Afterparty (6 page)

“Have you considered that he really did just find God?”

“I might have considered that, before I heard you were looking for a drug with exactly these symptoms. Before I learned that such a drug had already been invented.”

The infostream again. No use hiding anything about Little Sprout, or NME 110. “That never left the lab,” I said. “It never got to testing, much less market.”

“No one’s marketing this, either,” Fayza said. “As far as I know, they’re giving it away for free. You can see how this would greatly fuck with my business model.” She stared at me as if it were my fault.

“Look, I’d like to help, but I don’t see how I can—”

“Bring me a sample of this drug. Confirm for me what it is. Luke will take you to this church.” She nodded to the Afghan kid. “Hootan will go with you.”

The kid in the hoodie smiled at me.

“That’s okay,” I said. I wanted no part in whatever gangland enforcer thing Hootan represented. “I’ll do it alone.”

Fayza turned to me, her gaze as impersonal as a gun barrel.

“Or he can come,” I said. “Either way.”

Dr. Gloria rustled her wings, getting my attention, and nodded at Fayza.

“Oh, right,” I said. “My friend, Bobby. He was wearing something your men took.”

Fayza dipped into the pocket of her jacket, withdrew the plastic treasure chest on its leather thong. She held it in her hand, and for a moment I thought she was going to open it, and Bobby’s mind would fly around the room like Tinkerbell.

She handed it to me, as well as a second object—a low-tech flip phone.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got a pen.”

“You will call me on this one,” she said. “Keep in touch.”

*   *   *

Hootan led me, Dr. Gloria, and Luke the black Abe Lincoln back to Fayza’s house on Tyndall Avenue. Bobby was waiting for us, pacing frantically, while the young Afghan couple ignored him. I tossed the chest toward Bobby. He screeched in panic to see it airborne, then caught it and touched it to his lips. Then he started thanking me, practically pawing me. Crazy people are tedious.

“Go back to the apartment,” I told him. “I’ll meet you there later, okay?”

“Later, right, yes,” Bobby said. Too relieved to be wondering what I was doing with these two new strangers.

Hootan said his car was down the block. He walked ahead of us, and Luke touched my elbow. His lips were pursed, a dam holding back turbulent emotion. “Thank you,” he said. “I knew when you walked into the room that we were supposed to meet today.”

I doubted that. “So how far away is this church, Luke?”

“It’s close,” he said. “And you’re going to love Pastor Rudy.”

CHAPTER FOUR

The call came for the Vincent while Vinnie was branding the spring calves. He was halfway through the shipment of freshly weaned three-month-olds—five bison cows and a bull from the Rakunas, Inc., facility in Santa Monica, California. The cow in his hands bucked and kicked, a real lively one. He ran a thumb along its side to soothe it, took a breath to soothe himself, then pressed the red-hot iron into the animal’s fuzzy brown flank. The calf squealed. A thin coil of acrid smoke rose up to the ceiling.

“Sorry, little girl,” Vinnie said. Ranching was no business for the sentimental, but the cries of the young ones really got to him. He flipped down the magnifying glass and inspected his mark, a Flying V about two millimeters long. The lines were crisp, and he was satisfied.

He set the cow down on the other side of the foot-high fence that separated the kitchen from the wide-open range of the living room. The calf scampered across the carpet of #10 Giro Home Prairie. The herd (thirty-eight head, counting the six he’d just purchased) had congregated in the shadow of the coffee table. It was midday, and the ceiling’s grow lights were turned up strong.

The pen pinged a second time: another message. He would have ignored the device, but this was the Vincent’s pen, the one that hardly ever beeped. Vinnie removed the magnifying specs and put the branding iron into its tiny holder. He picked up the pen. The messages were the same, sent only thirty seconds apart: “Please call.”

Vinnie would have preferred to do all their business through text, but the employer was an old-fashioned man who wanted to hear a voice. Vinnie thumbed the connection. After a moment, the call went through, and the employer picked up.

“Is the Vincent available?” the employer said. He knew that the Vincent did not like to be ordered around. He liked to be asked.

Vinnie looked down at the crate of calves. He’d planned on finishing the branding. Then he was going to move the herd to the back bedroom where the carpet was high, so he could use the living room to set up a new breeding area for the two-year-olds. He’d never gotten his herd to breed, despite spending thousands on the highest-rated bulls. It frustrated him to be dependent on lab-grown stock, and upon the money that the Vincent’s jobs provided. Someday he’d live off his herd, like a true rancher.

