Echo Lawrence ( Party Crasher): Yeah, I wanted Rant to do yoga before Party Crashing. Everybody should, just to stay limber and avoid getting hurt. Yoga and stretching. I showed him the Down Dog pose and the Rabbit. We were practicing the Archer when he asked me about the hit man Tina Something goes around with, her boyfriend, Karl Waxman. Rant really admired the asshole’s teeth.
Tina Something ( Party Crasher): I don’t give a gaddamn what the police say. Wax did not kill that hillbilly.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Long before modern Party Crashing, the traffic engineers were running each other down. The videos show them, four geeks in each gray car: one engineer steering, one in charge of documenting with the camera, two engineers on lookout for other gray pool cars covered with dents and scratches. Each car the same government issue: four-cylinder, automatic-transmission, three-point seat belts, and a big “No Smoking” sign riveted to the dashboard.
The pool-car boys loved to hunt each other. Those gray pool sedans were so easy to find, especially after bankers’ hours ended. With full-coverage health insurance, driving a car not their own, with complete permission and encouragement to crash—and getting paid overtime wages, to boot—the infrastructure teams treasured their work.
Jarrell Moore ( Private Investigator): Our firm was able to locate one likely candidate who fit the client’s vague description for a biological father. An individual by the name of Charles Casey. That’s the good news. That Charles Casey, aka “Charlie,” attained Nighttimer status and housing under the I-SEE-U recruitment program. He did work a variety of city-government jobs while enrolled in college.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Event Prompting was so exciting that when the study window ran out and manpower was reassigned to flow studies and traffic-light timing, these traffic geeks couldn’t give it up. Even without a paycheck attached, and forced to wreck their own cars, those original engineers kept up their games. Naturally, outsiders caught on. No matter how diligently you keep something a secret—accidents do happen.
Jarrell Moore: The bad news is, the Charles Casey we found has been missing and presumed dead for almost sixteen years. He’d been a traffic-flow engineer for the city and died in a work-related car accident. It seems he’d requisitioned a car from the department motor pool, then ran it head-on into another car, driven by a female co-worker. The woman and her husband were both killed. Their daughter, who’d been asleep in the backseat of their vehicle, was left handicapped by the accident.
Charles Casey’s body was not recovered at the scene. The couple he killed, their names were Larry and Suprema Lawrence.
Irene Casey: By the last snapshot that Buddy sent home, you can tell that crippled girl, she’s not sanding and refinishing a baseball bat. That thick pink club she’s rubbing on with sandpaper and steel wool, and staining with shoe polish and old tea bags, it looks exactly like some giant’s sex thingy. A girl like that, with a gimp arm, making herself a dirty, bigman thingy…It’s a stretch to see that girl as the mama of my future grandbabies.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Strange as it sounds, emergency service personnel continue to channel Tina Something the gory details of each drive-time accident. Everyone with a government letterhead will deny this, but it’s true.
It’s all connected. The I-SEE-U Act. Team slamming. Night versus day. Graphic Traffic. Our tax money was the springboard for what eventually became the Party Crashing culture. The pool-car boys, those unsung engineers, their study recommendation split this country into day and night. And they brought us the number-one-rated daytime radio program in this market.
Echo Lawrence: Yes, fuck, yes. The name on my dad’s tombstone is Lawrence Lawrence. That’s not funny. But Waxman did kill Rant. Sure, he’s got great teeth, but the man’s evil.
Shot Dunyun ( Party Crasher): Beyond evil.
23–Love
Shot Dunyun ( Party Crasher): The minute Rant comes to me asking what model car has the biggest backseat, I could tell where he was headed. My advice was, I told him to get a car with dark upholstery.
Echo Lawrence ( Party Crasher): Forget it. Our first time alone, I asked Rant what he really wanted from me. Did he plan to go around with me, then take me home as a fugly club to beat on his parents? Was dating a deformed cripple his last act of teenage rebellion? A surefire way to freak out the folks down on the farm?
Or was I some erotic fantasy? Was sex too boring with normal girls, people with two arms and legs that matched, mouths that could kiss back? Was fucking me some one-time goal in the great scavenger hunt of his sex life?
