Men and Cartoons (4 page)

FERN SLAW, ROETHKE AND SONS, HOLLOW APPEAL, BROKEN SMUDGED ALPHABET, BURGER KING, PLASTIC DEVILS, OSTRICH LAKE, SMARTINGALE
'
S, RED HARVEST, CATCH OF THE DAY, MUTUAL OF FOMALHAUT, THNEEDS,
etcetera. She led him on, confidently, obviously at home. Why not, this was what she did with her days. Then without warning, a couple appeared from around a corner, and he felt himself begin to Advertise. “How do you do today?” he said, sidling up to the gentleman of the couple, even as he saw Margaret begin to do the same thing to the lady. The gentleman nodded at him, walked on. But met his eye. He was tangible, he could be heard. It was a shock. “Thirsty?” he heard himself say. “How long's it been since you had a nice refreshing beer?” “Don't like beer,” said the gentleman. “Can't say why, just never have.” “Then you've obviously never tried a Very Old Money Lager,” he heard himself say, still astonished. The barrier was pierced and he was conversing, he was perceptible. He'd be able to conduct interrogations, be able to search out clues. Meanwhile he heard Margaret saying, “Don't demean your signature with a second-rate writing implement. Once you've tried the Eiger fountain pen you'll never want to go back to those henlike scratchings and scrawlings,” and the woman seemed interested and so Margaret went on “our Empyrean Sterling Silver Collection features one-of-a-kind hand-etched casings—” In fact the man seemed captivated too. He turned ignoring the beer pitch and gave Margaret his attention. “Our brewers handpick the hops and malt,” he was unable to stop though he'd obviously lost his mark, “and every single batch of fire-brewed Very Old Money Lager is individually tasted—” Following the couple through the corridor they bumped into another Advertising woman who'd been on the hovercraft, and she began singing, “Vis-it the
moon
, it's nev-er too
soon
,” dancing sinuously and batting her eyes, distracting them all from fountain pens and beer for the moment and then the five of them swept into the larger space of the Undermall and suddenly there were dozens of people who needed to be told about the beer. “Thirsty? Hello, hi there, thirsty? Excuse me, thirsty? Yes? Craving satisfaction, sparkle, bite? No? Yes? Have you tried Very Old Money? What makes it different, you ask—oh, hello, thirsty?” and also dozens of people working as Advertising, a gabble of pitches—stern, admonitory: “Have you considered the perils of being without success insurance?”; flippant, arbitrary: “You never know you're out with the Black Underwear Crowd, not until you get one of them home!”; jingly, singsong: “We've got children, we've all got children, you can have children too—” and as they scattered and darted along the endless marble floors of the Undermall he was afraid he'd lose her, but there was Margaret, earnestly discussing pens with a thoughtful older couple and he struggled over toward her, hawking beer—“Thirsty? Oof, sorry, uh, thirsty?” The crowd thinned as customers ducked into shops and stole away down corridors back to their apartments, bullied by the slew of Advertising except for the few like this older couple who seemed gratified by the attention, he actually had to wait as they listened and took down some information from Margaret about the Eiger fountain pen while he stood far enough away to keep from barking at them about the beer. Then once the older couple wandered off he took Margaret's hand this time, why not, she'd done it, and drew her down a corridor away from the crowds, hoping to keep from engaging with any more customers, and also in the right direction if he had his bearings. He thought he did. He led her into the shadow of a doorway, a shop called Fingertoes that wasn't doing much business. “Listen, I've got to tell you something, I haven't been completely truthful, I mean, I haven't lied, but there's something—” She looked at him, hopeful, confused, but generous in her interpretation, he could tell, what a pure and sweet disposition, maybe her dad wasn't such a bad guy after all if he'd raised a plum like this. “I'm a detective, I mean, what does that mean, really, but the thing is there's been a murder and I'm trying to look into it—” and then he plunged in and told all, the Apartment on Tape, pulling it out of his satchel to show her, the shadow, the strangling, his conversation with the dealer and then his brainstorm to slip inside the citadel, slip past the One-Way Permeable Barrier that would of course have kept his questions or accusations from even being audible to those on this side, and so he'd manipulated her generosity to get aboard the hovercraft. “Forgive me,” he said. Her eyes widened, her voice grew hushed, reverent. “Of course, but what do you want to do? Find the police?” “You're not angry at me?” “No, no. It's a brave thing you're doing.” “Thank you.” They drew closer. He could almost kiss her, just in happiness, solidarity, no further meaning or if there was it was just on top of the powerful solidarity feeling, just an extra, a windfall. “But what do you think is best, the police?” she whispered. “No, I have in mind a visit to the apartment, we're only a couple of blocks away, in this direction I believe, but do you think we can get upstairs?” They fell silent then because a man swerved out of Fingertoes