Thomas Pynchon - Bleeding Edge

“No. Chazz…” Is the next part of this going to be “… loves me?” Maxine’s thoughts wander to the Beretta in her purse, but Tallis surprises her. “Chazz is a dick with an East Texan attached to it, one being the price of the other, you could say.”

“Wait a minute.” Out at the edge of Maxine’s visual field, something’s been blinking for a while. It turns out to be an indicator light on a little CCTV camera up in one dim corner of the ceiling. “This is a motel, Tallis? Who put this thing in here?”

“It wasn’t in here before.”

“Do you think…?”

“It would figure.”

“You got a stepladder?” No. “A broom?” A sponge mop. They take turns banging at it, like an evil high-tech piñata, till it comes crashing to the floor.

“You know what, you should be someplace safer.”

“Where? With my mom? One step away from a bag lady, never mind me, she can’t help herself.”

“We’ll figure out where, but they just lost their picture, they’ll be coming here, we need to be gone.”

Tallis throws a couple of things in an oversize shoulder bag and they proceed to the elevator, down twenty floors, out through the gold-accented Grand Central–size lobby, with its four-figures-per-day floral arrangements—

“Mrs. Ice?” The doorman, regarding Tallis with something between apprehension and respect.

“Not for long,” Tallis sez. “Dragoslav. What.”

“These two guys showed up, said they’ll ‘be seeing you soon.’”

“That’s it?” A puzzled frown.

Maxine gets a brain wave. “Doing Russian rap lyrics, by any chance?”

“That’s them. Please be sure and tell them I gave you the message? Like, I promised?”

“They’re nice guys,” sez Maxine, “really, no need to worry.”

“Worry, excuse me, does not begin to describe.”

“Tallis, you haven’t been…”

“I don’t know these guys. You however seem to. Anything you’d like to share?”

They have wandered out onto the sidewalk. Light draining away over Jersey, no cabs around and miles to the subway. Next thing they know, around the corner on apparently new hydraulics and up the block comes, yes, it’s Igor’s ZiL-41047, gussied up tonight into a full-scale shmaravozka, gold custom spinner rims with blinking red LEDs, high-tech antennas and lowrider striping—screeches to a pause next to Tallis and Maxine and out leap Misha and Grisha, wearing matching Oakley OvertheTop shades and packing PP-19 Bizons, with which they gesture Tallis and Maxine into the back of the limo. Maxine gets a professional if not exactly courtly patdown, and the Tomcat in her purse goes on the unavailable list.

“Misha! Grisha! And here I thought you were such gentlemen!”

“You’ll get your pushka back,” Misha with a friendly stainless grin, sliding behind the wheel and pimpmobiling away from the curb.

“Reducing complications,” Grisha adds. “Remember Good, Bad and Ugly , three-way standoff? Remember how much trouble even to watch?”

“You don’t mind my asking, guys, what’s going on?”

“Up till five minutes ago,” sez Grisha, “simple plan, put snatch and grab on cute Pamela Anderson here.”

“Who,” inquires Tallis, “me?”

“Tallis, please, just— And now the plan’s not so simple?”

“We weren’t expecting you too,” Misha sez.

“Aw. You were gonna kidnap her and ask Gabriel Ice for ransom money? Let me just roll on the floor here a minute, you guys. You want to tell them, Tallis, or should I?”

“Uh-oh,” go the gorillas in unison.

“You didn’t hear, I guess. Gabe and I are about to get into a really horrible divorce. At the moment my ex-to-be is trying to delete me, my existence, from the Internet. I don’t think he’ll even spring for gas money, guys, sorry.”

“Govno,” in harmony.

“Unless he’s really the one who hired you, to get me out of the way.”

“Fucking Gabriel Ice,” Grisha indignant, “is oligarch scum, thief, murderer.”

“So far, nichego, ” Misha cheerfully, “but he’s also working for U.S. secret police, which makes us sworn enemies forever—we have oath, older than vory, older than gulag, never help cops.”

“Penalty for violation,” Misha adds, “is death. Not just what they’ll do to you. Death in spirit, you understand.”

“She’s nervous,” Maxine hastily, “she means no disrespect.”

“How much did you think he was gonna pay?” Tallis still wants to know.

An amused exchange in Russian that Maxine imagines going something like “Fucking American women only care about price they bring on market? Nation of whores.”

“More like Austin Powers,” Misha explains— “telling Ice, ‘Oh, behave!’”

“‘Shagadelic!’” cries Grisha. They high-five.

“We have something to do tonight,” Misha continues, “and holding Mrs. Ice was only supposed to be for insurance, in case somebody gets cute.”

“Looks like it ain’t gonna work,” sez Maxine.

“Sorry,” sez Tallis. “Can we get out now?”

By this point they are off the Cross County and onto the Thruway, just passing the fake barn and silo of Stew Leonard, a legendary figure in the history of point-of-sale fraud, heading for what Otis used to call the Chimpan Zee Bridge.

“What’s the hurry? Pleasant social evening. Some conversation. Chillax, ladies.” There’s champagne in the fridge. Grisha breaks out El Productos stuffed with weed and lights up, and soon secondhand effects begin to occur. On the sound system, the boys have arranged a hip-hop- plus-Russian eighties nostalgia mix, including DDT’s road anthem “Ty Nye Odin” (You Are Not Alone) and the soulful ballad “Veter.”

“Where are we going, then?” Tallis sullenly flirtatious, as if hoping this will develop into an orgy.

“Upstate. Hashslingrz has secret server farm up in mountains, right?”

“Adirondack Mountains, Lake Heatsink—are you really planning to take us all the way up there?”

“Yeah,” sez Maxine, “something of a drive, ain’t it?”

“Maybe you won’t have to go all the way there,” Grisha fondling his Bizon menacingly.

“He’s being dickhead,” Misha explains. “Years in Vladimirski Tsentral, learned nothing. We have to meet this guy Yuri in Poughkeepsie, we can let you off there at train station.”

“You want to get to the server,” Tallis bringing out her Filofax and finding a blank page, “I can draw you boys a map.”

Grisha narrowing his eyes, “We don’t need to shoot you or nothing?”

“Oh you wouldn’t really shoot me with that big, mean gun?” Withholding eye contact till around “big.”

“Map would be nice,” Misha trying to sound like the good torpedo.

“Gabe took me up there once. Deep underground caves near the lake. Very like vertical, many levels, floor numbers on the elevator all had minus signs. The property itself used to be a summer camp, Camp… some Indian name, Ten Watts, Iroquois, something…”

“Camp Tewattsirokwas,” Maxine just refrains from screaming in recognition.

“That’s it.”

“Mohawk for ‘firefly.’ At least that’s what they told us.”

“You went to camp there, oh my God?”

“Oh your God what, Tallis, somebody had to.” Camp Tewattsirokwas was the brainchild of a Trotskyite couple, the Gimelmans from Cedarhurst, begun back at the time of the Schachtman unpleasantness amid epical all-night screaming matches and not much quieter by the time Maxine got there, the standard poison-ivy facility you found back then all through the mountains of New York State. Cafeteria food, color wars, canoes on the lake, singing “Marching to Astoria,” “Zum Gali Gali,” dance parties—aaahhh! Wesley Epstein!