Metro (15 page)

“Tough guy. Really sexy. You're gonna be the death of me, honey.”

Mark shrugs, keeping his game face on.

A wave of the lady's perfume washes in again. Cherry opium oil. Reminds him weirdly of movie stars slumming in a trailer park.

All part of her disguise
, he thinks, rumpling his nose.

She gets deeper into her smartphone, shaking her head. Things go beep in the machine, screens flash up and recede into oblivion. She makes three text messages happen, hits the robot in outer space again, double checking the identities of the hungover couple sitting near them, and looking up the fastest route to the safe house.

Then she looks at the couple at the bar and nods to Mark.

“Okay, then. Send the girl over here first. You go back to the bar and leave us alone. This is girl talk.”

“Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. I mean really
don't mention it
. Let's just get this fuckin' shit over with.”

• • •

D
arian Stanwell is the first thing Jackie sees when he wakes up again.

Jackie was really hoping it wouldn't be that way.

The room is dark and he's on his back. He smells the sharp tang of artificially flavored strawberries in the air. Darian sits next to him, no longer washed in blood, not the way he was before, when they were still at the hospital. He's wearing different clothes now. A white suit.

“The present is often tense,” Darian says, then lets silence settle over the room. He almost looks offended when the kid doesn't laugh. “That's a little joke.”

Jackie still doesn't laugh.

Darian gets a little closer now, smiling. “I always liked you, child. Especially when you were younger. Your dad really believed in you. But he's gone now, and you and I, we have a responsibility to the company he left behind. We have a legacy to honor.”

“Please, Darian . . . I'm cold.”

“The lights will warm you up in a bit. We're going to speak like civilized people. I won't do anything bad if you just talk to me. I'll even fix you up real nice. They weren't doing a very good job back there, you know. ER doctors are hacks. They just patched your holes and pumped you full of painkillers. Did you know that Saint Apollonia's Medical Center was founded by a gangster in 1976? Sold to a politician in 1980, co-opted by a nonprofit religious group, renamed after a saint—the patron saint of
toothaches
, no less—then turned over to the state when they couldn't pay their own taxes. You think the current administration cares at all about the welfare of its patients at a hospital named after the Tooth Fairy?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“Well, they don't. Otherwise they wouldn't allow half-drunk first-year medical students to patch up gunshot wounds at one in the morning. People get
killed
that way, child. If it was up to me, I'd fire the whole company and start over. Like what we're doing now, you and I. Now that Razzle's gone.”

Christ. This can't be happening.

“Yes, child . . . you heard me. We're reorganizing. We're sending the message loud and clear, right now. We will start by finding the gentleman who killed your father and my brother and making him an example. Nobody will have any further illusions. Everyone will know the new management means business. You know the gentleman who killed my brother, don't you? I
know
you know him. Jake told me some names and an address but I think you know a lot more than he did—even if you don't
know
you know. So we're going to sit here and talk. And we're really going to
talk
, Jackie—not just move our mouths and wait for our turns to make noise. We're going to have an exchange of ideas. Get to know each other. Form a new alliance.”

Darian gets right up close now, his strawberry breath so awful.

“Meet the new boss, child. He's the same as the old boss. Only better.”

Jackie tries to move.

Tries and can't.

He's paralyzed from the neck down.

“I told Jake everything. I told him
everything
, Darian.”

“I know, Jackie. I know you did. But let's pretend you
still
have a secret . . .”

Darian pulls back the sheet.

“. . . and let's pretend you won't tell me what it is.”

T
he first interview is devastating.

It goes like this:

“State your full name and occupation.”

“Jollie Malian Meeker. Self-employed.”

“That's not an answer, honey. Tell me what you do for a living.”

“I run a website and I wait tables. And I'm not
honey
.”

“I was just being polite.”

“You were being disgusting.”

“Now, you listen to me—”

“No, you listen to
me
—listen really good. You don't call me
honey
. You don't call me
sweetie
. You don't say I'm your
darling
. None of those things are my name. Honey is insect shit. Honey is something that hippies put in coffee. Honey is not a human being and it isn't me, so
don't fucking call me honey
.”

“I'm not used to being talked to like that.”

“A little mutual respect goes a long way.”

“You look stoned. You on something right now?”

“That's none of your business.”

“I'm making it my business. And you'd better wise up in a big hurry
girl
. I don't know if the all-knowing, all-wise Mark Jones has read you the news, but right now, at this very moment, I am the best thing that ever happened to you and your silly little emo boyfriend over there. If you wanna survive long enough to digest those pancakes you just gobbled down, you start treating me really, really nice.”

“Andy's not my boyfriend.”

“Look, we don't have time for bullshit. This restaurant will only be secure another thirty minutes or so.”

“What do you mean by secure?”

“You
were
paying attention when your house was invaded by goons carrying automatic weapons?”

“Yeah, I was paying attention.”

“It's kind of like that.”

“That's good to know.”

“You, my dear, are about one wet cunt hair away from total obliteration.”

