Lev Rosen - Depth

Simone glanced at the clock. Barely eight. She told the touchdesk to call Caroline.

“Do you want to get something to eat?” Caroline asked after a ring.

“Sure,” Simone said.

“I’m still at work, if you’d believe it.”

“Well, I’m calling with a work-related question, so that’s fine by me.” Simone stared down at the grayed-out photos of The Blonde, still a small digital pile in the corner of the touchdesk.

“When I saw it was you calling, I picked up. I could have ignored it. If I knew it was work-related, I would have.”

“I’ll let you pick the restaurant.”

“Deal. Question?”

“One of the buildings deCostas wants to get into is the Hearst Tower.”

“Why does that sound familiar?” Simone could hear Caroline’s fingers tapping on her own desk, writing something else as she spoke.

“Owned by one Ned Sorenson.”

“Oh, that’s where Sorenson keeps his cult!” The sound of Caroline’s typing stopped for a moment, then restarted.

“I don’t think it’s a cult if it’s the majority.”

“It’s New York. He’s not the majority. We heathens are the majority.”

“Heathens?”

“Sorenson’s favorite word. He’s not a bad guy, aside from the religion.”

“So, any thoughts on getting into the Tower? I was thinking we could go as curious potential converts—”

“No. Just ask him.”

Simone stretched her legs out and put them up on the desk. “Really?”

“Tell him you’re deCostas’ personal assistant trying to set up an inspection to see the stairwell, see that the water is there. Drop my name, if you’d like. Don’t mention the detective thing. There isn’t going to be a dry stairwell, so Sorenson won’t mind you seeing it.”

“That easy?”

“He’s really an okay guy. You’ll probably get preached at a little. Tell him you’re an occasional churchgoer. He knows that’s the best they can hope for out here. Pick a church, though, he’ll ask you which one.”

“Great. I thought this one would be hard.”

“Not with me on your side.”

“Just don’t tell deCostas. I don’t want him figuring out he didn’t need me for this.”

“Fair deal. I’m putting on my jacket now. Meet me at Rosie’s in twenty?” Simone sighed. Rosie’s was a greasy diner Caroline loved and Simone tolerated. “I believe my information has earned me the right to a bloodstained meal of my choosing.”

“Fair enough. I could do with a burger.”

“See you in twenty.”

She went back to the front office and began getting her coat on as she called deCostas.

“Hello, Ms. Pierce,” deCostas purred.

“I got your message. I think I should be able to get us into the buildings tomorrow. I need to make some appointments for both of them, though, so I’ll send you the exact time once I’ve made them. Don’t be late.”

“Thank you, that’s very good news.”

“They’re both fairly conservative, so dress appropriately.”

“What is appropriately?”

There was a pause as Simone finished shrugging her coat on and considered his question.

“Don’t show too much cleavage,” she said and hung up.

ONCE A LARGE YACHT, probably of serious luxury, Rosie’s had been transformed into something approximating a nostalgic diner. The yacht was painted in green-and-white checks, which matched the plastic tablecloths inside, and a large neon sign hung over the sliding glass doors that worked as an entrance. On deck, there were some tables and chairs, but it was cool out, and most people were eating inside. It was a wide open space, with booths and servers who wore sailor hats. One of them recognized Simone and pointed her towards Caroline, already at a booth and halfway done with her mug of beer, sipping the rest through a straw.

Simone sat down, and Caroline regarded her with tired eyes.

“Rough day?” Simone asked with a half-smile.

“It started when some mainland yokel who’d won a decommissioned cruise ship in some auction sailed it into the city at about four this morning,” she said. She finished the rest of her beer, the straw sucking dryly at the bottom of her glass. The server, with perfect timing, put down another in front of her, plus one for Simone, and a pair of menus. Simone glanced at hers but let Caroline continue. “He figured he was just going to anchor it in the city and start renting out rooms, like we’re a city of flotsam. Who does that?” Caroline put her mug down hard on the table, in emphasis, then immediately picked it up again and took a long drink. Simone smirked. Mainlanders tried setting up shop once every other month or so, as if they didn’t think New York was still a city, and they could just set up a boat, charge rent, and make a fortune. They didn’t realize they needed an anchor permit, leasing contracts, inspections, and all the stuff that went along with owning real estate in any other city.

“Four a.m.,” Caroline repeated. “I was paged to the office at ten after, got there at four thirty. After we dealt with him, and getting his boat back outside city limits where it belonged, and talking with all the residents whose homes his boat had rammed into, it was already six thirty, so I stayed. Then I had to deal with your boy, who I thought I was done with.” Caroline glared at Simone over the beer.

“My boy?”

“deCostas. He’s not being backed by just his university—apparently the EU, private investors, and some companies are funding part of it as well. He didn’t mention that. But he headed over to the City Archives when they opened at eight and tried to look at all the city building records. From forever.”

“And Tharp didn’t bond with him as one of his own?” The head archivist, Martin Tharp, was a knot of conspiracy theories, hometown pride, and xenophobia, all in a shape and demeanor most closely resembling a deflated balloon. He was the president of several organizations, including the New York Society of Underwater Cartographers—essentially a club of pearl divers like deCostas. He’d written papers on the plausibility of the pipeline in the society newsletter. He was, in Simone’s opinion, King of the Pearl Divers—a title only earned by a steadfast ability to speak so loudly that he could hear no one else. Which is probably why Caroline liked to keep him in the archives, where his combination of inflated ego and paranoia were kept at bay by the rows and rows of old papers and lack of people.

“No, the hatred of outsiders won. I’d sent him a message saying deCostas was legit, but good ol’ Tharp has decided that deCostas, being a foreigner and with backing from a foreign government, is probably doing research to sell information to evangelical terrorists back on the mainland who want to sink the city for good.” Caroline rolled her eyes and shook her head. Simone tried to hold it back but couldn’t help firing off a gunshot of laughter. That sounded about right for Tharp. Caroline sighed. “And I have some crap family stuff to take care of while my folks are out of town, as my father keeps reminding me.” Caroline put her forehead on the table and sighed again. Simone took the opportunity to read the menu and think about what she wanted to eat. “I know you’re reading the menu,” Caroline said into the table. “You should be empathizing with my pain.”

“I am,” Simone said. “But I’m also looking at the menu. I’m a multitasker.”

“If you were a real friend, you’d stroke my hair and tell me that my hard work will not go unappreciated.”

“Your hard work will not go unappreciated, and if I tried to touch your hair, you’d snap my fingers off. How about we order and then you can tell me more about your horrible day?”

Caroline lifted her head and gave a slight nod, and they spent a few minutes in silence considering their menus. They had beef here, but it was cheap, from the farm ships far uptown: big decommissioned ships where the cows would sleep below deck at night and then come up during the day, lowing at each other across the deck. Sometimes Simone liked to go watch the cows, who stared back at her and the city off the side of their boats, chewing their kelp, its long strands falling from their mouths like a MouthFoamer’s saliva. There was something calming about them and their vacant gaze at the city, as if they had accepted their lot, and could accept yours, too. Simone thought they tasted okay but weren’t nearly as good as the imported mainland stuff.