Dermaphoria (4 page)

T
HE WRONG MOVE WILL SPLIT MY SKIN DOWN THE CENTER OF MY BODY.
It will fall away in sheets like brittle, peeling paint. My eyes scrape their sockets and I hear sounds like a shrieking chalkboard when I blink. I lie motionless, but feel motion sick.

A sting to my inner thigh. I fling the sheets away and jump to my feet. The room spins. I think it’s in my head, then I think not. I close my eyes and it’s worse. Faster, faster. Ground impact will blow out the windows, collapse the ceiling and scatter my shattered bones and furniture like God flinging a handful of dice. I brace myself but the spinning slows. I hold my balance against the wall, scratching the fresh welt on my leg.

On hands and knees at bug level for the second time. Either I missed this one or it’s new, or whatever infested Jack’s room has hitchhiked on his dumpster-salvaged wardrobe and shat its eggs into my carpet and sheets. Smaller than my thumb and the color of its own shadow, it disappears into the mottled carpet beside the lamp cord like the splatter fragment of an old stain. Anslinger’s black-bag men had planted it in plain sight.

It senses movement and bolts for the corner. I trap it beneath the empty jar and slide the queen of hearts beneath it. It looks like a smooth, black stone flailing in vain at the invisible wall.

Cuts and burns scar the desk. They’re the handiwork of the desperate and industrious armed with razors, spoons, glass pipes and butane
lighters. In the drawer, they’ve left behind a rubber band, two thumbtacks, a dried-out ballpoint pen with no cap, a few paperclips and a dull razorblade. I pull the jar away and the specimen runs for the edge, but I flip it onto its back with the queen of hearts. In spite of my hangover, my hands are steady and I pin it through the center with a straightened paperclip on my first try.

Its antennae hum, black filaments longer than its entire body, a signal for help or a last-ditch attempt to relay its gathered data back to the colony. I tap them at the base with the razorblade, severing the connection.

Across town, the detective’s monitor cuts to a bug’s-eye view of the big bang, and the blowtorch hiss of static.

Fuck you, Anslinger.

The head remains intact until I can find out what it’s seen and heard, though I may have punctured its microprocessor. I peel its wings from beneath as it struggles. I can scarcely imagine the electric insect invective it’s hurling at me from its dying, foul bug mouth. I disassemble it leg by leg, wing by wing. I break its shell into its core components, bisect its head and cross section its body four times but have nothing to show for my work. Nothing shorts, nothing sparks and nothing smokes. No resistors or transistors. No crystals, diodes, coils or microchips, only moist entrails. Whoever made this is good, so they were smart enough to make others.

Umbrella Men wave down buses and speak into pay phones. They fold newspapers and hold radios to their ears. Anslinger is tracking me. Anslinger wants to send me back to jail. Anslinger isn’t interested in me, he wants Desiree. He wants my Desiree. He’s looking for the Glass Stripper. All or none of the above. I ditch one scenario in favor of
another between footsteps. I check reflections in shop windows and bus shelters. Some kid bends to tie his shoe. Left foot means, We’ve been made, pull back. Right foot means, Go, to the rooftop sniper with the laser dot firefly humming on the back of my head, awaiting his signal to pull the trigger and turn off the universe.

The sign says
FORD’S
. Floodlights illuminate B
EER
-P
OOL
-S
ATELLITE
TV on the outside wall. Inside, the carpet might be gray, green or black. The scant light is of scant help in determining anything. Stains on the pool table, maybe beer, maybe blood. A jukebox with “Out of Order” taped over the glass. The bartender’s shirt has “Lou” embroidered onto the chest.

“I guess you’re Lou.”

He’s wiping a glass with a gray towel, staring at my face like he’s just scraped me off his shoe.

“Have I been here before?”

“If you don’t know, then it’s time to quit,” he says. “What can I get you?”

I don’t know.

“The usual.”

