Noir (21 page)

“Look,” said November. Her thoughts had pulled together, enough that she could at least talk, even if she didn’t know what hustling verbiage to use. “Maybe we can work something out …”

“I told you. I’m not interested in that right now.”

“No, no—I mean some kind of, uh, financing arrangement.” She could feel her brain kicking into overdrive; all she needed was some traction on this slippery ground. “You know I’m about to score here. Really. All I need is a little more time.” The words started coming faster and faster. “It’d be a shame, I mean a shame for you people, if you had to write off my account, all that money down the toilet, just because you couldn’t cut me a few extra days—”

“Don’t sweat it.” The man shook his thick-necked head in a combination of amusement and disgust. “We’re not writing you off. You want some more time? Great, that’s what I’m here for.”

She drew back, eyeing him. “What’s the catch?”

“What do you want it to be?”

November frowned in puzzlement. “I didn’t follow that one …”

He used her trapped hand to pull her upright. “Like I said: Whatever you want.” He pushed her palm toward her face, almost touching her nose.” How do you like
these
numbers? Better?”

The red numbers were so close, she could just bring them into fuzzy focus. But that was enough for November to see that the baleful total wasn’t blinking anymore.

“Does that do your heart good?” The man smiled at her from the other side of the hand in front of her face. “Think you can breathe now?”

“I don’t get it …” The tips of her fingers felt numb, detached. “What did you do …”

“No big thing.” The man let go of her wrist. “I just took care of your problems, that’s all. Or let’s say … they were already taken care of.” He wiped her sweat off against the front of his coat. “You’re a lucky girl. Today, at least.”

They refinanced me
, thought November. She moved her hand away, bringing the numbers sharper. Without needing any authorization from her; the sharks had that option, if they wanted to, when somebody’s account went into the foreclosure zone.

“Look, I appreciate this …” November lowered her hand. “But I don’t know if I can take any higher interest rate than what I had already. You’re gonna be slicing my margins pretty tight …”

“I wouldn’t know about
tight
. Like I said, I’m not interested in that.” The man’s heavy shoulders lifted in a noncommittal shrug. “Besides, you don’t have anything to fret about. We haven’t jacked up your rates. We’re doing you a favor: your terms have been rolled back to what they were when you signed for the adjustable, and we’ve frozen ’em there. Plus we’re cutting you an extension on the due date.”

“What?” November stared at him in amazement. “Nobody does that.”

“So what can I say. We’re connectin’ saints.”

“No, you’re not.” She pressed her hands flat against the alley wall behind her. “I know that much.”

“Well, maybe you’re right about that.” The man looked out at the empty street, then back toward her. “Maybe there is something we want in exchange.” He brought his face close to hers, his exhaled breath as fiery as before. “For being so understanding of your problems.”

She said nothing. Just waited, without moving.

“Don’t fuck up.” No smile, nothing but the black holes of his eyes, capturing the tiny images of her face. “You got that? That’s what we want. Don’t connect up this one.”

His voice, without shouting, had efficiently pinned her to the wall.
It’s not about money
, realized November.
Or at least not about the money I owe them
. Something else was going on. Deep shit, with its own negative luminosity, like some dead and malignant sun.

She spoke at last. “I got it,” said November.

“That’s why you don’t have to say thank you.” The man stepped back from her. “It’s not really necessary, is it? Strictly business, that’s all.”

That got a nod from her. “Strictly business.”

“Maybe next time …” His smile floated lazily to the surface once more. “Maybe next time, we can talk about that
other
business. Between me and you.”

“I don’t think so.” November regarded him coldly. “Like you said; you’re not doing me any favors. So I don’t have to be nice to you. So connect off.”

He laughed, then turned and walked away, steering his wide bulk toward the alley’s mouth.

When he was gone, November turned her gaze back toward the building she’d been watching. Her target, McNihil, would be arriving soon, she knew. She’d kept her vigil; all the time the loan sharks’ man had been harassing her, she’d been able to keep a minimum eye on the building’s doorway.

The connector didn’t know how important he was. For a lot of reasons, and not just for her. She wondered, as she folded her arms across her breast and leaned back against the damp bricks, just what some of those other reasons might be.

