The Bridge Trilogy Part 23

'Somebody'll get those,' she said.

'Hope so,' he said, 'hope they get 'em and go tcMars.' Then he did something in reverse with all four wheels and the Ford sort of jumped up and backward, into the street, some other car swerving past them all brakes and horn and the driver's mouth a black 0, and the part of her that was still a messenger sort of liked it. All the times they'd cut her off. 's.h.i.+t,' he sa:d, jamming the gear- thing around until he got what he needed and they took off.

The handcuff was rubbing on the rash where the red worm had been. 'You a cop?'

'No.'

'Security? Like from the hotel?'

'Uh-uh.'

'Well,' she said, 'what are you?'

Streetlight sliding across his face. Seemed like he was thinking about it. 'Up s.h.i.+t creek. Without a paddle.'

The first thing Rydell saw when he got out of the Patriot, in the alley off Haight Street, was a one-armed, one-legged man on a skateboard. This man lay on his stomach, on the board, and propelled himself along with a curious. .h.i.tching motion that reminded Rydell of the limbs of a gigged frog. He had his right arm and his left leg, which at least allowed for some kind of symmetry, but there was no foot on the leg. His face, as if by some weird osmosis, was the color of dirty concrete, and Rydell couldn't have said what race he was. His hair, if he had any, was covered by a black knit cap, and the rest of him was sheathed in a black, one-piece garment apparently st.i.tched from sections of heavy-duty rubber inner-tube. He looked up, as he hitched past Rydell, through puddles left by the storm, headed for the mouth of the alley, and said, or Rydell thought he said: 'You wanna talk to me? You wanna talk to me, you better shut your f.u.c.kin'

mouth...'

Rydell stood there, Samsonite dangling, and watched him go.

Then something rattled beside him. The hardware on Chevette Was.h.i.+ngton's leather jacket. 'Come on,' she said, 'don't wanna hang around back in here.'

'You see that?' Rydell asked, gesturing with his suitcase.

'You hang around back in here, you'll see worse than that,' she said.

Rydell looked back at the Patriot. He'd locked it and left the key under the driver's scat, because he hadn't wanted to

26 Colored people make it look too easy, but he'd forgotten about that back window. He'd never been in the position before of actively wanting a car to be stolen.

'You sure somebody'll take that?' he asked her.

'We don't get out of here, they'll take us with it.' She started walking. Rydell followed. There was stuff painted on the brick walls as high as anyone could reach, but it didn't look like any language he'd ever seen, except maybe the way they wrote cuss-words in a printed cartoon.

They'd just rounded the corner, onto the sidewalk, when Rydell heard the Patriot's engine start to rev. It gave him gooseb.u.mps, like something in a ghost story, because there hadn't been anybody back in there at all, and now he couldn't see the skateboard man anywhere.

'Look at the ground,' Chevette Was.h.i.+ngton said. 'Don't look up when they go by or they'll kill us...'

Rydell concentrated on the toes of his black SWATs. 'You hang out with car-thieves much?'

'Just walk. Don't talk. Don't look.'

He heard the Patriot wheel out of the alley and draw up beside them, pacing them. His toes were making little squelching noises, each time he took a step, and what if the last thing you knew before you died was just some pathetic discomfort like that, like your shoes were soaked and your socks were wet, and you weren't ever going to get to change them?

Rydell heard the Patriot take off, the driver fighting the unfamiliar American s.h.i.+ft-pattern. He started to look up.

'Don't,' she said.

'Those friends of yours or what?'

'Alley pirates, Lowell calls 'em.'

'Who's Lowell?'

'You saw him in l)issidents.'

'That bar?'

'Not a bar. A chill.'

'Serves alcohol,' Rydell said.

'97.

~A chill. Where you hang.'

"You" who? This Lowell, he hang there?' Yeah.'

You too?'

~No,' she said, angry.

'He your friend, Lowell? Your boyfriend?'

'You said you weren't a cop. You talk like one.'

'I'm not,' he said. 'You can ask 'em.'

'He's just somebody I used to know,' she said. 'Fine.'

She looked at the Samsonite. 'You got a gun or something, in there?'

'Dry socks. Underwear.'

She looked up at him. 'I don't get you.'

'Don't have to,' he said. 'We just walking, or you maybe know somewhere to go? Like off this street?'

'We want to look at some flash,' she said to the fat man. He had a couple of things through each nipple, looked like Yale locks. Kind of pulled him down, there, and Rydell just couldn't look at them. Had on some kind of baggy white pants with the crotch down about where the knees should've been, and this little blue velvet vest all embroidered with gold. He was big and soft and fat and covered with tattoos.

Rydell's uncle, the one who'd gone to Africa with the army and hadn't come back, had had a couple of tattoos. The best one went right across his back, this big swirly dragon with horns and sort of a goofy grin. He'd gotten that one in Korea, eight colors and it had all been done by a computer.

He'd told Rydell how the computer had mapped his back and showed him exactly what it was going to look like when it was done. Then he had to lie down on this table while this robot put the tattoo on. Rydell had imagined a robot kind of like a vacuumcleaner, but with twisty chrome arms had needles on the end. But his uncle said it was more like being fed through a dot- I 9~.

matrix printer, and he'd had to go back eight times, one time for each color. It was a great dragon, though, and lots brighter than the tattoos on his uncle's arms, which were American eagles and a Harley trademark. When his uncle worked out in the backyard with Rydell's set of Sears weights, Rydell would watch the dragon ripple.

