Near Enemy (17 page)

Well, what did he tell you?

He didn’t tell me anything. He couldn’t. All I got was a ping.

Moore holds up his handheld, like this will mean something to me. Then he says.

Every hopper has a ping. In case things go really bad. In case the sweepers get you and you can’t get free. They’ve got you tapped in and you can’t tap out, and you can’t communicate to anyone out here, so you send a ping. Just a personalized signal that will bounce around the limn. A little ripple in the code. Hope someone notices. Only other hoppers even know to look for it. It’s kind of a last resort. A distress call.

And you got one from Lesser.

Yes.

When?

About an hour ago.

So he’s still alive?

Somewhere. And someone’s got him. In there.

Who’s got him?

Moore croaks the answer.

Sweepers. Must be.

But Moore, he’s out here somewhere too, right? I mean, his actual body is out here, tapped into a bed somewhere.

Moore’s eyes empty.

Sure. He’s somewhere. That’s why they snatched him up. So they could take him somewhere, dope him up, and tap him in so he can’t tap back out again. That way they can make it last.

What last?

The punishment.

And where do you think they took him in the limn, Moore?

Moore’s face drains. Voice cracks.

A black room.

I was worried Moore was going to say that. Like everyone, I’ve heard rumors of so-called black rooms, hidden in the shadowed corners of the limn. Secure sites out here, where they tap you in, and secure constructs in there, nearly impossible to crash. Black rooms. One way in. No way out. Poor Lesser. By this point, he probably wishes he was only dead.

Moore croaks another request.

You have to get him out, Spademan. I know Lesser’s done some bad shit but he doesn’t deserve this. Whatever you had in mind for him? Last Saturday night? I promise you. Black room’s worse.

Moore’s right. And now I’ve officially gone from killing Lesser to finding Lesser to saving Lesser in less than a week.

Strange week.

Okay, Moore. Tell me about that other thing.

He looks up with those empty eyes again.

What other thing?

You said it happened again.

Promise me you’ll save him, Spademan? He’s a special kid—

I’ll do my best. Now tell me, Moore. What happened again?

Moore hugs his bony knees closer, like a kid at a campfire on a cold night who can’t get warm. Collects himself. Takes a breath.

Unspools the tale.

Moore explains there’s a bed-hopper, calls herself Bad Penny, who likes to peep on twisted pervs in the limn. She uses the info she gathers to shame them out here in the nuts-and-bolts world. Fashions herself a kind of citizen crusader. Plasters pervs’ names across every chat room, hacks their contacts and mass-messages everyone they know. In this case, she’d targeted an East Village scumbag by the name of Loeb. Greasy mouth breather who runs a candy shop in real life, likes to invite local kids into the backroom to sample his special stash of rare sweets. Takes Polaroids of all the kids. Posts their photos on his Wall of Fame.

Nothing twisted.

Not out here, at least.

But he uses the photos to create likenesses in the limn.

Crude likenesses.

But then, Loeb’s a crude guy.

So apparently last night he’s tapped in and this hopper, Bad Penny, decides to peep in on his antics, catch him in the act.

Moore whispers.

But it went wrong.

Let me guess.

Moore spills the rest. Loeb got a visit from a woman in a black burqa. Then a bear hug. Then boom.

Apparently, Bad Penny barely escaped in front of the final fireball. Screams still ringing in her ears long after she tapped out, only some of which were her own.

Moore wraps up the tale. Shaken. Understandably. Says to me.

This happened maybe an hour ago. It’s all over hopper chatter.

This Loeb, do you know where he taps in?

Sure. Bad Penny already posted his address, photo, construct coordinates, everything. He taps in from his apartment in Alphabet City, on Avenue D, above his candy shop.

And this hopper, Penny, you think she was involved in this somehow? Given her grudge against Loeb?

You kidding? She’s wrapped up in a blanket right now, sipping soup and muttering. One of her hopper friends posted the story online, as a warning to other hoppers. Now all the hoppers are talking about it. It’s all over the old Internet.

What are they saying?

Stay out of the limn. Some don’t believe it, of course. Claim what she saw was just a prank. But a lot of people do believe it. And they’re spooked.

