The Weaver Fish (14 page)

19

Worse stared at the phone, both attentive and incurious. He had expected a call, and his preparation was thorough. A computer had opened a dummy connection and initiated a trace; already, in the workshop, there would be valuable caller identification and location data.

The ringing stopped as, by design, a messaging service switched in; Worse was not inclined to advertise the state of affairs. This was also a signal to close out the day's business, attend briefly to ordinary chores, and get some sleep.

His mind had been playing with the notion of representing a person as a set of attributes, analogous to characterizing a material object by its physical and chemical properties. Then at any point in time that person would be fully described for the purpose of, say, argument. From this point of view, he already knew a great deal about Zheng, and he was confident of discovering more.

But the idea had limited usefulness. His thoughts advanced to a different metonymy, one better subserving explanation and prediction with respect to events and behaviour. This was the idea of a person as the centre of a defining complex of implications changing over time. Beginning before birth and ending after death, this existed in parallel to ordinary biography and objectified everything causal connecting the person to the world. The implicative signature that he might label
Zheng
would persevere, though radically changed, after the man's death. The ringing phone was an illustration of this, and he felt the same distaste and trespass on his private space as he had with Zheng in person.

But for now, those emotions could be put aside. The importance
of the model was that Worse should consider himself a variable in
Zheng
with essentially unknown logical connections. Further analysis could wait until morning; without checking the results in the workshop, he retired for the night.

By midmorning, Worse had a comprehensive picture of Zheng the man. Five days earlier he had flown to Perth from Hong Kong, rented a car at the airport, and immediately driven south. There were no credit card or other data to indicate exactly where he went, except for the purchase of petrol about two hundred kilometres down the coast. On the basis of the odometer reading, petrol usage and some telephone evidence, he probably drove quite some distance further. These facts were consistent with a stored GPS entry for a point west of Margaret River. He had returned to Perth two days previously and checked into The Excelsior, and his return flight was booked for twenty-four hours hence.

For the time being, Worse planned to conclude his research by hacking into Hong Kong bank accounts associated with Zheng. One alias account showed a number of deposits ranging from twenty to fifty thousand US dollars, going back about three years. Some looked reasonably traceable, given a little effort. But Worse's attention was fixed on the most recent, credited ten days before, and this one was entirely different. Worse knew a lot about electronic money transfer, how to conceal it and how to uncover it. Much of his consulting work over the last few years was concerned with exactly that. And within a few seconds of trying to identify the origin of this payment it was clear that here was very sophisticated concealment indeed. He played with it for about an hour, peeking, pushing, unwrapping, poking, tricking, cajoling. He learnt a little, but not enough, and certainly not what he wanted. He decided that he would resume the task later with special software.

Meanwhile, there was something comparatively easy that he could do. Returning to the accounts page, he withdrew the fifty thousand dollars last credited, dragged it through some muddied cyberspace, and rinsed it squeaky-clean on the other side. Mr Zheng had generously donated to a police charity.

During all these investigations, Worse was continually evaluating his own security. It was clear that Zheng knew where to find him, but careful reconstruction of the previous day's events, along with no evidence to the contrary in the man's effects or electronic communications, strongly suggested to Worse that his personal appearance remained secure. Not only would this simplify management of his safety, it constrained the possibilities regarding the identity of Zheng's paymaster; Worse was also canvassing hypotheses of motive.

The conclusion regarding his own identity, though provisional, afforded some confidence for his next project. He hacked into the security system of The Excelsior and planted appropriate camera faults. Then he changed into a business suit, pocketed Zheng's room key, gathered the remainder of the man's belongings in a briefcase, and set off for the hotel. It was five blocks distant, and Worse chose to walk. He entered via the lobby, took an elevator to the ninth floor, and found Zheng's room. Checking that the corridor was empty, he inserted the key card and stepped inside.

The room had been serviced, but the usual paraphernalia of the business traveller was lying about, intermixed with the glossy debris furnished by management. Wearing gloves, Worse set about a systematic search. The bedside telephone flashed messages, and his first act was to pick them up using the television screen. There were two, both requesting that Zheng return the calls urgently, but offering no identification. Worse noted the relevant times. He then scrolled through the menu to examine Zheng's progressive account. Everything was consistent with what Worse already knew, though it served to fill in some details about where the man had eaten, his diet, his appetite for beer, and his predilections for fantasy in pay movies. There were no telephone charges.

As the search progressed, a picture emerged of someone depressingly plain. Worse humoured himself with indignation that he might have met his end at the hands of this amalgam of the unsavoury and the very dull. Clearly, the previous day's thoughts on falling, offered as a sort of prayer, would have been completely wasted on this man.

