Sleepless. Part 18

The man set the plastic gun down.

"I'll pick them up before morning."

They shook hands. And we walked away, Vinnie dropping the card all carnival-licensed vendors were meant to carry back inside his smock.

"The kid's mom, her we couldn't do s.h.i.+t about. Child of an American, sure. Full-blooded Italian wife of an American, no. Kid plays that game every chance he gets. His mom is in there. They meet up. Talk. Walk around. Whatever. I don't really get it, but it's what they do."

He looked at the Kraken, shrugged, put it in his pocket.

"So before I start up again with another story, you want to tell me what's on your mind?"

I reached inside my jacket and took out one of the pictures I had printed from the gold farm security DVD.

"He's a police officer, Vincent. Undercover. I a.s.sume narcotics."

He took a pa.s.sing glance at the picture and stuffed it into a pocket, coming out with his Salems and his lighter.

"Quality's not great."

"No, it is not."

He lit a cigarette.

"It's been a long time for me. Finished my twenty years a long time ago."

"I know, Vincent."

He blew some smoke as we pa.s.sed a tent that promised the spectacle of sleepless fighting barehanded, no quarter asked or given.

"Not too many of my people left on the force."

"Yes."

He held up a hand.

"Not that I won't try. I'm just saying that this may be my last trip to that well. And I can't say for sure than I'll find any water this time."

"Whatever you can do would be appreciated."

"I'll see what I see."

I patted his arm.

"And if there is anything I could do for you?"

He stopped walking.

"Well, I hate to ask."

"Please."

He shook his head.

"Just those MS-13 c.o.c.ksuckers. Nothing I can't handle in the long run. But I'd rather not be looking over my shoulder."

I nodded.

"Tattoos of red monster eyes on his eyelids, you said?"

"Yeah. Him."

I smiled.

"Well, then, he should be easy enough to find."

He put out his hand.

"Thanks, Jasper, that's a load off."

"My pleasure, Vincent."

And we parted ways.

It was, in fact, easy enough to find the young Salvadoran gangster with the tattooed eyelids. And, as advertised, he did, when I presumed to confront him, close his eyes as a form of attempted intimidation.

An unfortunate choice of tactics on his part.

His posse, when I had finished with him, wisely stood down. Safe to say they saw no reason to avenge him, so certain it was that some other of them would have to a.s.sume his mantle of leaders.h.i.+p.

No matter. Jefe or not, Vinnie's antagonist would no longer be showing his monster eyes to intended victims. He'd not be closing his eyes at all. Not until such time as he might be able to find a plastic surgeon willing to perhaps take flaps of skin from his b.u.t.tocks out of which to form new eyelids.

Chapter 13.

7/10/10.

it's just before dawn on July 10, 2010, 5:17 a.m. I am in possession of what appears to be a factory-manufactured bottle of Afronzo-New Day Pharm DR33M3R. The bottle's seal appears to be intact. The identifying hologram on the label is clear; the borders of the three primary elements, a small cloud, the letter z, and a stick-figure sheep, are sharp. No indication that it is a counterfeit. The bottle is numbered #ff688-6-2648-9. If authentic, the bottle was manufactured in Farmington, IL, part of batch 688, from the sixth pod in that batch, twenty-sixth case in that pod, forty-eighth bottle in that case, with a use code of 9.

The 9 indicates the batch, pod, case, and bottle were meant for distribution by the National Heath and Wellness Administration. Public hospitals, federally insured patients. The radio frequency ID interrogator I removed from the gallery shows that the active RFID chip under the label is present and functioning. The chip is broadcasting the same manufacture and batch information. If it is undamaged, it should also detail when the contents of the bottle were manufactured, when the pod was loaded and left the factory, its precise intended destination, and whether it was ever received at that destination. But I do not have the reference manual to decipher anything beyond point of origin, etc. I've dusted the bottle for latent fingerprints and have removed several smudged prints, two clear partial impressions of both a right index and a right ring finger, and one very clear full impression of a right middle finger. The bottle was removed from a bag in my presence, and since then has been touched only by the person who gave it to me at that time. I believe that the smudges were already present on the bottle before it was removed from the bag. I believe that both clear partials and the clear full belong to the person who gave me the bottle of what I believe will prove to be factory-manufactured DR33M3R. For the record, that person was Afronzo Jr., Parsifal K. He didn't even blink. He took the bottle from his bag and offered it to me like it was something he does every night. Like his bag is full of Dreamer that he has to use to make drug deals because his daddy cut off his allowance. Dreamer. He used it to get what he wanted, like that is all it's good for.

