He re-read the fax, walking down the corridor, and used the cardkey to open his door.
There was a shallow wicker basket on the bed, spread with white tissue and unfamiliar objects. On closer inspection, these proved to be his socks and underwear, freshly laundered and arranged in little paper holders embossed with the Elf Hat. He opened the narrow, mirrored closet door, activating a built-in light, and discovered his shirts arranged on hangers, including the blue button-downs Kathy Torrance had made fun of. They looked brand new. He touched one of the lightly starched cuffs. Stitch count, he said. He looked down at Rydells folded fax. He imagined Kathy Torrance headed straight for him, on an SST from Los Angeles. He discovered that he couldnt imagine her sleeping. Hed never seen her asleep and somehow it didnt seem like something shed willingly do. In the weird vibrationless quiet of supersonic flight, shed be staring at the gray blank of the window, or at the screen of her computer.
Thinking of him.
The screen behind him came on with a soft chime and he jumped, four inches, straight up. He turned and saw the BBC logo. Yamazakis second video.
He was a third of the way through it when the door chimed. Rez was strolling along a narrow trail in the jungle somewhere, wearing sun-bleached khakis and rope-soled sandals. He was singing something as he went, a wordless little melody, over and over, trying different tones and stresses. His bare chest shone with sweat, and when the open shirt swung aside youd catch a corner of his I Ching tattoo. He had a length of bamboo, and swung it as he walked, swatting at dangling vines. Laney had a sneaking suspicion that the wordless melody had subsequently turned into some global billion-seller, but he couldnt place it yet. The door chimed again.
He got up, crossed to the door, thumbed the speaker button. Yes?
Hello? A womans voice.
He touched the card-sized screen set into the doorframe and saw a dark-haired woman. Bangs. The tech from the appliance warehouse. He unlocked the door and opened it.
Yamazaki thinks we should talk, she said.
Laney saw that she was wearing a black suit with a narrow skirt, dark stockings.
Arent you supposed to be shopping for a van? He stepped back to let her in.
Got one, closing the door behind her. When the Lo/Rez machine decides to throw money at a problem, money will be thrown. Usually in the wrong direction. She looked at the screen, where Rez was still swinging along, swatting flies from his neck and chest, lost in composition. Homework?
Yamazaki.
Arleigh McCrae, she said, taking a card from a small black purse and handing it to him. Her name there, then four telephone numbers and two addresses, neither of them physical. Do you have a card, Mr. Laney?
Colin. No. I dont.
They can make them up for you at the desk. Everyone has a card here.
He put the card in his shirt pocket. Blackwell didnt give me one. Neither did Yamazaki.
Outside the Lo/Rez organization, I mean. Its like not having socks.
I have socks, Laney said, indicating the basket on the bed. Do you feel like watching a BBC documentary on Lo/Rez?
No.
I dont think I can turn it off. Hell know.
Try lowering the volume. Manually. She demonstrated.
A technician, Laney said.
With a van. And umpti-million yen worth of equipment that didnt seem to do much for you. She sat down in one of the rooms two small armchairs, crossing her legs.
Laney took the other chair. Not your fault. You got me in there just fine. But its not the kind of data I can work with.
Yamazaki told me what youre supposed to be able to do, she said. I didnt believe him.
Laney looked at her. I cant help you there. There were three smiling suns, like black woodblock prints, down the inside of her left calf.
Theyre woven into the stockings. Catalan.
Laney looked up. I hope youre not going to ask me to explain what it is people think they pay me to do, he said, because I cant. I dont know.
Dont worry, she said. I just work here. But what Im being paid to do, right now, is determine what it is we could give you that would allow you to do whatever it is that youre alleged to be able to do.
Laney looked at the screen. Concert footage now, and Rez was dancing, a microphone in his hand. Youve seen this video, right? Is he serious about that Sino-Celtic thing he was talking about in that interview?
You havent met him yet, have you?
No.
Its not the easiest thing, deciding what Rez is serious about.
But how can there be Sino-Celtic mysticism when the Chinese and the Celts dont have any shared history?
Because Rez himself is half Chinese and half Irish. And if theres one thing hes serious about
Yes?
Its Rez.
Laney stared glumly at the screen as the singer was replaced by a close-up of Los playing, his hands on the black-bodied guitar. Earlier, a venerable British guitarist in wonderful tweeds had opined as how they hadnt really expected the next Hendrix to emerge from Taiwanese Canto-pop, but then again they hadnt actually been expecting the first one, had they?
Yamazaki told me the story. What happened to you, Arleigh McCrae said. Up to a certain point.
Laney closed his eyes.
The show never aired, Laney. Out of Control dropped it. What happened?
Hed taken to having breakfast beside the Chateaus small oval pool, past the homely clapboard bungalows that Rydell said were a later addition. It was the one time of the day that felt like his own, or did until Rice Daniels arrived, which was usually toward the bottom of a three-cup pot of coffee, just prior to his eggs and bacon.
Daniels would cross the terra cotta to Laneys table with what could only be described as a spring in his step. Laney privately wished to ascribe this to drug-use, of which hed seen no evidence whatever, and indeed Danielss most potent public indulgence seemed to be multiple cups of decaf espresso taken with curls of lemon peel. He favored loosely woven beige suits and collarless shirts.
This particular morning, however, Daniels had not been alone, and Laney had detected a lack of temper in the accustomed spring; a certain jangled brittleness there, and the painful-hooking glasses seeming to grip his head even more tightly than usual. Beside him came a gray-haired man in a dark brown suit of Western cut, hawk-faced and wind-burnt, the blade of his impressive nose protruding from a huge black pair of sunglasses. He wore black alligator roping-boots and carried a dusty-looking briefcase of age-darkened tan cowhide, its handle mended with what Laney supposed had to be baling wire.
Laney, Rice Daniels had said, arriving at the table, this is Aaron Pursley.
Dont get up, son, Pursley said, though Laney hadnt thought to. Fellas just bringing you your breakfast. One of the Mongolian waiters was crossing with a tray, from the direction of the bungalows. Pursley put his battle-scarred briefcase down and took one of the white-painted metal chairs. The waiter served Laneys eggs. Laney signed for them, adding a 15-percent tip. Pursley was flipping through the contents of his case. He wore half a dozen heavy silver rings on the fingers of either hand, some of them studded with turquoise. Laney couldnt remember when hed last seen anyone carry around that much paper.
Youre the lawyer, Laney said. On television.
In the flesh as well, son. Pursley was on Cops in Trouble, and before that hed been famous for defending celebrity clients. Daniels hadnt taken a seat, and stood behind Pursley now with a hunched, uncharacteristic posture, hands in his trouser pockets. Here we are, Pursley said. He drew out a sheaf of blue paper. Dont let your eggs get cold.
Have a seat, Laney said to Daniels. Daniels winced behind his glasses.
Now, Pursley said, you were in a Federal Orphanage, in Gainesville, it says here, from age twelve to age seventeen.