The City Under the Skin (15 page)

“Is that a black eye you've got there?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” Zak said, and allowed his eyes to turn just a couple of degrees in Billy Moore's direction. Billy remained reassuringly blank.

Wrobleski continued to stare at Zak. It was true enough that he didn't look much like a burglar, and just as he was carrying no spray cans or climbing equipment, he wasn't carrying any burglary gear either.

“What do you think, Billy?” said Wrobleski. “You think he's worth soiling my hands on?”

“That's your decision, Mr. Wrobleski,” said Billy.

“Fucking right it is,” said Wrobleski; then to Zak, “You weren't spying on me, were you, kid?”

“Who'd employ me as a spy?”

It wasn't a bad answer, and Wrobleski seemed inclined to accept it. Even so, he said, “You understand I can't just have people waltzing into my place. That would be very bad for business.”

“I'm not trying to hurt your business,” said Zak, having no idea what Wrobleski's business was.

“I believe you,” said Wrobleski, “but you also understand that I have to do
something
to you, right?”

“No, I don't really understand that,” said Zak.

“Do you know why I'm not going to kill you?” Wrobleski asked.

Zak shook his head gravely.

“Because nobody's paying me to,” said Wrobleski.

Zak thought that might be a joke, but nobody was laughing, least of all him.

“Would it help if I said I'm sorry?” Zak offered.

“No,” said Wrobleski. “It wouldn't help in the least. Billy, would you do the honors?”

Billy Moore crossed the conservatory, edged around the relief map, and, with a remarkable tenderness, put one hand on the back of Zak's head, pulling him forward. For one bizarre moment Zak thought Billy Moore might be about to hug him, but then Billy tightened his grip and, with a deft, intense force, slammed Zak's face down into the concentric, geometric heart of the golden barrel cactus. He twisted the head a little, rubbing it in, scuffing it around, then he changed hands, grabbed Zak's hair and the back of his shirt, and tossed him all the way across the conservatory.

Zak lay motionless on the floor, not the first time he'd been in such a position thanks to Billy Moore, though this time there was no supplementary kicking. There was no need for it. His face felt as though it had been in a losing encounter with a commercial-grade stapler, as if it had been excruciatingly refashioned, collaged into some new, though by no means improved, design, and when he raised a hand to touch his face, he felt the spines that remained in his flesh, perforating his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids. He could hear Wrobleski making some approving noises.

By the time Zak had regained his senses, both Wrobleski and Billy Moore were gone from the conservatory and Akim was dragging him to his feet, pushing him out of the door and across the flat roof. Zak could barely open his eyes and had only an approximate idea of where he was going, into a descending elevator, it seemed, then out and through a room with many more framed maps on the wall. Akim pressed his lips way too close to Zak's ear and said, with a horrible intimacy, “He's getting soft. The old Wrobleski would have shoved that cactus up your ass and then thrown you off the roof,” and then they were in the courtyard, by the outer gate of the compound. The old man slid the gate open just a couple of feet. Akim looked out suspiciously.

“You really on your own?” he said to Zak.

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yeah, you probably would,” said Akim.

What did it matter either way? Akim wasn't about to go searching the streets. He kicked Zak in the butt, ejected him, booted him out into the real world beyond.

Zak still had enough wit to stagger off in the direction away from the station wagon, and he kept going long after he'd heard the gate shut behind him. When he reckoned Akim and the guy on the gate were no longer able to keep an eye on him, he doubled back, plunged into the shadows, and kept going, eyesight smeared, his face erupting, until he could just make out the two wrecked dump trucks and the brown station wagon parked between them. He hoped Marilyn was the kind of woman who knew some first aid.

 

23. THE PEDAGOGUE

Late night, a lumbering darkness, the smell of solvents and hot dogs hanging low in the downtown air, and even at this hour Sanjay, Billy Moore's sole employee, continued to tend the parking lot, to
guard
it. He paced the perimeter, inside the fence, taking slow, ponderous strides across the white pea gravel. There were no cars parked there now, not even his boss's Cadillac, only the trucks from the subcontractor of the Platinum Line, not that they didn't need guarding too.