Having examined every item of paper, clothing and luggage, Worse turned to potentially his most challenging task. Although
he was confident of opening the safe, he knew that it could be time-consuming. He had brought some electronic aids, but was hopeful that they would be unnecessary. And so it proved. On his first guess, using six digits from Zheng's mobile phone number, he heard the pins retract and the display rather fatuously flashed Open. Whenever he did this, he was reminded of Feynman's wonderful memoir piece on safecracking, and resolved to re-read it.

Worse swung open the door and reached inside. There was a box of ammunition, a passport in Zheng's name, a card recording account numbers and obvious passwords (most of which Worse recognized), and a roadmap of the state. This had been refolded to display the South-West tourist sector centred on the famous wine region. Slipped into the pages of the map was a sheet from a hotel notepad. On it was written ‘Grosvenor poss 33 male'. Worse was quietly delighted, and put the map and note in his pocket. He then took from his briefcase Zheng's wallet and watch, placed them in the safe, and closed the door. Other possessions, apart from the mobile, he distributed naturally around the room. Finally, leaving the key card on top of the television, he opened the door, glanced down the corridor, and stepped out.

Just as he rounded a corner leading to the elevators he saw two men approaching. They walked side by side making no concession to others, and Worse found himself waiting behind a room-maid's cart to let them pass. They were scanning room numbers, and both glanced at Worse without special interest. The indifference was not reciprocated: something triggered Worse's attention, and by stopping to wait he gained extra seconds to study their appearance. One was mid-thirties in age, the other mid-twenties. Both wore dark clothing, the older a fairly modish suit with grey shirt and light tie, the younger a waist-length leather jacket with blue shirt and buttoned collar. Neither carried anything in his hands. They looked out of place, not businessmen, not tourists.

After they passed, Worse hesitated, listening carefully. Out of sight behind him he heard them knocking on a door. Rather than risk spying around the corner he walked confidently back, approached another room as if it were his own, and placed one
hand on the door lever and another in his inside jacket pocket. Then as if he had discovered on his person whatever he had returned to collect, he walked briskly back towards the elevator. This charade legitimized his glance at the other men. They were knocking impatiently on Zheng's door.

Worse sat in the main lobby with his back to the elevators, looking at a newspaper. After a few minutes, the two men appeared, looking around as they walked to the entrance. Worse casually put down the paper, picked up his briefcase, and followed. They had parked on the street in a loading zone. From a discreet distance, he watched them enter an empty car and drive away. He memorized its registration, then set off to enjoy the walk home.

20

Back in his apartment, Worse's mobile alerted him that something of interest was happening in the basement car park. He listened as he walked through to the workshop and stationed himself before Peepshow, where he was unsurprised to recognize the two men whom he had seen at The Excelsior. One was seating himself behind the driver's wheel of Zheng's car.

‘The key's in it!'

The second man opened the passenger door and sat with one foot outside the car. ‘That's fuckin' weird. Has he just come or something?'

‘It was supposed to be yesterday. Christ, the doctor will be pissed if there's been a screw-up.'

‘C'mon man! A pro against a nerd—how could he screw up?'

‘Yeah.'

There followed a few seconds' silence, then a soft clicking noise. Worse's surmise was immediately confirmed.

‘Stone fucking cold.'

‘Jeez,' His companion said, ‘so he just left it here.'

‘Yeah. We'd better check it out.'

‘Shouldn't we call in? He said just look, don't go up. The place'll be crawling with pigs gawking at the stiff.'

‘Jesus, Kev, does it look like the place is crawling with pigs?'

Kev considered this. ‘Do you really think Zheng could've screwed up?'

‘Well, something's wrong and we should check it out. Maybe we'll get to do the job properly.'

‘Yeah. Look good, wouldn't it, pro flown in, big bucks, screw
up, and we fix it.' Kev relished his fantasy to the point of first practicality. ‘We dunno what he looks like.'

‘Yeah, well, that's easy. We just go to the thirty-third floor and blow the brains out of every weedy little nerd in sight.'

‘Fuckin' great. Let's do it!' said Kev.

Two thumps signalled the end of this unedifying screenplay. They walked confidently to the lift station and waited. Worse watched them enter an empty elevator, saw the one not called Kev (characteristically, Worse corrected himself: the one not known to be called Kev, though Kev and Kev would seem farfetched) turn to press a button, and the doors close.

From that moment, definitely Kev and possibly Kev were prisoners of Peepshow's repertoire of faults. Worse isolated the elevator from official monitors, and listened via the emergency intercom. At 33, the doors wouldn't open. He heard Kev, with inimitable redundancy: ‘The fuckin' doors aren't opening.'

His companion wasn't perturbed. ‘Press the open thing.'

Peepshow registered repetitive requests for
Door Open.
Worse held them there about a minute, until Kev's mentor instructed impatiently, ‘Press another level, fuck.'