Stock cars race through a haze of electric snow on the silent television mounted above the bar. Pool balls crack against each other on the beer-and-blood stained table behind me. Lou remains inert, determined to wipe the reflections off the glass with that gray towel. My hands shake. Something lands on my face and I slap my cheek, expecting a splattered bug on my fingers. Nothing but the shine of sweat, more running down my temples and neck. I pull a ten from my pocket, so Lou serves me instead of tossing me out.

“Jack and Coke,” he says. “Good beginner’s drink.”

Other customers have red and black coasters beneath their drinks. Lou sets my glass down on the bare wood, the glass hits with a cracking noise like a fast pool shot. He resumes polishing with the soiled towel.

“There a pay phone here?”

Lou responds with a jut of his chin. Toward the back. A sign points down a small hallway, R
ESTROOMS AND
PHONE
.

Anslinger’s direct line dumps me to his machine.

“Call off your tail. I’m doing the best I can, but stop following me. And stop bugging my room.” Before hanging up, I pause and add, “Please.”

Someone behind me says, “You’ve looked better, Eric.”

I strain to picture this man. I remember his clothes, khaki trousers and a peach golf shirt, but not his face. He’s with a boy dressed in a shirt stained like a shop rag and a blue windbreaker a size too large. Scabs like playground injuries stipple the bridge of his runny nose, his hair is matted as though he’d fallen asleep in the dirt. He stares at his fingers, silently moving his lips. Not a boy, but a year or two within my age. I saw him earlier, tying his shoe on the sidewalk.

The unmemorable man touches the boy gently on the back as he passes me on his way to the men’s room.

“Have we met?”

“You don’t recognize me?” he asks.

I strain to move the blood through my head, so the heat and light will coax a memory out of hiding. The bar lights surge and the jaws of an electric dog clamp onto my back ribs. I see storm clouds and smell pear blossoms for a heartbeat before my knees turn to wax.

On my back. Turning over but my legs won’t move. My arms tingle and burn like they’re asleep. Need to watch for the shattered lemonade
glass. Trying to crane my neck. All I can see are the man’s shoes and shins. Spit hangs from my lips. I can’t keep from drooling, and the shoes look expensive so I need to be careful.

“How about now?” he says.

The tingling in my arms rages with a second surge from the dog’s teeth. I hear a thunderclap and feel the first drops of hot rain on my face before I collapse again onto wet grass, the chrome leg of the pinball machine the only thing in my field of view. I smell summer, dirt, popcorn from the bar, the stench from the toilets, stale smoke, pear blossoms, lemonade, smoking bark, my own cooked and blistered skin, then nothing.

G
RASS STABS MY NOSTRILS AND EYES AS RAIN SLIDES DOWN MY CHEEKS
. T
HE
drops climb through my hair and ears, foraging beneath my collar. It’s not raining. Beetles swarm from the dirt and pick me apart, scrambling for the precious patches of thin skin, fighting for the wet tissue inside my mouth and beneath my bandages. Antenna codes rebound from drone to drone in the space of a wing flutter until the machine-forged workers deep down catch the signal. The six-legged drill bits burrow up through the dirt to pick my cartilage clean with surgical steel mandibles until nothing’s left but my brittle bones for the hot rain to hammer into the mud. You say my name, your voice muffled with static. Flash. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand. Thunder. Wiggle your toes. I don’t have any. Other people have toes, I have shoes. Wiggle your shoelaces. Nothing. I can’t run from the legions of whoever or whatever are charging through the splintered door I can’t see. Open your eyes.

I’m buckled into the passenger seat of a minivan. The stranger in the peach golf shirt is driving.

“That’s what we call a Simi Valley speeding ticket.” He reaches for my face. With his thumb on my cheek, he stretches my left eye wide open. “You there?” He lets go of my face and takes the wheel. “The question is,” he says, “can you do it again?”

My fingers crackle. My motor control thaws as I rub my palms together. A voice behind shouts for ice cream, a child’s plea coming
from a grown man.

