The Nervous System (20 page)

Looking through and beyond Dos again. I bring my hand, gently, to the nape of my neck. Shortly I smile and begin to nod my head, up and down.

Now is not the time to take this one on.

“Yeah. Like a pacemaker,” I say. “Dos, lemme tell you why I'm here.”

_______________

Goddamnit if Kathleen didn't come around almost as soon as I hauled her up and out of the backseat of the e6 and slung her over my shoulder. Goddamn if the woman didn't start bronco-bucking, cracking her own head against the doorjamb in the process. Her knee glanced off my cracked knuckles and I nearly passed out. Bitch screaming and whatnot. Were it not for the rag I shoved into her mouth she would've undoubtedly been clearly audible for blocks in every direction.

Not that anybody would've particularly noticed. Chinatown isn't all negatives, baby. People drifting around, urban tumbleweeds. See no evil, hear no evil, that's the way they do and that suits me down to the dirty ground.

Now. Dos and I met under somewhat sensitive circumstances. Without belaboring it, some Kuwaiti power broker/construction magnate had his boyfriend go missing. The DA sent me after the kid, and that led me here, where the young man and Dos were cohabiting in what struck me as a completely consensual manner.

Hey, I am many things, but I am most assuredly not a moralist. Each to his own hustle, and these two gentlemen seemed genuinely okay.

So I buried the thing. My report said the kid had fled the country, and I had documents made up to prove it. My findings were never questioned. Nobody had really wanted to juggle that hot potato anyhow.

More recently, the boy borrowed a 9mm off of me, and promptly shot himself with it. Not on purpose, mind; so to spare him embarrassment, I'll leave that one alone. Wasn't really my gun anyhoo.

Like I say, I am all for kicking it laissez-faire, but while investigating him, I couldn't help but discover that Dos dug it a touch kinky. My man got physical. All within the realm of acceptability, which is to say nobody ever got, like, irreversibly hurt. Or so I was assured.

One of the features my brother rigged up, devoted exclusively to libertine pursuits, was an isolated, underground S&M chamber (he calls it a “soundstage”) set up with microphones and cameras and whatnot. Beyond the fact of it, I didn't push him on this, but I assumed it wasn't just for personal use; the setup was expensive, and professional-grade video could be generated therein. Resulting material, of course, could be sold or traded.

It was this room that must've got me thinking last night, with respect to ol' Kathleen.

Yeah, the whole issue disappeared with the Kuwaiti, and from more recent encounters I know that the boyfriend has hit the trail as well … but one thing you don't want is to be on the bad side of a jilted lover with a pile of cash and access to all manner of manpower and guns. Though I would never be so gauche as to articulate it, this allowed me a certain leg up on Mr. Dos Mac.

I suppose what I'm doing right now is exploiting the relationship a hair, but hey. It is what it is, y'all.

First thing Doc says this morning when I start talking about Koch is absolutely no fucking way. Tells me to take my drama elsewhere.

I just need to look at him. Mac moans and kicks something over. Knows he's got no choice.

Dos Mac. The Dos and the Mac, to demonstrate that the PC-versus-Mac argument was based on snobbery and packaging. The man is comfortable on both platforms. It's all x's and o's and the rest is lifestyle shit, like designer coffee, office chairs.

Another thing I dig about the guy: he doesn't give two fucks about the Internet as a tool of worldwide unity. The lie of the “Global Village.” His interest is in strictly localized systems, area specific. Subways. Traffic flow. Urban layout. This slots right in with my own System.

First thing I did was drop all the CDs and the hard drives on the man, he took a quick look and confirmed that for the most part they are data discs holding video. One or two are audio CDs. We'd get to all that; meanwhile, we got lady Koch comfortable.

Row of old computer monitors stacked willy-nilly on top of one another, Dos is fiddling with a universal remote, frowning. Half of the monitors are working and display different areas of the building, the street outside, the mouth of the Holland Tunnel, Times Square, the doorway, etc.

“Oh, here we are. Haven't, uh … used this thing in ages,” says Dos, with a pretty good approximation of cool.

Fat old iMac hums to life, as the screen warms up we're looking at a black-and-white image of the mummified Kathleen, taped to a chair.