Stay focused.

Working in the bathroom, I lifted the prints and applied them to slides from my evidence kit. I placed the bottle of DR33M3R and the slides, in separate evidence bags, in the safe. Rose wanted to know what I was doing in the bathroom for so long. She wasn't suspicious, she just knows the stress from the job gives me stomach and digestion problems. "Irregularity isn't a joke, Park." She gave me some tea once, but I spent the whole next day in the bathroom and never took it again. I think when I went in there after I got home she was just excited to think I might be using the toilet. "There is nothing more mysterious than a marriage." That's what my father told me when I called him and my mother to say I'd gotten married. Nothing in my marriage to Rose has proved him wrong. When I finally took her east two years later to meet them, he was strange with her. Not strange like he was with everyone else, not his standard detachment, something else. I don't think he liked her, but I think he may have been impressed by her. Her directness. "Good to meet you, Amba.s.sador Haas." He'd shook his head. "Please don't feel you need to use my t.i.tle. Mr. Haas will suffice." And she'd nodded back. "I think, sir, that we'll both be more comfortable if I stick with Amba.s.sador Haas." And she was right. I think he'd have been more comfortable if my sister and I had called him Amba.s.sador Haas instead of Father. He'd have preferred that from everyone but my mother. To her he was always Peachy. A reference to something that happened long before I was born. She called him Peachy everywhere except at what she referred to as "occasions." Amba.s.sador Haas to everyone else, Peachy to my mother. Is it any wonder he killed himself after she died?

Stay focused.

In exchange for what I believe to be FDA Schedule Z DR33M3R, I gave to Afronzo, Parsifal K., twenty-five grams of Shabu-quality Chinese crystal methamphetamine, which I then witnessed him distribute to five unidentified individuals. He was right about them in Chasm Tide. The sleepless did amazing things. They must have been heavy gamers to begin with, but their approach was almost pure chaos. There was no indication that they were working together, they immediately split up; the barbarian stormed Forge, cutting down anyone in his path, and another, on an entirely different errand, healed anyone and everyone, including those the barbarian had wounded. It was all like that, every move at cross-purposes, using up their power unnecessarily, but by the time they rea.s.sembled, they had the weapons, tools, and keys they'd come for, and through some perfect calculation of costs and benefits, the overall power of the group had increased. It wasn't random. They see holes in the game. Rules that can be slipped between. Moves that I've seen Rose attempt with Cipher Blue, they executed cleanly, proving that they are possible. Rose was playing when I got home. Francine was still here. She had the baby, was sitting in the rocking chair in the nursery with the baby on a pillow in her lap. The baby looked asleep. Really asleep. She only looks that way when Francine holds her and rocks her. I wanted to pick her up, but I knew if I did she would wake up. Francine said she'd been quiet for almost two hours. She said her eyes had been closed for over forty minutes. She looked asleep. Rose was in our bedroom, in bed with her laptop on her knees, trying the Labyrinth again. I went straight to the safe to lock up the guns and my stash. She didn't look up, just asked me how "cla.s.ses" had been. I told her I needed to go to the bathroom. I didn't want to lie and say anything about the cla.s.ses that I haven't taught in over three years, and I didn't have time to sit next to her and bring her back to here. When I came out of the bathroom and locked the bottle and slides in the safe and she asked why I'd been in there for so long, she seemed normal. Normal for how normal is now. Not the old normal. Not the old Rose. But she's still Rose. Still concerned that I'm not getting enough fiber. She had put the laptop aside and was stretching her back on the floor. Her muscles are knotted into golf b.a.l.l.s up and down her spine. Francine does kinesiology as well as being a doula. That was one of the reasons she was Rose's favorite when we were finding someone to help us with the home birth. She's ma.s.saged Rose's back a few times. The first time, I heard the cracking from the office and ran out because I thought someone was breaking things. She gave Rose some exercises to do. So Rose was on her back when I got out of the bathroom, knees up and pointed to one side, arms out, head facing the other way. "Did you s.h.i.+t?" I saw the look on her face. And I lied. "Yeah, I did." She looked so happy for a moment. Nothing more mysterious.