“We’re going to get some ice cream right now, son,” the driver says. Then to me, “What happened to the hard-ass I used to know? Only a couple of weeks ago you were pure brains and attitude. Now, you’re a shivering wreck.”

The taste of metal lingers. My tongue won’t move and I can’t swallow. I might choke on my own spit. The windows are up, the air conditioner blows the faint lemon and pear blossom smells away with cold, empty air.

“Ice cream.”

“Settle down, son.”

Wherever I am, it’s far from the Firebird’s part of town. We drive among the houses I’ve seen in the distance from my window, box-shaped insect hives the color of sand, with red tile roofs behind high walls or iron fences. They cover the hills like barnacles. The Summit. Shady Pointe. Vista Acres. Groups of Mexican men trim hedges and lawns every half mile. The brightest color is the manicured grass that’s never seen a picnic blanket, lawn chair or baseball game. I don’t smell anything.

“I’m sorry about the shock,” the man says. “My son likes his toys and I’m a big believer in a strong offense. You used to know that. That’s my boy back there. You’ve met him before, many a time.”

He gauges my reaction in silence.

“Nothing, huh?”

Nothing.

“Don’t fool yourself,” he continues. I’m paralyzed and have to listen. “He knows every major artery, nerve cluster and pressure point on the human body. He can gut, cut and pack a grown man into a garbage bag in under forty minutes. He’s still just a child in most ways, always will be. But he’s got a knack for the job most pros will never come close to. Ever. He’s a legend, in some circles. You’re the best, aren’t
ya, Toe Tag?” he says to the rearview mirror.

“Love you.”

“I love you too, son. Here we are.”

He pulls into a shopping complex, the same bleached sand noncolor of the surrounding developments, and parks in a blue zone. The dirty, idiot boy from Ford’s opens my door. Toe Tag. He unbuckles my seat belt, grips the crotch of my arm and hoists me to my feet. I’m a doll full of feathers in his grip.

The evening shadows bleed like fresh ink until they’ve covered the ground. The desert air soaks them up, staining the sky deep blue, the color of morning glory petals. The sweeping hands of the enormous, outdoor clock make me dizzy. I stare at my feet and let Toe Tag guide me. My legs are still numb and I can’t risk slipping on a wet shadow.

My escorts leave me at an outdoor food court opposite a movie theater. I hear the hornet’s hum of current running through neon. When they return, the boy plows into a waffle cone, smearing ice cream across his face, oblivious to the world.

“My name is White,” the man says. “They call me Manhattan, but I’m from Rochester. I’ll repeat myself. The question is, can you do it again?” He strokes his son’s hair once, twice, then folds his hands in front of him, never taking his eyes from me.

“You’re really going to make me go through this from the beginning, aren’t you?”

I still can’t talk. Neither shaking my head nor nodding seems like a good idea.

Toe Tag says, “Share,” then offers a spoonful of ice cream to his father. Manhattan White lets the boy spoon-feed him a bite, then continues.

“You and I work for the same organization. Rather, we used to, as you’ve taken an unscheduled leave of absence. Among our interests is a chain of pharmaceutical manufacturing and supply, wherein you
reported to me as part of Research and Development. Head of Research and Development, I should add. I reported, and continue to report, directly to Mr. Hoyle.”

Toe Tag immerses a plastic army man into his ice cream. Hip-deep in vanilla, the soldier with the seam down the center of his face rears back to lob a grenade into mine.

“That placed you very high up in the chain, you understand,” says White. “You’ve made a great deal of money for us, and yourself, and we’ve been quite pleased with you, until this recent debacle.”

“And to whom does Hoyle report?” A rope of drool spills onto my numb and tingling hands. I wipe my chin with unfeeling fingers.

“This is going to take longer than I thought,” says White. “Hoyle reports to no one. He’s the first and last link in the chain and everything in it belongs to him. He’s the last word in this organization, his organization, and you’ve managed to land on his blacklist. Most people would have been given a pink slip in your situation, but you’ve got yourself one hell of a parachute, so we’re prepared to negotiate.”