She's been down there in Mac's aforementioned “soundstage” for a good twenty minutes, and I can report now that she has stopped struggling.

I realize I gotta speed this whole thing up. No clue as to what's doing with Cyna-corp, and as things drag out it's looking progressively worse for Rose Hee …

Lean in, say, “Do we have audio?”

“Affirmative, boss, just gotta turn it on.”

“All right, well, before we do, enjoy your last moments of peace, man. Woman likes to hear herself speak.”

“Yeah, so I understand. Hey, you're for sure gonna get me killed. Look at this shit,” says Dos.

I hook him up with two sticks of jerky and he rips into one. Eyes nearly flip into the back of his head.

“Motherfucker, I forgot how amazing these things are. Why didn't I get down with more of these joints back when?” He looks at the package in wonderment.

I'm exploring the flesh of my neck. Methodically. Trying not to think about it. Say, “It's relative. Water to a drowning man. I thought you were like a vegan, cousin.”

“Ha, that's a beautiful record. Or is it ‘Water on a Drowning Man'? Yes indeed. Naw man, the vegan thing went out the window way back. Gotta get some protein up in here. Librarian,” he says, shifting his eyes to meet mine, “you know why I have all this security, this precautionary jazz? Cause if any of those contractors knew I was down here, they'd be on me in a second, trying to suck me into their shit. Making me offers I can't refuse and whatnot. I'd rather be drawn and motherfucking quartered than work for those thugs.”

It's true. Anybody the least bit interested with infrastructure would be all over the Mac if they knew he was on the scene. His designs build themselves.

“As it is, they're just aching to clone me. All they need is a clean scrape of skin, a couple hairs. Never, fuuuuuck no.”

I don't know about this whole clone jive. Dos takes another bite.

“Word is, they got something big going. Like, big-asa-motherfucker big. They're dragging in everybody, especially folks who worked with the City, civil engineers and shit …”

“They, who they?” I ask. Thinking, as much as I find this fascinating, I need to get things moving …

Dos laughs. “They, like you know, man—all of them. Can't tell them apart. Private, government, contractors … Chinese, Middle Eastern, white motherfuckers from all over, CIA, former Blackwater, CACI, Titan, yada yada … they're all in the same gang. Want no part of it. Don't wanna know. It's too much, man. Oh yeah. Looking for me. They even got a bounty out for anybody who can get Dos Mac to come in. No, fuck no. Never.”

Dos snaps his fingers as if he's just remembered something important.

“Yo, you of all people will appreciate this shit, Librarian. Wanna show you what I'm working on.”

Digs around in a desk drawer and pulls out some sort of smoky black pad–type deal, flips it on, and hands it over.

Torn, I'm looking at the time, yet fully aware that it's an honor to be getting a peek at this man's work.

His pad comes alive, an elegant tangle pops out in the 3-D, multicolored and layered. It's exquisite. It's beautiful. My heart goes straight to my throat.

“Am I looking at what I think I'm looking at, Mac?”

He leans back and wags his head, grinning. “I improve on the shit a thousandfold here. It's self-sustaining in every respect, self-cleaning, and the best part is it requires very little actual construction. Look, man, we're using the old physical stations.”

Of course, I'm looking at a speculative map of the New York City subway system. It is truly a thing of wonder, and I say so.

“This is, this is amazing, Dos. This is for sure the future if there's gonna be one.”

Dos nods again. Proud. As he should be.

“Hey, brother, it's my theory that urban planners, engineers, we've been looking at shit all wrong. Looking at existing train/road systems as a starting point for new designs, et cetera. But it's not like that. We should be applying biological models. I'm talking about looking at the human body. The circulatory system, the nervous system. We're nothing but overlapping systems ourselves. Exquisite models. So if you're moving blood, energy, vehicles, anything, it's the same shit … you just need the right channels, channels that complement each other.”

I see it. I don't understand it, but it speaks to me. It's like the System, my System. In order to fully manifest it, I need to internalize it. I'm not there yet, but …

“Dos, I'm telling you it's incredible work,” I say, meaning it sincerely.

