Authors: Thomas Pynchon
It was in one of these cubicles that the police found Lester’s corpse propped up as if gazing into the pool, where earlier a swimmer had
noticed him and after a couple more laps, getting the picture, freaked out. According to the papers, a knife-blade of some sort had been driven with great force into Lester’s skull, apparently not by hand because part of the tang still protruded from Lester’s forehead. The absence of a knife-handle suggested a spring-propelled ballistic blade, illegal in the U.S. since 1986, though said to be standard issue for Russian special forces. The
Post
, for whom the Cold War still emits a warm nostalgic glow, loves stories like this, so the screaming began, KGB assassination squads running loose through the city and so forth, and this sort of thing would go on for the better part of a week.
When she saw the headline, “
GONE BALLISTIC
!,” Maxine rang up Rocky Slagiatt. “Your ol’ Spetsnaz buddy Igor Dashkov. He would’t happen to know anything about this.”
“Already asked him. He says that knife is a urban myth. He was in the Spetsnaz for about a century and never saw one.”
“Not quite my question, but—”
“Hey. Wouldn’t rule out a Russian hit. On the other hand . . .”
Right. Wouldn’t rule out somebody trying to set it up to
look
like a Russian hit, either.
The crime scene itself here, meanwhile, looks pretty picked over. There’s yellow tape around, and chalk marks, along with discarded plastic evidence pouches and cigarette butts and fast-food packaging. Ignoring a background haze of cop aftershave, tobacco smoke, stomach effluxes from neighborhood saloons, crime-lab solvents, fingerprint powder, luminol—
“Wait, you can smell luminol? Isn’t it supposed to be odorless?”
“Nah. Notes of pencil shavings, hibiscus, number-two diesel, mayonnaise—”
“Excuse me, that’s wine-maven talk.”
“Oops . . .”
Filtering, howsoever, these other odors out, Conkling enters orbit around the central fact of the stiff that was here, that in the one professional sense is still here, problematical now because of what forensic
Noses like to call the deathmask, the way the indoles of bodily decay assume precedence over all other notes that might be present. There are differential techniques for getting around this, of course, one attends oddly furtive all-weekend seminars in New Jersey to learn them, sometimes these have practical value, sometimes it’s all just New Age gobbledygook from the eighties that the gurus presiding have found it difficult to move comfortably on from, thus allowing the ever-hopeful attendee to flush another $139.95 plus tax into the soil stack of his fiscal affairs. Half of it IRS-allowable, but usually, vaguely, a disappointment.
“Just do a grab, here—” Conkling going in his duffel and pulling out some heavy-duty plastic bags and a little pocket-size unit and a plastic fitting.
“What’s that?”
“Air-sampling pump—cute, huh? Runs off a rechargeable battery. Just going to take a couple liters here.”
Waiting till they step out of the guest or freight elevator onto the street, the clamoring, soiled, innocent street, “So . . . what did you smell up there?”
“Nothing too unusual, except . . . before NYPD got there, before the gunsmoke, a scent, maybe a cologne, I can’t ID right offhand, commercial, maybe from a few years back . . .”
“Somebody who was there.”
Emerging from a moment of thought, “Actually I think it’s time to go check the library.”
Meaning, it turns out, Conkling’s own extensive collection of vintage perfumes, which Conkling keeps at his crib in Chelsea, where the first thing Maxine notices is a glossy black instrument sitting in a battery charger among a number of dramatically oversize ferns which may have mutated because of the apparatus in their midst, humming in more than one key, red and green LEDs glowing and blinking here and there, with a Clint Eastwood–size pistol grip and a long discharge cone. A creature hidden in jungle foliage, staring at her.
“This is the Naser,” Conkling introduces them, “or olfactory laser.”
Going on to explain that odors can be regarded as if they had periodic waveforms, like sound or light. The everyday human nose receives all smells in a jumble, like the eye receives the frequencies of incoherent light. “The Naser here can separate these into component ‘notes,’ isolate and put each in phase, causing it to ‘cohere,’ then amplify as needed.”
Sounds a little West Coast, though the object looks intimidating enough. “This is a weapon? it . . . it’s dangerous?”
