Charlie Huston - Sleepless

Sitting in my Cadillac, spending another late evening in traffic, some hours after the dear French pilot had touched down on the Thousand Storks pad in Century City and reminded me that I had his number, as if I had forgotten, I found a section of the recording where the cop’s face was turned almost directly to one of the cameras. I froze it, grabbed the frame, saved it as “Young Faust,” connected via Bluetooth to the Canon Pixma in the glove box, and printed several copies. Then I left-clicked the touchpad button on my Toughbook and skipped back on the recording, watching Young Faust depart backward, and the killer enter similarly, and, would that it were so easy, watched the dead jump joyously to life, expelling bullets from their bodies in sheer relief that it had all been a bad dream. Or so I chose to reimagine the scene.

I froze the picture and considered the killer. I would need no assistance from business associates who owed me favors to identify this face and give it a name. I owned a TV, after all.

Parsifal K. Afronzo Jr. Cager to his friends. Freshly minted mass murderer.

The policeman, dirty to whatever degree, would likely be seeking him, or vice versa. So then must I.

PARK DIDN’T KNOW MUCH ABOUT MUSIC. HIS IPOD WAS FILLED with playlists that Rose made and loaded for him. Music she thought he should listen to. Or things she just thought he might enjoy. He listened to all of them, trying always to listen to them in the manner she suggested.

Listen to this on the ride to class, she’d said the first time she made him a list. She did this after buying him the iPod as a birthday present and seeing that it hadn’t left the box in the two weeks since he’d unwrapped it. She thought that once he saw how much fun the little gadget could be, he’d start filling it himself, seeking out new music to expand his world. But he didn’t.

What he enjoyed was listening to what she chose for him. He’d never have told her what she came to suspect anyway, that he consciously avoided loading new music onto the player so that she would feel compelled to keep doing it herself. Over the years it gradually filled with music that came to be a part of the day-to-day communication between a woman who didn’t know how to edit a thought or emotion that crossed her mind and a man who barely understood that there might be a need to communicate anything that wasn’t absolutely essential to the immediate situation.

Playlist titles:

The ride to the water

Walking on Telegraph

Mowing the lawn

Missing Rose

We’re having a baby

Cheese sandwich for lunch

Keep your head down

What I’ll do to you tonight

Don’t forget the toilet paper

It’s not that big a deal, I’m not really mad at you, just frustrated with my fucking work

The baby kicked me this morning

Don’t worry so much

She has your eyes

Come home safe

Awake without you

When she asked at the end of a day how he’d felt about a new list, what songs he liked best, he never knew the song titles or the names of the artists. The songs were the messages from her; it never occurred to him to care what they were called or who was playing them. He’d say he liked, That one in the middle, with the happy beat, but it was kind of sad, about the kid falling down on the playing field and everyone looking at him and he just lies there. Or he’d hum the melody as he remembered it. Or, when she insisted, sing a lyric that had stuck in his head.

That’s what he was thinking about as he walked down the line of people waiting to get inside Denizone. Every time the doors, designed to look like the much-battered gates of an under-siege castle, opened to admit another tan and fit young thing, Park heard a bit of a song he’d once sung for Rose. The chorus only, sung to her in a high whisper, with a tempo more appropriate to a waltz than to a rock song: This heart’s on fire, this heart’s on fire, this heart’s on fire, this heart’s on fire.

It froze him for a moment, just before the velvet rope, the doorman, in the blockbuster-fantasy distressed leather and chain mail of a mythical kingdom, nodding at him.

“’Sup, Park?”

The door swung closed, cutting off the song, and Park came back, letting go of the memory, the night he’d sung it for her.

“Priest.”

He offered his hand, and Priest took it, palming an offered vial of powdered Ecstasy.

He held it up between forefinger and thumb.

“Same stuff as before?”

Park shook his head.

“Better.”

Priest pocketed the vial and unhooked the rope.

“Big party tonight. Tournament in the basement. Top gladiators.”

Park waited while the Priest’s counterpart, a young man of similar girth, wearing an equally detailed costume, put a bracelet of brown microsuede around his wrist, fastening it with a pincer that snapped a thin copper rivet into place.

“I’m just meeting a customer.”

Priest waved a macelike baton at the door, tripping an electric eye.

“Hope they’re in there already. We’re at capacity.”

The huge door swung open.

“We’ll find each other.”

Priest offered his fist.

“Have a good one.”

Park gave him a bump, a gesture that never felt genuine to him, but one he’d learned to execute without a grimace.

“Always.”

He passed into an entryway of textured concrete contoured to look like living stone, the mouth of a tunnel hewed into the side of a mountain, the walls pulsing with projected images from Chasm Tide. Desert landscapes of the Wilting Lands, the Aerie’s Village, a pontoon city he’d never seen, it looked scavenged from the remains of a great twentieth-century seaport, and the Lair of Brralwarr, the great dragon worm rampaging on an overmatched band of adventurers.

These would be live player views from gamers currently in-world, snagged and sampled and projected here, stirred and flashing by, perspectives randomly distorted, colors filtered, resolution mixed and pixelated.

A giant ax blade cut down the wall, and he flinched, recognizing a trap from the Clockwork Labyrinth. He stopped, staring, wondering if he might catch a glimpse of Cipher Blue. It was always possible, watching someone else’s game, that you could see, in the distance or close at hand, the avatar of someone you knew, friend or enemy.

But she wasn’t there. And then the scene was gone, replaced by the Precipice Bacchanal, a ceaseless orgy of virtual flesh that endured with ever increasing frenzy in the circular city of Gyre, hemming the edge of the Chasm itself.

A new song was playing. One he didn’t know, one that vibrated through the floor and walls, beating at the doors at the opposite end of the hall, past the coat check and the cashier.

Heaped on the cashier’s table, trinkets of jewelry, packets and tubes of intoxicants, a stack of gift cards from high-end merchants, a few rare coins, a pair of ostrich cowboy boots, a samurai sword, a bowl full of car keys, each with a pink slip rubber-banded to it, several thick wads of cash money, and, on the floor, a fifteen-gallon gas can.

The cashier, a man who had discarded the robe that was meant to make him look like a cleric, wearing instead two-sizes-loose factory-distressed black jeans of recycled cotton held up by wide blue suspenders that draped thin bare shoulders, looked up at Park and pointed a fat plastic pistol.

Park held out his wrist, and the cashier aimed the RFID interrogator at it and pulled the trigger. There was a beep as the device read the signal the tiny silver chip on the bracelet broadcast in response to the interrogator’s prompt. The clerk looked at the code that appeared on an LCD screen on the plastic gun.

“Comp.”

Park offered his hand anyway, slipping the clerk a tiny Ziploc packed tight with gummy buds. He’d learned in the past months that even when he was comped into clubs it always paid to tip the staff. It engendered goodwill. Something a dealer could never have too much of. As it often led to early warnings of trouble. Rival dealers. Unhappy customers. Law.