Authors: Christian Cantrell
The boy appears in the kitchen having done his best to keep up with Alexei fashion-wise. He is wearing black jeans which contain two to three times the amount of denim required to effectively cover his legs, an oversized black T-shirt, and black sneakers with red accents. His braids are down again and swing just above his shoulders as he walks.
“You ready to learn something?” Alexei asks the boy.
“I guess,” the boy says with the combination of apathy and broodiness Alexei is gradually beginning to accept as normal.
Alexei starts toward the garage and stops. He turns back to the boy and leans in to get a closer look at his prosthetic eye.
“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”
“Yeah, why?”
There’s a tiny white battery icon in the center of the boy’s pupil. Alexei places a finger below his own eye.
“When was the last time you charged?”
“Oh, shit.”
“Go get the car charger. We’ll do it on the way.”
The vehicle Alexei chooses has to be one of his least favorite cars on the entire planet: the Chinese-built Cherry Brilliance. It’s an absurd looking machine which is little more than two shoulder-to-shoulder seats inside of a glass bubble on top of four giant, nonpneumatic, polymer castors. The cockpit can pivot 360 degrees as can the castors which, even Alexei
has to admit, means all kinds of new and interesting possibilities for the auto-drive system—especially in the context of urban parking—but the overall look is, in Alexei’s distinguished and rigorously refined opinion, positively asinine. However, Dre had been delighted by the vehicle the first time he explored the garage—declaring it “pimp” or “sublime” or some such reverent accolade—so Alexei picks it this morning in the dim hope of raising the boy’s spirits.
Although they know where they are going, they have no idea where they actually are. The car’s glass dome is white and fully opaque—not in order to conceal their identities (that could easily be done with one-way obscuration) but to prevent the occupants from seeing out. Andre is allowed unrestricted access to most of the house and to the grounds, and he is permitted to leave whenever he wishes, but he is not allowed—under any circumstances whatsoever—to know where the compound is located. As vehicles leave the garage, their windows either darken or brighten, and they do not clear up again until they are within a kilometer of their destination. On the way back, the process reverses itself. Routes are randomized and, if time permits, superfluously extended in order to throw off passengers who might be trying to keep track of turns. GPS signals that penetrate the cockpit are jammed to thwart surreptitious attempts at generating maps with a handset. Dre frequently rolls his eyes at Alexei’s paranoia, to which Alexei responds by expressing his sincere hope that none of the children who live with him will ever have to learn the hard way that the precautions they are forced to take are in fact for their own good.
The cable that runs from the dashboard of the Cherry to Dre’s eye terminates in a filament that coils throughout a transparent, antimicrobial contact lens. After magnetically aligning itself, it charges the prosthetic inductively in anywhere from five to fifteen minutes, depending on the power source. The coupling is weak enough to avert catastrophe should the cable be inadvertently yanked, and the lead coming off the lens is thin enough that it does not irritate Dre’s eyelid as he blinks. When he feels two quick successive vibrations, the boy detaches the charger, stows it in its pouch, and slips it inside one of the car’s many cargo compartments.
Since Alexei is not a resident of Century City, he must register at the gate as a temporary retail tourist before he and Dre are allowed to enter. His credit checks out and he is granted the privilege of purchasing
a one-day pass good for the Westfield Century City mall and all adjacent restaurants, cafés, bars, coffeehouses, bistros, and quaintly themed diners—seating and dress code permitting, of course. The mall’s Park Assist
®
system is auto-drive compatible, which allows Alexei and Andre to be dropped off along Santa Monica Boulevard and be spared any extraneous exertion.