There was also the matter of Carla Moore. Sanjay could see that even though her father's trailer was dark and he was obviously absent, Carla remained in the smaller trailer, the lights on, visible through the uncurtained side window, conspicuous and exposed. She was sitting at her desk, reading, making notes, and he found that touching: she was quite the little scholar. He also noticed that she had her father's old leather jacket draped around her shoulders.

He was experiencing some mixed feelings toward Billy Moore at that moment. He had signed on as a parking lot attendant, not as a babysitter, much less as a guardian, and in one way, being left alone here with the little girl in the middle of the night felt like far too much responsibility. At the same time, he felt flattered that Billy Moore trusted him with his own progeny. He was not entirely uncomfortable with this paradox: he thought paradoxes were to be embraced.

His circuit of the lot took him right by the trailer window, and although he tried to be discreet and quiet, the sound of his footsteps made Carla look up and put her face to the glass. Sanjay smiled, tried to look benign, gave a wave that he hoped might appear avuncular or fraternal, and she waved back and motioned for him to come to the door.

He did as bidden, but he was reluctant to cross the threshold into the child's private space. As an immigrant, an alien, even a well-educated one, he knew you couldn't be too careful in these matters. He remained teetering respectfully on the trailer's doorstep.

“When did you last see your father?” he said archly.

Carla realized he was probably quoting somebody or something, but she just said, “A few hours ago.”

“And do you know where he is?”

“Away on business, I suppose.”

“But isn't this parking lot his business?”

“What can I say, Sanjay? He's a man of many parts.”

“That he is,” said Sanjay. “And what are you doing, Carla?”

“Homework. I'm learning about skin.”

“Ah, skin, a very large organ,” he said, then wondered if perhaps he hadn't phrased that very well.

“I'm learning about sweat,” said Carla, “and I'm kind of puzzled.”

“How so?” He liked to help people with their questions. He was proud of his pedagogic instincts.

“You see,” said Carla, “it says here that we sweat in order to cool down.”

“Quite so,” said Sanjay.

“But my problem,” said Carla, “is that I often hear people complaining about being hot and sweaty. But I never hear anybody say they're cold and sweaty, so it seems the sweat doesn't work.”

“Sometimes,” said Sanjay, “people go into a cold sweat.”

“Sure, but that's different. It's not like they start out hot and sweaty and they cool down and go into a cold sweat and that makes them feel comfortable. They go into a cold sweat because they're scared or nervous or whatever.”

“You make a good point, Carla, and, of course, I can understand why you might be fascinated by the subject of skin, given your disease.”

“It's not a disease,” said Carla. “It's a condition.”

“Ah, no doubt as you say, Carla. The human body is not my area.”

“What is your area, Sanjay?”

“Back home I studied business and geology,” said Sanjay with quiet pride. “I was hoping to go into the mining industries.”

“Maybe you still will.”

“At the moment it seems unlikely.”

Carla didn't argue with him.

“You know,” he said, and this was evidently something that had been on his mind for some time now, something he had to get off his chest, even if only to the boss's daughter, “it seems to me there are certain liabilities in having these subcontractors' trucks here on the lot.”

Carla didn't say, “Why are you telling me this?” though her face certainly conveyed that. Sanjay was not deterred.

“The drivers seem a little lax,” he said. “If they scrape the fence or each other's truck, they seem to find it quite the joke. And besides that, many of the trucks have signs on them saying
HAZARDOUS MATERIALS
, in one case even
CAUTION: EXPLOSIVES
. But these workers and drivers do not seem aware of the hazards, and they certainly don't seem cautious.”

“Have you talked to them?”

“I have. I suggested that there might be certain elements in this city who would be all too keen to get their hands on some illicit chemicals and/or explosives.”

“And?”

“And, Carla, I'm afraid they did not treat my suggestions with the respect they deserved.”

“Have you told my dad?”

“Oh no, Carla. That is not the way. My job is to bring him solutions, not problems. I learned that on my very first day at business college.”