Bright-eyed, he stabs the screen with a pinky. “Years have gone into that design, man. It's far superior now, but I've had this sketched out for ages. Way back, Bloomberg wanted to implement it but we ran out of time and it was kept on the DL. Now, shit, now I'm happy about that cause if the motherfucking Reconstruction people got a load of this tech? It has mad applications elsewhere, of course. They'd be all up in my business. They already are, you know. They suspect I got something like this. They know me. There's rumors …”

He's suddenly nervous. Takes the pad from me, shoves it back in the drawer. Shuts it, and pointedly locks up.

“I'm not, hey man …” I say.

“Oh, I know, shit, Librarian. Listen, I just … you can't be positive what to think about people anymore.”

Dos returns to his jerky. End of subject.

I would love nothing more than to get into it, but we have to move, and Mac waves the compressed meat baton in the direction of the screen.

“So, for real. This is the bitch who got that fence built around Texas or whatever it was? To keep out Mexicans?”

“‘To protect American jobs.' This is the very shorty, squire. She ran for fucking president, Dos, where you been?”

But I know very well where he's been. Down the rabbit hole, like me.

“This lady,” I say, “we may reckon her a clown, but this lady is straight poison, Dos.”

The man is shaking his head. “Hell, I know that much. Can't really get my head around it, this is that same bitch.”

“Well, she's obviously out of context but it's her all right.”

“We should fuck with her mind a bit, Librarian. Tell her we're some Muslim faggots snuck over the border, gonna marry ourselves right in front of her unless she—”

“Oh, I'm sure that's along the lines of what she's already thinking. That's her paradigm.”

“Huh,” says Dos, ceding the point.

We sit for a moment. I'm trying to get myself moving. Looking at the screen, her slumped form. Dos says, slowly, deliberately, “I'll admit it's a … diversion, you just showing up with all this, and not totally unwelcome. But this kind of … Damn, Librarian, I'm telling you, you have everybody with a communication device in the tri-state in a motherfucking tizzy. You're like, who was that cat bombed the Trade Center the second time?”

“Dick Cheney?” I deadpan, earning a fist bump.

“Deep,” says Dos. “That's real. But you know I mean the Saudi motherfucker those arrogant-ass Seals capped in Pakistan, dude who took the rap for the whole caper … Seals. Navy Seals always rubbed me wrong, can I get a witness?”

I nod. Navy Seals are famously a bunch of self-righteous pricks. Which matters not in the least.

“Then they cap the Seals, and they cap the dudes who capped the Seals, and cap
those
dudes, so what do you got left?”

Dos looks at me as if I have the answer. Wild-eyed. Making me nervous. I chuckle, shrug. Say, “Well, listen, this be a crazy fucked-up world, Dos.”

He shakes his nappy head like a dog shaking off water. Continues: “Straight talk now, we're having a time and all catching up, but outside? You got yourself lots of very angry riled-up men and women with big old guns looking to fuck you up bad, Librarian.”

I'm very aware of that fact. I appreciate his concern and tell him so. Dos raises his eyebrows, drops them, polishes off one stick and tears open another.

“I feel you. You hard rock. Lone wolfin it. But this level of static …” He waves his jerky. “Hey, what can I say? First heard the chatter this afternoon, always gotta keep an eye on these lunatics, but wasn't really paying attention till your description went out, thought to myself, that can't be but one man in the whole of New York City. Then they started yakking about the library and I thought, shit, you are in a very tenuous position. And me just jumping in bed with you, man, I should just go hand myself over, let them hook me up to those machines they got. I must be crazy. Cause I like where I'm at. This is exactly what I do not need in my world right now, Librarian.”

I give him the look again. Subtext: he owes me, he knows it, I don't even need to go reminding him. Would I do it? Would I hand him over? Does he want an angry, murderous Kuwaiti with unlimited resources up his tract? Not likely, but who can say for sure?

Dos Mac digs this, sighs. Busies himself with the remote again. Leans over and starts tickling a beige keyboard.

“Lemme get that audio hooked up,” he mumbles. “And then what, boss?”

I hate that Dos, such a brilliant and fundamentally decent brother, has gotta feel like I'm holding past bullshit over his head, but time doesn't allow for more sensitivity.