What’s this?
Moon didn’t smile. We should talk later, he said.
With that, he turned and waddled down the hall to the elevator. His pants were too short and his wide buttocks swung like loose freight. He looked like the fucking white rabbit. He was neurotically cheerful and at least two hours late for work.
I sighed and opened the envelope to find a plastic evidence bag containing maybe an ounce of coke. Maybe less. I was hopeless at eyeballing weights. I shook my head in disgust as my nose began to itch. There was also an array of credit cards and ID under various names. My favorite was Ray Fine. I could be Ray Fine for a while. There was no cash in the envelope, however. Moon seemed to think that I could easily peddle the coke for a little spending money. It was not exactly what I had been hoping to do this morning but I would have to manage. I am so bad with drugs, though. I’m terrible at selling them. I always manage to get myself ripped off and whatever slim profit I come away with is most likely to find its way up my nose. Of course, there was no investment in this case. It was all profit and I should really taste the product before I tried to unload it. What if it was a lot of speed and aspirin and somebody wanted to gut me for burning them? That wouldn’t do at all. I merrily chopped out a couple of skinny lines with Ray’s platinum Visa card and of course had nothing at all to use as a tube, not a single dollar bill to hoover them with. This was perfect. The lines wiggled on Moon’s chipped counter and I was sure that I would sneeze and blow them away before I could find a tube of some kind. I opened my wallet and got out my social security card. It was a little soft and ragged but it did roll up nicely. The coke was pure and fine and now I couldn’t feel my own tongue. And what do you know but I decided I was suddenly pretty cheerful and thought a walk was just what I needed.
Besides, the apartment had settled into a mid-morning gloom that I really couldn’t bear.
Mingus:
Four doorways and he had come this way before. These were the runnels beneath Los Angeles. Dark, with pockets of burning steam. Land mines. And blackened corpses lay everywhere. Four doors. One of them had the faint red glow of a laser trip wire. Immediate death. As for the other three, well. That was the question. Aliens waited behind two of them. And the fourth held a medkit, possibly a key. He couldn’t remember. Okay, okay. He checked his health. A sliver of yellow. He could take one, maybe two shots and he was meat. No problem. He just couldn’t afford to choose the wrong door. But if he did, he was by God taking a few aliens out with him. The ugly lizard boys. He checked his weapon. A chaingun, with twenty-nine rounds. Fucking worthless. He could easily waste that firing at shadows and he scrolled through his weapons for something better. Flamethrower: always a lot of fun but unreliable. Shotgun: two useless shells. Nine millimeter: full clip. Rocket launcher: suicidal in such close quarters. The nine it was, then.
Now.
Which door did he like. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to think.
Pounding, pounding. Someone was pounding on the door.
Mingus opened his eyes and his perspective had changed somewhat. It was still a first-person shooter but he could see more of his body than he should have been able to. His feet, his legs. His abdomen. And his hands, which were empty. They weren’t holding a weapon and this wasn’t what he thought it was. This wasn’t a video game.
This was life, or something like it.
The top of a flight of stairs, a white lightbulb. A single moth darting around it. Chrome was beside him, leaning against chipped gray plaster with a look of mild irritation on his face.
Where are we?
Chrome smiled at him. I’m at Goo’s place, he said. Or rather, I’m waiting outside of Goo’s place. I’m lurking in the shadows. I don’t know where the devil you are.
Yes, I’m sorry. I was in LA, in the sewers. Hunting aliens.
It’s nice to have you back, said Chrome.
It was an overload, a crash. A temporary aversion.
Well, then. If you are breathing freely again, why don’t you tell me if Goo is in there or not.
Mingus sniffed. She’s inside. She’s listening to us.
Chrome leaned against the door, his cheek to the wood. Come on, love. Open the door or I will blow it down.
Silence.
Then Goo’s voice, muffled. I’m not in the mood, Christian.
