Pain Management Page 17

  “What was that?”

  “When you bought a drink, the guy behind the stick would ask if you wanted the ‘nuts.’ He said it in English, but I didn’t know what he was talking about, so I always passed. This ‘bar,’ it was right on the beach. White sand, so pure it looked new. The place was made out of wood, and it was left open on one side. No doors, no windows, no wall, no nothing. When they closed, I guess they just took the stock home with them.

  “One day, Evaristo is in there with me when the bartender asks me about the nuts. Evaristo nods his head at me, like he was saying, ‘Yeah, go for it.’ So I did. The bartender hands me a covered wooden bowl full of . . . well, nuts, I guess. And seeds, and all kinds of things I wasn’t going to put in my mouth. Evaristo, he grabs the bowl, closes the cover, and shakes it. Sounded like the way a dried gourd rattles, you know?

  “In two minutes, the place was full of birds. Amazing birds, like I’d never seen in my life. I guess they were parrots of some kind. Huge things. Colors I never even knew existed. Evaristo opened the bowl, scattered the nuts all over this wooden plank they used as a bar. The birds hopped up there like they were used to it. I mean, they were close enough for me to touch, and it didn’t bother them at all. I’d never imagined such fabulous things, and there they were, right on top of me.

  “I was just a kid then. Nineteen. It was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen. I bought Evaristo a drink, to thank him and all. And we got to talking. It wasn’t a whole lot of talking, because he didn’t speak much English. I knew the island was under Portuguese control, but it sure sounded like Spanish to me. Evaristo, he showed me a picture of his wife. ‘¿Muy blanco, eh?’ he says. I tell him, yeah, she sure is.

  “He smiles, and I figure I got enough street Spanish to get by; maybe we could talk. Like I said, I was a kid.

  “After that, I saw him all the time. He drove a taxi, but I couldn’t see where he had much business.

  “This was when Portugal was still a major colonial power in Angola . . . and having trouble holding on. That’s why they were big players in Biafra—pretty hard to fly bombers from Lisbon all the way down to southern Africa. If the rebels had won in Nigeria, the Portuguese who backed them would have had themselves a perfect launching pad.

  “But São Tomé itself was unstable. I kept hearing talk about some ‘independence movement,’ but I never actually saw any signs of one . . . not even so much as a piece of graffiti.

  “One day, we’re in the bar, talking, and Evaristo points to me, says ‘Biafra?’ And I think, Here’s my chance to make a plane connect, so I tell him, ‘sí,’ like I’m a real native. Then he goes, ‘¿Soldado?’ and I say, ‘No.’ He tries ‘Jornalista?’ and I shake my head again. Then he moves me up the ladder even more. ‘¿Médico?’ But I have to shrug him off again.

  “He makes a ‘What, then?’ gesture. I figure now’s the time to tell him I’m on this humanitarian mission, so I try to figure out what the word for ‘social worker’ would be . . . and I come up with ‘socialista.’ ”

  “Burke! You didn’t!”

  “Yeah, I did. And Evaristo, all the blood goes out of his face. He looks around, makes a ‘Shut the fuck up!’ gesture at me.

  “I didn’t think anything of it until a few hours later, back in my room. When I heard the slides being racked.”

  “Slides?”

  “On the machine guns.”

  “Oh!” Gem gasped, like it was the most terrifying thing she’d ever heard in her life. Women.

  “La polícia wanted to talk to me,” I told her. “I guess I fit the Outside Agitator profile.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, I couldn’t speak Portuguese. And, after that, I wasn’t about to try. After a couple of hours, they took me to a priest. He translated. Or maybe he didn’t. I never knew what he told them, but, finally, they left.

  “The padre told me I better do the same. Right then. Don’t go back to my room, don’t do anything. Just get to the airstrip and catch the first thing smoking.”

  “You did that?”