Stay focused.

The art gallery. After the sleepless had launched their quest and were under way, Cager whispered in my ear. "Come make some money." He took me to the gallery to sell to his friends. I wanted to stay and watch the sleepless in Chasm, but I'm a dealer, so I needed to go and make some money, or he might have started thinking that I might be a cop. Rose remembered that I'm a cop. She asked me again to quit and stay at home. She asked me to take her and the baby out of the city. She said she wanted to see the ocean. She closed her eyes and said we should go to Half Moon Bay and watch the sunset and drink a bottle of wine and make love on the beach.

She sighed and opened her eyes and saw me.

"How am I going to be able to look after you?" she asked.

I shook my head and told her I didn't know, and she kind of sighed like she always does when she thinks I'm not getting something.

"No, I mean, really, how am I gonna look the f.u.c.k after you?"

I told her she didn't have to look after me, that I was okay.

She was staring at the ceiling.

"You're such a, G.o.d I hate the word, but you're such an innocent. I mean, how am I supposed to walk away from that?"

I wanted to tell her, I wanted to say what she wanted to hear, and I wanted to hear what she would say next, but she would have been mad if she knew what I did. So instead I told her her name, I told her who I was, I told her about the baby, and she looked at me and struggled with it all and told me she knew all that. "Sometimes," she said, "it's just easier not to try and keep it straight." And she put her head on the floor. "G.o.d, I wish I could sleep." I thought about the DR33M3R in the safe. And came out here to the car with my journal and laptop and Hydo's travel drive. There's more to learn in there. But I don't have time to search.

Stay focused.

Francine is leaving. I need to help with the baby. Stay focused.

THE GALLERY WAS beyond the southeastern edge of Skid Row, in one of the abandoned warehouses of the Los Angeles wholesale produce market. It was not, fortunately, in one of the warehouses decommissioned while still full of fruits and vegetables that had been half-rotted by the time they were received, and thoroughly rotted by the time it was realized that the cost of moving whatever was salvageable to market would far outstrip any profits. Those warehouses were some distance away; still, the ma.s.sive tonnage of what was, by now, high-quality compost permeated the air with a sweetness that was nearly overwhelming. I saw more than one black-swathed artiste with previous experience of the s.p.a.ce sniffing at a sachet of potpourri. Most made do by dipping c.o.c.ktail napkins into their plastic cups of wine, using them to cover their noses.

Making no effort to camouflage the smell, I found that it became increasingly difficult to concentrate on the present moment. As is often the case with intense and singular odors, this one evoked a powerful nostalgia. Our sense of smell registers in the reptile bits of the brain at the top of the spine. Who hasn't been thrown back to some unpleasantness or delight by a sudden whiff of an old lover's cologne or the unexpected combination of burned toast and mint dish soap? In the gallery, I was recalling deep loam and mulch, limitless greenery and rains, rot that ate your uniform from your back, undergrowth matted in sweet jungle muck soil.

In mind of my formative years.

In such a state it was essential that I concentrate. I was, after all, armed and in the presence of a large number of people. The smell and the tide of memory could have easily washed away my controls and defenses, leaving behind the exposed carca.s.s of my true self.

I will confess that I allowed that self a moment's freedom. It duly took stock of the strategic situation, selected targets, and calculated how many innocent dead might be manufactured before some of the more able personal security contractors attached to the gallery's wealthier patrons took action and maneuvered me into an inevitable cross fire at the far corner of the warehouse near the bathrooms. But before I could mount the three steps that led to a lectern from which select pieces in the show would soon be auctioned, and which afforded superior firing lines, I focused my concentration on a square of tagboard and its hand-lettered description of the work of art above it.

It would not do to be run to ground in such a place, riddled with bullets by hired guns. That it was an art gallery was insufficient. The smell aside, the DJ was playing irritating French chamber pop. I would not die to that sound track.

