I rubbed my temples. "As far as I could tell, no one was in control. It was chaos."
"Very carefully organized chaos. The free rum, the camera flashes."
"The Poo-Sham ad."
"What?"
I told her about the advertisement running in the planetarium, the weird pseudo-feel of it, the flashing screen at the end.
"Interesting," she said, still studying the camera. "We need to do some research on how this thing works. Maybe a Google search on 'mind control with party favors'?"
"That would be a start. Or maybe 'visually induced… uh, some-thing-phasia. " I rubbed my temples. For some reason, I couldn't remember the word for not being able to remember words. "My head hurts."
"Yeah, mine too." She ran her hands across the planes of her shorn head again, and I couldn't resist reaching across to touch her. The newly buzzed hair was soft beneath my fingers.
"That feels nice," she said, her eyes closed. "I'm beat. One more flashing light and I'm going into a coma."
I remembered the urban legend.
"Jen, have you ever heard that old story about a TV show that caused seizures? It was a Japanese cartoon or something."
"You're kidding. Sounds like that stupid movie, where the videotape kills you?"
"Yeah, but it was based on an urban legend. And like most legends, that was based on something real."
She shrugged. "We can Google it."
"Actually, I've got a friend who knows more than Google, at least when it comes to Japanese pop culture." I pulled out my phone, checking the time. "If she's awake."
I started to dial, but Jen pulled at my wrist, eyes still closed. "Just chill out until we get back downtown, okay?" She pulled herself closer, the dress rustling as her legs curled up under its yards of scarlet. Passing neon and streetlights swept across her as the cab descended Broadway. With her long hair Jen had been pretty, cute, attractive.
Buzzed, she was beautiful.
"No problem," I said, my heart fluttering pleasantly.
She held my hand. "We did good tonight. I feel like we actually learned something about the anti-client."
"Too bad none of it makes any sense."
"It will." Her eyes opened, her face close enough that I smelled Noble Savage on her breath. "I have to ask two very important questions, Hunter."
I swallowed. "Sure."
"One: Why are your hands purple?"
"Oh, that." I looked at them. "In addition to not being shampoo, Poo-Sham happens to be a very persistent skin dye."
"Ah. That's nasty of them." Her fingertips trailed across my open palm, sending a shudder through me.
"What was the other question?" I said softly.
"Well, uh." She bit her lip, and I found my gaze stuck on her mouth. "Did you know…?"
"Know what?"
"Did you know you ripped your jacket?"
I was paralyzed for a second, then followed Jen's gaze to my shoulder, where the sleeve had become disconnected in a long, uneven tear. I remembered Future Woman grabbing my arm on the stairs as I pulled violently away. My stomach sank.
"Oh, shit."
"Well" — she sat up and checked me over carefully—"at least everything else looks okay."
"This jacket was a thousand bucks!"
"Yeah, ouch. Still… your bow tie looks really sharp. Did you tie it yourself?"
Chapter 20
TINA CATALINA MET US AT THE DOOR WEARING SWEATPANTS and a pajama top covered with Japanese kids' characters—frowning penguins, happy octopuses, and a certain kitty whose first name is a common salutation.
"New hair, Hunter?"
"Well spotted. You remember Jen, right?"
She blinked sleepily. "Oh, yeah, from the focus group yesterday. I liked what you said, Jen. Very cool."
"Thanks."
Tina squinted. "But didn't you have… like… more hair?"
Jen's fingers skimmed her scalp, and she grinned. "I got bored."
"So you buzzed it." Tina stepped back, taking in my black-tie getup and Jen's gigantic dress. "And then went to the prom? Do they still have those?"
"A launch party, actually." I fingered my torn thousand-dollar sleeve. "It's been a long day."
"Looks like it. Are the purple hands a retro-punk thing?"
"Yes, they're a retro-punk thing."
"Cute, I guess."
Tina led us into her kitchen, which had pink walls and brutally bright lighting. Character-themed cooking gadgets and porcelain good-luck cats filled the counter space, and the small kitchen table was heart shaped.
Tina yawned and flicked on a coffeemaker in the form of a smiling frog.
"Did we get you out of bed?" Jen asked.
"No, I was up. Just about to eat breakfast."
"You mean dinner?"
"No, breakfast. I'm in jet-lag mode."
"Tina's an air-mile addict," I explained. "She lives on Tokyo time."
Tina nodded in sleepy agreement, pulling eggs out of the refrigerator. Her job took her to Japan every few weeks, and she was constantly juggling night and day, shifting into or out of Japanese time zones. She structured her life around jet lag. The light that bathed the kitchen came from special full-spectrum bulbs, which fooled her brain into thinking that the sun was shining. A big chart on the wall tracked the convoluted maneuvers of her sleep cycle.
It was a taxing schedule, but cool hunting in Japan could pay off handsomely. Tina was famous for having been the first to spot a new species of cell phone, one that was just beginning to catch on here in America. Part phone and part electronic pet, the device required that you feed it (by dialing a special number), socialize it (by frequently calling other pet-phone owners), and play thumb-candy games to keep it happy. In return, your phone would occasionally ring and deliver messages of love in a sort of meowing language. Even more addictively, all registered owners were ranked in a nonstop global competition, updated by the minute, the highest achievers receiving free minutes with which to supplement their obsession. The whole system had been hacked together by users in Japan, but here in the States the big corporations were taking over, and Tina was getting a percentage.
Besides the professional payoffs, Tina loved all things cute and big-eyed, which the Japanese have a mortal lock on.
Her rice cooker, which was pink and in the shape of a rabbit, said something in a high-pitched voice. Probably that the rice was done.
"Hungry?" she asked.
"I ate at the party," Jen said.
"Actually, I" — Tina's idea of food was freeze-dried snow peas and heavily salted seaweed cakes, but I was close to fainting—"am starving."
She doled out rice into two bowls.
"So what's up, Hunter-san? Spotted any pet phones at school?"
"Uh, it's summer. We don't go to school in summer here in America."
"Oh, yeah."
"You haven't heard from Mandy, have you?"
"Since the meeting yesterday?" Tina shrugged. "No. Why?"
"She's missing."
Tina thunked a bowl in front of me and sat down. I looked down to see a raw egg staring up at me from the bed of rice.
"Missing?" Tina poured soy sauce on her own raw egg and began to stir the whole thing into brown mush, adding red-pepper flakes. My stomach growled, indifferent to how the rest of me was reacting to the sight.
"We were supposed to meet her downtown," Jen said. "All we found was her phone."
"Oh, the poor thing," Tina said, meaning the phone. She looked like she'd seen an abandoned puppy on the roadside.