Part 11 (2/2)

”The Asian honey she was with that day. I chatted her up. Her name was ...” he mused for a moment. ”Kyoko Kaneko.”

”You remember that?”

”I told you, man, I have a p.o.r.nographic memory.”

”I wonder if we can track her down.” I grabbed my laptop and popped it open-then popped it right back closed. As it had been in fibbie hands, I had no reason to believe it wasn't completely compromised, with a buried keystroke worm to track every move I made. ”We need a public terminal,” I said. ”What's open this time of night?”

Half an hour later, we were in a cyber cafe called Sunset Jackson, where, amid the Second Lifers, overseas Skypers and intellectual homeless, we searched for Kyoko Kaneko. The usual channels bore no fruit, nor did some of my more esoteric approaches-though I was reluctant to track too close to certain government databases for fear that Hines had stationed lookout bots, which I know sounds pretty farfetched, but by this point I was putting nothing past anyone. After endless permutations, combinations, alternate spellings, and graba.s.s guesses, I asked Vic if he was sure he had the name right. You'd think I had called his mother ugly or something. The offended dignity of a Mirplo notwithstanding, I was starting to think I was digging a hole in the wrong place, when suddenly I had a thought.

”Vic,” I asked, ”do you suppose this chick's an FOB?”

”FOB?”

”Fresh off the boat. First-generation American.”

”Could be,” said Vic. ”Her English wasn't too good.”

”As evidenced by the fact that she suffered a conversation with you.” Weirdly, this insult pleased Vic. He seemed to take it as a measure of apology accepted, and I honestly couldn't say he was wrong. It's hard to stay mad at a Mirplo. ”Okay, let's try a different approach.”

I pried open an INS database and got a hit on the first try: There was a Kyoko Kaneko with a student visa that let her attend film school at UCLA, and an address in an area that the real estate agents like to call ”Beverly Hills adjacent,” but really it's just L.A. I jotted down the address on the back of Hines's bank routing slip, the irony of which was not lost on me.

We still had a few minutes' credit left, and Vic wanted to surf p.o.r.n. I looked over my shoulder, where an African woman with toddler in arms was on a headset talking to, I guess, her husband back home. ”Yeah, let's not,” I said. Before Vic could protest, I had cleared my cache, closed the browser and logged off. Actually, the woman put me in mind of a phrase I'd heard long ago: luxury crisis. So much of what we go through around here, so many of the things that make us feel sorry for ourselves, are the artifacts of prosperity-say your BMW breaks down. Almost every mess you find yourself in would be an enviable mess to, say, the twelve-year-old st.i.tcher of your Honduran camisa camisa. It was something to think about-but later. Right now, my mess was my mess, and I'd do well to stick to the matter at hand.

Vic and I walked outside and stood together on the street. ”Vic,” I said, ”you know I can't give you that gun back.”

He nodded, and said solemnly, ”Trust can't be granted. Earned it must be.”

”What are you, now, f.u.c.king Yoda?”

We shared a laugh, and something lifted off me. Every since Allie Quinn had come into my life, I'd felt like a resistance fighter stranded alone behind enemy lines. Now at least I wasn't alone. A Mirplo's not much of an ally, but he's better than a sharp stick in the eye, which is a useful way to measure many things.

”I'm supposed to see Hines in the morning,” said Vic. ”What'll I tell him?”

”Tell him you lost it.”

Vic pursed his lips thoughtfully. ”Yeah,” he said, ”that sounds like something I'd do.”

He started away. ”Vic,” I said, and he turned back. ”I don't need to tell you what's at stake here.”

”Nah, the gun sort of spelled that out.”

”We're in this together now. If either of us f.u.c.ks up, we're both going down.”

He mused for a moment. ”Then try not to f.u.c.k up,” he said, and sloped off into the night.

don't be cool.

I went home and went to bed. Later, I had a dream. I was driving a 1959 Cadillac convertible across the Mojave Desert. Elvis Presley sat in the pa.s.senger seat, singing incorrect lyrics to his own songs. ”Don't be cool,” he crooned softly, ”to a heartless Jew.” went home and went to bed. Later, I had a dream. I was driving a 1959 Cadillac convertible across the Mojave Desert. Elvis Presley sat in the pa.s.senger seat, singing incorrect lyrics to his own songs. ”Don't be cool,” he crooned softly, ”to a heartless Jew.”