My painstakingly a.s.sembled life had meaning. The litter of bodies that lined the path I had walked these many years were not incidental or random. There was a reason for so much death.

I would know the moment. Vague about so much else, I knew with utter certainty that I would see and recognize the moment of my death, the shape and purpose of my life revealed in my pa.s.sing.

I could bear to wait some more.

So I looked at the art.

Mounted on an eighteen-by-eighteen-inch square of what appeared to be salvaged parquet flooring, framed in Deco chrome, long black enamel accents at the corners, the piece was a kind of collage. In the lower right corner was a list of enemies vanquished, quests completed, treasures found, mountains scaled, riddles answered. In the lower left, a clumsy but earnest pencil portrait on blue-lined graph paper of a one-eyed pirate, long hair held back by a bandanna, dangling chains and trinkets revealed by an open-neck s.h.i.+rt. Above both of these elements was a handheld gaming or Internet device. It was difficult to identify a make or model as the case of the gadget had been removed, leaving a green resin board etched in thin lines of gold and silver, miniature numbered and lettered keys, several chips, a disk of bright silicon, a cl.u.s.ter of colored wires, and a screen with a five-inch diagonal. Across this screen a high-resolution version of what I took to be the pirate pictured below swashed and buckled. On the high seas, at land, with cutla.s.s, dagger, or bare wits, he gave proof that the list of derring-do below were not the bluffs of an armchair buccaneer. Dead center of the three items was a dull silver thumb drive. Nondescript, a Memorex 2G. Fragments of yellowed computer punch cards, the inner works of broken clocks, and cloudy paste stones, Salvation Army junk jewelry, decorated the s.p.a.ces between the key elements.

The tagboard below the piece explained that I was looking at Kelvin Ripu, a level 87 Raider Prince, Last Commodore of the Orcan Fleet, Possessor of the Trident Perilous, Rider of Winds, Lord of Waves. It explained further that Kelvin was the creation of "gamer/artist" Kevin Puri, a twenty-seven-year-old call-center team manager in Mumbai. Kevin had been "crafting" Kelvin for five years. The piece was composed of Kevin Puri's handwritten and signed account of Kelvin's greatest accomplishments within Chasm Tide, his own drawing of the character, digitally preserved highlights of Kelvin in action, and the character itself, pa.s.sword, account number, the entire long string of 1s and 0s that it was knitted from, preserved in the thumb drive. All other traces of Kelvin Ripu, I was a.s.sured by the description, had been erased from the Chasm Tide mainframes and Kevin Puri's own desktop and backup hard drive.

The art object itself had been conceived and a.s.sembled by Shadrach, best known for the street and performance art he executed within Chasm Tide.

Kelvin was being offered for sale at 25,000 U.S. dollars. A little red sticker on the wall let me know that someone had already met that price.

A young man projecting a pa.s.sable counterfeit of the negligent aura of an obscure rock star or fiercely independent film director stood at the center of a small crowd, commenting on the market for the works on display.

"Are they collectible? Yes. But they're more than that. They're also fully playable. As is, they are static works of art. Lavished with attention by the gamer/artists. The accomplishments, the artifacts they carry, the look of the characters, are the fulfillment of dreams. Inspired by a setting in Chasm Tide, or a mounting surface, or a frame, or some found object that he wishes to incorporate, Shadrach seeks out the characters that can be ultimately completed by inclusion in one of his pieces. But once you own them, these works of art change in nature. The owner of a character's account is the animating soul. The life. If you so choose, you can break the gla.s.s, pay to reactivate the account, and evolve the work. These pieces are finished as they hang on the wall, but you decide if they are alive."

He touched the corner of a heavy Baroque frame, the gilding peeling off in long curls, a sorceress of some kind pinned behind the gla.s.s.

"They are collectible. Changeable. In-game, you can breed them if you like. They are unique."

"They're fake."

This interjection came from another young man, one whose quite genuine aura of wealth, privilege, and fame easily outshone the lecturer and exposed highlights of envy and resentment.

The lecturer put his hands in the pockets of the narrow-lapeled, three-b.u.t.ton black sharkskin jacket he wore over a blue and white argyle V-neck sweater vest.