“The word
obliteration
sounds funny on you. Your accent sounds like you're from deep redneck country. Nacogdoches, maybe.”

“Where I'm from is none of
your
business. And yeah, I'm a redneck, so what? We can't all sound like rocket scientists. But I
am
a rocket scientist, honey. Don't ever forget that you are speaking to a very smart person.”

“Ditto.”

“Anything else on your mind I oughta know about?”

“You should know that you're right about me being on drugs, but that's the difference between me and you—I'm
used
to being on drugs. I can focus up and do my job. You're a different story.”

“Is that so?”

“I can tell just by looking that you drank way too much this morning and you do it all the time. You're one of those people who doesn't recover well. Probably Jim Beam Black, from the way the bags under your eyes are formed. You had a couple of Lone Stars too.”

“You can tell I drink Jim Beam because of the bags under my eyes?”

“I see them a lot. There's a certain bloodshot brown to the discoloration.”

“And you just figured I drink Lone Star because I'm a redneck?”

“No. That, I can smell on you. The perfume doesn't quite cover up your breath.”

“Cute, girlie.”

“That's what they tell me.”

“And here's what I'm telling you: Wise the fuck up. I'm your best friend right now. And I know how this story ends.”

“Whatever, lady. My life has been turned completely upside down. All I have left to my name are my brain and my work. I'm not just giving any of those things away. You can leave me for the wolves, whatever. But I think I'd rather die than be a part of . . . well, whatever this is you people are a part of.”

“Who says we want you to be a part of it? Who says we want anything from you?”

“History says it. See, I sort of know how this ends too.”

“Do you?”

“Oh yeah.”

“So tell me what you know, girlie. Tell me more about myself. Tell me my goddamn
life's story
, you fuckin' bitch, and see where it gets you.”

“Are you sure you want me to do that?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

The baggy-eyed, bedhead lady across from Jollie lets out a long sigh.

And then Jollie says this:

• • •

“Y
ou're a very frustrated person. You gave that away just by talking to me. You're a career woman. Your work is lonely and repetitive. Your cover requires you to blend into the scene without a lot of attention drawn to yourself, which means you hide in plain view. That also means you're not really allowed to have a relationship with anybody, but you hate the way you look and so you drink to give yourself confidence, and it backfires because you do it way too much. You hit the bars to keep an eye on the scene. You order straight shots of whiskey and chat up people who think you're a total stranger, and you start files on those people. That's a place where you learn a lot of what you need to know about counterculture and the behavior patterns of certain individuals, but that's also where you indulge your self-hatred and your addictions. You score one-night stands or one-week flings whenever you can—because, hey, a girl has needs, right? And it's not hard to do that with some drunk cowboy in the dives they tell you to hang out in. The patterns in the local hangouts are very important to watch in this town—you have to know where the hippest stuff is happening, the regular gigs by local musicians, the free shows by Joanna Blythe and Carolyn Wonderland. You especially dig the Happy Hippie Tuesday show Joanna does, and you're still pretty amazed at how many people she packs into the place at five o'clock on a weekday. You can learn a lot about Austin from the people who walk through the door at the Continental Club, and that's what you tell yourself at first—that you're hanging out in the legendary overcrowded dive bar where Stevie Ray Vaughn used to ply his trade for a real and definitive
purpose
. That tiny broom closet full of twentysomething hipsters shouldering against burnout hippie pest dudes, all struggling through walls of beer sweat and bad aftershave and
yeehaw
this and
yahoo
that. You stumble home drunk, chase it with more booze from the freezer, and wake up with the worst hangover of your life. Which you chase with a beer back or two—or three or four. Then you make your reports, go buy more booze, check in with your contacts. You equalize your brain before you go back out to do more fieldwork. Part of what you do is all about spying on people, so you have a list of names you keep tabs on. You have to know personal habits, work routines, what these scumbags do when they're not being scumbags. You live in a small one-room house full of empty booze bottles and Jenny Craig boxes, somewhere nice and anonymous, probably on the south side of town. You do all your business off that smartphone in your hand, which is a hunk of gadgetry more amazing than anything currently available to the public. You look in the mirror and see a woman who was once beautiful. You hate that, but you tell yourself that this is a good life. You tell yourself that what you do is worth the ruination of your looks and the sacrifice of your youth. You tell yourself that the work you do saves humanity and protects the homeland. But the sad, sad truth is that you don't have any idea what it really amounts to. You're one hand that has no idea what the other hand is doing. You're lost like everybody else. Left in a very dark place with your self-hatred and your fear. You live just outside of the lives of the people you spy on. You know what every single one of them eats for breakfast. And yet you don't know them at all. You don't want to know them. You're afraid of them. Just like you're afraid of me. Does that about nail it?

“Honey?”

• • •

T
he baggy-eyed, bedhead lady across from Jollie lets out the longest sigh yet.

Then she says:

“Christ . . . I need a drink.”

