You crazy, crazy motherfucker Karen Mendelsohn kept saying, her eyes swollen up like shed walked through a swarm of hornets. She and Chevette had both caught the edges of that pepper-spray, and Sublett was so worried about the residue that hed gone into a closet in Karens bedroom and wouldnt come out. You crazy, outrageous motherfucker. Do you know what youve done?
Rydell just sat there, in one of her white Retro Aggressive armchairs, listening to those helicopters yelling outside. Later on, when it all came out, theyd find out that the Republic of Desire had set Warbaby and them up as these bomb-building mercenaries working for the Sonoran Separatist Front, with enough high explosives stored in Karens place to blow that nipple off the tit and clear to Malibu. And theyd also worked in this hostage-taking scenario, to guarantee the SWAT guys made a soft entry, if they had to. But when the real live Counterterrorism Squad got in there, it wouldve been pretty hairy, at least if Karen hadnt been a lawyer for Cops in Trouble. Those were some angry cops, and getting angrier, at first, but then Pursleys people seemed to have their ways to calm them down.
But the funny thing was, they, the LAPD, never would, ever, admit to it that anybody had hacked the Death Star. They kept saying it had been phoned in. And they stuck to that, too; it was so important to them, evidently, that they were willing, finally, to let a lot of the rest of it just go.
But when he was sitting there, listening to Karen, and gradually getting the idea that, yeah, he was the kind of crazy motherfucker she liked, he kept thinking about Nightmare Folk Art, and whatever that womans name was, over there, and hoping she was coping okay, because God-eater had needed an L.A. number to stick into his fake data-packet, a number where the tip-off was supposed to have come from. And Rydell hadnt wanted to give them Kevins number, and then hed found the Nightmare number in his wallet, on part of a People cover, so hed given God-eater that.
And then Chevette came over, with her face all swollen from the capsicum, and asked him if it was working or were they totally fucked? And he said it was, and they werent, and then the cops came in and it wasnt okay, but then Aaron Pursley turned up with about as many other lawyers as there were cops, and then Wellington Ma, in a navy blazer with gold buttons.
So Rydell finally got to meet him.
Always a pleasure to meet a client in person Wellington Ma said, shaking his hand.
Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ma Rydell said.
I wont ask you what you did to my voice-mail Wellington Ma said, but I hope you wont do it again. Your story, though, is fascinating.
Rydell remembered God-eater and that fifty thousand, and hoped Ma and Karen and them werent going to be pissed about that. But he didnt think so, because Aaron Pursley had already said, twice, how it was going to be bigger than the Pookey Bear thing, and Karen kept saying how telegenic Chevette was, and about the youth angle, and how Chrome Koran would fall all over themselves to do the music.
And Wellington Ma had signed up Chevette, and Sublett, too, but hed had to pass the papers back into that closet because Sublett still wouldnt come out.
Rydell could tell from what Karen said that Chevette had told her pretty much the whole story while she and Sublett had kept her there, and kept her from hitting any IntenSecure panic-buttons. And Karen, evidently, knew all about those VL glasses and how to get them to play things back, so shed spent most of the time doing that, and now she knew all about Sunflower or whatever it was called. And she kept telling Pursley that there was a dynamite angle here because they could implicate Cody fucking Harwood, if they played their cards right, and was he ever due for it, the bastard.
Rydell hadnt ever even had a chance to see that stuff, on the glasses.
Mr. Pursley? Rydell kind of edged over to him.
Yes, Berry?
What happens now?
Well Pursley said, tugging at the skin beneath his nose, you and your two friends here are about to be arrested and taken into custody.
We are?
Pursley looked at his big gold watch. It was set with diamonds around the dial, and had a big lump of turquoise on either side. In about five minutes. Were arranging to have the first press-conference around six. That suit you, or would you rather eat first? We can have the caterers bring you something in.
But were being arrested.
Bail, Berry. Youve heard of bail? Youll all be out tomorrow morning. Pursley beamed at him.
Are we going to be okay, Mr. Pursley?
Berry Pursley said, youre in trouble, son. A cop. And an honest one. In trouble. In deep, spectacular, and, please, I have to say this, clearly heroic shit. He clapped Rydell on the shoulder. Cops in Trouble is here for you, boy, and, let me assure you, we are all of us going to make out just fine on this.
Chevette said jail sounded just fine to her, but please could she call somebody in San Francisco named Fontaine?
You can call anybody you want, honey Karen said, dabbing at Chevettes eyes with a tissue. Theyll record it all, but well get a copy, too. What was the name of your friend, the black man, the one who was shot?
Sammy Sal Chevette said.
Karen looked at Pursley. Wed better get Jackson Gale she said. Rydell wondered what for, because Jackson Gale was this new young black guy who acted in made-for-tv movies.
Then Chevette came over and hugged him, all of her pressing up against him, and just sort of looking up at him from under that crazy-ass haircut. And he liked that, even if her eyes were all red and her nose was running.
On Saturday, the fifteenth of November, the morning after his fourth night with Skinner, Yamazaki, wearing an enormous, cape-like plaid jacket, much mended and smelling of candle-grease, descended in the yellow lift to do business with the dealers in artifacts. He brought with him a cardboard carton containing several large fragments of petrified wood, the left antler of a buck deer, fifteen compact discs, a Victorian promotional novelty in the shape of a fluted china mug, embossed with the letters OXO, and a damp-swollen copy of The Columbia Literary History of the United States.
The sellers were laying out their goods, the morning iron-gray and clammy, and he was grateful for the borrowed jacket, its pockets silted with ancient sawdust and tiny, nameless bits of hardware. He had been curious about the correct manner in which to approach them, but they took the initiative, clustering around him, Skinners name on their lips.
The petrified wood brought the best price, then the mug, then eight of the compact discs. It all went, finally, except for the literary history, which was badly mildewed. He placed this, its blue boards warping in the salt air, atop a mound of trash. With the money folded in his hand, he went looking for the old woman who sold eggs. Also, they needed coffee.
He was in sight of the place that roasted and ground coffee when he saw Fontaine coming through the morning bustle, the collar of his long tweed coat turned up against the fog.
Hows the old man doing, Scooter?
39. Celebration on a gray day
He asks more frequently after the girl
Shes in jail down in L.A. Fontaine said.
Jail?
Out on bail this morning, or thats what she said last night. I was on my way over to bring you this. He took a phone from his pocket and handed it to Yamazaki. She has that number. Just dont go making too many calls home, you hear?
Home?
Japan.
Yamazaki blinked. No. I understand
I dont know what shes been up to since that damned storm hit, but Ive been too busy to bother thinking about it. We got the power back but Ive still got an injury case nobodys bothered to claim yet. Fished him out of what was left of somebodys greenhouse, Wednesday morning. Sort of down under your place, there, actually. Dont know if he hit his head or what, but he just keeps coming around a little, then fading off. Vital signs okay, no broken bones. Got a burn along his side could be from a bullet, some kind of hot-shoe load