What do you believe, Moore?

I believe it. After Lesser? I believe it.

Okay, Moore. Give me that address.

Outside Stuyvesant, in the abandoned playground, I pull out my phone and punch that same number again.

Boonce answers.

What is it, Spademan?

He’s in a black room, Boonce.

Long silence. Then he asks.

Who’s got him?

I don’t know. Sweepers, maybe. Pushbroom, probably.

No, a black room is way bigger than sweepers, even Pushbroom. Black rooms don’t even officially exist. Best I know, there’s only one operational black room in New York. It was supposed to be shut down. I can check into it and get back to you.

By the way, Boonce, it happened again.

What happened?

Our friend in the burqa.

When?

About an hour ago. Different hopper witnessed it. It’s all over hopper chatter. Matter of time before it becomes a bigger deal.

Spademan, I made some inquiries, and I was right—this is Bellarmine’s big bombshell. This news about the limn. The one he’s going to drop at the debate.

When’s the debate?

In two days.

So that gives us two days to find Lesser. Which means I have to get going.

Where are you headed?

To find out if this guy Loeb is still alive.

Takes me twenty minutes to get to Avenue D. The downstairs door to Loeb’s building is unlocked, so I head inside and up a flight of stairs to the walk-up and knock twice.

No answer. But it’s ajar. So I enter.

Spot Loeb in his bed, still tapped in.

Apartment’s dark and smells about as good as you’d imagine. Still, I’ve seen enough dead bodies, especially ones lying in beds, to know, even from across the room, that Loeb is never getting back up again.

Walk closer to the corpse in the cot.

No marks on him. Looks like he passed away peacefully.

Either way, I know the world won’t mourn the passing of a lowlife like Loeb.

Not until they find out how and why he really died.

Figure I’ll leave him for the neighbors to discover. Three days, bad smell, call the landlord to investigate, always seemed like a quiet guy, etcetera. Tell reporters the usual tale, the kind
that gets buried in the back pages of the
Post
. Which this tale will, until someone pieces it all together. The hoppers’ panicked chatter, and now Loeb’s fresh corpse. And Langland, before that. Someone will add it all up. Tell the world. Seed panic. Probably Bellarmine, unless someone beats him to it.

Stay out of the limn.

They’ve found a way in.

And they can kill you in there now.

For Bellarmine, the timing couldn’t be better. Whole city hits the panic button a week before the polls? Voters will stampede straight into his waiting embrace.

Elect the strongman with the soothing promise.

Sleep Tight.

Unless I can find Lesser first.

When I came in, I locked the apartment door behind me to keep out nosy neighbors, so when the key turns in the lock, I hear it turning.

Whoever’s coming in does it noisily, like they’re not expecting company.

Door swings open and I’m already waiting.

But it’s my turn to be surprised.

She just stands in the doorway, hand on the key that’s in the lock.

Maybe takes her a second to place me.

Or to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.

So I fill the silence.

Hello, Nurse.

Nurse pulls the key from the door and pockets it, slipping it in the front of her crisp white uniform.

Straightens her hat.

Spademan. So is this my rain check?

I’m actually here to see your friend Loeb.

He’s not my friend. He’s my boss. As of yesterday.

I turn and nod toward the stiffening corpse.

You might want to update your résumé.

She closes the door quietly behind her, then gestures to Loeb’s dingy flat and laughs drily.

How the mighty have fallen, huh?

I’m eager to catch up, Nurse, but first, let’s talk about the dead guy.

Sure. This happened about an hour ago. I just stepped out to call 911.

It took you an hour to decide to make a phone call?

To be honest, I didn’t know what to do. And, to be honest, I never made the call.

Having stowed the key, she sets down her white leather handbag, then strides across the room until she’s only inches from me. Close enough to put her hand flat on my chest. Close enough to remind us both how much closer we were just a few nights ago.

Says in a quiet voice. Not pleading. Just explaining.

Spademan, we both know, I call this in, it’s done for me. I’d
say I’d lose my license, but let’s be honest, after Langland, it’s already lost. I mean, look around. This is the only job I could get after losing Langland, and this one I had to find on the Internet, no reference checks, no questions, all cash.