Or was I just the only girl he knew in the big, bad city? His mentor. A guide into the Nighttimer life. Was sex his way of clinging to me because he was too afraid to be alone in this scary new world?
Sitting in the backseat of that Eldorado, I really let Rant have it with both barrels. We’d parked next to some bushes, away from streetlights, but it’s never totally dark in town. I can remember Rant wore his blue bug suit, and smelled toxic. None of this sounds very romantic.
Shot Dunyun: Part of my job, renting bullshit peaks to idiots, is to boost a few myself and stay familiar with the various current titles. For that couple weeks, all we got from the distributors were defective transcripts. I’d be boosting a dessert peak, and the taste track would cut out. A thick slice of chocolate cake would become a mouthful of sticky, greasy pulp. It smelled like chocolate, but in your mouth the cake was nothing but gummy texture. Trapped at home during curfew, one day I boosted my favorite porno peak, and none of the vaginas smelled like anything. The transcripts weren’t the problem. My brain was the problem.
Echo Lawrence: Sitting in that Eldorado, Rant looks at me until I stop talking. He waits about two traffic lights’ worth of silence, then he says, “What did you eat for breakfast yesterday?”
No cars go past. The street’s empty. Rant’s eyes float in the shadows. His black teeth, invisible.
Yesterday? In my kitchen, I have frozen waffles, but when I go out to Tommy’s Diner I order the hash. I tell Rant, “Cereal.” I say, “No, wait. French toast. No…cinnamon toast…”
Rant’s hand slides across the seat until his fingers touch mine. He lifts my hand to his face, his lips touching my knuckles, he sniffs, eyes closed, and says, “Wrong.” He says, “Yesterday, you had rolled-oat granola with maple sugar and pumpkin seeds, vanilla yogurt, and dried cranberries…” And of course he’s dead-on.
Shot Dunyun: Most boosted peaks are bullshit compared to even the slowest night spent Party Crashing, spending time in a car with people and music and snack food, always in a little danger. On a secret mission to meet more strangers. Real people. A road trip to nowhere.
Nonetheless, I’d been boosting peaks since I was in diapers. My parents used to port me to infant-enrichment peaks. Half my childhood I spent plugged into babysitting peaks. As a transcript artist, not being able to plug in would make me the equivalent of a blind painter or a deaf musician. Beyond my worst nightmare.
Echo Lawrence: Rant lifted my hand toward me, saying, “Smell.” And I leaned forward to smell, nothing but my skin, my soap, the plastic smell of my old nail polish. His smell of insecticide.
With my head bent down to meet my hand, Rant leans close to put his nose in my hair, his lips at the side of my neck, under my ear; he sniffs and says, “What was for supper two nights ago?”
My fingers still tangled with his fingers. His breath against my neck. With his lips and the warm tip of his tongue pressed wet on my pulse, the heartbeat in my neck, I say, “Turkey?” I say, “Lasagna?”
And Rant’s warm breath, his whisper against my ear, he says, “Taco salad. White onions, not yellow or red.” He says, “Shredded iceberg lettuce. Ground chicken.”
My nipples already getting hard, I ask, “Light or dark meat?”
Shot Dunyun: A head cold can distort how a peak will boost, the same way food never tastes the same when you’re sick. It must be I was catching a cold.
But a week later, with no runny nose or sore throat, I still couldn’t plug in and boost a good peak. By then, I was picturing a brain tumor.
Echo Lawrence: Kissing my eyelids, Rant whispered, “You should throw out those roses…”
He had never been to my apartment. Back then, Rant didn’t even know where I lived. I asked him, “What roses?”
“Were they from a boyfriend?” he says.
I asked him to tell me the color of the roses.
“Were they from a girlfriend?” he says.
I asked if he’d been stalking me.
And Rant says, “Pink.” Still kissing my forehead, smelling and tasting my skin, my closed eyes, my nose and cheeks, he says, “Two dozen. Nancy Reagan roses mixed with baby’s breath and white little-bitty carnations.”
They were a gift, I tell him, from a nice middle-aged couple I sometimes work for.