  “Yep. Evaristo, he was waiting outside, with the motor running. The plane was on the strip, propellers already spinning. The back was open. I just jumped on, like hopping a freight. One of the mercs looked me over, asked me, was I from the Company? I said I was, and that was it.”

  “You were so lucky,” Gem said, her palms together in a prayerful gesture.

  “More than I even knew at the time, honeygirl. They made two runs every night. The late run was the best—darker, less chance of getting hit by enemy fire going in. But I didn’t have any choice. The one I took was the early run.”

  “Why was that so—?”

  “That night, the late run went down.”

  “Ah,” she said, accepting. That was the real Gem. A child who had developed fatalism to keep the fear from stopping her little heart. Grown now. But with the same core.

  “I have to meet someone,” I told Gem later.

  “On your case?”

  “Supposedly. I’ve been digging—well, maybe not digging, little girl, scratching around the edges, more like—for a while now, and there isn’t a whole hell of a lot I found that I’d take to the bank.”

  “You believe she is here, though?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “She’s in touch with her little sister. Leaves her notes.”

  “She could be using a—”

  “Sure. And if she is going through a cutout, I’ve got a candidate for that, too,” I told her, seeing Jenn’s calm, strong face in my mind. “But, the big thing, I’m sure she’s alive.”

  “You had doubts, then?”

  “Sure. The streets eat their young. Vampires at one end, vultures at the other. And I thought maybe her father . . .”

  “What?”

  “That he killed her. And hired me as a red herring for the cops. But I don’t think that anymore. I think he believes she’s out there. Close. He’s been feeling me out.”

  “For . . . ?”

  “He’s just touching the edges. Nothing that would incriminate him even if I was wired,” I said, flashing on the elaborate phone-recording system in his private den. “But he’s real interested in my capacity for . . . violence.”

  “Some wealthy people seem to be excited by such things.”

  “I know. It doesn’t feel like that to me. Ah, maybe a little bit . . . But I think he’s really asking if I’d cap his daughter, if it comes to that.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, miss. It’s almost as if he wants the option, you know? A ‘just in case’ kind of thing.”

  Gem got up and stalked over to the kitchen table, her movements agitated. “Burke, this is not a good thing for you to do.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You are not known here. Not truly known. But, on the streets now, it is getting around. You are a man for hire. You are looking for this girl. If she turns up dead, your true identity would quickly become known. And once the police learn of your . . . background, it would be bad. Very bad.”

  “Detective Hong tell you that?”

  “What?” she snapped, her voice sharp. “Is that your interest, then? Not what I know, but how I know it?”

  “Not mine,” I lied. “But this ‘man for hire’ stuff on the streets . . . you didn’t pick that up. These streets, they’re not your territory. So I figured maybe your—”

  “My what?” She chopped off my sentence. “My . . . boyfriend? My secret lover? Is that what you really want to know?”

  “That’s your business,” I told her.

  Gem turned her back and walked out of the room, not a trace of wiggle in her hips.

  I went out to meet Ann.

  I called her from the car, went through the voice-mail routine, got her on the line. She told me where to park.

  Ten minutes after I pulled in, the Subaru rolled up. It sat next to the Caddy, idling. I couldn’t
see into the car: the window glass was too heavily tinted.

  As if reading my thoughts, the passenger-side window whispered down. Ann was in the driver’s seat. She made a “Come on!” gesture.

  I climbed into the Subaru’s bucket seat and we moved off.

  I didn’t ask where we were going. It turned out to be a black-windowed storefront on a narrow side street. It looked like a porno outlet that hadn’t gotten around to painting the “XXX” on the windows yet. When I followed Ann inside, I saw that the place was actually a triple-wide, extending out on either side into what looked like a blank wall from the street. It was a used-book store of some kind, with floor-to-ceiling shelves made up out of whatever some after-hours scavenger had found lying around on a construction site.