Gestures to Loeb.

Too bad today was payday, huh?

So what happened?

I don’t know, Spademan. I’ve never lost anyone before, I swear. With Langland, I just chalked it up to the fact that he was ancient. I mean, they warn you this can happen, but—

Now the tears come. They tumble. And despite myself, I hug her. Don’t quite believe her. But I hug her. Then hear another voice at the door.

Hello?

I look up to see a man, hovering in the doorway. Long man, long trenchcoat, long patterned tie, long face. Long hair too, but balding, so he’s got it swept up in a messy comb-over. Best described as balding hippie. Which is the worst kind of hippie.

Plus, he’s wearing Birkenstocks.

Trenchcoat and Birkenstocks.

He gives a cheery wave. Then flashes a badge.

You all mind if I come in?

The long man stows the shield and makes his introductions. Offers me a handshake that feels like a wet paper bag full of tongue depressors. Announces cheerfully.

Detective Dandy. James Dandy. NYPD.

It takes me a minute.

Jim Dandy?

His eye twitches.

I prefer James.

Fishes a notebook from his pocket. Old-fashioned spiral-bound. Pinches a tiny pencil. Licks its tip. Looks up at us.

So I hear we have a body. I’m guessing it’s not either of you two.

Points his pencil stub at Loeb.

Oh. This fat fuck.

Walks over and pokes Loeb in his bed, then scribbles something in the notebook. Turns back to us.

Well, in my considered professional opinion, he’s dead. Either of you want to fill in the details?

I’m not sure what to say, and Nurse just stands there, defiant, and Dandy waits, fiddling with his tie knot, until he points his pencil toward Nurse’s red-cross hat.

I take it you’re the nurse.

She smiles.

Excellent deduction.

Dandy hesitates. Wags the pencil at Nurse again.

Don’t I know you from somewhere?

You tell me.

Because you look awfully familiar.

I look like a nurse. We all look the same.

No, no, we’ve met before. On another dead-in-a-bed. That’s right. Just the other night. At Astor Place.

Nurse answers with a tight grin.

Yes, that’s right.

Dandy chuckles.

Rough week, huh?

Pencil stub swivels toward me.

And you are?

I shrug.

Nurse’s aide.

Dandy chuckles again. Shakes his head. Nods toward the corpse.

See, I wouldn’t expect a shitbag pederast like Loeb to have a nurse, let alone a staff.

Nurse speaks up.

I answered an ad on the Internet. I just started yesterday.

Sure. Newly looking for work after Astor Place. Mr Langland was his name, if I recall correctly.

That’s right.

Dandy gestures to the body.

You want to walk me through this one?

Nurse stalls. So I interject.

She doesn’t know. She wasn’t here.

No?

She was with me.

Really? Where?

Down the block.

Doing what?

Killing time.

Dandy shuts his notebook. Says sarcastically.

Well, I guess that settles it then.

I’m serious. We’ve been out for hours. Just got here ourselves. You can ask the neighbors.

And your name is?

Name’s Spademan.

Dandy smiles.

Well, that’s certainly memorable. Mr Spade Man. Don’t even need to write that down.

Let me ask you something, Detective Dandy.

Shoot.

They let you wear sandals on the job?

He looks down at his Birkenstocks. Wiggles his toes. Toes crack. Looks back at me.

I got foot issues. Fallen arches. Occupational hazard.

Okay. Here’s my other question. How’d you even know to come up here to look around?

I’m a detective, Mr Spademan. That’s my job. I detect.

Because I figured Loeb here would have festered for weeks if we hadn’t found him. Recluse like him.

Dandy scratches at a wild eyebrow with the pencil stub’s eraser. Almost loses his pencil in the thicket. His eyebrows look like two birds taking flight. Notices me noticing. Gestures to his brows, then points to his balding head.

God’s idea of a joke, right? Never where you want it to be.

Pockets the pencil.

Anyhow, we got an anonymous call about a body an hour ago. I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I said I’d drop by.

And you know Loeb?

Oh, sure, I know him. Local diddler. Every neighborhood needs one.