“What do you remember of it? Did you cross any bridges, go through tunnels?”
“We crossed a big bridge over a river.” He shook his head at the memory. “So many buildings, so tall.”
Pendergast immediately picked up a house phone. “Charles? The cab that brought the boy. I need its hack number. Go through the building’s security videos and get it to me right away. Thank you.” He hung up, turned back to the boy lying on the bed, looking so lost, so confused, so vulnerable.
“Let me see if I understand what you’ve told me,” he said. “You and your brother are twins, born and raised in Brazil. You are apparently part of some program. As part of this, he got all the desirable qualities, the good genetic material, somehow leaving the unwanted material to you, in a manner of speaking. Is that it?”
“They say we are dumping ground. Garbage.”
“And you each get a number. You’re Forty-Seven.”
“Forty-Seven.”
“So there must be a lot of you.”
The youth nodded. “Could you open curtains? Please? I want to see light.”
Pendergast went to the window and slid open the curtains, letting in the long yellow light of early winter, coming in low over the slate roofs, dormers, gables, and turrets of the famous apartment building. The boy turned gratefully toward the light, which fell on his pallid face.
In a gentle voice, Pendergast spoke. “The first thing is that you should have a name. A real name.”
“I do not know what to call myself.”
“Then I will name you. How do you like… Tristram?”
“I like it fine. And shall call you… Father?”
“Yes,” said Pendergast. “Yes. Please do call me…” He struggled to get the word out. “Father.”
31
CORRIE STOOD AT THE FAR END OF THE PARKING LOT OF the Joe Ricco Chevrolet-Cadillac dealership, rows of new cars and trucks glittering in the chilly sunlight. Times were tough, especially in the Allentown area, and she had just been given the bum’s rush, hustled out the door of the dealership as soon as they realized she was a job seeker, not a buyer.
She was mightily annoyed. She had had her hair done at a local salon. It had been hell getting the purple out, and in the end they’d had to dye it black and cut it shoulder length, with a little flip. It gave her a 1950s retro look that she sort of liked, but it was still way too conservative for her taste. A tailored gray suit, low pumps, and a touch of makeup completed the transformation of Corrie the Goth into Corrie the Yuppie. It had made quite a dent in Pendergast’s three thousand.
Fat lot of good it had done her.
In retrospect, she realized it was unrealistic to think she could get a job selling cars when she had no experience beyond a year of college. She should have applied for a position as a clerk-assistant or janitor or something. Now it was too late. She would have to figure out some other way to get in close to the dealership, find out what was really going on.
As she was standing there, wondering what to do next, a voice behind her said: “Excuse me?”
She turned to see an older couple, well dressed, friendly.
“Yes?”
“Are you available to help us?”
She looked around and was about to say that she didn’t work there, but something stopped her. Instead, she said: “Of course.” She bestowed on them a dazzling smile and offered her hand. “I’m Corrie.”
“Sue and Chuck Hesse,” said the man, shaking her hand.
She wasn’t sure where this was going, but what the heck?
“Welcome to Joe Ricco Chevy-Cadillac,” said Corrie.
“I’ve just retired from the university and we’re looking for something comfortable and elegant,” the man said.
She could tell right away that the professor was going to do all the talking—but she suspected, looking at the quiet, alert face of the wife, that the decision was going to be hers. They seemed like a nice couple. The man was even wearing a bow tie, which Corrie had always considered a sign of friendliness. She had the stirrings of an idea.
The only problem was that she knew nothing whatsoever about cars.
“We’ve been looking at sedans,” said the man, “trying to decide between the CTS Sport and the CTS-V. Could you help us do a comparison?”
Uh-oh. Corrie offered another smile, and leaned toward them. “Um, I have a confession to make.”
The man raised his bushy eyebrows.
“You’re my first customers. And… well, I don’t believe I’m very clear on the differences myself.”
“Oh, dear…” said the man, looking around. “Is there another salesperson we could work with?”
“Chuck,” said the wife in a stage whisper, “didn’t you hear her? We’re her first customers. You can’t do that!”
God bless you, thought Corrie.
“Oh, yes. I didn’t think of that. No offense intended.” The professor became flustered in an endearing way.
“I’ll do my best,” said Corrie. “I really need the experience. And I could sure use the sale. I’ve been here three days on trial so far, and…” She let her voice trail off. “I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep me.”
“I understand,” said the man. “Of course, we’re not going to buy anything today.”
“Maybe you could show me where the sedans are?” Corrie asked. “We could look at them—and learn—together.”
“They’re this way.” The ex-professor immediately took charge, leading them across the capacious lot to several rows of gleaming, handsome four-door cars in various colors. He seemed to know the lot quite well. He paused at one in red, laid his hand on it.
“Do you like that one?” Corrie said. She felt like an idiot but didn’t know what else to say.
“It’s not bad.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, what, ah, do you like about it? I need to learn these things if I’m going to sell them.”
The man launched into an enthusiastic recounting of its features and handling, mentioning a “laudable” review he’d read in the New York Times, or maybe it was in USA Today. He spoke of the transformation of GM from a dinosaur into an innovative company, competing with Toyota and Honda on their own turf, a real American success story. Their quality was now second to none. As Corrie listened intently, giving him an encouraging smile, he gave her various selling tips, ticking them off on his fingers. Corrie had always looked at Cadillacs as being fuddy-duddy cars for oldsters, but apparently they were now a hot item.
“So,” Corrie asked, when the man paused, “why’s the V sedan almost twice as much as the Sport? I mean, I don’t see a lot of difference.”
Oh, but there was a big difference, the man said, his bow tie wagging. And he proceeded to enumerate the differences with professorial clarity, Corrie again hanging on to every word. She was amazed at how much research the man had done. But then again, she thought, he was a professor.
Twenty minutes later, Corrie led the couple into the main salesroom and looked around for the manager who had interviewed her—or, rather, had declined to interview her. And there he was, Diet Coke in hand, brown suit and all, talking to two other salespeople, laughing salaciously about something. They quieted down as she approached. The manager looked at her with squinty eyes but wisely didn’t say anything.
“I want to tell you,” boomed the professor, “that your new salesperson did a bang-up job selling us that red CTS-V sedan out there. Now, let’s talk turkey on the price and get this deal done!”
Corrie stood there, wondering just what the heck was going to happen now, but the manager was a cool customer. Without batting an eye, he gestured to one of the salespeople to get the paperwork started, then shook the couple’s hands, congratulating them on their taste and style, and praising Corrie for her fine work as if she actually were a salesperson.