Kev, either for want of imagination or from misgivings about the whole proceedings, pressed for the car park. Simultaneously, the lights went out and they accelerated, not down, but upwards.

‘Fuck, fuck, what did you fucking do?'

‘Nothin', fuck. I just pressed down. Like you said,' Kev added inspirationally, rebalancing the implicit blame. The elevator hurtled to 74 and stopped.

‘Open the door for Christ's sake.'

‘I can't see a fuckin' thing.'

Worse had removed power from the panel.

‘There must be an alarm or intercom or something.'

‘Yeah, but I can't see a fuckin' thing.'

‘Use your fucking phone for some light. Jesus.'

Worse sent them downwards, pausing at the basement, and returned them to the top. He repeated this, then parked them at 13, a plant room where their protestations would go unheard. They had no idea where they were. Holding his mobile obviously gave Kev the idea of using it as a phone.

‘Let's ring someone.'

‘Oh yeah.' The sarcasm indicated prior consideration. ‘Like the Doctor?' Kev's companion fell silent, probably reflecting that the contravention of orders was his responsibility. ‘Fuck.'

‘What about Smudge? He might keep it quiet,' suggested Kev.

‘Yeah, maybe. He's gone to Sydney doing drive-bys but he could find out who to ring, the management and all.'

‘Do you think they know there's a problem?'

‘Christ knows. Jesus.'

‘I reckon they'll be onto it.' Kev didn't project conviction.

‘Get Smudge anyway, fuck.'

As Kev presumably fumbled with his phone, Worse spoke into the intercom. ‘Is there anyone in there?'

‘Yeah, yeah,' shouted Kev eagerly, possibly answering for both.

‘Oh good. I'm the service manager. We know we have a malfunction. We'll get you out of there.'

Kev's mentor had recovered full bravado. ‘Jesus, fucker, do it now.'

‘Yes, as soon as possible. We're working on it. Meanwhile, there's no cause for alarm. Now, how many of you are in there?'

‘Two, two of us,' replied Kev.

‘Good. Now it's important to stay calm. How fortunate there are two of you. Imagine what it would be like on your own!' He added innocently, ‘Try to keep each other company, we're doing everything we can.'

‘Get us out, fucker,' said Kev's companion.

‘Now gentlemen, do you know each other?'

‘Yeah,' answered Kev, ‘we're together.'

‘Good. My name is Mr Newton. You may have heard of me. And you are?'

‘Kev.'

‘Definitely Kev? Kev definitely?'

‘Yeah. What do you mean? I'm Kev.'

‘And your friend's name?'

‘Ritchie,' said Kev.

‘Get us out, fucker,' Ritchie introduced himself.

‘Stay calm, Ritchie. You're not in any danger.'

‘You're the one in danger, fucker.'

‘Ritchie, and you too, Kev. I know it's disconcerting, being trapped in an elevator, but everything really is okay. The shift engineer is on her way. She's called Jill. And we have procedures in place. Everything's fine. Were you having a nice day? Are you visiting friends in our great building? Can I contact anyone for you? Any messages for those on the outside?' Almost imperceptibly, Worse hesitated and dropped his voice a semitone to pronounce the final word.

‘Shut up, fucker.'

‘Ritchie, I do need to inform you that our building has special by-laws against using foul language, that sort of thing. We have little fines; they go to charity.'

‘You haven't heard foul yet, fucker,' growled Ritchie.

‘Ritchie, he's trying to help.'

‘That's right, Kev. Definitely, Kev. Now Kev, look after Ritchie. He's feeling the pressure. I think we should make you the spokesperson. You can choose the charity for Ritchie. But you'll both be out of there really soon. Kev?'

‘Yes, Mr Newton?'

‘Would you like to listen to some music? Would you like to play word games?'

‘Shut up, fucker,' responded Ritchie.

‘Kev, are you there?' Worse knew that Kev would be comforted by the redundant.

‘Yes, Mr Newton.'

‘I need your help, Kev. Kev, I want you to look up at the ceiling and there's a kind of fresh air grille there. Can you tell me if it looks open?' Again Worse modulated the last word, not quite subliminally.

‘Fuck, fuck, it's dark in here. We can't see Jesus Christ!'

‘Is ... is He there, Kev?'

‘What do you mean? Ritchie's here.'

Worse incompletely covered the microphone and spoke to his empty workshop. He ensured that the two in the elevator would hear. ‘Jesus, the lights are out! I think they're saying Jesus Christ is with them but they just can't see Him—they're losing it for sure. Fuck. No power means they can't do procedures. It's looking like the big one. We do have braking, don't we? Tell me we've got
braking!' He mumbled an inaudible reply, waited a few seconds, and uncovered the microphone.

‘Kev?'

