The Bridge Trilogy Part 8

'Or to a licensed private detective agency.'

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'You got it.' Hernandez was watching him.

Rydell walked past him, into the living room, hearing the German shower-sandals come squishing after him across the kitchen's dull tile floor. Someone had been smoking tobacco in there the night before. He could smell it. It was in violation of the lease. The landlord would give them h.e.l.l about it. The landlord was a Serb immigrant who drove a fifteen-year-old BMW, wore these weird furry Tyrolean hats, and insisted on being called Wally. Because Wally knew that Rydehl worked for IntenSecure, he'd wanted to show him the flashlight he kept clipped under the dash in his BMW. It was about a foot long and had a b.u.t.ton that triggered a big shot of capsic.u.m gas. He'd asked Rydell if Rydell thought it was 'enough.'

Rydell had lied. Had told him that people who did, for instance, a whole lot of dancer, they actually liked a blast or two of good capsic.u.m. Like it cleared their sinuses. Got their juices flowing. They got off on it.

Now Rydell looked down and saw for the first time that the living room carpet in the house in Mar Vista was exactly the same stuff he'd crawled across in Turvey's girlfriend's apartment in Knoxville. Maybe a little cleaner, but the same stuff. He'd never noticed that before.

'Listen, Rydell, you don't want to take this, fine. My day off, I drive over here, you appreciate that? You get tweaked by some hackers, you fall for it, you push the response too hard, I can understand. But it happened, man, it's on your file, and this is the best I can do. But listen up.

You do right by the company, maybe that gets back to Singapore.'

'Hernandez. ..'

'My day off...'

'Man, I don't know anything about finding people-'

'You can drive. All they want. Just drive. You drive the tracer, see? He's got his leg ha.s.sled, he can't drive. And this is, like, delicate, this thing. Requires some smarts. I told them I thought you could do it, man. I did that. I told them.'

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Monica's copy of People was on the couch, open to a story about Gudrun Weaver, this actress in her forties who'd just found the Lord, courtesy of the Reverend Wayne Fallon, in time to get her picture in People. There was a full-page picture of her on a couch in her living room, gazing raptly at a bank of monitors, each one showing the same old movie.

Rydell saw himself on the futon from Futon Mouth, staring up at those big stick-on flowers and b.u.mper-stickers. 'Is it legal?'

Hernandez slapped his powder-blue thigh. It sounded like a pistol shot. 'Legal? We are talking IntenSecure Corporation here. We are talking major s.h.i.t. I am trying to help you, man. You think I would ask you to do something f.u.c.king illegal?'

'But what's the deal, Hernandez? I just go up there and drive?'

'f.u.c.king "A"! Drive! Mr. Warbaby say drive, you drive.'

'Who?'

'Warbaby. This Lucius Warbaby.'

Rydell picked up Monica's copy of People and found a picture of Gudrun Weaver and the Reverend Wayne Fallon. Gudrun Weaver looked like an actress in her forties. Fallon looked like a possum with hair-implants and a ten-thousand-dollar tuxedo.

'This Warbaby, Berry, he's right on top of this s.h.i.t. He's a f.u.c.king star, man. Otherwise why they hire him? You do this, you learn s.h.i.t. You still young, man. You can learn s.h.i.t.'

Rydell tossed the People back onto the couch. 'Who they trying to find?'

'Hotel theft. Somebody took something. We got the security there. Singapore, man, they're in some kind of serious twist about it. All I know.'

Rydell stood in the warm shade of the carport, gazing down into the shimmering depths of the animated waterfall on the hood of Flernandez's daughter's Sneaker, mist rising through green boughs of rain forest. He'd once seen a Harley done up so that everything that wasn't triple- chromed was crawling, fast forward, with life-sized bugs. Scorpions, centipedes, you name it.

'See,' Hernandez said, 'see there, where it blurs? That's supposed to be some kind of f.u.c.king

sloth, man. Some lemur, you know? Factory warranty.'

'When do they want me to go?'

'I give you this number.' Hernandez handed Rydell a torn sc.r.a.p of yellow paper. 'Call them.'

'Thanks.'

'Hey,' Hernandez said, 'I like to see you do okay. I do. I like that.' He touched the Sneaker's hood. 'Look at this s.h.i.t. Factory f.u.c.king warranty.'

