If Owl had taken the data from her computer in order to pressure her in some way, it wouldn’t have been enough just to copy the files. How much good was a copy, after all? Some—but the thing that would’ve made it really worth a lot as leverage was if after copying them he’d purged the originals, deleted the files from her hard drive. That way, assuming she hadn’t backed up her files, his copy would be the only copy. If she ever wanted her hands on the files again, she’d have to do whatever she was told. When you consider the risk Owl had taken by staging a break-in, you had to figure he’d have taken this extra step to ensure it had been worth it.
So now Sayre Rauth had her files again—the spreadsheet anyway, not the videos. But the spreadsheet was the key to the kingdom.
I sat and smoked another cigarette. It started my stomach working and I went into the bathroom to take a dump. But before I even sat down, I noticed I was out of toilet paper. I went into the kitchen, but I was out of paper towels as well. The best I could manage was a stack of coffee filters. I brought them with me into the bathroom and sat down to empty out.
The funny thing was…
The rising stink stunk sweetly of Sayre Rauth.
I’d ingested her, her saliva, her slick sweat, her warm and tangy effluvia. Savoring her flesh; inhaling her exhaled breaths; absorbing her through my pores. More than just the scent of her perfume was left on me and in me.
In all likelihood I’d never see her again. She’d gotten what she wanted.
Did I care? Did I ever.
I stubbed my cigarette, quickly rinsed off in the shower, then dressed to go out.
Before heading over to the Wiggle Room, there was a stop I had to make.
It was balmy outside, the air hazy as if seen through gummy eyes. The sun had dropped below the rooflines and evening was pooling in the valley of buildings, but the streetlights hadn’t come on yet. Getting dark earlier now; in three weeks, it would be autumn. But some of the thrill of summer still remained.
Though it wasn’t the weekend yet, the city was already festive. Thursday was the new Friday night, the night that native New Yorkers went out to party, a day before the out-of-towners and tourists congested the streets and the club lines.
Car horns bayed like penned-in dogs calling to each other in the night, one horn triggering off four others.
I walked down Second and turned left onto Tenth Street, then right onto First Avenue, making an Etch-a-Sketch-style diagonal line toward my destination in Alphabet City.
Walking by Coyote Ugly, I was accosted by a pint-size girl in a black leather halter top and miniskirt who was standing out front delivering a “step right up” spiel, trying to drum up business for the bar. I guess the sign declaring FREE SHOTS WITH EVERY PITCHER wasn’t getting it done. I was in a hurry, I had things to do, so I tried to slip by her quickly. But she wouldn’t be denied her fun, and I was too damn polite to just ignore her.
She yelled out to me, “Spell cop!”
“C-O-P.”
“Spell shop!”
“S-H-O-P.”
“What do you do at a green light?”
“Stop.”
“GO!” she shouted and laughed and waved me away like a traffic cop gesturing, Move it along, bub.
Only it made me stop after a few strides and think about just how easily I’d been fooled. Some glitch in my brain, I guess. I wondered what other blind spots I wasn’t seeing.
The streetlamps flickered to life as I crossed the avenue and turned down Ninth toward Tompkins Square Park.
The road, black during day, was now lit stark orange by the city lights, and the surrounding buildings were darker silhouettes, looming shadows of various sizes.
I walked around the park instead of going through it. On Seventh Street, I passed three old Latin gentleman on the sidewalk seated on lawn chairs in front of a color TV attached to a power cord coming out of a ground floor window. They were watching the baseball game, Yankees at Tampa Bay. The cheerful announcer rattled off the balls and strikes of a behind-in-the-count batter. “One away.”
Somebody’s air conditioner dripped water on me and I jumped like it was death’s own bony finger tapping me on the shoulder.
At Avenue B, I turned right and headed down to Fourth Street and the townhouse where I’d first spoken to Sayre Rauth.
All the windows were dark. I went through the gate and up the steps to ring the bell. I waited, but got no answer. When I looked to the left, the brass plate was missing from beside the door. No more Rauth Reality, or Realty, or whatever it had been. Gone now, and I guessed so was she. I wasn’t completely surprised.
I left, went back to Avenue B, walked down to Houston Street and across it. A fire engine rolled by, its speakers blaring the War song, “Low Rider.” I walked by Katz’s Deli and turned right onto Ludlow, down past Stanton, until I came to Rivington Street. The Wiggle Room was on the southeast corner.
The afterparty was a private affair with a burly neck-less doorman keeping out the general public. It was a good thing I’d remembered to bring the invite along. I flashed it and he let me pass.
Inside there were more people than had attended the actual screening. The bar was to the right. I made straight for it, but had to wait ten minutes before the bartender took my order. And then there was an uncomfortable moment when I tried to pay for my 7&7 with a 50 Euro note. It was the only cash I had. Fortunately, a German guy at the other end of the bar agreed to change it for me, handing me two twenties and pocketing the difference. Danke schön.
I was about to start making my way through the crowd, to the rear of the bar, in search of Ethan Ore, when, all smiles, he walked through the front door arm in arm with Moyena. I kept my back to him and watched him in the bar mirror until he was just behind me. I turned.
“It’s time for our talk,” I said.
It took him a second to place me, but as soon as he did the smile melted from his face.
“Oh. Yes, but…wait here. I have to…I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t be long.”
I waited, sipping my drink—it tasted faintly of dish-washing liquid—and listened to the bar chatter.
A tall skinny white guy with a wispy chin beard like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo was talking a mile a minute at a well-dressed Asian man who looked half-asleep.
“A million people fucked-up! Why? Cuz there’s no meaning to their lives! Why? Corporations have bled the taste out of life! Why? So they can sell you things that’ll bring it back! Like the antidote to the poison they’re poisoning us with! But they’ll never cure you. Why? Cuz there’s more money in treating the illness than curing it! Why?”
I stopped listening, I already knew the answer.
I downed the rest of my drink and was thinking about going out to have a smoke when Ethan Ore finally reappeared.
“Sorry about that.”
“You might be,” I said, “after you hear what I’ve got to say.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your wife’s in a lot of trouble, Mr. Ore.”
“She’s not my wife. We’re separated.”
I didn’t argue the point.
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
He thought for a long moment and didn’t meet my eyes.
Finally he said, “She called me this afternoon, about three o’clock.”
“You know she’s back in the city?”
He nodded.
I asked, “Is Law Addison with her?”
“What? Why would he be with her?”
“They ran off together, didn’t they?”
He didn’t answer the question. I got tired of waiting.
“There’re people looking for her who think she did. But frankly, I’m beginning to wonder.”