The car was gorgeous, the color of smoke, with fins that stretched to the heavens. The air suspension made the ride so smooth I thought I was flying. Then I glanced down (through, oddly, gla.s.s bottom floorboards) and realized that I was was flying, flas.h.i.+ng along a hundred feet off the desert floor. The King reached over and gave me a rea.s.suring pat on the knee. ”The rules don't confine,” he growled gently, ”they define. True genius works within form.” flying, flas.h.i.+ng along a hundred feet off the desert floor. The King reached over and gave me a rea.s.suring pat on the knee. ”The rules don't confine,” he growled gently, ”they define. True genius works within form.”

Before I could huh huh a huh, I was back in my bedroom, buried nose-down in a pillow that still smelled like Allie, which was strange, because I'd for certain changed the sheets. Then I realized that the thing that smelled like Allie a huh, I was back in my bedroom, buried nose-down in a pillow that still smelled like Allie, which was strange, because I'd for certain changed the sheets. Then I realized that the thing that smelled like Allie was was Allie, lying beside me in bed, propped up on one elbow, and watching me with eyes as big as a Walter Keane kitten's. Allie, lying beside me in bed, propped up on one elbow, and watching me with eyes as big as a Walter Keane kitten's.

”How'd you get in?” I asked. ”I know I locked the door.”

”Silly,” she said. ”I told you, I teleport.”

”What else do you do?”

”Thought you'd never ask.” She yanked back the covers and dove on my gear like a diabetic diving on a Dove bar.

This, alas, was a dream as well.

When I woke for real, I got my day moving fast. I wanted to be out of the house ahead of any unwelcome visitors. Climbing behind the wheel of my vintage Volvo, I headed west on Beverly Boulevard, and within half an hour was in Kyoko Kaneka's neighborhood. I parked down the street from her red adobe four-plex. Outfitting myself with some props from my trunk, including a clipboard, tie and jacket, zero-lens gla.s.ses, and sundry identifying doc.u.ments, I walked to her address and rapped on the door.

A shadow pa.s.sed over the peep hole, and I knew she was checking me out. ”Who is it?” a lilting voice asked.

”My name is Taft Hartley, ma'am” I said, in a civil servant's neutral tones. ”I'm with the county health department.”

”The landlord handles the-”

”Ma'am, it's not that kind of issue. I'm looking for ...” I flipped through some blank pages on the clipboard, then made eye contact with the peep hole. ”... an Allison Quinn.”

”You mean Allie?”

”I suppose so, ma'am. It's very important that I talk to her. Her health may be at risk.”

”Why are you looking here? She doesn't live here.” Interesting: I could almost hear an anymore anymore in her voice. in her voice.

”I see.” I sounded weary, disappointed. ”Ma'am, could I come in, please? I need to ask you some questions.”

”Can I see some ID?” I held up my credentials. Why people think a piece of paper makes you something you aren't, I'll never understand. After a moment, the door opened, and a barefoot j.a.panese girl let me into her immaculate apartment. I didn't really recognize her from the car show, and a.s.sumed that she wouldn't remember me, either. Apart from the getup I wore, just think of the thousands of people you meet whose faces never register. Unless you're a freak like Mirplo.

She told me her name. I repeated it, stumbling expressively over the p.r.o.nunciation. Then I said, ”Allison Quinn, ma'am-”

”Would you stop calling me ma'am, please? I'm no older than you.” Her English wasn't as bad as Mirplo's p.o.r.nographic memory made it out to be, but it sounded studied, like she'd been working hard to Americanize her persona. I'm just wondering: Is there not a little grifter in all of us?

”Sorry,” I said with a shrug. ”It's how they train us.” Once again I referred to my phantom notes. ”Anyway, she listed you as a character reference on an application to teach in the L.A. schools.” At that, Kyoko broke into a high giggle, her eyes s.h.i.+ning. ”Is something funny?” I asked.

”Allie teaching school. Tell the children to guard their lunch money.”

I looked at her blankly, then pushed on. ”She took a tuberculosis test. It's just routine, part of the application process, but it came back positive. We need to retest her, treat her if necessary, see if we can figure out where she got it. Do you know if she's been out of the country recently? Say in the past year or so?”

”She was always coming and going somewhere. She said she had international business. Truthfully, I think she was a hooker.”

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