Repo Men (19 page)

“Some,” I said.

“Good lad.”

Held it together through the next few hours, sitting patiently as they said nice things about Father, making a show of fighting back tears when they lowered him into the ground, holding onto Mother when she needed holding. But after the funeral, when the line of well-wishers grew so long I couldn’t see the end of it, something in me snapped at all the measured words and polite phrasing.

“Honey,” drawled my great-aunt Louise, who, eight years later, would come into a fair bit of money in the stock market and have every plastic surgery operation ever devised, “it’s sooo good to see you.” At this point in time, pre-surgery, she was fast approaching disintegration, her skin sagging beneath too many years of sun worship and questionable skin cleansers. “Honey, I want to know what they’re doing to you out there.”

“They’re not doing anything,” I swore. “It’s just a job.”

“Ach,” she spat. “Such a job, hurting others. You’re not hurting others, are you, honey?”

And there it was, out of my mouth before I could stop it. Then again, even if I’d given it six days, thought, I probably would have said it anyway. “With my bare hands, Auntie. Every chance I get.”

I was able to convince the military to send me down to San Diego before they shipped me back overseas; I told them there were funeral services going on down there for a cousin who had coincidentally died on the exact same day, and that I had been conscripted into pallbearer duties. Even went so far as to scour the obituaries and find a dead guy who matched up with my story.

Soon as I stepped off the plane, I corralled a taxicab and had them take me into the Red Light District. I was dismayed to find that my palms remained dry, my heartbeat steady. All the allure I’d always felt on the trips to the Red Light, the ticklish knots in my bowels—they were gone. During the day, I could see all the chipped paint and cracked skin. The neon was just a series of tubes, empty, meaningless. For all of my so-called marriage to Beth, I’d never really been to her place of employment during the day before; the few times I’d gone to see Beth when the sun was up, I wasn’t quite
there
there. I was
Beth
there, which meant most of me was off in some other world that smelled like lilacs and kissed up a storm.

Though I’d had them in my possession for months, I had yet to sign the divorce papers; something in me rankled every time I put pen to the red line, and even after a hundred tries, I wasn’t able to get the job done. My hand shook, trembled, and refused to make a mark.

But I had a plan. I brought the papers with me on my trip back to the States, and as I stepped out of the taxicab and into the heart of San Diego, I reviewed it all in my head like a general going over battle strategy: I would storm into Beth’s “office”—this is the term I preferred back then, her office—throw out whoever she was “meeting with” at the time, scoop her into my arms, kiss her with all the strength my lips could muster, and we’d laugh and rip up the papers together, her and me, my hand on one side, her hand on the other. Sunset, children, happy ending.

As the military would say, my mission was accomplished with a 5 percent success ratio. I definitely stormed into her office, no doubt about it.

And that’s where I found Debbie, a sweet eighteen-year-old from Texas who’d just started in the business. And that’s where I found the two beefy guys Debbie was servicing at three hundred bucks a pop. And that takes care of the second time I was ever knocked unconscious.

Never saw her again. Beth, I mean. Never saw Debbie again, either, though I hope the ugliness that went down in that room scared her off of the whoring for good. Beth’s apartment, I soon found out, had already been rented out to another tenant, and her usual hangouts were devoid of her presence. No one wanted to help me find her; obviously, they’d heard stories. Obviously, she’d made things up.

I trolled the city for two days and nights, casting out my net, showing pictures to everyone I came across. Most of the photos I had of Beth were of the boudoir variety, but I figured if anyone was going to recognize her, she would have to be
au naturel
. The tales they tell, if they tell them at all, of a deranged lunatic walking the streets of downtown San Diego flashing obscene photos at passersby were inspired by yours truly. I thought I caught a glimpse of her hair once, turning a corner and bobbing down a side street, but by the time I caught up, the road was empty, save for a small, withered bag lady who offered to jerk me off for an order of mozzarella sticks.

I signed the divorce papers on the plane back to Africa.

All these years later, I’ve forgotten what she looked like. I’ve got the basics, but it’s nothing more than a stereotype. Blonde, leggy, stacked. Hooker 1A, sans the fishnets. Beth hated fishnets.

I remember Mary-Ellen; at least, I remember Mary-Ellen’s long legs and Mary-Ellen’s arms and the way Mary-Ellen’s stomach dipped down after her ribs but then rose a little bit by her hips, a delightful pouch of flesh that I must have kissed a thousand times in the six months we were together, and I remember Mary-Ellen’s crooked chin and her pert nose and her blue, blue eyes, and even if I can’t put it all together, isn’t that just as good as remembering Mary-Ellen?

