Dead Roots (The Analyst) (9 page)

“Shinichiro,” the man said smoothly and slowly. He took a sip of his whiskey and broke into a wide, flawless smile. A thick hand clapped onto Keda's shoulder genially. “I'm honored to see you again.”

“I, as well, Mr. Saldana.”

“For the hundredth time, call me Harold, for fuck's sake,” Saldana said with a laugh. “It's terribly rude to be so formal after this long, don't you agree?”

“I suppose so, Harold.”

“And these are?” He turned his attention to Tom and Artie.

“Tom Bell,” Tom said quickly, outstretching his hand. Saldana shook it. Tom was surprised, expecting a grip like a vise, but instead Harold's gesture was deceptively gentle. He must have been holding back.

“Artie,” Tom’s companion added. Artie clapped his palm into Harold's sideways. Harold seemed to catch on quickly with a flash of a grin. The pair shared a friendly embrace as if arm wrestling in mid-air.

“Harold Saldana,” Harold added, redundantly. He took several steps back into the doorway. “Please, come inside. I have a wonderful evening planned for us.”

“Sounds sexy,” said Artie with a guffaw. Harold beamed. Tom grunted.
These two are going to get along fine.

They stepped into the penthouse. Tom drank in a very traditional-- and very expensive-looking-- Japanese-style living quarters. The walls were all wooden. The sliding door out onto the balcony was all frosted white glass framed in wood, in the style of
fusuma
sliding doors. Sharp, erratic jazz music was stabbing through the air from a large stereo system, saxophones and trumpets playing frantic solos, in contrast to the mellow Miles Davis stuff Tom was used to. Artie gave forth a sharp whistle in obvious awe.

“Before we get to know each other, Shinichiro and I will go and take care of the business,” Harold began, holding his arms out to display his abode to the guests. “I invite you to enjoy the bar, but don't get too loaded yet. The night hasn't even begun.”

“I can load in a few shots before we get out of here,” Artie said, making a beeline for the bar.  Tom snorted.

“Do make yourself comfortable,” Tom chided.

“Hey, you heard the man.”

Harold called out across the apartment, his deep voice cracking through the jazz. “Fuhara.”A set of paper
fusuma
doors cracked open. Tom folded his arms and watched as a demure Japanese woman in a brightly-colored kimono emerged from the master bedroom. She gave a deep bow to the newcomers.
Harold’s really into this stuff
, Tom mused in silence.

“You remember Fuhara of course, Shinichiro,” Harold said, turning to Keda with a wry grin. Keda nodded with a knowing smirk.

“Yes. Of course I do.”

“Let's get this done, then.” Harold clapped his hands twice and strode towards the master bedroom. “And then get out of here. Exorcisms always make me hungry.”

Tom just watched in silence. Keda followed Harold into the sliding doors. They shut with a firm snap. The paper was too thick for Tom to make out any but the barest of shadows.

Tom turned to see Artie taking down his first-- or possibly second-- shot of rum, having opened a bottle of top shelf from Harold's collection. Tom made his way towards the bar and sat down on a stool. He rubbed his forehead, wiping away the first hints of perspiration.

“So you think she's the host?” he asked. Artie whipped his head violently as the liquor pierced his throat.

“Could be. I thought this was just an exorcism, though?”

“Well. All I know is we were supposed to get Aki back to his proper habitat,” Tom added, indulging himself in a single shot of whiskey. It burned on its way down. He shook his head like Artie had, lolling his tongue about and smacking his lips, to shake out the numbness. “
Damn.
Good stuff.”

“Wish they'd have given us more intel,” Artie said, pouring himself another.

“Yeah. I guess they can't risk Aki free-floating. It's a pretty nasty specimen.”

“Wouldn't want any repeats of our little mishap, huh?” Artie chortled loudly. Tom groaned.

“What d'ya think of this place?” Tom inquired, changing the subject. Artie downed his second—or third— shot.

“Really? This place is off the fuckin' chain. I could spend the whole night in here. Especially if he's got a PS3 or a bag of weed tucked away in here someplace. Or
both?
”

“You think he's the type?” Tom said with a grimace.

“Well. He's got too much money to be doing coke or heroin, so...”

“I meant the other thing, mostly.”

