile,
one I liked more every time I saw it. "Thanks."
                                                   
I