“You’ve got my undivided attention.” My words are mashed together like warm clay.

“Sarcasm. Sounds as though the old Eric is coming around,” he says and smiles. “There’s that fire you started. That is not an accusation, so we’re clear. Neither I nor Hoyle believe you did that on purpose. Your precautionary measures were exemplary for the entire chain and your compensation was ample, to say the very least. Nobody doubts it was an accident but, the fact remains, the lab was your responsibility and the fire happened on your watch.”

“Hoyle ought to be insured.”

“He is and he isn’t,” White says, “but it’s not that simple. In addition to the significant loss of our assets, both manufacturing and finished product, there’s the question of some intellectual property, work
you did for hire, which therefore belongs to us, and lastly, there’s reason to believe, and I’m being generous here, that you were personally responsible for inventory shrinkage at the site. Now with your legal situation, we face the potential compromise of your Nondisclosure Agreement with the organization. This poses the most significant danger to Hoyle, which thus poses the most significant danger to you.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Yes. Would you like it in writing?”

“I haven’t said a thing to the cops.”

“But they’ve asked.”

“I didn’t answer.”

“I know you didn’t,” says White. “Otherwise Toe Tag here would have issued you a severance package. But they’ve asked nonetheless, and will continue to ask, as will they continue to barter your future in exchange for a violation of your Nondisclosure.”

I dig my nails into my palms and bite my lower lip until the pain punches through the static.

“I can’t barter with what I don’t know, and I don’t know anything.” My words are solid and clear. I scrape my tongue across my teeth and force sensation to return. I taste blood.

“You’re right, I probably was responsible for shrinkage because I’ve done some serious damage to my brain, so you can forget about my saying anything. I’m guessing Hoyle can’t use the fire as a tax write-off, if I’m hearing you correctly. And I’m in no position to compensate Hoyle or the chain for the damage you say I’m accountable for.”

“The police are saying it as well, so I don’t think that issue’s in dispute.”

“Right. So what are you and I discussing?”

“One of two things,” White says. “First, you say you’re unprepared to compensate for the loss of the lab, but you’re mistaken. You were one
of our highest-salaried nonexecutives. You were also a workaholic with a modest lifestyle. So, it’s fair to assume that you are, in fact, capable of compensating for the damage. We’re prepared to wait until you’ve recovered from the incident in the desert and can access whatever offshore accounts or storage units you’ve invested your earnings in.”

“And if I can’t?”

“There’s the matter of some research and development. Again, you’re in possession of some intellectual property of ours.”

“I’m not in possession of intellectual anything.” My spit tastes like I’ve been drinking from a metal can. The electric numbness gives way to a fire beneath my bandages. If I hurt them when I collapsed, the skin grafts might not take.

“I’ve known you for a while, Eric. I have faith in you.” He stands and, without a word, Toe Tag once again helps me to my feet.

“Nonetheless, in your present state, your Nondisclosure Agreement remains uncompromised. It’s my job to see that, as your mental condition improves, you’re able to solve our issue of compensation while maintaining the integrity of our trade secrets.”

“What’s my job?”

“Remember. And keep your mouth shut.”

“That’s exactly what the cops, and my lawyer, said. You’d all get along. Want me to introduce you?”

“Once more, I see the old Eric coming through. Trust me, this will work itself out sooner than you think.”

“I need to get back.” I never made it to the Glass Stripper.

“Where’s back?”

Whether Anslinger’s tailing me or White, I don’t want them dropping me at the hotel.

We drive in silence. Moths cluster against the streetlamps, throwing
shadows the size of vultures against the stucco fortress walls protecting Shady Pointe and Vista Acres. The anthill houses are all the same color of dark once the sun has set. White never looks at me or at his son. If Toe Tag is awake, he’s studying the back of my head.

“Here you are,” White says. I said anywhere, so he drops me back at Ford’s. “Let’s grab a latte some time.”