“Tom. Motion controls? Rich execs and high rollers love that shit. I have a friend who's a producer in Hollywood, picks up everything that comes out for the new Nintendo. And check out the gigantic fuck TV over in the corner there.”

Tom turned. There was a sixty-inch LED, near small Zen garden tucked into the corner of the room. “Huh.”

“Yeah, dude. Indoor video tennis? Forget about it. We're living in some Star Trek times, man,” Artie gushed. He drew a cigarette from his jacket.

“Can't argue with that. Pick one function on my cellphone and it would've taken a machine the size of this apartment forty years ago.” Tom followed in kind with Artie, pulling a smoke from his jacket pocket. He patted the top of the pack and noted that he still had more than half the box left.

Artie looked past Tom to the
fusuba
doors, taking a deep lungful off his cigarette. He placed one arm on the bar to lean forward.

“You ever think how weird it is, Tom?”

“What's that?”

“There's some major supernatural shit going on in there. But we can't see or hear a thing. And it's just routine to these people.”

“Yeah, it's routine for us too. We just happen to be in a different arm of the trade.”

“I dunno, man. Like, sometimes I'm driving down the street, and I can usually pick out possessed people on the sidewalk, but I have to wonder about all the stuff that goes on behind closed doors.” Artie took down another shot and blew out some cigarette smoke.

“Lots of stuff goes on behind closed doors. Walk through a suburb and there's a good chance there's some couple engaged in really brutal S&M sex. The guy behind you at the traffic light might be a Klan member or a drag queen. The guy in front of you might be thinking about going home and killing himself.”

“Doesn't it ever make you think? Like, what are the odds?”

“I happen to know the statistics, actually. The average person encounters or comes very close to about eight supernatural occurrences per week. They directly interact with around two possessed people per month. Live in a hot zone like New York or New Orleans and that number rises, depending on what area you live in.”

“Pssh, New Orleans. Werewolves and shit, that's not the same,” Artie chided.

“Lycanthropes, please, and it is the same. They're people too, and they're dealing with a sort of supernatural ailment. It's different from what we work with, for sure, far less dangerous in a lot of ways, but it is the same.”

Artie snorted. “That's been proven to be mostly physiological.”

“
Mostly.
It does source from unknowable forces, just because it manifests itself in an almost purely chemical way doesn't make it, I don't know, fake.”

“Lykes are just a bunch of hicks with a lot of body hair. Different ballpark, Tom.”

“
You're
a hick with a lot of body hair. They're people, Artie. It's a scary thing to live with, especially for their families.”

“Fuck, whatever, man. When I get old enough to retire I'll volunteer at one of those clinics for werewolf therapy, that's how much less dangerous it is than my job.”

“Hardly. I'm the one out there dealing with these things.”

“Oh, shit, Tom, let's not get into the Operators versus Analysts thing again. At least not until we have at least a fifth of this stuff in us.”

“You'd better ease up, we're gonna be going out soon. Are you just gonna get totally trashed before we even reach the bars?”

Artie chortled through another shot. “Typical city pussy.”

********

Tom and Artie were shooting the breeze for a good while. It was coming to almost eleven. Tom was just getting up to go and knock on the door when the
fusuba
slid open.

Harold, followed by Keda, emerged from the room. The young lady, Fuhara, was nowhere to be seen. Tom thought he caught a glimpse of her lying on the bed behind the door, but his eyes quickly shot back to the wall of a man that was their host.

“All finished.”

Harold's voice rang out across the apartment. The jazz music in the lounge hit a high sting in Harold’s favorite crescendo. He pumped his hands in the air enthusiastically.

“I'm starving,” he proclaimed. He picked up a navy blue sport jacket that was slung across the nearby couch and slipped it over his wide shoulders. Keda quietly walked towards the bar. Next to Harold, Keda’s narrow shoulders and lean build looked especially delicate. Tom noticed that the Medium was looking pale, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

“You must feel better,” Tom offered comfortingly. Keda nodded without a word. Tom didn't mind it. The Medium was probably feeling quite drained.

“We're leaving,” Harold called. He strode towards the door of the apartment. His arms strained the seams of his blazer. “We're going to hit this city like Fat Man and Little Boy.”

On top of the joke’s poor taste, Tom mused to himself that their host didn't really fit either description.