Chevette dreamed she was riding Folsom, a stiff sidewind threatening to push her into oncoming.

Took a left on Sixth, caught that wind at her back, ran a red at Howard and Mission, a stale green at Market, bopped the brakes and bunnied both sets of tracks.

Coming down in a hard lean, she headed up n.o.b on Taylor.

'Make it this time,' she said.

Legs pumping, the wind a strong hand in the small of her back, sky clear and beckoning at the top of the hill, she thumbed her chain up onto some huge-a.s.s custom ring, too big for her derailleur, too big to fit any frame at all, and felt the shining teeth catch, her hammering slowing to a steady spin-but then she was losing it.

She stood up and started pounding, screaming, lactic acid slamming through her veins. She was at the crest, lifting off- Colored light slanted into Skinner's room through the tinted pie-wedge panes of the round window. Tuesday morning.

Two of the smaller sections of gla.s.s had fallen out; the gaps were stuffed with pieces of rag, throwing shadows on the tattered yellow wall of National Geographics. Skinner was sitting up in bed, wearing an old plaid shirt, blankets and sleeping-bag pulled high up his chest. His bed was an eightpanel oak door up on four rusty Volkswagen hubs, with a slab of foam on top of that.

Chevette slept on the floor, on a narrower piece of foam she rolled up every morning and stuck

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8 Morning after behind a long wooden crate full of greasy hand tools. The smell of tool grease worked its way into her sleep, sometimes, but she didn't mind it.

She snaked her arm out into the November chill and snagged a sweater off the seat of a paint-caked wooden stool. She pulled the sweater into her bag and twisted into it, tugging it down over her knees. It hung to her knees when she stood up, the neckband so stretched that she had to keep pushing it back up on her shoulder. Skinner didn't say anything; he hardly ever did, first thing.

She rubbed her eyes, went to the ladder bolted to the wall and climbed the five rungs, undoing the catch on the roof-hatch without bothering to look at it. She came up here most mornings now, started her day with the water and then the city. Unless it was raining, or too foggy, and then it was her turn to pump the ancient Coleman, its red-painted tank like a toy submarine. Skinner did that, on good days, but he stayed in bed a lot when it rained. Said it got to his hip.

She climbed out of the square hole and sat on its edge, dangling her bare legs down into the room.

Sun struggling to burn off the silvery gray. On hot days it heated the tar on the roof's flat rectangle and you could smell it.

Skinner had showed her pictures of the La Brea pits in National Geographic, big sad animals going down forever, down in L.A. a long time ago. That was what tar was, asphalt, not just something they made in a factory somewhere. He liked to know where things came from.

His jacket, the one she always wore, that had come from D. Lewis, Great Portland Street. That was in London. Skinner liked maps. Some of the National Geographics had maps folded into them, and all the countries were big, single blobs of color from one side to the other. And there hadn't been nearly as many of them. There'd been countries big as anything: Canada, USSR, Brazil. Now there were lots of little ones where those had heen. Skinner said America had gone

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that route without admitting it. Even California had all been one big state, once.

Skinner's roof was eighteen feet by twelve. Somehow it looked smaller than the room below, even though the walls of the room were packed solid with Skinner's stuff. Nothing on the roof but a rusty metal wagon, a kid's toy, with a couple of rolls of faded tarpaper stacked in it.

She looked past three cable-towers to Treasure Island. Smoke rose, there, from a fire on the sh.o.r.e, where the low cantilever, cottoned down in fog, shot off to Oakland. There was a dome- thing, up on the farthest suspension tower, honeycombed into sections like new copper, but Skinner said it was just Mylar, stretched over two-by-twos. They had an plink in that, something that talked to satellites. She thought she'd go and see it one day.

A gray gull slid by, level with her eyes.

The city looked the same as ever, the hills like sleeping animals behind the office towers she knew by their numbers. She ought to be able to see that hotel.

The night before grabbed her by the back of the neck.

She couldn't believe she'd done that, been that stupid. The case she'd pulled out of that d.i.c.khead's pocket was hanging up in Skinner's jacket, on the iron hook shaped like an elephant's head. Nothing in it but a pair of sungla.s.ses, expensive-looking but so dark she hadn't even been able to see through them last night. The security grunts in the lobby had scanned her badges when she'd gone in; as far as they knew, she'd never come back down. Their computer would've started looking for her, eventually. If they queried Allied, she'd say she forgot, blew the checkout off, took the service elevator down after she'd pulled her tag at 8o8. No way had she been at any party, and who'd seen her there anyway? The a.s.shole. And maybe he'd figure she'd done him for his gla.s.ses. Maybe he'd felt it. Mayhe he'd remcmher, when he sobered up.