Chrome flinched at the sound of his given name, his dead name. Mingus tried and failed to catch his eye. And he realized he was afraid. He stood alongside Chrome with a permanent bellyful of fear and he was getting used to this. This fear wasn’t going anywhere. Mingus could smell the girl inside, faintly. She smelled of shampoo and dried sweat and chamomile tea. She smelled vaguely of bitter flowers and Mingus decided she wasn’t wearing underpants. The girl smelled like blood. She smelled angry.
Maybe we should go elsewhere, said Mingus.
Chrome shook his head. Open this fucking door, he said. I’m not joking.
Another silence. Long and bright.
Then the door cracked slowly and Goo stood there, barefoot. She held something queer in her right hand, a naked headless Barbie doll.
Mingus held his breath but it was too late. He was in the backseat of a car with a little girl, a sister or cousin. She was small, with dark skin. Nine or ten. She wore a red bathing suit and her legs were long and thin as a deer’s. She had no breasts at all and her hair was still damp from swimming and she held a Barbie doll dressed in little tennis whites. The windows were open and the wind crashed through the car. His ears were ringing. His skin was tender, burned. Mingus was choking on something. He has a mouthful of something like sawdust. He glanced at his hands and saw that he held an oatmeal cookie with soft plump raisins staring back at him like dull black eyes.
Dear Jude.
I didn’t want to leave you but I couldn’t sleep anymore. And don’t fucking laugh at me, okay.
I’m west of the Mississippi now. Two days, give or take. I remember train stations, rust. Lies. The memory is edited into a knowable body that defies logic. The land between us is dead skin. There are no peacocks, no maneuvers. There is no invulnerable green.
I was kicking a nice little morphine habit and what did I expect, a soft rosy glow and the soothing hum of furry woodland creatures and one long foot massage to lull me to sleep but that wasn’t it.
It rains. It pours.
I could handle the withdrawals no problem. They were painful and horrifying and endless but that was pretty much what I expected. As advertised.
I would like to sleep in a tin shack with you. Under a tin roof that leaks.
What got me in the end was the notion that you were secretly the Dread Pirate Roberts. You know that flick, The Princess Bride?
The sky is endless, blind, ravenous. Enduring every shade of gray. Hunger. I pray for geometry, for logic.
I was the farmboy, Westley. He stupidly believes in true love and is captured by the Dread Pirate Roberts who decides at the last moment not to kill young Westley and instead takes him on as his valet and personal gofer and every night Roberts very cheerfully says to him: Good night, Westley and sleep well. I will most likely kill you in the morning…good night.
If I were an archeologist, I would never label my finds. My tender and dusty shards.
Good night, Phineas. And sleep well. I will most likely kill you in the morning.
Chrome:
Eve was annoying him. She was wary, and wouldn’t ask them to sit down. Chrome considered this rude, but he decided to ignore it for now. He was reluctant to criticize her, to provoke her. He drifted through her place lazily, as if he might buy it. Mingus stood on one foot, then the other. Chrome saw Eve give him a quick, disappearing smile. She was fond of the poor Breather, Chrome knew. She felt sorry for him.
Chrome rubbed his tongue along the inside of his teeth.
Goo, he said softly. Why are you so unfriendly?
Don’t call me that, okay.
She stared at him with cool disregard. That’s the rea
l trouble with her, he thought. She wasn’t afraid of him. He touched one finger to his left temple, and hoped he would never have to hurt her. She didn’t appreciate him. The stupid girl had no idea how exhausting it was, to play the part of a cool and charming psychopath all day. How difficult it could be to stay in character. She had no fucking idea.
He stared at her and saw that she still held the doll in her hand, a headless doll. It was an ugly little thing. The hands and feet appeared to have been mutilated. Then he noticed the tiny pink shaving of plastic on the floor. She had whittled away the hands and feet, sharpened them. He did love her, in a distracted way. He loved the notion that she would carve a doll into a weapon.
What shall I call you, he said.
My name is Eve, she said.
Surely not.
I’m at home, she said. And when I’m home, I’m still Eve.
Chrome took a step toward her. My love, he said.