********

Dinner was served in a high-end downtown restaurant, on one of the higher floors of a cylindrical tower. Tom wasn't too happy about it, but a couple of Jagerbombs had him calm enough to appreciate the surroundings. The place was a large, low-lit parlor with wood-paneled walls and beige carpeting.

There was a fantastic view of the neon-streaked nighttime courtesy of wide, ceiling-high windows. Tom was caught between a rock and a hard place—look out the windows and be anxious about the heights, or peruse the embossed menu that made his rent for the month seem like a child’s errand. True to form, however, Harold insisted on paying for everything.

Keda had been very quiet for most of the meal. As Harold and Artie traded stories of the business and dug into fine sushi, Keda nursed gently at his plate and a glass of whiskey on ice, while Tom conservatively munched on his own dinner. Tom had tried to make some small talk with the Medium, but it didn't amount to much. He tried to put it out of his mind.

An hour later, the night was really getting started. Harold's limo glided down a fluorescent street. The sidewalks were flooded with lines of fashionably dressed youngsters piling into clubs. Twenty-five discordant bass rhythms thudded out into the street from dark hole-in-the-walls.

“Two minutes now. This place is called Mirror. The best underground host club in Tokyo, bar none. It'll blow your shit sideways.”

“Host club?” Artie screwed up his face. “Like, male hosts? What do you take us for?”

Harold broke out into a deep, long laugh, leaning back on his seat cushion. His arms were spread out to the sides and one leg crossed over his lap.

“Not that kind of host,” he added.

Artie took a shot of gin and said nothing else. The limo eventually pulled into a small space by the sidewalk. Harold clapped his hands and sat up.

“Come on, boys.”

The foursome stepped out of the car and onto a dimmer part of the street. Across the road there was a gaggle of Japanese punks. One with a loud pink hairstyle was feeling up a girl who wore a black skirt and colorful, striped stockings. Tom sighed to himself and followed Harold.

“Classy part of town,” he said.

“Class has nothing to do with it, Tom. Let go and embrace the gritty side of life. Live and breathe in the dirt like the human being you are.”

Tom sniggered to himself loudly. He turned to Artie and they shared a stifled laugh.

“This guy is out of his mind,” Tom muttered to Artie behind Harold's back.

“I love it.”

Harold led them into a darkened alleyway. The other end of the alley only saw a streetlight and some parked cars. It was a back street, with no clubs or bars. Tom almost missed the large metal door. It blended in with the wall halfway down the alley. He made out a small rectangular slot. Harold knocked on the door loudly with a thick fist.

The slot clicked open. “Identification,” a voice muttered from the door.

“Let me in, motherfuckers. It's Harold.”

“Identification.”

“I'll break this
God damn door
down.”

Harold pounded his forearm into the door repeatedly. It made a sound like a sledgehammer hitting a tree, causing Tom to flinch. Eventually the door opened, pushing outwards. Harold struck his forearm against the corner of the door as it opened and grunted loudly. There was another man with dark skin on the inside of the door, about Harold's height, and almost Harold's build, but not quite.

“Mr. Saldana.”

“Don't Mr. Saldana me, you upstart little shit. Let us through. You bruised my elbow, boy.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Saldana.”

Tom caught a flash in Harold's eye, as if he was about to tear the bouncer's throat out, but he put on a smile and clapped the man on the shoulder. His demeanor swung in an instant.

 Tom glanced to Artie. His friend didn't seem to notice, and Keda had barely been present since they left the penthouse.

The bouncer led them to an elevator with silver double doors. There was no sound in the small chamber after the doors slid and snapped shut. Tom coughed, and he would have thought he was yelling. Harold took up all the space on his side of the elevator, forcing the other three to cram together.

It wasn't long before the elevator started to pulsate gently with bass. Soon enough it was clear they had reached the bottom level, and the muffled noise now pounded against the elevator door as if the whole chamber had been submerged.

“Welcome to Mirror, boys,” Harold said with a wide grin.

The doors slid open and Tom could have sworn someone opened the Ark of the Covenant.

His ears and ribcage were under attack by a grinding, rhythmic drone. He shielded his vision from a brief assault of strobe lights. Any thoughts of having a conversation inside Mirror were blasted out of his mind by searing black flames.