He sucked on his pc until it glowed and then waved it grandly towards Timmerman and the crowd. When I looked I noticed that the woman with the black ringed eyes had left. Harry said, “Quite a party.”
Alison said, “Indeed it is, Mr Astin.”
Smiling, with what he called his “toothy charm” Harry asked, “Are you a sister, Ms Birkett? Or just a tourist, like Ellen and me?”
With a somewhat thinner smile back she said, “Oh, I’m definitely a visitor and not a partaker. Though maybe a little more than a tourist. I seem to have attended quite a few of Mr Timmerman’s rallies lately.” Something about the comment, or the voice, sent a small shock through me.
Harry said, “So 1 gather the choir of angels has not sung to you?”
Alison’s smile opened wider. “No,” she said, “I’m afraid I haven’t sought the divine touch. And what about you? You’re not seizing your chance to gaze into paradise?”
Harry waved his cigarette. “I’m sure Ellen will tell you I have enough trouble seeing my own face in the mirror.”
None of us said anything for a moment, while behind me Timmerman seemed to be finishing his speech. Finally, Alison said, “You look wonderful, Ellen. How have you been?”
“Fine.”
“I’m really glad to hear that. It’s been almost ten years, hasn’t it?”
“Seven,” I said. Silence again. Neither of us was going to mention our last meeting when I marched into her office and demanded she show me how to deactivate the chips stuck in my body. I would take my chances, I told her. I didn’t want her or the SDA watching over me.
Harry said, “Well, I guess I better return to my work, such as it is.”
When Harry had left, Alison said, “I’m glad I ran into you, Ellen.”
“Are you?”
She ignored my rudeness. “May I buy you a cup of coffee? Now that I see you, I realize there’s something I would like to discuss with you.”
“Sure,” I said. As we left the park I glanced back at the remains of the rally. The woman was back, talking now to Timmerman who stood holding his helmet under his arm, like some ghost carrying his chopped-off head as he wanders the streets.
We didn’t say much as we walked. I asked about her practice and she said she’d been limiting it to private civil cases. She asked, “What sort of work did you pursue? Or do you mind my asking? I can withdraw the question.”
“Of course not,” I said. I considered lying to see how she’d react, but couldn’t think of anything fast enough. “I’m a graphic artist,” I said. “Advertising logos, political posters, sometimes even my own pictures.” She asked some questions about my work, about individual style and commercial demands, grades of materials, working to deadlines, how much was done by computer, copyright and trademark issues. They were reasonable questions, much better than my terse answers.
“What did you think of that shrine?” she asked. “The one in the park.”
I shrugged. “I assumed some homeless people made it.”
“That was my guess. I liked it. It seemed more creative than those huge expensive things put up in Central Park every summer.”
“Then it’s good you got to see it,” I said. “The Park Police’ll probably make them take it down after the rally.”
“Yes, of course. I wonder,” she said. “I wonder if it helps them. The homeless people, I mean. I wonder if their devotion to Alexander Timmerman helps them.”
“Well,” I said, “His Benevolent Friends certainly seem to make them feel happy. At least while they’re around.”
“Yes. Yes, you got that impression, didn’t you?”
We went to the Rogue Elephant, one of those East Village coffee shops in what used to be basement apartments, where everything is brown walls, wooden tables, wrought-iron chairs, loud music, and lots of people talking about texts, landlords, relationships and recent sessions with their inner healers. We sat down at the back, next to a board with hooks for keys to the toilets.
When I’d ordered cappuccino and Alison had ordered mint tea, she said to me, “I really am glad to see you.” I wanted to say, “Then isn’t this your lucky day?” but managed to stop myself. She said, “You look so much like yourself, Ellen. I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but I can’t think of how else to put it.”
“And you hardly look a day older yourself,” I said, and wished I hadn’t.
Our drinks came. We reached into the bowl of Founder’s Dust next to the sugar and chemical sweeteners, and sprinkled a few grains over the mugs. Having transformed the liquids from dead pieces of plant soaked in water into food, we each said a silent sanctification before we lifted them to our mouths. My sanctification was quite simple really. Something like, “Get me through this without screaming or crying. Please.”
After I’d sipped my coffee I leaned back and said, “So how did you find me, Alison? Credit checks? Tapping into Sacred Revenue Service computer files? Or did you have detectives triangulating reports of my whereabouts?”
She smiled. “Much simpler, I’m afraid. It was the chip. Not mine, the SDA’s. I know you deactivated both of them, but all SDA chips give off a lifelong tracer signal on the original frequency.”
Sonofabitch, I thought to myself. Just let your government get its claws on you. I wondered if the Speaker had picked the signal up on a scanner. I said, “Leave it to our guardians never to pass up an opportunity.”
“Precisely,” Alison Birkett said, and smiled at me.
I knew I should have been angry that she’d played a game on me, stage-managing our coincidental meeting. But somehow, I just felt, well, proud that I’d seen through her. And that I knew she’d expected me to. As if she’d set the game up for both of us and invited me to join in with her. But if I felt that, I certainly wasn’t going to let her know that I did.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, and grabbed the key to the ladies’ room from above my head. When I got inside the tiny cracked cubicle I took a deep breath, then squinted into the foggy chipped mirror. Do you ever find yourself wanting to impress someone and thinking, “Why do I care?” This was Alison Birkett, the woman who’d promised to protect my cousin and then let the snakes get him. The woman who said we’d roast the SDA until they shrivelled up and then sold Paul out for guardian of goddamn elevators. Ms “Just leave it to me, Ms Pierson.” Ms “You and me together, Ellen, we’ll take on the whole United States Government and the Living World.” Shit.
I splashed some water on my hands and ran them through my hair, hoping the damp would spring some curl back to life. Damn beauty parlour, I thought. They’d promised me that the perm was not only all natural but charged with the energy of Mirando Glowwood, who’d been a hairdresser before his Awakening as a Founder.
I found a lipstick in my jeans pocket, drew a line on each cheek and rubbed them smooth, then did my lips, after which I blotted and rubbed most of it off, so the colour wouldn’t stand out too much. At least, I thought, I’ve still got my “strong nose and high energy cheekbones”, as my ex, Elinor, used to say.
Back at the table, Alison sat with hands folded on the tabletop, firm enough to keep the table from floating away should the Founders return and cancel gravity, like they did in the battle of New Chicago. She smiled at me, looking so happy to see me, as if we’d only drifted apart due to our busy schedules. Probably I was imagining it, but it looked to me like she’d combed her hair.
I sat down and sipped the cappuccino. Making my voice stern, I said, “So why did you want to see me?”
“There’s something going on,” she said. “Something with Timmerman. And it’s nasty.”