Shot Dunyun: The doctor at the clinic calls me a week later—really just a lady from the clinic calls—and says I need to come back at my earliest convenience. She won’t go into any details about my blood work. They get that bullshit smile in their voice, and you know it’s not good news. The billing department just really needs full payment before you croak. So I go, and the doc says—it’s rabies. No shit, rabies. He gives me the first of the five injections. He won’t promise that I’ll ever be able to boost another peak.
Right from the clinic, from the pay phone in the waiting room, I phoned Echo and told her to never, never, ever let Rant Casey put his mouth on hers.
Echo Lawrence: Kissing my mouth, Rant tells me my showerhead is brass instead of chrome. From the smell and taste of me, he says I sleep on goose-down pillows. I have a coconut-scented candle I’ve never lighted.
Lew Terry ( Property Manager): The only occasion I entered Mr. Casey’s apartment was with our standard twenty-four-hour notice to enter premises. Rumor was, he kept pets. My first look around, I didn’t see nothing. A mattress on the floor. A telephone message machine. A suitcase. In the closet, hanging, are those blue coveralls that were the only clothes you ever saw him wear. Clean or dirty, Casey smelled like poison.
If somebody says I took anything, there was nothing to take.
Echo Lawrence: I didn’t let Rant kiss me because he smelled my food. I kissed him after seeing how gentle he treated this huge fugly spider. As we sat there in the backseat of the Eldorado, he unzipped the pocket of his coat and reached one hand inside. He opened his fingers to show me the biggest monster spider. Slowly turning his hand over, he watched the spider crawl from the palm to the back, perched on the big veins.
Both of us looking at this monster spider, I say, “Is it poisonous?”
Shiny, not hairy. Legs thin as eight jet-black hypodermic needles, the spider bends all eight knees, lowering itself to touch Rant’s skin.
This spider looks as ugly as I feel.
And Rant says, “I call her Doris.”
Lew Terry: It’s there, in the back of Casey’s closet, lined up on the floor, I find the jars. Different sizes of mayonnaise and pickle and spaghetti-sauce jars, clear glass and washed out. At first they look empty, but I unscrew one lid. There’s nothing inside, but when I go to put the lid back, on the underneath side of each lid sits a huge black spider. Huge, grizzly bastards.
No matter what anybody says, I didn’t take anything. Not money or anything.
Echo Lawrence: Our breath fogged the car windows, but, watching that spider, neither of us could breathe out. The moment Rant breathed, the spider had bit him. He inhaled, and I inhaled, and Rant said, “Roll down your window.”
I opened the window.
Leaning across me, Rant stuck his hand into the night air. Shaking the spider into the bushes next to the car, he said, “Good night, Dorry.”
Leaned across my lap, his hips pressed into mine, I could already feel the effects of the black widow spider venom.
Todd Rutz ( Coin Dealer): About the same time the Casey kid was selling me coins, I met Lew Terry. Terry used to bring me a few good specimens. If I recall, a 1910 Indian Head quarter in extremely fine condition. A 1907 Liberty Head quarter in AU-50 condition. Nothing spectacular, but I bought them. It wasn’t until the police interviewed me that I found out Terry and Casey lived in the same apartment house.
Echo Lawrence: As Rant’s lips move down my throat, I challenge him to smell what type of birth control I’m on.
As his lips move down my chest, Rant says, “None. You had your period thirty-four—no—thirty-six hours ago.”
When I said “down my throat,” I meant on the outside.
Todd Rutz: This Lew Terry character, it’s obvious he’s a born Nighttimer. Pale. His face and hands clear as the skin he was born into. Always he wore the same oily-brown trench coat and a knitted kind of brown stocking hat pulled down too far.
Echo Lawrence: “Besides,” Rant says, “why would a virgin use birth control?”
Todd Rutz: One night in my shop, this Terry character offers me the Liberty Head and the Indian Head and tells me he needs to see fifteen hundred dollars out of the deal.
Echo Lawrence: Of course I was a virgin. With this twisted little branch for an arm. Half the time I couldn’t tell, but I’d be drooling out one corner of my mouth. The palsy side. With my job, I’d made a cottage fucking industry out of being as unappealing as possible. Do you think I could just vamp it up? Snap my fingers, and go from sideshow freak to sex kitten?
