Whats that youre driving? hed asked, from the steps of the renovated Craftsman two blocks above Melrose.
A Montxo Rydell said. From Barcelona. Electric.
38. Miracle mile
You live in America hed said, his gray hair plastered neatly back from his pitted forehead. Why you drive that? His BMW, immaculate, reposed in the driveway; hed had to spend five minutes disarming it to get the flashlight out for Rydell. Rydell had remembered the time in Knoxville, Christmas day, when the Narcotics teams new walkie-talkies had triggered every car-alarm in a ten-mile radius.
Well Rydell said, its real good for the environment.
Its bad for your country Wally said. Image thing. An American should drive some car to feel proud of. Bavarian car. At least Japanese.
Ill get this back to you, Wally. Holding up the big black flashlight.
And something else. You said.
Dont worry about it.
When you pay rent on Mar Vista?
Kevinll take care of it. Getting into the tiny Montxo and starting up the flywheel. It sat there, rocking slightly on its shocks, while the wheel got up to speed.
Wally waved, shrugged, then backed into his house and closed the door. Rydell hadnt ever seen him not wear that Tyrolean hat before.
Rydell looked at the flashlight, figuring out where the safety was. It wasnt much, but he felt like he had to have something. And it was nonlethal. Guns werent that hard to buy, on the street, but he didnt really want to have to have one around today. You did a different kind of time, if there was a gun involved.
Then hed driven back toward the Blob, taking it real easy at intersections and trying to keep to the streets that had designated lanes for electric vehicles. He got Chevettes phone out and hit redial for the node-number in Utah, the one Godeater had given him, back in Paradise. God-eater was the one who looked like the mountain, or so he said. Rydell had asked him what kind of a name that was. Hed said he was a full-blood Blood Indian. Rydell sort of doubted it.
None of their voices were real, even; it was all digital stuff. God-eater could just as well be a woman, or three different people, or all three of the ones hed seen there mightve been just one person. He thought about the woman in the wheelchair in Cognitive Dissidents. It could be her. It could be anybody. That was the spooky thing about these hackers. He heard the node-number ringing, in Utah. God-eater always picked up on five, in mid-ring.
Yes?
Paradise Rydell said.
Richard?
Nixon.
We have your goods in place, Richard. One little whoops and a push.
You get me a price yet? The light changed. Somebody was honking, pissed-off at the Montxos inability to do anything like accelerate.
Fifty God-eater said.
Fifty thousand dollars. Rydell winced. Okay he said, fair enough.
Better be God-eater said. We can make you pretty miserable in prison, even. In fact, we can make you really miserable in prison. The baseline starts lower, in there.
Ill bet you got lots of friends there, too, Rydell thought. How long you estimate the response-time, from when I call?
God-eater burped, long and deliberate. Quick. Ten, fifteen max. Weve got it slotted the way we talked about. Your friendsre gonna shit themselves. But really, you dont wanna be in the way. Thisll be like something you never saw before. This new unit they just got set up.
I hope so Rydell said, and broke the connection.
He gave the parking-attendant Karens apartment number. After this, it really wasnt going to matter much. He had the flashlight stuck down in the back of his jeans, under the denim jacket Buddy had loaned him. It was probably Buddys fathers. Hed told Buddy hed help him find a place when he got to L.A. He sort of hoped Buddy never did try that, because he imagined kids like Buddy made it about a block from the bus station before some really fast urban predator got them, just a blur of wheels and teeth and no more Buddy to speak of. But then again you had to think about what it would be like to be him, Buddy, back there in his three-by six-foot bedroom in that trailer, with those posters of Fallon and Jesus, sneaking that VR when his daddy wasnt looking. If you didnt at least try to get out, what would you wind up feeling like? And that was why you had to give it to Sublett, because hed gotten out of that, allergies and all.
But he was worried about Sublett. Pretty crazy to be worried about anybody, in a situation like this, but Sublett acted like he was already dead or something. Just moving from one thing to the next, like it didnt matter. The only thing that got any kind of rise out of him was his allergies.
And Chevette, too, Chevette Washington, except what worried him there was the white skin of her back, just above the waist of those black bike-pants, when she was curled on the bed beside him. How he kept wanting to touch it. And how her tits stuck out against her t-shirt when shed sit up in the morning, and those little dark twists of hair under her arms. And right now, walking up to this terracotta coffee-module near the base of the escalator, the rectangular head of Wallys pepper-spray flashlight digging into his spine, he knew he might never get another chance. He could be dead, in half an hour, or on his way to prison.
He ordered a latte with a double shot, paid for it with just about the last of his money, and looked at his Timex. Ten til three. When hed called Warbabys personal portable from the motel, the night before, hed told him three.
God-eater had gotten him that number. God-eater could get you any number at all.
Warbaby had sounded really sad to hear from him.
Disappointed, like. We never expected this of you, Rydell.
Sorry, Mr. Warbaby. Those fucking Russians. And that cowboy fucker, that Loveless. Got on my case.
Theres no need for obscenity. Who gave you this number?
I had it from Hernandez, before. Silence.
I got the glasses, Mr. Warbaby.
Where are you?
Chevette Washington watching him, from the bed. In Los Angeles. I figured Id better get as far away from those Russians as I could.
A pause. Maybe Warbaby had put his hand over the phone. Then, Well, I suppose I can understand your behavior, although I cant say I approve
Can you come down here and get them, Mr. Warbaby? And just sort of call it even?
A longer pause. Well, Rydell sadly, I wouldnt want you to forget how disappointed I am in you, but, yes, I could do that.
But just you and Freddie, right? Nobody else.
Of course Warbaby had said. Rydell imagined him looking at Freddie, whod be tap-tapping away on some new laptop, getting the call traced. To a cell-node in Oakland, and then to a tumbled number.
You be down here tomorrow, Mr. Warbaby. Ill call you at your same number, tell you where to come. Three oclock. Sharp.
I think youve made the right decision, Rydell Warbaby had said.
I hope so Rydell had said, then clicked off.
Now he looked at his Timex. look a sip of coffee. Three oclock. Sharp. He put the coffee down on the counter and got the phone out. Started punching in Warbabys number.
It took them twenty minutes to get there. They came in two cars, from opposite directions; Warbaby and Freddie in a black Lincoln with a white satellite-dish on top, Freddie driving it, then Svobodov and Orlovsky in a metallic-gray Lada sedan that Rydell took for a rental.
He watched them meet up, the four of them, then walk in, onto the plaza under the Blob, past those kinetic sculptures, heading for the nearest elevator, Warbaby looking sad as ever and leaning on that cane. Warbaby had his same olive coat on, his Stetson, Freddie was wearing a big shirt with a lot of pink in it, had a laptop under his arm, and the Russians from Homicide had these gray suits on, about the color and texture of the Lada they were driving.
He gave it a while to see if Loveless was going to turn up, then started keying in that number in Utah.