Jack O'Connell - Wireless

Hannah lifts her eyebrows, adamant. “I think the point is, Iguaran, Dr. Cheng is still very much in the picture.”

“If you truly believe that, you’re not fit to walk Lenore’s streets, are you?”

Hannah hesitates at the mention of the name, then comes back with, “They’re not Lenore’s streets anymore, are they?”

Iguaran slaps his thigh again as if he’s scored a point. “Exactly, Detective Shaw. My point exactly. They’re open streets at the moment. The Park is wide open. There’s a window right now. A time frame when moves can be made, the system retooled. Cortez was one player in a vast and constantly evolving machine. He had his skills, a very distinct style, but in crucial ways he was ill equipped.”

“My reading,” Hannah interrupts, “is that Cortez left the Park of his own volition.”

Iguaran waves a hand, concedes the point. “Whatever. He is gone. I am here—”

“Along with Dr. Cheng and Uncle Chak and Sylvain the Haitian and Peker the Turk and—”

Iguaran comes forward on the couch, clearly annoyed. “But I know the market. I understand the mind of the customer. The product, the service, they’re immaterial. The customer wants the bells and the whistles to be continually louder and longer-lasting. And he wants delivery now. Always now. Immediately is not soon enough. I understand distribution, division of territories, the commission incentive. I understand management. The fragility of the carrot and the stick. When to prune and weed and when to overlook the marbling of fat. I understand the nuances of postindustrial commerce, Detective. I understand the polysystem itself. Do you know why, Detective?”

“I think I’m about to be told.”

Iguaran settles back down and starts to tap lightly at the plastic tubing running into his arm. “Because I know, to the core of my brain I know, that there is an animal in the human heart. In every single throbbing heart on this planet, there is a perpetually hungry creature that’s motivated by the most primal of instincts. And that beast, Detective, is never satiated.”

There’s a second of silence and then Hannah says, “You’re a real visionary, Iggy.”

Iguaran crosses his legs. “The coming months will show you the truth.”

“I’m always looking to be educated.”

Hannah can tell he’s not completely sure how to play her. He wants an ally, but he needs a certain level of respect at this crucial stage. He’s calculating how much to push and how much to take. He’s instinctive, like Cortez and like Dr. Cheng. Like all the neighborhood mayors. But he’s also rabidly ambitious. If Cortez didn’t want to rule the Park enough, it’s possible Iguaran wants it too much.

He runs a tongue around his lips, then says, “You mock me, Detective Shaw. But we’re already hooking into our resources. We’re tying into monetary funds and banking networks that transcend ideas of history. Of ideology. There is no more good versus evil, Detective. There is only the connected versus the unconnected. And this is why I’ll never understand you or your predecessor. You jokingly call me a visionary. But you appear to be a blind woman. You are a mystery, Detective. You are intelligent. You are strong. You appear to be realistic. Why do you willfully choose to remain on the losing side? It simply makes no sense.”

Hannah approaches and sits down next to Iguaran on the couch, clearly annoying Ursula, who glares and tugs down on the hem of the leather bra.

“I’m kind of a genetic mutant,” Hannah says. “Just one of those freaks that screw up all the stats.”

Iguaran gives a small laugh that echoes lightly, then he turns his attention to the movie as if some alarm has sounded and ended their meeting.

“But I’m not really the issue here, am I?” Hannah says, and stops for a long pause to show her change of tone and attitude. The introductions are over and it’s time to get down to some understanding. “Let’s assume I’ve looked over the recent events in Bangkok and let’s assume that basically, you and I concur on most of the major conclusions. Cortez is not coming home. Dr. Cheng does not have the leash on his people the way he once did. The Irish and the Jews and the Italians have gentrified themselves so they’ve all got at least one foot in the mainstream. And the rest, the newcomers, the Jamaicans and the Haitians and the Turks and the rest — they don’t yet have the numbers or the experience or the organization.”

Iguaran continues to stare out at the movie, but he says, “I’m listening.”

“Look, Iguaran,” she says, “both you and I know things are about to happen. There was a balance for a long time down here. You people ran Latino Town and Cheng ran Little Asia and Reverend James took the Projects and everything north. Little pockets of upstarts came and went but the disputes were always worked out before business could be damaged. Okay, fine. But now it’s gone. The old order is running down. Contrary to what you might think, I’m not blind. And I think you and I are both looking for a new balance. I’m saying the two of us have some mutual goals.”

Finally, he looks back at her and in a bland voice says, “You’re saying we’re both pragmatists …”

She stares at his eyes. “And I’m saying we both know there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

Iguaran gives away a smile and glances over his shoulder at Nabo, as if he wants his son to pay close attention to a lesson in progress. He says, “Very true. That’s the only belief allowed in this part of town. We’re both devotees of the barter system.”

“I’m looking for some information.”

Iguaran waits a long beat, then begins to nod his head slightly and in a much lower voice says, “The priest’s murder.”

“What do you know?”

“I know my people had nothing to do with it. I hope we can agree on this point. We had no quarrel with Father Todorov. We’re Catholics, for God’s sake. And even if, for some hidden reason, we did have a grudge against the priest, now wouldn’t be the time for a move. Would it, Detective?”

Hannah sighs and turns to look at the movie. After a minute she turns back and says, “I don’t think the Popes did it. But I think it’s possible they could find out who did. If you asked them to.”

Now Iguaran fights a smile. “We may be able to ask around. Look for any new faces. Check into any deviant behavior …”

He lets his words drift off and Hannah says, “I’m prepared to offer some future concessions.”

“Give me twelve hours, my friend. If there’s anything worth knowing, I’ll have it by then.” He gives an abrupt nod, turns to Ursula, and snaps, “ Quito la aguja .”

And it’s clear to Hannah that their meeting has adjourned. She turns awkwardly and heads for the stairs, glancing at Nosferatu as she walks. A young man in period dress is reading from an oversized book. Hannah knows the book is the log of the captain of the Demeter , the ship that brings Dracula to England. The captain’s entry flashes up on the bricks:

18 May 1838

Passed Gibraltar — Panic on board

Three men dead already — mate out of his mind

Rats in the hold — I fear the plague

Up in the office loft, she takes one last look down at Iguaran. It’s as if she’s waiting for a feeling to hit her, something comforting but without a name, some corollary to instinct that could assure her that a year down the road she’ll have formed a delicate accommodation with this Colombian patriarch, a well-tuned give-and-take that would allow them both not only crucial information but also a margin of ease where they could share loose counsel.

The desire bothers her because it feels like a betrayal of Dr. Cheng. Because it’s a coded way of acknowledging or even affirming the thought that maybe Cheng won’t be around in six months. And that maybe it’s time to start forming new relationships.