“How long is the engagement?” Vinnie asked.

His employer said, “A few days at most. I want him to talk to someone in Toronto.”
Talk.
One of those kinds of jobs, then. Most of the time the Vincent
met
people. Sometimes he
saw
them. Talking was a rarity, but it paid the best.

“Okay,” Vinnie said. “Send the details. The Vincent can leave tomorrow.”

The employer said nothing for an uncomfortable moment. Then he said, “If it’s at all possible, I’d like him to be on the ground tonight.”

Now it was Vinnie’s turn to insert an uncomfortable pause. Buying an international plane ticket at the last minute would raise the Vincent’s air travel threat score. Also, would there be enough time for the Vincent’s pills to kick in? And what about the calves?

The employer said, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t of the utmost importance. I’ll of course include a bonus for express service.”

Vinnie breathed out. “Okay. I’ll tell him.” By tradition, Vinnie pretended to be the secretary for the Vincent. The name Vinnie was never mentioned by either of them. The conceit was that the Vincent was too badass to ever talk on the phone.

The employer hung up, and Vinnie rested his forehead on the edge of the table and stared at the floor.

One of the miniature calves in the crate bleated. Vinnie wouldn’t have time to brand them now, and he wouldn’t be around to watch over their integration with the herd. He’d have to release them to the prairie and hope for the best. In a few hours he wouldn’t care about such things, but he did now, and he would again when he returned.

He told his pen to search for available flights, then sent an email to his neighbor down the hall. He made sure that the branding iron was turned off and unplugged. What next? The Poomba. He detached the robot from its charger and set it down in the high grass. The little flying-saucer-shaped device did nothing for a moment, but then its sensors caught a whiff of methane, and it swiveled left and rolled slowly forward, the grasses bending before its rubber bumpers. The herd sometimes got spooked by the machine, but what could he do? Without it the whole apartment would fill up with tiny buffalo chips.

He left the apartment, always a nerve-racking experience, and walked two doors down. Al answered wearing only a pair of UNLV basketball shorts, his hairless rounded gut like the dome of a mosque. He was a Hispanic man a foot taller than Vinnie and a hundred pounds heavier, even with the lightweight titanium leg. Like so many men of his age and income bracket, Al had participated in Operation Enduring Freedom, which he’d described as an international limb-exchange program sponsored by the American government.

“I’m going to be gone for a few days,” Vinnie said. “I was wondering if … well…”

“You want me to watch the critters?” Al had served as emergency ranch hand on two occasions. He wasn’t Vinnie’s first choice for the position, but he had two important qualifications: He was always home, and he always needed money.

“I’d really appreciate it,” Vinnie said. “I just emailed you updated instructions. Did you get it?”

“Sure,” Al said. “Just came in.”

“Great. You can delete the earlier one.” It had been several months since Al had watched the herd, so Vinnie unfurled his own pen to go over the major sections of the document: “Water and Lights”; “Veterinarian”; “Pasture Schedule”; “Food Supplements.” He apologized for not having time to write up notes on the new stock. “Sometimes the herd rejects the new calves,” Vinnie said. “If you see some of them wandering off by themselves, put them in the back forty.”

“That’s…”

“The bedroom with no furniture,” Vinnie said.

“Got it,” Al said. He shifted his weight to his biological leg. Raised his eyebrows significantly.

“Oh!” Vinnie said. He handed over the envelope that contained the cash. “I wrote the apartment guest code on the envelope. It’s a new number. Also, I won’t be reachable while I’m traveling, but if you call my home number and leave a message, I should be able to check voicemail at some point.”

“Don’t worry about a thing,” Al said.

Vinnie went back to his apartment. He didn’t feel great about leaving Al in charge, but he did know a cure for that feeling. He opened the freezer, pulled out the box of Commander Calhoun Fishstix, and retrieved the bottle of Evanimex that was hidden inside. The pills were provided by the employer as part of his compensation, and arrived at regular intervals by FedEx.

Vinnie preferred to ramp up slowly, taking one pill every two hours, but time was short. He swallowed four. They slid down his throat like lumps of ice, each one (he imagined) ushering his tender heart one step closer into cryogenic storage. For safekeeping.