with a little paper tray of greasy fried things, looked like fingers or toes in fact and smelled terrific, he couldn't believe how hungry he was. “Thirsty?” he said hopelessly and the man popping one into his mouth said, “You called it, brother, I'm dying for a beer.” “Why just any beer when you could enjoy a Very Old Money—” and he had to go on about it, being driven nuts by the smell, while Margaret waited. The moment the grease-eater realized they were Advertising and broke free, toward the open spaces of the Undermall, he and Margaret broke in the other direction, down the corridor. “This way,” said Margaret, turning them toward the elevator, “the next level down you can go for blocks, it's the way out eventually too.” “Yes, but can we get back upstairs?” “The elevators work for us until the patches run out, I think,” and so they went down below the Undermall to the underground corridors, long echoey halls of tile, not so glamorous as upstairs, not nice at all really, the lengths apartment people went never to have to step out onto the street and see car people being really appalling sometimes. The tunnels were marked with street signs, names of other Undermalls, here and there an exit. They had to Advertise only once before reaching East One Thousand, Two Hundred and Fifteenth Street, to a group of teenage boys smoking a joint in the corridor who laughed and asked Margaret questions she couldn't answer like are they mightier or less mighty than the sword and do they work for pigs. They ran into another person Advertising, a man moving furtively who when he recognized Margaret was plainly relieved. “He's got a girlfriend,” she explained, somewhat enigmatically. So those Advertising could, did—what? Interact. But caught up in the chase now, he didn't ask more, just counted the blocks, feeling the thrill of approaching his Apartment on Tape's real address. They went up in the elevator, which was lavish again, wood paneled and perfumed and mirrored and musical. An expensive building. Apartment 16D. So he pressed the button for the sixteenth floor, holding his breath, hardly believing it when they rose above the public floors. But they did. He gripped her hand. The elevator stopped on the sixth floor and a robot got on. Another of the creepily efficient braincase-showing kind. At first the robot ignored them but then on the fifteenth floor a woman got on and Margaret said, “The most personal thing about you is your signature, don't you think?” and he said, “Thirsty?” and the robot turned and stared up at them. The doors closed and they rode up to the sixteenth floor, and the three of them got out, he and Margaret and the robot, leaving the woman behind. The hallway was splendid with plush carpeting and brass light fixtures, empty apart from the three of them. “What are you doing up here?” said the robot. “And what's in that bag?” Clutching his satchel he said, “Nothing, just my stuff.” “Why is it any of your business?” said Margaret, surprisingly defiant. “We've been asked to give an extended presentation at a customer's private home,” he said, wanting quickly to cover Margaret's outburst, give the robot something else to focus on. “Then I'll escort you,” said the robot. “You really don't have to do that,” he said. “Don't come along and screw up our pitch, we'll sue you,” Margaret added bizarrely. Learning of the investigation had an odd effect on her, always a risk working with amateurs he supposed. But also it was these robots, the way they were designed with rotten personalities or no personalities they really aroused revulsion in people, it was an instinctual thing and not just him, he noted with satisfaction. He squeezed her hand and said, “Our sponsors would be displeased, it's true.” “This matter requires clearance,” said the robot, trying to get in front of them as they walked, and they had to skip to stay ahead of it. “Please stand to one side and wait for clearance,” but they kept going down the carpeted hallway, his fingers crossed that it was the right direction for 16D. “Halt,” said the robot, a flashing red light on its forehead beginning to blink neurotically and then they were at the door, and he rapped with his knuckles, thinking, hardly going incognito here, but better learn what we can. “Stand to one side,” said the robot again. “Shut up,” said Margaret. As the robot clamped a steely hand on each of their arms, jerking them back away from the door, its treads grinding on the carpet for traction, probably leaving ugly marks too, the door swung open. “Hello?” The man in the doorway was unshaven and slack-haired wearing a robe and blinking at them as though he'd only turned on his light to answer the door. “They claim to have an appointment with you, sir,” said the robot. The man only stood and stared. “It's very important, we have to talk to you urgently,” he said, trying to pull free of the robot's chilly grip, then added, regretfully, “about beer.” He felt a swoon at looking through the doorway, realizing he was seeing into his Apartment on Tape, the rooms etched into his dreamy brain now before him. He tried to see more but the light was gloomy. “And fountain pens,” said Margaret, obviously trying to hold herself back but compelled to chip in something. “I apologize, sir, I tried to detain them to obtain clearance—” said the robot.