Todd Rutz: Time passed, and the Casey kid would turn up with lesser and lesser coins. Buffalo nickels. Wheat pennies. Nothing worth remembering. His stash had to be running low.
Echo Lawrence: The next night, Rant sent me two dozen red fucking roses. And the keys to a Galaxie 500.
Shot Dunyun: Those bullshit rabies shots took forever. It didn’t help that I kept reinfecting myself with my own toothbrush. By the end, my port went as dead as the knob on the back of Rant Casey’s neck. Beyond dead.
Lew Terry: The only other detail I remember from Casey’s apartment, stuck on the wall next to his bed, I found all these little lumps. Round and dark, like bugs. Soft, like little balls of hashish. Except they didn’t taste like hash.
Echo Lawrence: Our first night alone in the Eldorado, all I could think was: Thank God the leather seats are dark burgundy.
24–Werewolves II
Vivica Brawley ( Dancer): See how, my one foot, the skin looks smooth and white as a bar of soap? Before the attack, I used to have beautiful feet. Tons of men said so. Didn’t matter was I naked, all I needed to do was slip off my shoes and some customers would fork over their tip money.
Phoebe Truffeau, Ph.D. ( Epidemiologist): At the height of the Peloponnesian War, in 431 B.C., Thucydides wrote of a plague that spread north from Ethiopia, through Egypt and Libya. In Athens, the citizens suffered fevers, sneezing, and a violent cough. Their bodies glowed red with lividity, until thousands threw off their clothing, and an unquenchable thirst drove them to drown in the deep, cool water of public wells and cisterns. The city-state was demoralized, its navy crippled. This is how measles destroyed the civilization of the ancient Greeks.
In the first century B.C., a virulent strain of smallpox drove the Huns west from their homelands in Mongolia, toward Rome. For Napoleon’s Grand Army, the ultimate foe would be the bacteria Rickettsia prowazekii, otherwise known as typhus.
Our greatest civilizations have always been destroyed by epidemic disease.
Carlo Tiengo ( Nightclub Manager): Viv? Mind you, back then all the dancers boosted some effect to stay high, at least while they were performing. Most our dancers indulged in an opiate effect the club knew to provide.
Not exactly legal, mind you, but easy to make. Somebody gets high—an actual, primary high, shooting or snorting—then they boost some packaged episode, let’s say a Little Becky transcript. They out-cord their experience, then we run a subtraction equation on that script to strip out the original Little Becky. What’s left over is pure opiate effect. A wireless high. Just a rush we can na
rrow-cast on the stage, looping it so the effect never lets up. A dancer steps into that feel-good spotlight and she won’t have a care in the world.
Phoebe Truffeau, Ph.D.: In 1347, England was a nation of grain farmers, cultivating and exporting corn. That year, Italian traders arrived in Genoa with the Black Plague, and by 1377, one and one-half million English were dead, as much as a third of the population. Because agrarian labor was in such short supply, the entire economy switched from producing corn to raising sheep, and the English feudal system had been destroyed.
Vivica Brawley: Bernie was working the door. It’s horrible what happened. Them tearing him apart the way they did, before the cops came around.
Carlo Tiengo: The customers, mind you, they’re a different matter. Our business is, we sell a one-time, primary experience. We catch anybody transcribing or out-cording their experience in the club, and they’re eighty-sixed.
To protect our product, we made it policy to broadcast a scramble effect. Renders any active port inoperative. Jammed. If we didn’t, you’d have script artists sitting ringside, out-cording every dancer, and dumping her on the Web. One out-corded lap dance can wreck the career of some poor girl. The first shitheel pays to be with her, but everyone after him gets her for free.
Phoebe Truffeau, Ph.D.: During the Great Plague of London in 1665, the weekly death rate fluctuated between one hundred and four hundred persons until July 1. By the middle of July, the weekly death rate had risen to two thousand. By the end of July, sixty-five hundred were dying each week, and by the end of August, seven thousand. Though the common source of bubonic plague had been fleas carried by the European black rat (Rattus rattus), the explosion in new infections arose from a change in disease transmission. Instead of bites from fleas, the causative organism, Pasteurella pestis, had begun spreading from person to person via droplets of saliva and mucus ejected in coughs and sneezes.