He stepped over the kitchen fence and walked back to his bedroom via the narrow boardwalk. The wooden structure stood a foot off the ground, and its struts were spaced far enough apart that the bison could migrate without impediment. It also allowed Vinnie to cross the rooms without trampling grass, squashing livestock, or smearing cow patties on his flip-flops.

There was a trick to becoming the Vincent that went beyond chemicals, a ritual that helped realign his headspace. He stripped off his clothes and turned the shower to hot. Afterward he shaved, even though he had shaved just that morning. He unwrapped one of the charcoal suits, as well as a blue shirt and matching tie, and dressed. Then he took down the black Caran d’Ache briefcase and placed in it a second blue shirt, a pair of underwear, and a pair of socks.

Last, as always, the hat. He opened the box and lifted it out, a black 800x Seratelli with a Vaquero brim, one of the finest Western hats ever made. He lightly gripped the crown in three fingers and set it on his head.

That’s the ticket. He could feel the Vincent coming on now. Not a different identity, exactly, but a different way of thinking of himself. An alternate approach to the world. The knot of tension he carried in his chest—his worries for the herd, his agoraphobia, his certainty that he was an evil person—began to unwind and fall away.

His plane departed in ninety minutes. By the time it landed in Toronto, he would be at Full Vincent, ready and able to stalk and torture a Canadian.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hootan’s car was a tiny biodiesel Honda tricked out with fins and whitewall tires. The kid pressed the remote, and the engine roared like a fighter jet. “Real Engine Sound,” he shouted proudly. The recording was ridiculously mismatched for the car. “I can also do Mustang GT and a Ford 150!”

Dr. G and I crawled into the back, with Luke all knees and elbows in the passenger seat. Luke told Hootan the address, and the Afghan kid slipped on a pair of sunglasses and swung into traffic. The speakers under the floor settled into a highway thrum.

“Tell me about this holo church,” I said. “Pastor Whatsisface, everything.”

Luke twisted to face me, tilting his head to fit under the roof. “Is she really dead?” he asked.

“Francine?” I flashed on her body laid out sideways on the white tile, her arm and belly a coastline for a lake of blood. “I’m sorry. Yeah.”

Luke tried to take this in. “It doesn’t make sense. She was so much better.”

“She was despondent,” I said. “She said she had to pay for her sins.”

“But she told me she felt forgiven! God had forgiven her.”

“Well, evidently he changed his mind. She was calling for him to come back.” I leaned forward. “What did she feel so guilty about?”

“It’s private,” Luke said. “She confided in me.”

“But she was a teenager. It couldn’t have been that terrible.”

“You’re provoking him,” Dr. G said. “Why don’t you just double-dog dare him to tell you?”

I ignored her. “How bad could it be?” I asked.

“Pretty bad,” Luke said. “Not the worst thing I’ve ever heard. But … yeah.”

“You won’t shock me,” I said.

He said nothing for a few moments, then said, “It happened a couple years ago. She was shacking up with this guy, a real asshole. He just wanted someone to live with him and take care of his grandmother. She had some kind of disease where she was getting more and more paralyzed every month, from like the feet up?”

“ALS,” I said.

“No, that wasn’t it.”

“Lou Gehrig’s Disease.”

“That one,” Luke said. Dr. G rolled her eyes. The boy said, “The old woman couldn’t walk anymore, and she could barely move her arms, and she had trouble swallowing? Frannie said that it was like feeding a baby—spitting up, choking, a real mess. And then the bathroom stuff! Frannie did all of it, wiped her ass, changed her diapers. She really took care of her.”

“What did she get out of it?”

“She got to sleep in a bed. And the old woman’s money paid for the drugs. The boyfriend, can’t remember his name, was a meth head. And Frannie liked to smoke, too, so it worked out.” He took a breath. “So one day the boyfriend has to go out to buy, says his friend has some new stuff, something from the States, and he’ll be right back. I’ll only be gone for an hour, he says.”

“Uh-oh,” Dr. Gloria said.

“So she’s there for an hour, two hours with the granny. Then it’s all afternoon. That night the boyfriend doesn’t come back. And by this time Frannie is pissed, because she knows what he’s doing; he’s getting high without her.”