Her lip curled. Oh, boy.
Chrome laughed. He heard the thin, glassy sound ring from his mouth and he knew he was not faking it. He really was amused, wasn’t he. This was fun. This was a truckload of monkeys. Eve took a step back, against the door. He didn’t really care if she thought it was any fun.
Are you not my devoted? he said.
Only in the game, she said. Not here.
Oh, no. You wouldn’t call our world a game, would you.
Mingus made a chirping sound and ducked away, into the bathroom. Perhaps the closet.
Chrome shook his head sadly. You’ve frightened him.
What do you want, she said. I’m tired.
Perfect, he said. We, too, are weary. Mingus, especially. He was hoping to sleep on your sofa. And I was hoping to sleep with you.
Funny, she said.
Chrome shrugged. He glanced around the living room at the open windows, at the sunken velvet couch. The scraps of paper on the floor. The bits of Barbie. The menu for the Silver Frog.
Where is your friend? he said.
Eve shook her head. I knew it. You were here, weren’t you. What did you do with him?
Nothing, love. We did nothing to the poor man.
Eve chewed her lip, apparently considering whether to believe him or not. It was remarkable, really. When she was Goo, she adored him. She glowed. She couldn’t keep her hands off him. But this wretched Eve persona treated him like a diseased dog.
Acceptez-vous les chèques de voyage?
Fuck you, she said.
You love it when I speak French.
She sighed. I really don’t. And I think you just asked me if I accept traveler’s checks.
Give us a kiss, he said.
No, she said.
What’s the trouble, love?
I might want to stop, she said.
What? he said.
The game. I might take a holiday from the game.
Preposterous.
Maybe you should sleep elsewhere, she said.
Chrome growled. He heard himself growl. He lunged at her without thinking. Though he supposed he intended to force her to kiss him. Not a pretty thought. Not for a man of his demeanor. But as he grabbed for her pale throat. Eve raked the headless doll across his face like a knife. He howled and stared dumbly at her. He touched his face and found blood there, a fine mist of red. Oh, he loved her.
Now where the fuck was I. The dubious end of Larimer Street, where the economy is based on bail bonds and waste storage and a steady traffic of lost and stolen goods. There are no trees on streets like this and the sun crushes the weal without fail. The sun is bigger out here on the perimeter, it’s wider.
Shadows are rare.
I drifted, and allowed myself to consider a few possibilities. I could cut the coke jealously and sell it by the gram. The money would be endless and plentiful but I would of course have nightmares about it. I would have night sweats. I just didn’t have the constitution anymore for that sort of thing. I could probably venture into a sex and disco scene tonight and sell it by the nickel to college kids. But that would be too hideous and depressing for words and I would probably fuck it up anyway. I would soon find myself distracted by some shiny little girl with manic blue eyes and plump, unrestrained tits and the cat would run away with the fiddle and I would start giving the coke away. The thing was, no one really did coke anymore. The beautiful people were all dead or pregnant or in grad school. Heroin and meth were cheaper, and more interesting. And crack. Now, that shit was reliable. It would never go out of style. Not as long as the lepers could afford it. The lepers tended to be less fickle. Nobody much wanted coke, nobody. But of course if you had a little coke to spare, then everybody wanted some. Because everyone is sentimental when it comes to drugs. And greedy. The blue-eyed girl I had yet to meet would cling to me like a weightless sloth and I would have a thousand new friends and my own nose would be crusted with blood the next morning, my penis sore and chewed apart. And then Phineas would have no coke, no money. End of discussion. I should really try to sell this bundle in one pop, to somebody who could move it rather painlessly. Or to someone who might spend his weekends throwing money around in Aspen, where coke is still casual. There aren’t a lot of ski racks on the cars at this end of Larimer Street, however.
