And Nick didn’t give the slightest shit.
He needed this job to get money. He needed the money to buy more flashback. He needed the flashback to get back to Dara.
Since he’d had to leave his shoes back in the entry genkan where Sato had left his, Nick Bottom’s prevalent emotion at the moment was simple regret that he’d grabbed this particular black sock this morning—the one on his left foot with a hole big enough to allow his big toe to poke through. He covertly scrunched his foot up, trying to worm the big toe back in the hole and out of sight, but that took two feet to do right and would be too obvious. Sato was paying attention to the squirming as it was. Nick curled the big toe up as much as he could.
“What kind of vehicle do you drive, Mr. Bottom?” asked Nakamura.
Nick almost laughed. He was ready to be dismissed and physically thrown out by Sato for his gai-jin’s impertinent mention of Nakamura’s all-hallowed son Keigo’s cold bones, but he hadn’t expected a question about his car. Besides, Nakamura had almost certainly watched him drive up on one of the fifty thousand or so surveillance cameras that had been tracking him as he approached the compound.
He cleared his throat and said, “Ah… I drive a twenty-year-old GoMotors gelding.”
The billionaire turned his head only slightly and barked Japanese syllables at Sato. Without straightening and with the slightest of smiles, the security chief shot back an even deeper and faster cascade of guttural Japanese to his boss. Nakamura nodded, evidently satisfied.
“Is your… ah… gelding a reliable vehicle, Mr. Bottom?”
Nick shook his head.
“The lithium-ion batteries are ancient, Mr. Nakamura, and with the way Bolivia feels about us these days, it doesn’t look like they’re going to be replaced any time soon. So, after a good twelve-hour charge, the piece of shi… the car… can go about forty miles at thirty-eight miles per hour or thirty-eight miles at forty miles per hour. We’ll both just have to hope that there won’t be any Bullitt-style high-speed chases in this investigation.”
Mr. Nakamura showed no hint of a smile. Or of recognition. Didn’t they watch great old movies in Hiroshima?
“We can supply you with a vehicle from the delegation for the duration of your investigation, Mr. Bottom. Perhaps a Lexus or Infiniti sedan.”
This time Nick couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “One of your hydrogen skateboards? No, sir. That won’t work. First of all, it’d just be stripped down to its carbon-fiber shell in any of the places I’ll be parking in Denver. Secondly—as your director of security can explain to you—I need a car that blends in just in case I have to tail someone during the investigation. Low profile, we private investigators call it.”
Mr. Nakamura made a deep, rumbling sound in his throat as if he were preparing to spit. Nick had heard this noise from Japanese men before when he’d been a cop. It seemed to express surprise and perhaps a little displeasure, although he’d heard it from the Nipponese men even when they were seeing something beautiful, like a garden view, for the first time. It was, Nick thought, probably as untranslatable as so many other things lost between this century’s newly eager Nipponese and infinitely weary Americans.
“Very well, then, Mr. Bottom,” Nakamura said at last. “Should we choose you for this investigation, you will need a vehicle with a greater range when the investigation takes you to Santa Fe, Nuevo Mexico. But we can discuss the details later.”
Santa Fe, thought Nick. Aww, God damn it. Not Santa Fe. Anywhere but Santa Fe. Just the name of the town made the deep scar tissue across and inside his belly muscles hurt. But he also heard another voice in his head, a movie voice, one of hundreds that lived there—Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.
“All right,” Nick said aloud. “We’ll discuss the car thing and a Santa Fe trip later. If you hire me.”
Nakamura was again looking at the single sheet of e-vellum in his hand.
“And you’re currently living in a former Baby Gap in the former Cherry Creek Mall, is that correct, Mr. Bottom?”
Jesus Christ, thought Nick Bottom. With his entire future probably depending upon the outcome of this interview, and with ten thousand questions Mr. Nakamura could have asked him that he could have answered while retaining at least a shred of the few tatters that still remained of his dignity, it had to be You’re currently living in a former Baby Gap in the former Cherry Creek Mall?
Yes, sir, Mr. Nakamura, sir, Nick was tempted to say, currently living in one-sixth of a former Baby Gap in the former Cherry Creek Mall in a shitty section of a shitty city in one forty-fourth of the former United States of America, that’s me, the former Nick Bottom. While you live up here with the other Japs on top of the mountain, surrounded by three rings of security that fucking Osama bin Laden’s fucking ghost couldn’t get through.
Nick said, “The Cherry Creek Mall Condos it’s called now. I guess the space my cubie’s part of used to be a Baby Gap.”
Of the three men, two were expensively dressed in the thin-lapelled, sleek-trousered, black-suited, crisp-white-shirted, white-pocket-squared, skinny-black-tied 1960s JFK look retrieved from more than seventy-five years earlier. Even Mr. Nakamura, in his late sixties, wouldn’t have been able to remember that historical era, so why, Nick wondered, had the style gurus in Japan brought this style back for the tenth time? The dead-Kennedys style looked good on slim, elegant Mr. Nakamura, and Sato was dressed almost as beautifully as his boss, although his black suit probably cost a thousand or two new bucks less than Nakamura’s. But the security chief’s suit would have required more tailoring. Nakamura was lean and fit despite his years, while Sato was built like the proverbial brick shithouse, if that phrase even applied to men. And if the Japanese had ever had brick shithouses.
Standing there, feeling the cool air of the breeze from the garden flowing across his curled-up bare big toe and realizing that he was by far the tallest man in the room but also the only one whose posture included his now-habitual slump, Nick wished that he’d at least pressed his shirt. He’d meant to but had never found the time the past week since the call for this interview came. So now he stood there in a wrinkled shirt under a wrinkled, twelve-year-old suit jacket—no matching trousers, just the least rumpled and least stained of his chinos—all of it probably producing a combined effect that made him look as if he’d slept not only in the clothes but on them. Nick had discovered only that morning in his cubie that he’d put on too much weight the last year or two to allow him to button these old trousers, or the suit jacket, or his shirt collar. He hoped that his too-wide-for-style belt might be hiding the opened trouser tops and the knot of his tie might be hiding the unbuttonable shirt collar, but the damned tie itself was three times wider than the ties on the two Japanese men. And it didn’t help Nick’s self-confidence when he considered that his tie, a gift from Dara, had probably cost one hundredth of what Nakamura had spent on his.