The Bridge Trilogy Part 110

Silencio looks at Fontaine.

"It's okay," Fontaine says, unwrapping a small sharp stick of wood and inserting it into the corner of his mouth, "you won't feel a thing."

Silencio wonders if the stick is like the black or the white, but Fontaine does not change. He stands there with the stick in his mouth, watching the thin dark man snip away Silencio's hair with the scissors. Silencio watches Fontaine, listens to the sound of the scissors, and to the new language in his head.

Zodiac Sea Wolf. Case very clean. Screw-down crown. Original bezel.

"Zodiac Sea Wolf," Silencio says.

"Man," says the thin dark man, "you deep."

74.

18. SELWYN TONG.

RYDELL had a theory about virtual real estate. The smaller and cheaper the physical site of a given operation, the bigger and cheesier the web site. According to this theory Selwyn F.X. Tong, notary public, of Kowloon, was probably operating out of a rolled-up newspaper.

Rydeil couldn't figure out a way to skip the approach segment, which was monolithic, vaguely Egyptian, and reminded him of what his buddy Sublett, a film buff, had called "corridor metaphysics." This was

- -one long-a.s.s corridor, and if it had been physical, you could've driven a

- -very large truck down it. There were baroque sconce lights, virtual scar-let wall-to-wall, and weird tacky texture mapping that tended to gold-

flecked marble.

Where had Laney found this guy?

Eventually Rydell did manage to kill the music, something vaguely cla.s.sical and swelling, but it

still seemed to take him three minutes to get to Selwyn F.X. Tong's doors. Which were tall, very tall, and mapped to resemble some genenc idea of tropical hardwood

Teak my a.s.s said Rydell

"Welcome," said a breathless, hyper-feminine voice, "to the offices of Selwyn FX Tong notary public'

The doors swung open Rydell figured that if he hadn t killed the ~ music, it would be peaking about now.

Virtually, the notary's office was about the size of an Olympic pool but scarce on detail. Rydeli

used the rocker-pad on his gla.s.ses to scoot

his POV right up to the desk, which was about the size of a pool table, and mapped in that same ramped-down wood look. There were a cou -- -pie of nondescript, metallic-looking objects on it and a few pieces of virtual paper.

"What's the 'F.X.' stand for?" Rydell asked. - Francis Xavier said Tong who presented as a sort of deadpan car toon of a small Chinese man in a

white s.h.i.+rt black tie black suit His

A.

75.

black hair and the black suit were mapped in the same texture, a weird effect and one Rydell took to be unintentional.

"1 thought you might be in video" Rydell said, "like it's a nickname: FX, 'effects,' right?"

"I am Catholic," Tong said, his tone neutral.

"No offense," Rydell said.

"None taken," said Tong, his plastic-looking face as s.h.i.+ny as his plastic-looking eyes.

You always forgot, Rydell reflected, just how bad this stuff could look if it hadn't been handled

right.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Rydeil?"

"Laney didn't tell you?"

"Laney?"

"Cohn," Rydell said. "s.p.a.ce. Laney."

"And . . . ?"

"Six," Rydell said. "Zero. Four. Two."

Tong's plastic-looking eyes narrowed.

"Berry."

Tong pursed his lips. Behind him, through a broad window, at a different rate of resolution,

Rydell could see the skyline of Hong Kong.

"Berry" Rydell repeated.

"Thank you, Mr. Rydell," the notary said. "My client has authorized me to give you this seven- digit identification number." A gold fountain pen appeared in Tong's right hand like a continuity error in a student film. It was a very large pen, elaborately mapped with swirling dragons, their scales in higher resolution than anything else in the site. Probably a gift, Rydell decided. Tong wrote the seven digits on one of the sheets of virtual paper, then reversed it on the desktop so that Rydell could read it. The pen had vanished, as unnaturally as it had appeared. "'Please don't repeat this number aloud," Tong said.

Why not?"

"Issues of encryption," Tong said obscurely. "You have as long as you like to memorize the number."

Rydell looked at the seven digits and began to work out a mnemonic. He finally arrived at one based on his birthday, the number of states when he was born, his father's age when he'd died, and a mental image of two cans of 7- Up. When he was certain that he'd be able to recall the number, he looked up at Tong. "Where do I go to get the credit chip?"

"Any automated teller. You have photo identification?"

"Yes," Rydell said. "Then we are finished." "One thing," Rydell said. "What is that?"

"Tell me how I get out of here without having to go back down that corridor of yours. I just want a straight exit, right?"

Tong regarded him blandly. "Click on my face."

Rydell did, using the rocker-pad to summon a cursor shaped like a neon green cartoon hand, pointing. 'Thanks," he said, as Tong's office folded.

He was in the corridor, facing back the way he had come. "d.a.m.n," Rydell said.

The music began. He worked the rocker-pad, trying to remember how he'd killed it before. He wanted to get a GPS fix on the nearest ATM, though, so he didn't unplug the gla.s.ses.

He clicked for the end of the corridor.