This fat bald guy with the weights through his nipples had tattoos everywhere except his hands and his head. Looked like he was wearing a suit of them. They were all different, no American eagles or Harley trademarks either, and they sort of ran together. They made Rydell feel kind of dizzy, so he looked up at the walls, which were covered with more tattoos, like samples for you to pick from.

'You've been here before,' the man said.

'Yeah,' Chevette Was.h.i.+ngton said, 'with Lowell. You remember Lowell?'

The fat man shrugged.

'My friend and I,' she said, 'we wanna pick something out...'

'I haven't seen your friend before,' the fat man said, perfectly nice about it but Rydell could hear the question in his voice. He was looking at Rydell's suitcase.

'It's okay,' she said. 'He knows Lowell. He's a 'Land boy, too.'

'You bridge people,' the fat man said, like he liked bridge people. 'That storm was just terrible, wasn't it? I hope it didn't do you people too much damage ... We had a client last month brought in a wide-angle Cibachrome he wanted done as a back-piece. Your whole suspension span and everything on it. Beautiful shot but he wanted it inked just that size, and he just wasn't broad enough...' He looked up at Rydell. 'Would've fit, on your friend here...'

'Couldn't he get it?' she asked, and Rydell caught that instinct to keep people talking, keep them involved.

'We're a full-service shop here at Colored People,' the fat '99.

man said. 'Lloyd put it on a graphics engine, rotated it thirty degrees, heightened the perspective, and it's gorgeous Now, were you interested in seeing some flash for yourself, or for your big friend here?'

'Uh, actually,' Chevette said, 'we're looking for something for both of us. Like, uh, matching, you know?'

The fat man smiled. 'That's romantic. . .'

Rydell looked at her.

'Just come this way.' The fat man sort of jingled when he walked, and it made Rydell wince. 'May I bring you some complimentary tea?'

'Coffee?' Rydell asked hopefully.

'I'm sorry,' the fat man said, 'but Butch left at twelve and I don't know how to operate the machine. But I can bring you some nice tea.'

'Yeah,' Chevette said, urging Rydell along with little elbow-jabs, 'tea.'

The fat man took them down a hallway and into a little room with a couple of wallscreens and a leather sofa. 'I'll just get your tea,' he said, and shuffled out, jingling.

'Why'd you say that, about matching tattoos?' Rydell was looking around the room. Clean. Blank walls. Soft light but no shadows.

'Because he'll leave us alone while we're trying to pick one, and 'cause it'll take us so long to make up our minds.'

Rydell put his Samsonite down and sat on the couch. 'So we can stay here?'

'Yeah, as long as we keep calling up flash.'

'What's that?'

She picked up a little remote and turned one of the waliscreens on. Started blipping through menus. Hi-rez close-ups of tattooed skin. The fat man came back with a couple of big rough mugs of steaming tea Ofl a little tray. 'Yours is green,' he said to Chevette Was.h.i.+ngton, 'and yours is Mormon,' he said to Rydell, 'because you did ask for coffee. . .'

'Urn, thanks,' Rydell said, taking the mug he was offered.

'Now you two take plenty of time,' the fat man said, 'and you want anything, just call.' He went out, tray tucked under his arm, and closed the door behind him.

'Mormon?' Rydell sniffed at the tea. It didn't smell much of anything.

'Aren't supposed to drink coffee. That kind of tea's got ephedrine in it.'

'Got drugs in it?'

'It's made from a plant with something that'll keep you awake. Like coffee.'

Rydell decided it was too hot to drink now anyway. Put it down on the floor beside the couch. The girl on the wallscreen had a dragon sort of like his uncle's, but on her left hip. Little tiny

silver ring through the top edge of her belly b.u.t.ton. Chevette Was.h.i.+ngton flipped it to a big sweaty biker-arm with President Milibank's face looking out from it in shades of gray.

Rydell struggled out of his damp jacket, noticing the ripped shoulder, the cheap white stuffing popping out. He dropped it behind the couch. 'You got any tattoos?'

'No,' she said.

'So how come you know about this?'

'Lowell,' she said, flipping through half a dozen more images, 'he's got a Giger.'

"Gigger"?' Rydell opened his Samsonite, got out a pair of socks, and started unlacing his SWAT shoes.

'This painter. Like nineteenth-century or something. Real cla.s.sical. Bio-mech. Lowell's got this Giger back-piece done off a painting called "N.Y.C. XXIV." She said it x, x, i, v. 'It's like this city. Shaded black-work. But he wants sleeves to go with it, so we'd come in here to look for more Gigers to match it.'

'Why don't you sit down,' Rydell said, 'you're making my neck hurt.' She was pacing back and forth in front of the

2.01.

screens. He took his wet socks off, put them in the Container City bag, and put the dry ones on.

Thought about leaving his shoes off for a while, but what if he had to leave in a hurry? He put them back on. He was lacing them up when she sat down beside him.

She unzipped her jacket and shrugged it off, the loose Beretta cuff rattling. The sleeves of her plain black t-s.h.i.+rt had been scissored off and her upper arms were smooth and pale. She reached over the end of the couch and put the jacket down, sort of propped against the wall, the leather stiff enough that it just stayed there, its arms slumped down, like it was asleep. Like Rydell wished he could be. Now she had the remote in her hand.