“In the same way,” Conkling supposes, “that sniffing pure rose attar will turn your brain into red Jell-O. Don’t want to be messing with no Naser, necessarily.”
“Can you, like, just set it on ‘Stun’?”
“If I have to use it at all, it means I’ve made a mistake.” He goes over to a glass-fronted cabinet full of flasks and atomizers, custom and commercial. “This scent—it’s not one I could place immediately, not fresh soap so much as disinfectant. Not tobacco so much as stale cigarette butts. Some civet maybe, but Kouros it ain’t. Nonhuman urine as well.” Maxine recognizes this as magician’s patter. Conkling opens one of the cabinet doors and reaches out a four-ounce spray bottle, holds it about a foot from his nose, and without hitting the plunger appears to inhale slightly. “Whooboy. Yep, this is it. Check it out.”
“‘9:30’,” Maxine reads from the label, “‘Men’s Cologne.’ Wait, is this the 9:30 Club down in D.C.?”
“The same, although it’s no longer at the old F Street address, where it was located when this stuff was sold, back in the late eighties sometime.”
“That’s a while. This must be the last bottle in town.”
“You never know. Even an example like this that comes and goes, there can still be thousands of gallons out there in the original packaging, just waiting to be found by scent collectors, nostalgists, in this case unreconstructed punk rockers, and don’t rule out the insane. The original manufacturer got bought by somebody else, and 9:30 if I remember right was then relicensed. So we’re pretty much left with the secondary market, discount houses, ads in the trades, eBay.”
“How important is this?”
“It’s the chronology that’s bothering me here—too close to the gunsmoke not to be part of the event. If they’ve brought in Jabbering Jay Moskowitz on this, then he already knows of the connection, meaning so does everybody in the NYPD including meter readers. Jay is a top forensic Nose but isn’t always clear on how professionally to share information.”
“So . . . a guy wearing this . . .”
“Don’t rule out a woman who might have been in close contact with a man wearing it. Someday there’ll be search engines you can just input a little spritz of anything and voilà, nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide, the whole story will be there on the screen before you can scratch your head in amazement. Meantime there’s the Nose community. Anecdotal material. I’ll ask around.”
There arrives the usual moment of awkward silence. Conkling still has an erection but, as if it’s hardware he’s lost the manual to, is hesitant about deploying it. Maxine herself is of two minds. Something seems to be going on that nobody’s telling her. The moment, howsoever, passes, and before she knows it, she’s back at the office. Ah well, as Scarlett O’Hara observes at the end of the movie . . .
• • •
SHE DREAMS SHE’S ALONE
on the top floor of The Deseret, by the pool. Under the unnaturally smooth surface, visible through the optically perfect water, almost as an afterthought to the anxious vacancy of the space, a male Caucasian corpse in a suit and tie stretches face-up full length on the bottom as if taking a break from afterlife affairs, rolling, in some eerie semisleep, from one side to another. It is Lester Traipse, and it isn’t. When she leans over the edge to get a closer look, his eyes open and he recognizes her. He doesn’t have to rise up through the surface to speak, she can hear him from underwater. “Azrael,” is what he’s saying, and then again, with some urgency.
“Gargamel’s cat?” Maxine inquires, “like on the Smurfs?”
No, and the disappointment in Lester/not-Lester’s face tells her she should know better. In nonbiblical Jewish tradition, as she is perfectly aware, Azrael is the angel of death. In Islam also, for that matter . . . And briefly she is back in the corridor, Gabriel Ice’s guarded mystery tunnel out in Montauk. Why? would be an interesting question to pursue, except that Giuliani, in his tireless quest for quality infrastructure, has caused not one but several jackhammers to start up well before working hours, figuring the taxpayers won’t object to the extra overtime pay, and any message is corrupted, fragmented, lost.
M
eantime Heidi, back from Comic-Con in San Diego, her head still teeming with superheroes, monsters, sorcerers, and zombies, has been visited by NYPD detectives looking into the address books of Heidi’s old ex-fiancé Evan Strubel, who has recently been run in on charges of aggravated computer tampering, in connection with a federal insider-trading beef. Heidi’s first thought is, He still has me in his Rolodex?
“You two were romantically involved?”