The largest authorized dealer of Swiss timepieces in LA is Rousseau, and their flagship store is located on the first level of Westfield Century City mall, just past Bloomingdale’s. Although the shop is characteristically empty for midmorning on a weekday, the panoramic displays behind the counters give the impression of a comfortable crowd. Attractive, confident, and powerful individuals to which we are all expected to aspire perform for the voyeuristic pleasure of esteemed Rousseau clientele. A dashing and mysterious young man—his dark features hardened into an austere but handsome mask—pushes his 911 Carrera to the very precipice of its capabilities as he pilots it along the German autobahns; a middle-aged man and his petite blonde companion enjoy a sunny afternoon of yachting and lobster tail, impossibly radiant strawberries, and chilled champagne as their boat hovers above the translucent turquoise of the Caribbean; a distinguished and eminently eligible gentleman in a custom-tailored tuxedo and a caramel-complexioned brunette in a red strapless evening gown give each other lascivious glances between ice sculptures at a private cocktail affair. The characters are all free to enjoy their boundless affluence and experience the intoxicating drama of their virtual lives with a level of algorithmic autonomy that yields infinite possibility and endless entertainment—so long as they do so with the prominent timepieces on their wrists perpetually in frame.
Dre goes directly for the Rolexes while Alexei approaches the counter squarely between the Audemars Piguet and Hublot display cases. When he looks up, a woman has already stolen out from some unseen passage in the digital mural. Her rich copper hair is gathered high atop her head and maintained through some mysterious art which few men can fathom, and which is usually reserved for bridesmaids. She either has a small amount of Asian in her, or a plastic surgeon—perhaps one conveniently located in this very mall—has done a credible job of recreating the effect.
“I’m Rebecca,” the woman says warmly. She extends her delicate fingers in a way that seems to imply that Alexei is free to plant a kiss on her
knuckles—or possibly even as far up as her neck, should he care to take the liberty.
“Alexei,” Alexei responds, accepting her hand and settling for a gentle squeeze. He lingers as men who are about to spend exorbitant amounts of money usually assume they have the right to do, and Rebecca does not object.
“You obviously have very refined taste,” Rebecca observes.
Alexei allows her fingers to slip away—undoubtedly a metaphor for how the finer things in life can so easily escape our grasps if we do not act boldly and decisively.
“I’ve been known to have an unhealthy obsession with perfection.”
“Then you have certainly come to the right place, Alexei,” Rebecca tells him. She smiles in a way that the uninitiated could be forgiven for misinterpreting as innuendo, but Alexei knows better. “And let me assure you that there is nothing unhealthy about an obsession with perfection—especially when it comes to the single most important thing a man can wear: his timepiece.”
She dips beneath the counter and returns with a striking specimen in rose gold. When she places it on the counter, an image of a distinctly European man with wavy collar-length black hair and dark stubble appears beside it in the glass. He is holding a pencil in his right hand which he is using to sketch something on a large pad, and on his left wrist is the very watch that lays before them, clearly the source of all his artistic and sexual prowess. A list of specifications animate in: rose gold case, markers, and hands; glare-proof sapphire crystal and case back; black tapestry ceramic dial; hand-stitched crocodile strap; forty-jewel movement with a sixty-hour power reserve. Indeed, everything one needs in order to make an informed purchasing decision—except for the price.
“It’s stunning, isn’t it, Alexei?”
“I’m more of a tool watch kind of guy,” he tells Rebecca. “But considering all the trouble you went to fetch it for me, it would be rude not to at least try it on, wouldn’t it?”
He reaches under his sleeve to remove the IWC Ingenieur he walked in with when the voices he has been monitoring behind him suddenly intensify.
“Man,
fuck
you,” he hears Dre say.
Alexei turns and sees the posture of the little boy he took out of West Baltimore. He is glaring across the counter at a pale young man with stylishly shaggy strawberry blond hair, a light pinstriped suit, and a salmon (a.k.a. pink) tie. The man is glaring unflinchingly right back at the boy.
“You have exactly three seconds to get out of my store before I call security.”
One of the man’s hands is under the counter, presumably poised to trigger a silent alarm. Alexei turns back to Rebecca. “Pardon me for just one moment,” he says politely.
When he approaches the opposite counter, the salesman’s demeanor changes. “I apologize for the disruption, sir,” he says. “We’ll have this resolved momentarily.”
“What’s your name?” Alexei asks the man.
“I’m Jacob, sir, and I would be very happy to take extremely good care of you as soon as we have this situation resolved.”
“And what exactly is this situation?”