Moon:
Plump, stately Detective Moon hit the street with a mean hard-on for something sweet. Maybe a piece of pie, or sticky bun. His first mistake was turning on his police radio in the car. Bad fucking habit, that was. Another thing he would have to work on. It didn’t matter. He could easily turn it off and go about his business. But the first call he picked up was an officer down. He sat in the front seat of his rancid Taurus, dimly registering the details and wondering if he knew the guy. Hungry or not he couldn’t very well ignore this.
Let’s go.
He put the car in gear and drove south. It looked like it might be a hell of a beautiful day but a cop was dead, or dying. Like a brother. Moon nibbled at his tongue and watched the sky. He spat. He had no brothers, not really. The sky was safe, wasn’t it. White and endless with a smackerel of blue tucked into the corners. He made the scene in no time, five minutes or less. Two black and whites blocked the mouth of an alley. Moon eased his car to a stop and sat there. He hadn’t lifted a fucking finger and he was already soaked with sweat.
Out of the car, get out.
Through the yellow tape and down the alley, his shoes grinding in dirt and gravel. Red brick walls with ancient fire escapes. Eyes to the front now and there was the body, a lump of black and brown. Moon counted three uniforms and a photographer, the medical examiner and his assistant. And lurking on the edge of the scene like a pale green stork was a Homicide dick he had reluctantly been partnered with lately, a stiff British guy named Lot McDaniel. He gave a long whistling sigh, his throat gurgling like a fucked pipe. Lot McDaniel. Of all the cops he might run into this A.M…son of a whore. How he hated that fucking limey.
And now McDaniel came skittering toward him, all ghoulish and pale.
Moon, old fellow. Don’t believe we’ve seen you in a day or two.
The bastard, thought Moon. He always laid the accent on thick when he wanted to get up your ass.
Yeah, he said. I’ve been sick.
McDaniel sneered. Oh, my. You aren’t sick of police work, we hope.
Shut up, said Moon. What’s the story?
Yes, well. Tragic bloody thing. Narcotics officer name of Mulligan. Throat ripped out and he didn’t suffer much, as they say. No badge, no gun on his person. Dead since last night at least.
Ripped out how?
Bare hands, old boy. And teeth. The coroner says it was a fair imitation of an animal’s kill.
Fucking hell.
McDaniel shrugged. Come on, then. Have a look.
Yeah, said Moon. But his feet weren’t so cooperative and it was a moment or two before he could drag himself along behind McDaniel. The uniforms ducked away as they approached, lighting cigarettes and murmuring about hockey. The medical examiner was lazily packing h
is gear. He nodded at Moon with an empty face. The photographer snapped one last shot, and Moon flinched like a little kid at the sudden flash, the exploding bulb. He crouched down, wheezing. His shirt was dripping. The dead man lay on his side like he was having a nap. Brown hair razored short. Black jeans and a brown leather jacket, buttoned up to the collar. His hands were in his fucking pockets and his throat was a bloody mess. It was pure hamburger. Moon took a long look at the guy’s face and saw that he was young, maybe thirty. Thin, sunken cheeks. Black eyes and a crooked nose and this dead man was no one he knew.
Not too healthy, was he? said Moon.
McDaniel coughed. There’s been no bloodwork done yet, of course. But he has the look of a user, no question there. An off-duty incident, possibly. Two junkies scrapping for the same bag or something along those lines.
The guy’s got his hands in his pockets, said Moon.
McDaniel sniffed. It’s only a theory, don’t you know.
What’s his first name?
Fred, said McDaniel. His name was Fred, I believe.
Fred Mulligan, said Moon. I’m sure he deserved better.
What do you think, McDaniel whispered. Does he look familiar?
No, said Moon. I’ve never seen him before.
Moon felt hot. His face was sweating now. His face. What kind of god would give him a sweating face. Oh, he was a fucking wreck and he only wanted something sweet for breakfast. There was nothing he could do for dead Fred Mulligan. Nothing he could do and McDaniel was crouched very close to him, too close. His long, white hands hanging from his bent knees like two sleeping doves. McDaniel smelled of rosewater and boiled sugar. Moon stood up, wiping at his damp face with one dirty sleeve.