“Not romantically. Baroquely maybe. Years ago.”
“Was that before or after he got married?”
“Thought you guys were from the precinct, not the Adultery Squad.”
“Pretty touchy,” it seems to the Bad Cop.
“Yep, and feely too,” Heidi snaps back. “What’s it to you, Your Eminence?”
“Just trying to get a chronology,” soothes the Good Cop. “Whatever you’re comfortable sharing, Heidi.”
“‘Sharing,’ yo, Geraldo, I thought you got canceled.”
And so forth, sort of like police handball.
As they are about to leave, Heidi finds the Bad Cop beaming strangely at her. “Oh, and Heidi . . .”
“Yes, Detective”— pretending to search her memory—“Nozzoli.”
“These chick flicks from the fifties? Ever watch any of those?”
“On the movie channels now and then,” Heidi somehow unable not to bat her eyelashes, “sure, I guess, who wants to know?”
“There’s a Douglas Sirk festival next week down at the Angelika, and if you’re interested, maybe we could go grab some coffee first, or—”
“Excuse me. Are you asking me—”
“Unless you’re ‘married,’ of course.”
“Oh, these days they allow married women to drink coffee, it even gets written into prenups.”
“Heidi,” Maxine, when she hears this, sighs as always, “desperate, unreflective Heidi, this Detective Nozzoli, he’s, ah, he’s married himself?”
“You are so the jaded cynic of the universe!” cries Heidi, “It could be George
Clooney
and you would find something wrong!”
“An innocent question, what.”
“We went to see
Written on the Wind
(1956)” Heidi continues as if gone starry-eyed remembering, “and whenever Dorothy Malone came on the screen? Carmine got a hardon. A big one.”
“Don’t tell me—the old penis-in-the popcorn-box-routine. Just to keep in the fifties spirit.”
“Maxi, hopelessly-West-Side-liberal Maxi, if you only knew what you were missing with these law-enforcement guys. Believe me, once you’ve tried cop, you never want to stop.”
“Yes but tell me Heidi, what happened to your obsession with Arnold Vosloo from
The Mummy
and
The Mummy Returns,
and, and the interviews you keep trying to set up with his office—”
“Envy,” supposes Heidi, “is so often all that stands between some of us and a sad, empty life.”
Today Maxine is halfway through her file of take-out menus when Heidi sticks her head in with the latest episode of a continuing purse drama. Having survived an identity crisis brought on by her old Coach
model, which has had observers attentive to bag signifiers mistaking her for various sorts of Asian, she is now deep in the basic princessly exercise of whether to go for a class image with Longchamps, for example, and live with never being able to find anything inside it, or schlep around a more comparmentalized model and accept a slight downgrade to her hipness rating.
“But that’s history now, Carmine bless him has solved all that.”
“Carmine is . . . he’s some kind of . . . purse fetishist, Heidi?”
“No, but the man does pay attention. Look, check out what he bought me.” It’s an inexpensive tote in some autumnal print, with a gold-tone heart on it. “Fall and winter, right? Now watch.” Heidi reaches inside and turns the whole thing inside out, presenting a totally different bag, light-colored and floral. “Spring and summer! it’s convertible! you get a twofer, see?”
“How inventive. A bipolar bag.”
“And well then of course it’s a piece of living history also.” Down in one corner Maxine reads
MADE ESPECIALLY FOR YOU BY MONICA.
“New one on me, unless . . . oh. No, Heidi, wait. ‘Monica’. He didn’t get this at, at Bendel’s?”
“Yep, right off the truck—it’s the ol’ Portly Pepperpot herself. Do you realize what this will fetch on eBay in a couple of years?”
“A Monica Lewinsky original. Tough call, but I’d err on the side of good taste is timeless.”
“And who’d know better than you Maxi, all the seasons you’ve seen come and go.”
“Oh but of course it’s a hint isn’t it, Carmine is suggesting a
particular act
, now let me think, what can that be, something you may not’ve been all that eager to perform . . .”
It’s a fairly lightweight handbag, but Heidi does her best to assault Maxine with it in a meaningful way. They chase around the apartment screaming for a while before deciding to take a supper break and order in from Ning Xia Happy Life, whose take-out menus keep getting shoved under everybody’s back door.