• • •

D
arian's voice is a comfort. It riptides over Jackie like waves of milk and strawberry slime. He thinks that's really fucked up. He looks down again and sees what Darian has done to him and he wants to spit in Darian's face, but the voice lulls him, the voice puts him at ease. He doesn't wonder why he can be so terrified, so disgusted, so angry, and so comforted all at once. As the drugs eat his mind with strawberry teeth.

“I love you, Jackie. I've always loved you.”

Squirming serpents and comforting rivers.

“You believe me when I say that, don't you?”

Terrible ends and new beginnings.

“I know you believe me.”

It's so goddamn fucking fucked up.

“You won't make me take anything else, won't you? You want to tell me
everything I want to know
, don't you? Anything you can remember that might help us. Anything strange that's happened. Anything at all. Let me hear your voice, Jackie. Let me hear you say the words.”

He wants to say fuck you.

He wants to spit in Darian's face.

But he doesn't want to do that.

Instead he says this:

“I can give you another name. It's all I have.”

Darian smiles again, the blades still glittering in his hand.

“It's all I need, Jackie.”

• • •

T
he second interview is a revelation.

It goes like this:

“Give me your full name and occupation.”

“Andrew Worthington Culpepper. Unemployed.”

“Nice.”

“You can call me Andy.”

“So . . . are you gonna tell me all about my life too, Andy?”

“No. I don't do that. Jollie's a mutant.”

“I'm about ready to kick her ass outta the world.”

“She got to you, huh? She does that. You can't take it too personally. She does it with everyone, right when she first meets them.”

“So, Andy . . . looks like you had a little accident with your hand this morning. Wanna tell me about it?”

“Someone tried to cut my thumb off.”

“I'm sorry that had to happen to a nice boy like you.”

“Are you going to help us?”

“Maybe. I can try.”

“That's all anybody can do, I guess.”

“You're . . . very
sweet
, Andy.”

“I know you.”

“What?”

“I know you. We've met before.”

“I don't remember that, Andy.”

“I'm not surprised. You were pretty lit up.”

“Ummm . . . you're joking, right?”

“Nope.”

“Let me guess. We met at the Continental Club. The Joanna Blythe happy-hour show?”

“Yep. You were really drunk.”

“And I was hitting on you?”

“Yep.”

“And your friend was there too?”

“Jollie watched the whole thing.”

“And, silly me, I just thought she was psychic.”

“She is.”

“Maybe. So . . . was I nice to you, Andy?”

“Oh yeah. You were really funny. Not, like, pathetic funny. You were telling jokes and making me laugh. I thought you were attractive that way.”

“I'm old enough to be your mom.”

“So what? I still thought you were hot.”

“Even though I'm a cow? Even though I got Jim Beam bags that go all the way around my eyes?”

“You were thinner then, and not as tired-looking. It was over a year ago, I think. Maybe two years. That was back when I went out to see Joanna every Tuesday.”

“You wouldn't be tag-teaming with your friend, would you? Doing damage control for the loudmouth bitch?”

“I wouldn't know how to do that. I'm just telling you we've met before.”

“And I'm telling you I don't remember that at all.”

“I guess you don't remember making out with me either.”

“
What
?”

“It was fun.”

“I'm . . . sure it was, Andy.”

“I asked for your phone number and you wouldn't give it to me. Jollie thought I was crazy.”

“You wouldn't have called anyway.”

“Maybe. Life's an adventure.”

“Wanna make out with me again, Andy?”

“Maybe.”

“You're kind of a slut, aren't you, Andy?”

“Like I said . . . life's an adventure.”

The baggy old lady rubs her eyes and shakes her head.

Then leans forward, kills the rest of her coffee and says, stripping the young man naked with her eyes, one item of clothing at a time:

“Yes. Life
is
an adventure. Andy.”

• • •

P
enelope Cranston is the name Jackie comes up with.

Darian gets on his phone and does a quick search that reveals nothing that ties the name to Mark Jones or any of his Kingdom buddies.

But then Jackie starts really, really talking.

He gives details and dates and smells.

“Smells are important,” Jackie says.

Darian sits at his side and listens.

Patiently.

• • •

D
etails and dates and smells:

Jackie-Boy Schaeffer is standing in the breakfast cereal aisle of a grocery store on November eighth, almost exactly one year from the moment he tells this story. It's the H-E-B at Congress Avenue and Oltorf, one of the busiest intersections in south Austin. He's not expecting what happens. And what happens is that he gets a whiff of something really strong in the air, something feminine and trashy. It's the scent of a woman. Perfume and pheromones all jacked together and doing a rocket launch right up his nostrils in the worst possible way. Worst, not because it smells
bad
—but because he's actually smelled it
one other time
in his life. Four months earlier. July twenty-second. On that day, he'd just come home from a drug deal, to the house he's shared with his father since the day he was born. Something was lingering in the living room and in the halls when he came home that day. Like waves of cherry opium smothered in oil. Someone had been there and left that scent. Someone uninvited.