But Kev was already talking. ‘What about the brakes, what was that about the fuckin' brakes?'

‘Nothing, Kev. That's a little fine for you, Kev. I'm noting them all down for you. Kev, how is Ritchie doing?'

‘Shut up, fucker.'

Again, Worse spoke aside. ‘They know about the brakes. Where's Jill? Oh for Christ's sake. Get her at the hairdresser's then. Foils? Fuck. Myrtle, what's the cable test showing? What's the cable over-strain, for Christ's sake?' He paused. ‘Jesus, it's not that difficult. Figure it out, Flossie. It's only calculus, for Christ's sake.'

‘Jesus Mr Newton, is everything okay?'

‘Of course everything's okay, Kev. Just hang in there. Kev?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Kev, it might be a good idea not to talk too much now. Just to conserve your energy.' Worse pronounced it air-nergy. ‘Are you recumbent?'

‘I dunno.'

‘Well, why don't you both lie down, for any jolts, you know. Only little jolts, of course. I'm afraid you'll need to be patient. We'll have you out of there in no time at all, celebrating with nice sparkling sweet wine and fresh windfalls, and you'll think it's the funniest thing that's happened in your whole day. Kev, look after Ritchie, he's feeling the pressure.'

‘Shut up, fucker.'

Aside again: ‘Has Jill answered? Is her hair done? Henna? Really? I would never have imagined. Lucille, stop the giggles; this is serious. Freckles, are we go for brakes? Where's the power overload at, Jezebel? Are we still dead-zoning on the main linkage, Gertie?' He paused. ‘Fuck it all, Ginger. I already know the free fall numbers. Don't give me worst case. Jesus, give me a survival scenario at least, can you?' Immediately, he sent the elevator to the basement, up to the top, and back to 13.

‘Jesus. What's happening?'

‘Why, Kev?'

‘We just went up and down and shit.'

Actually, thought Worse, it was down and up and down.

‘Hold on, Kev. The s-word, that carries a little fine. And the blasphemes, they're a double, I'm afraid. So the double blasphemes, like, you know,' Worse hesitated and intoned solemnly,
‘Iesus Christos,
they're double double. For example, s, f, J-C all said together would cost you six fines. I'll add it all up for you both at the end. In fact, why don't I set up a little spreadsheet to make it easier? Anyway, while I'm doing that, I'll try to find out what happened to the lift.' Worse paused. ‘Let's see ... the manual calls that a gravity fault. Mm. That could be a problem with the universal law. Might take some time. Do you know about the law, Kev? But we won't worry about that just now. It says stay calm. That's how Bishop Mesmerides managed. Have you heard of the Bishop, Kev? He's our most famous resident. Once he got caught in an elevator for forty hours. Had to relieve himself and all. May have been the same elevator. Anyway, he prayed and prayed. He prayed so much he collapsed. Not from starvation. Not terminal thirst. Not even from abject terror. Collapsed from pure faith. Collapsed from praising the Lord. Seeing Jesus and all, Kev, like you didn't. When he got out he said the forty was special, like in the wilderness. He made a famous sermon on it, called
A Guide for the Cataplexed,
about salvation I suppose. Kev?'

‘Yeah?'

‘I am required to inform you that we do have a by-law against fouling the elevators, all the same. Kev?'

‘Yeah?'

‘Do you pray?'

Before Kev could respond, Worse spoke aside. ‘Jesus Christ, if you can't get Jill, get Samantha. Or Mary-Lou. Or Desdemona from Ramona. I want someone who knows what they're fucking doing! What? Me? Oh, fuck the fines.' After a few seconds, he added soberly, ‘Maybe we should get the Bishop's help, then.'

Worse then returned to the intercom. ‘Kev, Ritchie, we're doing everything possible. We've got fire brigade, police, ambulance, Jill's crew, counsellors. We think it might just be a computer crash.' He slightly stressed the last word, drawing further attention to it by virtue of substitution. ‘A computer
glitch. We're about to raise our weedy little nerd-in-residence to help.'

Worse allowed the potential implications of that statement to sink in. After several seconds he spoke again. ‘Kev? Good news!'

‘Yes, Mr Newton?'

‘All the other elevators are working just fine. Wasn't it funny you chose this one!'

‘But we didn't know this would happen, Mr Newton.'

Worse almost felt sorry for him.

‘Kev, I need to leave the mike for a while—there's a tow truck driver going berserk in the basement. Naturally, we have bylaws about parking, you know. I trust you left your vehicle in an approved visitors bay. Meanwhile, just stay calm. Remember not to talk unless it's important. Kev? Is Ritchie breathing okay?'

‘Yeah. I think so.' Kev's reply somehow conveyed wide eyes. Ritchie was less in doubt.

‘Shut up, fucker.'