  And it was full of kids. All kinds of kids, dressed all kinds of ways. A boy who looked about eighteen, and straight off a farm in Iowa, stood next to a girl whose age I couldn’t guess under all the Goth makeup. If they even noticed each other, they gave no sign. Cheerleaders mingled with the multi-pierced. If there was a shade of human color not represented, it was one I’d never seen. Some of the kids pawed through stacks of books, others sat in battered chairs or flopped down on the floor. Nobody was smoking, or drinking coffee.

  In a far corner, a pale, skinny young guy with long hair was bent all the way over a battered twelve-string, strumming so softly I couldn’t pick up the notes.

  I was scanning for Rosebud, focusing hard on each girl’s face, putting it on the left-hand side of the screen in my head, comparing it with Rosebud’s photo on the right. I had gone through about a dozen when I felt Ann pulling on my coat sleeve.

  I followed her lead . . . over to where a heavyset mixed-blood Indian woman in a red caftan sat behind a counter.

  “Hello, Choma,” Ann said to her.

  “Ann,” the woman said back. I could see the shutters open and close in her black camera eyes.

  “This is a friend of mine. B. B. Hazard.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s looking for Borderland.”

  “We don’t use the Dewey Decimal System here.”

  “I know,” Ann said patiently. “That’s why I brought my friend over to ask you.”

  “Does he speak?”

  “Yes,” I told her. “I was trying to be polite.”

  “What does a hunter want with a book?” she asked.

  I didn’t waste time denying what she already knew. “There might be something in it of value to me.”

  “Might be?”

  “I didn’t know Borderland was a book. Not until a few seconds ago.”

  “Ah. It is an expression you heard?”

  “Yes.”

  “So it is you who made the connection?” the Indian woman asked, head swiveling to Ann.

  “It’s no secret,” Ann said, shrugging.

  “Not to some. It was to him,” the woman said.

  “He is not a danger to any of your—”

  “He is a hunter.”

  “I do other things,” I said gently.

  “Yes. I am certain you do. I was saying not what you do, only what you are.”

  I bowed slightly, the way Mama taught me a million years ago. Done properly, the gesture crosses cultures, conveying respect without submission.

  She focused hard on my good eye. Finally, she nodded, said: “Ask Berto. . . . Ann knows him, he’s right over there. Ask Berto where he’s got the Charles de Lint books.”

  “Thank you,” I said, keeping my face blank as the synapses fired in my mind, looking for the connection. Crow girls? Was that it?

  The Indian woman gave me a look that said, “You better be telling me the truth,” and turned away just enough to be a dismissal.

  Berto turned out to be a Latino kid—I guessed Panama, but it was a guess—maybe sixteen years old. As soon as Ann said “Borderland” to him, he led us over to a whole wall of paperbacks, and deftly plucked a copy of Life on the Border from a high shelf. It showed a young man and a girl dressed in a combination of street gear and club clothes, leaning against a telephone pole in front of an ancient Cadillac sedan with a taxi light on top and bullet scars all over its doors. It said the author was Terri Windling, and I was beginning to think the kid had confused the title when I saw Charles de Lint’s name up top, next to the title.

  “How much?” I asked the kid.

  He gave Ann a glance, his eyebrows raised in a question.

  “Give him twenty,” she said to me.

  I did it. The kid didn’t offer me a courtesy shopping bag. Or a receipt.

  “Is that a rare-book store?” I asked Ann, examining my prize on the front seat of her Subaru.

  “Not especially. They have some hard-to-get stuff there, but it’s not exactly antiquarian.”

  “This one cost five bucks new. And it’s ten years old.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Twenty bucks seemed a little steep.”

  “They work on a sliding scale there. Kids pay whatever they can afford, like on the honor system. When . . . someone your age comes in, they try to get whatever the traffic will bear.”

  “And that keeps . . . people my age out of there for the most part.”

  “That, too,” she said, smiling. “Is the book going to help you?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “All right. You know where to find me.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you got?”