“It seems this
gentleman
has a problem with our policy of not removing watches from cases until we have a credit card in hand.”
“That’s curious,” Alexei says. He appears mildly confused as he gestures over his shoulder with his thumb. “Rebecca was happy to hand me a watch without any type of security or collateral.”
The clerk gives Alexei a dubious scowl. “That’s a little different, sir.”
“How is it different?”
“Let’s just say that enforcement of our security policies is at the sales associate’s discretion.” He looks back at Dre. “Your three seconds are up. I hope you’re ready to spend the night in the Century City lockup.”
Alexei takes a step closer and both Dre and Jacob flinch as his hand flashes out, grasps the man by the hair, and heaves him out of range of the silent alarm. Under Alexei’s grip, the man’s body is as flaccid as a marionette, which makes slamming his face down against the counter look entirely effortless. Jacob makes a very unmasculine sound which conveys more fear than actual pain. He is waving his arms like a distraught seagull as a notification appears on the glass beside his head: “Product not recognized. Please try again.”
“I think you’ve made a terrible mistake, Jacob,” Alexei tells the clerk. “This boy is with me.”
“Rebecca!” Jacob screams. His lips are distorted by the pressure Alexei is putting on his face. “Call security! Rebecca? Where are you? Help me! Please!”
Alexei looks over his shoulder and sees that Rebecca has stayed put. She is leaning on the glass, the watch they were discussing with such civility only moments ago still on the counter between her elbows, her delicate chin resting comfortably in her palms. She is clearly far more fascinated than concerned by what she is witnessing.
Alexei turns back to the man he has pinned down by the face. “You hear that?”
“What?”
“Nothing. Nobody’s coming to your rescue. Your mouth got you into this, and now you’re going to have to talk your way out.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Jacob stammers. “Ow, you’re hurting me. I said I was sorry. What else do you want?”
“I don’t want you to apologize to me,” Alexei says. “I want you to apologize to my friend.” He leans down close to the man’s ear and whispers. “And if I don’t think you’re being sincere, I’ll smash your pretty little face right through this cabinet and watch the shards of glass rip the skin right off your fucking skull.”
A tear escapes Jacob’s clenched eyes and drips from the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything. I swear to God, I didn’t mean anything. Please. It’ll never happen again. I swear.”
“It better not,” Alexei says. He releases Jacob’s hair and uses the back of the man’s suit coat to clean his hand. “From now on, you assume every single customer who walks in here has a Russian friend with a very bad temper right behind him. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jacob says. As he straightens up, he glances down the counter toward the alarm, then looks back at Alexei.
“Don’t,” Alexei says. “I have a better idea. Do you work on commission?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He removes a roll of colorful notes from his pocket. “Then grab that Patek Philippe tray over there and let’s make this right. My boy here needs a family heirloom.”
Jacob does not look again toward the alarm. He wipes the tears from his face, straightens his jacket, fluffs his hair, and diligently applies himself to his craft.
As Alexei and Dre stand outside in the sun waiting for the car, Alexei lights a cigarette. “Hey, kid,” he says. “You got the time?”
Andre smiles. He looks down at the heavy metal watch on his wrist, then back up at Alexei.
“I know why I’m here, by the way,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m not stupid. I know why you wanted to take me out today.”
“You mean you don’t think it was just so I could pick a fight with some pathetic neutered douchebag?”
The boy does not smile. He is suddenly more serious than Alexei has ever seen him. “You took me out so you could talk me into doing what you want.”
Alexei shakes his head as he drags on his cigarette. “You’re wrong,” he says. “I took you out today to try to find out what you’re thinking, Dre, not to talk you into doing anything. This has to be your decision.”
“I’ll do it,” the boy says.
Alexei watches him for a moment. “Are you sure?”
“I have to help those people,” Dre says. “I know that now.”
Alexei nods as he exhales through his nose. “Good,” he tells the boy. “Now I won’t have to kill you.”
The boys stares up at Alexei until Alexei smiles. The boy smiles back and shakes his head, and when Alexei puts his arm around Andre’s shoulder and pulls him in, the boy does not resist.
“You really think we can win?” the boy says.