Heidi squints at the options. “There’s a breakfast menu? Long March Szechuan Muesli? Magic Goji Longevity Shake? what, excuse me, the fuck?”
The delivery guy who shows up is not Chinese but Latino, which gets Heidi further confused. “
Seguro usted tiene el correcto apartmento?
We were waiting for a Chinese delivery?
Foodo Chineso?
”
Unpacking the bags, they can’t remember ordering half of it. “Here, try this,” passing Heidi a dubious egg roll.
“Strange . . . exotic burst of flavor . . . This is . . . meat? what kind, do you suppose?”
Pretending to look at the menu, “All it said was ‘Benji Roll’? Sounded intriguing, so—”
“Dog!” Heidi jumping up and running over to the sink to spit out what she can. “Oh God! Those people eat dog over there! You ordered this, how could you? You never saw the movie? What kind of a childhood did you— Aaaahhh!”
Maxine shrugs. “You want me to help induce vomiting, or can you remember how to do that OK?”
The Twelve Flavors Drunken Squid is a little overdone. They settle for dropping pieces from different heights onto their plates to see how high they’ll bounce. The Green Jade Energetic Surprise comes in a plastic container molded to look like a jade box from the Qing dynasty. “The surprise,” Heidi nervously, “is a shrunken head inside.” It turns out to be mostly broccoli. The Gang of Four Vegetarian Combo, on the other hand, is exquisite, if mysterious. Anybody eating it at the physical Ning Xia restaurant impulsive enough to ask what’s in it will only get a glare. The Chinese fortune-cookie fortunes are even more problematic.
“‘He is not who he seems to be,’” Heidi reads.
“Carmine, obviously. Oh, Heidi.”
“Please. It’s a fortune cookie, Maxi.”
Maxine cracks open her cookie. “‘Even the ox may bear violence in his heart.’ What?”
“Horst, obviously.”
“Nah. Could be anybody.”
“Horst never got . . . abusive with you, or anything . . . ?”
“Horst? a dove. Well, maybe except for that one time he started choking me . . .”
“He what?”
“Oh? He never told you about that.”
“Horst actually—”
“Put it this way, Heidi—he had his hands around my neck, and he was squeezing? What would you call that?”
“What happened?”
“Oh, there was a game on, he got distracted, Brett Favre or somebody did something, I don’t know, anyway he relaxed his grip, went off to the fridge, got a beer. Can of Bud Light, I believe. We kept arguing, of course.”
“Wow, close call.”
“Not really. I have always depended on the kindness of stranglers.” A quick paradiddle with her chopsticks on Heidi’s head.
• • •
DETECTIVE CARMINE NOZZOLI,
with access to the federal crime database, turns out to be an unexpectedly obliging resource, allowing Maxine for example to run a quick make on Tallis’s fiber-salesman BF. On first glance, Chazz Larday is an average lowlife from down in the U.S. someplace, come to NYC to make his fortune, having emerged out of a silent seething Gulf Coast petri dish of who knows how many local-level priors, a directoryful of petty malfeasance soon enough escalating into Title 18 beefs including telemarketing rackets via the fax machine, conspiracy to commit remanufactured toner cartridge misrepresentation, plus a history of bringing slot machines across state lines to where they are not necessarily legal, and cruising up and down the back roads of heartland suburbia peddling bootleg infrared strobes that will change red lights to green for rounders and assorted teenage offenders who don’t like stopping for nothing, all at the behest allegedly of the Dixie Mafia, a
loose confederacy of ex-cons and full-auto badasses very few of whom know or even like one another.
Carmine just shakes his head. “Mob arrangements I can understand, strong respect for family—but these good old boys, it’s shocking.”
“Has this Chazz guy done time?”
“Only for a couple of the little ones, county jail time, sheriff’s wife bringin him casseroles and so forth, but all the big ones, he walked. Seems to have resources behind him. Then and now.”
Mrs. Plibbler, high-school drama teacher from hell, once again must Maxine invoke thee here as guardian spirit of fraud police accredited and otherwise. “Oh hi, I’m calling from hashslingrz? Is this Mr. Larday?”