“And have you got a solution, Sanjay?”

Sanjay thought long and hard.

“No,” he said, “but your father did very kindly supply me with a baseball bat.”

 

24. TREASURE

Marilyn had moved into the driver's seat in case a quick getaway was needed, but as Zak staggered back to the car, he looked damaged rather than hurried, and he opened the door and got in beside her with surprising delicacy, as if he were a package of fragile goods, already broken but perhaps still partly salvageable. Marilyn looked at his face with fresh, pained alarm.

“What happened?”

“Cactus,” Zak said, through thick, barely mobile lips, though he knew that explained nothing.

“We need to do something about that,” said Marilyn.

“I was thinking … same thing,” he said. It hurt.

Marilyn began to drive, with purpose, though not fast. Zak slumped beside her, the skin of his face zinging under a web of small, sharp, stabbing pains. Below that was a deeper, spreading ache, and deeper still a more general feeling of nausea now that the adrenaline was curdling inside him. As they drove, he explained as best he could, as economically as possible, what he'd seen and done, and what had then been done to him. The only thing he couldn't tell her was what any of it meant. Marilyn was a good deal less sympathetic than he'd hoped for. He wanted her to be caring, compassionate, concerned for his welfare; instead, she was all business.

“So we now know the guy's name: Wrobleski,” she said. “And you say he's a customer of Utopiates.”

“Yes, a collector.”

“Is that why he wants these women? Could it be that simple?”

Zak grunted.

“Okay, maybe that's not simple at all,” said Marilyn. “And he didn't recognize you, why? Because you're a nobody as far as he's concerned?”

“Right,” said Zak.

“But if he ever comes in the store again, he'll definitely recognize you. God knows what happens then. And Billy Moore
did
recognize you, he must have, but for some reason he pretended not to. But it seems he's just a nobody too, just a guy whose job it is to bring these women to Wrobleski.”

“Sometimes being a nobody has … advantages,” said Zak.

“At least the women seemed to be okay,” said Marilyn. “Well, as okay as you can be when you've got tattoos across your back, when you're being kept in a compound by some blubbering weirdo, and you're being paraded naked in a conservatory.”

“Yep, these things … comparative,” said Zak.

He looked out of the windshield through one half-closed eye, couldn't make out where they were.

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my place,” said Marilyn.

“In other circumstances that would make me so happy,” said Zak.

“I think I might still be able to make you happy, Zak. Once I've done my stuff with tweezers and rubbing alcohol.”

“Where … you live?”

“I live in a squat,” said Marilyn.

“Yeah?”

“In a hotel. The Telstar. You know it?”

“Everybody knows the Telstar.”

*   *   *

Like Wrobleski, like many others, Zak was inclined to think of the Telstar as “that place that used to have the revolving restaurant.” More correctly it had had the Canaveral Lounge, a space-themed bar up on the twenty-third floor that had delivered a complete panorama of the city, 360 degrees, every sixty minutes. It had stopped revolving a long time ago.

The Telstar Hotel was, or at least had been, an optimistic statement in steel, tinted plate glass, and exotically colored concrete, an embodiment of 1960s ideals and design tics, with grounds that took up most of a city block. Its base was a four-story chunk with walls that flowed and ribboned, and rising from one corner was a tower, a little too short to be considered genuinely phallic. From directly above, in outline, in aerial photographs, or on a map, the effect was of an amoeba and its off-center nucleus, or perhaps, according to some, a fried egg. Inside, the vestibule had looked like a psychedelic planetarium; the honeymoon suite resembled NASA headquarters; in the basement there was an Op Art disco with floor-to-ceiling aquariums.

Critics, of which there were plenty, said it was too cool a building to remain cool for very long, and they were dead right. When business slackened, when room occupancy fell, when the conference trade evaporated, the place came to seem very old hat, and stilling the revolving restaurant was the first, all too symbolic, money-saving measure. But it wasn't nearly enough. The Telstar had been closed and shuttered for the best part of a decade now, but it wasn't quite empty or uninhabited.