  “No, Mr. . . . Hazard, that’s what you call yourself, yes? . . . I’ve got a lot more. But you might as well see what this is worth first.”

  “Fair enough. Whatever’s in this book, it might give me a clue or two, but it isn’t worth—”

  “Here you are,” she said, as she slid the Subaru alongside where I’d left my car. “Things don’t have ‘worth.’ That’s a nonsense concept. Things are worth what people are willing to pay for them. You think a hit of street heroin is ‘worth’ what they’re getting for it?”

  “That again.”

  “Yes. That again. I told you—”

  “Thanks for the book,” I interrupted. “I’ll let you know.”

  As I was climbing out of the car, she said, “Madison might be a lot more willing to talk to you if she thought you and I were working together . . . ,” letting the words trail out behind her as she pulled away.

  “What is that you are reading?” Gem asked me that night.

  I held up the paperback so she could see the cover. “It’s a book about kids. Runaways. And this place called Bordertown that they all run to. It’s a place that runs on music and magic.”

  “A fantasy?”

  “More like a fable. About the kind of community kids wanted to build in the Haight-Ashbury days. Maybe the kind of community they saw in their heads if they dropped enough acid, I don’t know. It’s not one of those post-apocalyptic jobs—this is kind of a parallel universe. I mean, this Borderland, it’s not perfect. There’s a kind of racism—or species-ism, maybe—there’s two different species, and a third that comes from mixing. People have to have jobs or they have to scrounge. There’s a goods-and-services economy, just like here. But the kids are building something out of their own needs. Something real different from what’s out here for them now.”

  “Why is this important?” Gem had been a child in a place where dreams kill as surely as bullets, only with a lot more pain.

  “The note . . . the one Rosebud left. It said she was going to find ‘the Borderlands.’ Not Bordertown, like in this book. And not Borderland, singular. It says here there was a book of that title, by these same people. I think it means she’s looking for this kind of life. And there’s another connect, too. The crow girls . . . in that picture on her wall . . . they’re from a Charles de Lint book. And Charles de Lint, he’s one of the writers—I guess maybe one of the architects—of this Borderland thing. At first I thought the crow girls were supposed to be Rosebud and Daisy, but after I read it a couple of times, I don’t think so.”

/>   Gem let her impassive face ask the question for her.

  “The crow girls are . . . contemporaries. Not just sisters. They’re about the same age. Different personalities, but . . . a lot alike.”

  “Who do you think the other one is, then?”

  “I’m going to try and find out. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Your daughter lent me a book,” I told the psychologist on the phone that night. “I’d like to come by and return it.”

  “You mean you want to talk with her again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He covered the mouthpiece with his hand, but I could still hear him yelling for his daughter. A few minutes passed. No music-on-hold.

  “It’s too late tonight,” he said when he got back on. “Come tomorrow. Seven-thirty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Hazard?”

  “Yes?”

  “Come alone.”

  “Sure.”

  “Alone,” he repeated. “That means by yourself. Unarmed. With no recording devices. Do you understand?”

  “Completely.”

  He hung up on me.

  “You know what would be exciting?” Gem whispered to me around midnight.

  “What?”

  “To suck your cock while you read those books.”

  “Why would that be so—?”

  “Just read your books,” she said softly. “Keep reading them.”

  I showered and shaved, put on a chambray shirt with a plain black knit tie under a cream-colored leather jacket. Looked at myself in the mirror and realized it was all for nothing—dressing me up was like tying a red ribbon around the handle of an ice pick.

  As soon as I pulled into their driveway, I stashed the Beretta and its holster under the front seat. I even unclipped my carbon-black Böker sleeve-knife and left it on the dash.

  The father-and-son tag team greeted me at the door. The father’s gaze was professionally flat. The son was having a little trouble with hostility management.

  “Thank you for having me,” I said formally.

  “You’re not a guest,” the kid said.