“You guys don’t have this number.”
“Uh huh, well this is Heather, from Legal? Trying to clear up one or two details about some arrangements you have with our company comptroller, Mrs. Ice?”
“Mizzis Ice.” Pause. After some time in fraud work, you learn to read phone silences. They come in different lengths and depths, room ambiences and front-edge attacks. This one is telling Maxine that Chazz knows he shouldn’t have blurted what he just did.
“I’m sorry, is that information not correct? Do you mean the arrangements are with
Mister
Ice?”
“Darlin, you are either so out of the loop or else you’re one of these fuckin bloggers runnin a gossip page, either way be advised we have a trace on this instrument, we know who you are and where you are and our people will not hesitate to come after you. You have a good day now, you hear?” He hangs up and when she redials, there’s no answer.
Good luck to him with the cop-show talk, but more important, what’s up with Tallis, how innocent a party can she be in any of this? If she’s in on something, how far in? And is that innocent pure or innocent stupid?
Given the likely level of corruption around here, Gabriel Ice may know all about that li’l lovebirds’
nidito
up in East Harlem, maybe even be springing for the rent. What else? Has he also been using Tallis as a
mule to move money secretly to Darklinear Solutions? Why so secretly, for goodness’ sakes? Too many questions, no theories. Maxine catches sight of herself in a mirror. Her mouth is not at the moment hanging open, but it might as well be. As Henny Youngman might diagnose it, ESP bypass.
• • •
VYRVA MEANWHILE IS BACK
from Las Vegas and Defcon, not as poolside tan as expected, in fact striking Maxine as, what’s the word, reserved? distraught? weird? As if something happened in Vegas that didn’t all stay there, some ominous overflow, like alien DNA hitching a ride unnoticed back here to planet Earth, to perform its mischief in its own good time.
Fiona’s still away at camp, working on a Quake-movie adaptation of
The Sound of Music
(1965). Fiona and her team are doing the Nazis.
“You must miss her.”
“Of course I miss her,” a little too quick.
Maxine puts her eyebrows into an I-said-something? asymmetry.
“Just as well she’s not here, ’cause right now, it’s starting to get crazy, everybody’s after DeepArcher, the guys got seriously hit on in Vegas, one after another, the NSA, the Mossad, terrorist go-betweens, Microsoft, Apple, start-ups that’ll be gone in a year, old money, new money, you name it.”
Since it’s been on her mind, Maxine names it. “Hashslingrz too, I suppose.”
“Natch. There we are, Justin and me, an innocent tourist couple strolling through Caesars, suddenly here’s Gabriel Ice lurking by a buffet table with an attaché case full of lobbying material.”
“Ice was at Defcon?”
“At a Black Hat Briefing, some kind of security conference they hold every year the week before Defcon, a casino hotel full of guys who’d hack a lightbulb, corporate cops, crypto geniuses, sniffers and spoofers, designers, reverse engineers, TV network suits, everybody with something to sell.”
They’re down in Tribeca, a chance encounter at a street corner. “Come on, we’ll grab an ice coffee.”
Vyrva starts to look at her watch, suppresses the gesture. “For sure.”
They find a place and duck into the blessed A/C. Something astrological going on, Jupiter, the money planet, in Pisces, the sign of all things fishy. “See—” Vyrva sighs. “There’s a chance of some money.”
Aww. “There wasn’t before?”
“Honestly, should it matter who gets to own the damned old source code? Not as if it has a conscience, DeepArcher, it’s just there, users can be anybody, no moral questionnaire ‘r netheen? it’s rilly only about the money. Who ends up with how much?”
“Except that in my business,” Maxine gently, “what I see a lot of is innocent people making these deals with the satanic forces, for money way out of scale to anything they’re used to, and there’s a point where it all rolls in on them and they go under, and sometimes they don’t come back up.”
But Vyrva is far away now, the summer street outside, the cumulus piling up over Jersey, the rush hour bearing down, it’s all country miles from wherever she is, rambling some DeepArcher of the unshared interior, her click history vanishing behind her like footprints in the air, like free advice unheard, so Maxine supposes it’ll have to keep, whatever it is, whatever’s finally on the term sheet.