William Gibson - Virtual Light

“Won’t have this number” she said. “It’s one of Codes’s phones. I took it off the table when the lights went out.”

“Thought you said you didn’t just steal things.”

“Well” she said, “if Codes had it, it’s stolen already. Codes trades ’em off people in the city, then Lowell gets somebody to tumble ’em, change the numbers.” She tapped the pad, held the little phone to her ear. “Dead” she said, shrugging.

“Here” Rydell said, putting the glasses down on his lap and taking the phone. “Maybe it got wet, or the battery’s knocked loose. What’s old Codes trade for these, anyway?” He ran his thumbnail around the back of the phone, looking for the place whtre you could pry it open.

“Well” she said, “stuff.”

He popped the case. Saw a tightly rolled mini-Ziploc wedged in there beside the battery. It had pushed the contacts out of alignment. He took it out and unrolled it. “Stuff?”

“Uh-huh.”

“This type of stuff.”

“Uh-huh.”

He looked at her. “If this is 4-Thiobuscaline, it’s a controlled substance.”

She looked at the bag of grayish powder, then at him. “But you aren’t a cop anymore.”

“You don’t do this stuff, do you?”

“No. Well, once or twice. Lowell did, sometimes.”

“Well, just don’t do any around me, because I’ve seen what it does. Nice normal people do a couple of hits of this, they go snake-shit crazy.” He tapped the bag. “Enough in this to get half a dozen people fucked up like you wouldn’t believe.” He handed it to her and picked up the phone, trying to get the battery back where it belonged.

“I’d believe it” she said. “I saw what it did to Lowell…”

“Dial tone” he said. “Who you want to call?”

Thought about it, then she took the phone and flipped it shut. “Guess there isn’t anybody.”

“That old man have a phone?”

“No” she sad, and her shoulders hunched. “I’m scared they killed him, too. ’Cause of me…”

Rydell couldn’t think of anything to say to that. He was too tired to flick the remote. Some guy’s arm with a furled Confederate flag on it. Just like home. He looked at her. She sure didn’t look anywhere near as tired as he was. That could just be being young, he thought. He sure hoped she wasn’t on any ice or dancer or anything. Maybe she was in some kind of shock, still. Said this Sammy had been killed, two others she was worried about. Evidently she’d known the guy plowed in Svobodov on that bicycle, but she didn’t know yet that he’d been shot. Funny what you miss seeing in a fight. Well, he didn’t see any reason to tell her, not right now.

“I’ll try Fontaine” she said, opening the phone again.

“Who?”

“He does Skinner’s electricity and stuff.” She dialled a number, put the phone to her ear.

His eyes closed and his head hit the back of the couch so hard it almost woke him up.

“Smells like piss” Skinner said, accusingly, waking Yamazaki from a dream in which he stood beside J.D. Shapely on a great dark plane, before a black and endless wall inscribed with the names of the dead.

Yamazaki raised his head from the table. The room in darkness. Light through the church window.

“What are you doing here, Scooter?”

Yamazaki’s buttocks and lower back ached. “The storm” he said, still half in his dream.

“What storm? Where’s the girl?”

“Gone” Yamazaki said. “Don’t you remember? Loveless?”

“What are you talking about?” Skinner struggled up on one elbow, kicking off the blankets and the sleeping-bag back, his gray-stubbled face twisted with disgust. “Need a bath. Dry clothes.”

“Loveless. He found me in a bar. He made me bring him here. I think he must have followed me, earlier, when I left you—”

“Sure. Shut up, Scooter, okay?”

Yamazaki closed his mouth.

“Now we need a bunch of water. Hot. First for coffee, then some so I can wash off. You know how to work a Coleman stove?”

“A what?”

“Green thing over there, red tank on the front. You go jiggle that tank off, I’ll tell you how to pump it up.”

Yamazaki stood up, wincing at the pain in his back, and stumbled toward the green-painted metal box Skinner was pointing at.

“Gone off fucking that no-ass greaseball boyfriend of hers again. Useless, Scooter…”

He stood on Skinner’s roof, pantlegs flapping in a breeze that gave no hint of last night’s storm, looking out at the city washed in a strange iron light, shreds of his dream still circling dimly… Shapely had spoken to him, his voice the voice of the young Elvis Presley. He said that he had forgiven his killers.

Yamazaki stared at Transamerica’s upright thorn, bandaged with the brace they’d applied after the Little Grande, half-hearing the dreamed voice. They just didn’t know any better, Scooter.

Skinner cursing, below, as he sponged himself with water Yamazaki had warmed on the Coleman stove.

Yamazaki thought of his thesis advisor in Osaka.

“I don’t care” Yamasaki said, in English, San Francisco his witness.

The whole city was a Thomasson. Perhaps America itself was a Thomasson.

How could they understand this in Osaka, in Tokyo?

“Yo! On the roof!” someone called.

Yamazaki turned, saw a thin black man atop the tangle of girders that braced the upper end of Skinner’s lift. He wore a thick tweed overcoat and a crocheted cap.

“You okay up there? How ’bout Skinner?”

Yamazaki hesitated, remembering Loveless. If Skinner or the girl had enemies, how could he recognize them?

“Name’s Fontaine” the man said. “Chevette called me, told me to get over here and see if Skinner got through the blow all right. I take care of the wiring tip here, make sure his lift’s running and all.”

“He’s bathing now” Yamazaki said. “In the storm, he became… confused. He doesn’t seem to remember.”

“Have some power for you in about another half an hour” the man said. “Wish I could say the same for over my end. Lost four transformers. Got us five dead bodies, twenty injured that I know of. Skinner got coffee on?”

“Yes” Yamazaki said.

“Do with a cup about now.”

“Yes, please” Yamazaki said, and bowed. The black man smiled. Yamazaki scrambled down through the hatch. “Skinner-san! A man named Fontaine, he is your friend?”

Skinner was struggling into yellowed thermal underwear. “Useless bastard. Still don’t have any power…”

Yamazaki unlatched the hatch in the floor and hauled it open. Fontaine eventually appeared at the bottom of the ladder, a battered canvas tool-bag in either hand. Putting one down and slinging the other over his shoulder, he began to climb.

Yamazaki poured the remaining coffee into the cleanest cup.

“Fuel-cell’s buggered” Skinner said, as Fontaine pushed his bag ahead of him, through the opening. Skinner was layered now in at least three threadbare flannel shirts, their tails pushed unevenly into the waistband of an ancient pair of woolen Army trousers.

“We’re working on it, boss” Fontaine said, standing up and smoothing his overcoat. “Had us a big old storm here.”

“What Scooter says” Skinner said.

“Well, he’s not shittin’ you, Skinner. Thanks.” Fontaine accepted the steaming cup of black coffee and blew on it. He looked at Yamazaki. “Chevette said she might not get back here for a while. Know anything about that?”

Yamazaki looked at Skinner.

“Useless” Skinner said. “Gone off with that shithead again.”

“Didn’t say anything about that” Fontaine said. “Didn’t say much at all. But if she’s not going to be around, you’re going to need somebody take care of things for you.”