McNihil leaned back into the padding of the taxicab’s backseat and watched massive, vaguely Stalinist buildings slide by. For a moment, he wondered if he had actually overshot his destination and wound up in some entirely different segment of the Gloss, over on the Pacific’s Asian shores. He checked his watch; it hadn’t adjusted for moving into a new time zone, so he knew he was still on the West Coast of the North American continent. Plus, he simply hadn’t been traveling long enough to have looped around the Bering Strait and south toward Vladivostok.
I may be losing it these days
, he thought,
but not that much
.

He figured this had to be around Sea-Tac, where the international airport had been, back when the
Noh
-flies hadn’t taken up residence in the gray, endless clouds and people could still take jetliners from one point to another on the earth’s surface. McNihil just hadn’t been up this way for a while—months, at least—and the rate of new construction piling out of Seattle’s core had gotten away from him. The architecture,
great brutal slabs and cubes of poured and uptilted ferroconcrete, was the manifested embodiment of the lowering weather and the population’s taste in bloodstream additives. There was a certain smack grandeur, the confluence of De Quincey and Cobain, to such massive, raw vistas. Places where one could be borne to the sepulchre in a crystal, sound-proofed coffin by leering hallucinations of alligators, streets cleaved between towers to the frozen center of the earth, the annihilation by scale of all that was puny and human.

Settled in the cab’s stained upholstery, McNihil let bleak architectural musings seep from his thoughts. He took comfort in the knowledge that he was heading into the center of the old city, that the business he’d come here to take care of was located in a zone of comprehensible and familiar decay.

“Here?” The cabbie sounded incredulous. “This is where you want off? You’re kidding, right?”

The vehicle had come to a stop, after the push and pull of the interstate feeder traffic. McNihil glanced out the window. “Doesn’t look that risky to me.” He’d seen worse places. He lived in one.

“Of course not. It’s just such a tourist trap.” Disappointment filtered into the cabbie’s voice, as well as expectation of a stiffed tip. “I took you for some kind of exec type.”

“Yeah, there’s that kind of aura about me. It’s a curse.” From his wallet, McNihil extracted his debit card and poised it at the slot of the reader mounted on the dividing panel. “What’s the damages?”

A string of blue LED’s blinked on beside the reader. “There’s a hazard add-on.” The cabbie didn’t sound apologetic. “I don’t usually bring people from the station out this way.”

“Don’t worry about it. I take it off my taxes.” He ran the card through the slot, the reader taking a recorded bite from his only operational account. “And it’s not even a scam.”
Or not much of one
, thought McNihil.

The cabbie gave him a reappraising look. “Maybe you want me to stick around? For when you’re ready to go back?”

McNihil shook his head. He’d gotten out and slammed the passenger door shut. “I’ll take my chances.”

Scanning the area, as the cab’s engine noise faded down the narrow street, McNihil’s gaze took in a withered park, a little urban pocket of
dead greenery. Lack of sunshine hadn’t killed it; the buildings surrounding it were ancient nineteenth- and twentieth-century constructs, nowhere near high enough to form a well-like canyon of steel and faux-marble facades. Another channel of light had been cut by a crashed 747, one of the first
Noh
-fly victims to have its unshielded cockpit electronics HERF’d out and rendered useless. The plane had gone down here as though, in its terminal arc, it had been trying to return to its vanished Boeing birthplace. It had almost made it; a few miles farther south and it would have slept in the factories of its ancestors.

McNihil passed under the skeletal shade of the airliner’s tail section, like tripartite shark fins angled into the air. The swath that the fuselage had dug through the city lay to the west; he could see a wedge of ocean, framed by avalanched brick rubble and twisted steel girders, at the bottom of the city’s slope. He picked his way over the denuded struts of the wing lying tonguelike across the sidewalk and into the cracked asphalt of the street. This close, he could see down into the old subterranean levels of the city, the 747 having torn a stratified hole the way a table knife would have parted an anthill. Scuttling noises, the flicker of battery-operated lights and peering eyes, revealed the presence of the hole’s occupants, charity-resistant scavengers making their homes in the tunnels where tour groups had been led a long time ago. Some of the cave dwellers who were still comfortable with daylight had extended their realm up into the stripped aircraft fuselage, stringing hammocks and clamber-nets between the rows of charred, rain-soaked seat remnants. Whatever baggage survived the crash had been looted and converted into nominal curtain walls, barriers stitched together from business suits and lingerie, the aged rags all fluttering in the salt wind coming off the ocean. The empty suitcases, broken-locked Samsonites and American Touristers, a few shabby imitation Vuittons, had been strung up on the surrounding power lines; they swung and banged like giant castanets.