"These are thoroughly authenticated Shadrach originals. These are first-sale items, fresh from Shad's studio. Each one has an RFID chip on the mounting, worked into the aesthetics of the piece, actively broadcasting a catalogue number, date of completion, and t.i.tle."

The famous youth, now illuminated by the staccato flashes of the event's official photographer, and lesser blips of light from the cells and digicams of the growing crowd of onlookers, turned his attention to the sorceress on the wall, presenting his profile to the lenses.

"I'm not suggesting that Shadrach, when he wasn't wandering around Chasm painting his tag on castle walls or working on the logos for his new T-s.h.i.+rt line, didn't have his a.s.sistant place an ad on a few message boards offering to buy high-level characters for cash. Or that he didn't have some other a.s.sistants go out and hit a few dozen estate sales and come back with crates of stuff they could break up and glue-gun back together into these. What I'm saying is that they're fake art. They are not art at all."

There was a general mutter of t.i.tillation, over which the heathen youth raised his voice.

"These are piecemeal imitations of real art created by real artists. These are random characters. Some of them are interesting, but they are mostly just high-level hack-n-slashers loaded with uberartifacts that the players likely bought black market. People sold them to Shadrach because they don't play the game anymore or they have better characters and they're bored of these ones or because they're hard up for the money. The real art, the real characters are being created by gamers who have a vision when they enter Chasm. They start with the blank canvas, and they fill it, working toward a specific skill set, level, a list of deeds that adds up to something. They spend hundreds of hours, months, crafting a character until it's done. Artists like Tierra Boswell, Manute, Carolyn Liu, they're painting with the game, making beautiful things. These on the wall, these are just toys no one plays with anymore."

The mutter threatened to boil over into hubbub.

The lecturer raised his hand.

"Process is process. Michelangelo didn't paint the Sistine Chapel on his own; he had dozens of a.s.sistants helping him. Warhol? He used an a.s.sembly line. Is anyone going to dispute that he was creating art? Shadrach's process does involve commerce, and it does include the invaluable help of his apprentices. And certainly other artists are working in this medium. Rodin wasn't the only sculptor to work in bronze, was he? That doesn't change the uniqueness of his vision."

A cell rang, the opening synthesizer drone from "Down in the Park," and the famous young man took a Nokia e77 from his messenger bag.

"If it doesn't bother you people that Shadrach buys half these characters directly from the gold farms, by all means buy them and hang them on your walls. Your character will show in the quality of the character art you display. Excuse me, I have a call I have to take."

He put the phone to his ear, turned his back, and walked away, the gravity of his fame drawing not only his own entourage but also the photographer and the majority of the lecturer's audience.

I followed him myself, drifting at the periphery of the orbiting ma.s.s, shuffling my feet somewhat aimlessly, the shameless gawking about me allowing me to similarly crane my neck and gather an eyeful. It lasted only minutes, just until it became clear that he was done making a slight spectacle of himself for the evening, and that he would not be inviting everyone back to his place for cocaine and caviar. As the crowd realized the show was over, they captured a last few sullen pictures of him sequestered in the corner, talking into his phone, a pair of female bodyguards facing outward to keep intruders on his privacy at bay.

I was forced to meander away with the rest of the herd, nodding occasionally to give the impression that I might be engaged in the detailed recaps they were sharing with one another, reliving what had just happened in front of all their eyes, making it more real for themselves, showing one another the pictures they had all just taken to emphasize the absolute solidity of their brush with fame and art scandal. Returning to my perusal of the walls, I was able to use the gla.s.s face of a piece mounted on onyx tile to continue my observation surrept.i.tiously.

I saw the conclusion of the young man's phone conversation, his apparent irritation at how it concluded, the equally irritated fas.h.i.+on in which he waved away all members of his entourage, the manner in which they floundered when set adrift, and the impulsiveness with which he grabbed a solitary figure near the door as he made his exit.

I'd already noted this figure. Alone but not aloof, he'd never joined the crowd when the unevenly matched debate had been engaged. Instead, he'd wandered to the desk near the lectern, the location where the gallerist conducted business, confirming sales and arranging deliveries. He'd pa.s.sed in front of her desk, and, not coincidentally, I think, there was a sudden absence of one of the two RFID interrogators that had been left there to establish the absolute authenticity of Shadrach's work.