Skinner yelled there was coffee, hut they were out of eggs.

Chevette shoved off the edge of the hole, swung down and in, catching the top rung.

'Want any, you're gonna get 'em,' Skinner said, looking up from the Coleman.

'Save me coffee.' She pulled on a pair of black cotton leggings and got into her trainers without bothering to lace them. She opened the hatch in the floor and climbed through, still worrying about the a.s.shole, his gla.s.ses, her job. Down ten steel rungs off the side of an old crane. The cherry-picker basket waiting where she'd left it when she'd gotten back. Her bike cabled to an upright with a couple of Radio Shack screamers for good measure. She climbed into the waist-high yellow plastic basket and hit the switch.

The motor whined and the big-toothed cog on the bottom let her down the slope. Skinner called the cherry-picker his funicular. He hadn't built it, though; a black guy named Fontaine had built it for him, when Skinner had started to have trouble with the climb. Fontaine lived on the Oakland end, with a couple of women and a lot of children. He took care of a lot of the bridge's electrical stuff. He'd show up once in a while in a long tweed overcoat, a toolbag in each hand, and he'd grease the thing and check it. And Chevette had a number to call him at if it ever broke down completely, but that hadn't happened yet.

It shook when it hit the bottom. She climbed out onto the wooden walkway and went along the wall of taut milky plastic, halogen-shadows of plants behind it and the gurgle of hydroponics. Turned the corner and down the stairs to the noise and morning hustle of the bridge. Nigel coming toward her with one of his carts, a new one. Making a delivery.

"Vette,' with his big goofy grin. He called her that.

'Seen the egg lady?'

'City side,' he said, meaning S.F. always, Oakland being always only 'Land. 'Good one, huh?' with a gesture of huilder's pride for his cart. Chevette saw the hraised aluminum

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frame, the Taiwan-ese hubs and rims beefed up with fat new spokes. Nigel did work for some of the other riders at Allied, ones who still rode metal. He hadn't liked it when Chevette had gone for a paper frame. Now she bent to run her thumb along a specially smooth braise. 'Good one,' she agreed.

'That j.a.p s.h.i.t delaminate on you yet?' 'No way.'

"S gonna. Bunny down too hard, it's gla.s.s.'

'Come see you when it does.'

Nigel shook his hair at her. The faded wooden fishing-plug that hung from his left ear rattled and spun. 'Too late then.' He shoved his cart toward Oakland.

Chevette found the egg lady and bought three, twisted up that way in two big dry blades of gra.s.s.

Magic. You hated to take it apart, it was so perfect, and you could never get it back together or figure out how she did it. The egg lady took the five-piece and dropped it into the little bag around her scrawny lizard neck. She had no teeth at all, her face a nest of wrinkles that centered into that wet slit of a mouth.

Skinner was sitting at the table when she got back. More like a shelf than a table. He was drinking coffee out of a dented steel thermos-mug. If you just came in and saw him like that, it didn't strike you right away how old he was; just big, his hands, shoulders, all his bones, big.

Gray hair slicked back from his forehead's lifetime collection of scars, little dents, a couple of black dots like tattoos, where some kind of grit had gotten into a cut.

She undid the eggs, the egg lady's magic, and put them in a plastic bowl. Skinner heaved himself up from his creaking chair, wincing as he took the weight with his hip. She handed him the bowl and he swung over to the Coleman. The way he scrambled eggs, he didn't use any b.u.t.ter, just a little water. Said he'd learned it from a cook on a ship. It made good eggs but the pan was hard to clean, and that was Chevette's job. While he broke the eggs, she went to the jacket Ofl its hook, and took that case out.

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You couldn't tell what it was made of, and that meant expensive. Something dark gray, like the lead in a pencil, thin as the sh.e.l.l of one of those eggs, but you could probably drive a truck over it. Like her bike. She'd figured out how you opened it the night before; finger here, thumb there, it opened. No catch or anything, no spring. No trademark, either; no patent numbers. Inside was like black suede, but it gave like foam under your finger.