Detain
,
obtain
, what rotten syntax, he thought, the people who program these robots certainly aren't poets. The man just stood and blinked and looked them over, the three of them struggling subtly, he and Margaret trying to pull free of the robot, which was still blinking red and grinding at the carpet. “Cooperate,” squawked the robot. The man in the robe squinted at them, finally smiled. “Please,” said Margaret. “Fountain pens, eh?” the man in the robe said at last. “Yes,” said Margaret desperately, and he heard himself add, “And beer—” “Yes, of course,” mumbled the man in the robe. “How silly of me. Come in.” “Sir, for your safety—” “They're fine,” said the man to the robot. “I'm expecting them. Let them in.” The robot released its grip. The man in the robe turned and shuffled inside. They followed him, all three of them, into poorly lit rooms disastrously heaped with newspapers, clothes, soiled dishes, empty and half-empty takeout packages, but still unmistakably the rooms from his tape, every turn of his head recalling some camera movement and there sure enough was the wall that had held the shadow, the momentary stain of murder. The man in the robe turned and said to the robot, “Please wait outside.” “But surely I should chaperone, sir—” “No, that's fine, just outside the door, I'll call you in if I need you. Close it on your way out, thanks.” Watching the robot slink back out he couldn't help but feel a little thrill of vindication. The man in the robe continued into the kitchen, and gesturing at the table said, “Please, sit, sorry for the mess. Did you say you'd like a beer?” “Well, uh, no, that wasn't exactly—if you drink beer you ought to make it a Very Old Money Lager for full satisfaction—but I've got something else to discuss while you enjoy your delicious, oh, damn it—” “Relax, have a seat. Can I get you something else?” “Food,” he blurted. “Which always goes best with a Very Old Money,” and meanwhile Margaret released his hand and took a seat and started in talking about pens. The man opened his refrigerator, which was as overloaded as the apartment, another image from the tape now corrupted by squalor. “You poor people, stuck with those awful patches and yet I suppose I wouldn't have the benefit of your company today without them! Ah, well. Here, I wasn't expecting visitors but would you like some cheese? Can I fix you a glass of water?” The man set out a crumbled hunk of cheddar with a butter knife, crumbs on the dish and so long uncovered the edges were dried a deep, translucent orange. “So, you were just Advertising and you thought you'd pay a house call? How am I so lucky?” “Well, that's not it exactly—” Margaret took the knife and began paring away the edges of the cheese, carving out a chunk that looked more or less edible and when she handed it to him he couldn't resist, but tried talking through the mouthful anyway, desperately trying to negotiate the three priorities of hunger, Advertising, and his investigation: “Would you consider, mmmpphh, excuse me, consider opening a nice tall bottle of Very Old Money and settling in to watch this videotape I brought with me because there's something I'd like you to see, a question I've got about it—” The man in the robe nodded absently, half listening, staring oddly at Margaret and then said, “By all means let me see your tape—is it about beer? I'd be delighted but no hurry, please relax and enjoy yourselves, I'll be right out,” and stepped into the living room, began rummaging among his possessions of which there certainly were plenty. It was a little depressing how full the once glorious apartment had gotten. Margaret cut him another piece of cheese and whispered, “Do you think he knows something?” “I can't know he seems so nice, well if not nice then harmless, hapless, but I'll judge his reaction to the video, watch him closely when the time comes—” grabbing more cheese quickly while he could and then the man in the robe was back. “Hello, friends, enjoying yourselves?” His robe had fallen open and they both stared but maybe it was just an example of his sloppiness. Certainly there was no polite way to mention it. There was something confusing about this man, who now went to the table and took the knife out of Margaret's hands and held her hand there for a moment and then snapped something—was it a bracelet?—around her wrist. Not a bracelet. Handcuffs. “Hey, wait a minute, that's no way to enjoy a nice glass of lager!” he heard himself say idiotically cheese falling out of his mouth jumping up as the man clicked Margaret's other wrist into the cuffs and he had her linked to the back of her chair. He stood to intervene and the man in the robe swept his feet out from under him with a kick and pushed him in the chest and he fell, feet sliding on papers, hand skidding in lumps of cheese, to the floor. “Thirsty!” he shouted, the more excited the more fervent the Advertising, apparently. “No! Beer!” as he struggled to get up. And Margaret was saying something desperate about Eiger fountain pens “—