As he passed by the nose-buried plane wreckage, McNihil saw a cobbled-together gantry arm, corroded sewer pipes hinged with telephone-pole bolts, swing up like an improvised construction crane. Its blind head, guided by a system of rope pulleys, jerked toward him.

“This is an official panhandling station.” An unamplified voice traveled up a duct-taped hose, dangling in loops like throat wattles from
the gantry. A funnel was aimed toward McNihil; the other end of the tube ran down into the hole. “Charity expands the heart. Literally—the cardiovascular benefits are immense, buddy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” With one hand, McNihil pushed aside the funnel. “Not today.”

“We accept cash, but prefer wire debits.” The gantry’s head, steered by the ropes and pulleys, followed along beside him. “See the reader there? I’m sure you do. You look like a smart sonuvabitch. Just dash the ol’ plastic down the groove, and reap the rewards in the world to come.”

“Pie in the sky.” McNihil could see the scam as well. The card reader was a fake, a slit mouth with either glue at the bottom or some kind of clamp trap, ready to be triggered by another, smaller line running down the gantry neck. No data conduit behind the red-dotted LED’s; the ferrite-sheathed cables were as bogus as the hidden beggar’s pitch. Anybody stupid and tenderhearted enough to fall for the gag would have his card snatched out of his hand, then disappeared back down into the dimly lit tunnel world; the gantry was strung with tensioned elastic, synthetic rubber sliced from the downed 747’s landing gear and depolymerized to a taut and stretchy consistency. The panhandlers wouldn’t have to do anything more than pop the restraining clutch in their grubby hands, to have the thin rectangular prize come flying their way. “I’m not falling for this one,” said McNihil as he walked on.

“Don’t be such a hard case.” The talking funnel floated near his face. “God loves a cheerful giver.”

“I don’t.”

“Come on—” The funnel’s voice continued pleading. “Money is just information, a concept, infinitely replicable without generation loss. That’s the way it is in this new world.”

“Don’t be a connecting idiot,” said McNihil. “Wake up and smell the burning corpses of your dreams, pal.”

“Watch it—” The voice coming through the tube turned huffy. “
Connecting
isn’t a dirty word around here.” A little shriller: “It’s people like you, with your antiquated anti-connectivity mind-sets, that are going to be dead meat someday! You just watch! Wait and see!”

Blah blah blah
. McNihil wasn’t surprised that the broken airliner was a nest of pirasites, that aging-hippie combination of
pirate
and
parasite
, with their warped premillennium notions about information, concepts—and concepts
about
concepts—being as real for them as the world outside
their shaggy, graying heads. The business he’d come up here to take care of was with a copyright thief, but at least one who was doing it for money, rather than from some outdated crackpot ideology. That was the kind of thing that ticked him off even more than simple, straightforward larceny.

It was just like these ’net-twit types as well, to have a bug up their collective ass about what’d become the popular usage of the verb
connect
. These idiots had never gotten it through their soft skulls that the only ones who really believed connecting was an unalloyed good thing were people who had something to sell and rapists, two categories that weren’t that far apart in this world.

McNihil took a knife from his coat pocket, flicked its small blade open, reached over, and sliced through one of the thick black rubber bands. It sounded a pizzicato viola note as it snapped loose, followed by a twanging chorus, a chain reaction all the way down the length of the gantry. The articulated device swooped out of control, hinge pins squealing as the eyeless head jerked up toward the gray-clouded sky. The violent motion ripped loose the phony card reader; it went spinning in a high arc across the street.