I remember Melinda, of course. I did, after all, see her somewhat recently.

I remember Carol, and the way she made me feel like I was the one who needed all the remembering. I remember how she’d pull me close in the middle of the night, then shove me away just as I was finally getting comfortable with the proximity. I remember Carol because she wouldn’t have it any other way.

And Wendy, who should have been the most memorable of them all, who took me half a lifetime to find and a few short years to lose, is rarely on my mind these days. I can call her up, examine her as I wish, but only one section at a time. If I try to take Wendy as a whole, I lose it and have to start all over again. I can pan up from her feet to her hair like she’s the ingénue in an old-time movie, or leer up and down from breasts to face and back again, but there’s nothing full-on, and it’s all fleeting.

And now there’s Bonnie, and that’s a mystery to itself. Bonnie’s just out in the other room, but even though she’s only 60 feet away, I’m having problems isolating her, separating her image from those of my ex-wives. It’s all a great process shot, a nose from this one, lips from that one, a merger woman gone awry.

There’s something about her that keeps drawing me back to my prior life, something that wants to help me connect her to the things I used to know and the things I used to do. It’s not there yet; I can feel it creeping up on me, but every time I chase after it, the memory runs away, like a child playing tag. I’ll get there eventually.

I could, of course, walk out to the other room and find out what Bonnie looks like in the flesh. Ask her why the hell she seems so damned familiar. I doubt she’d mind. I know
I
wouldn’t.

But it’s late. And I’m tired. And tomorrow is moving day.

A
nature special on the modern Bio-Repo man would go something like this:

He is omnivorous by nature, almost definitely male, likely to be without a mate. He feeds on processed foods and beverages, or on the leftover comestibles of his clients when his time is scarce. Always looking over his shoulder for some unseen adversary, he is cautious, wise, cunning. He wears a watch, sometimes two, always synchronized with local time. The Bio-Repo man, with his array of tools and weapons, is able to see in the dark, scan foreign objects at great distances, and outpace his clients in nearly any foot-race. He tends to drink too much, smoke too much, mistreat his body in every way he can imagine, and when his creativity has run dry, he will solicit advice from others on how to continue the abuse.

When the Bio-Repo man follows his clients, he blends into the shadows, working with the night in a friendly partnership. Few can see him. Fewer can escape him. The only sound he makes is that of ether hissing from one of his portable canisters, and by the time the client has recognized this noise, it is usually too late. The calling card of the Bio-Repo man is a yellow receipt laid across the fallen body, signed in triplicate.

The Bio-Repo man is nocturnal.

All of that, by the way, would be underscored by music, preferably in a minor key. It’s crucial for a Bio-Repo man to maintain a proper air of mystery.

Having lived that exact nature special for the better part of my life, we knew enough to leave the Laundromat during the day, when all good Bio-Repo men would be home sleeping off their lives. When the sun popped up sometime around six, Bonnie and I crept out of the crumbled building and tried to blend in with the rest of the skid-row bums who were just getting ready to begin their long day of begging. Bonnie, whose face had grown more and more maddeningly familiar with every hour we spent together, had loaned me a long duffel bag in which I transported many of my weapons, though I kept my scalpels and the Mauser tucked away in various pockets. Bonnie was packing heat, too, though it was impossible to tell exactly what she had on her and where; the weapons disappeared perfectly into her form-fitting overcoat.

Twenty minutes down the road, we found a dingy, poorly lit diner, grabbed a booth in the back, ordered eggs and toast—Bonnie was treating—and tried to figure out where the hell we were going.

“A safe house,” I suggested. “A buddy we can hole up with.”

Bonnie shrugged. “I’ve lost most of my friends.”

“I never had many to begin with. Not outside the Union. And we’re not going down that road.”

She nodded, pursed her lips. “How late are you?”

“Late enough,” I said. “After three months, what’s it matter anymore?”

She took a sip of the warm tap water they’d offered us. “You ever talk to a credit manager?”

My laugh was unintentional; it just slipped out. “My credit manager is my old boss. Once I skipped out on the job, he wasn’t about to start cutting me deals. You?”

“Sure,” she said. “I had three different managers—”

“I’ve never even heard of that.”

Bonnie smiled, and the rest of the diner dropped away. Nothing else mattered. “I’m full of surprises. So how bad do they want you?”

“I’m on the Hundred Most Wanted List,” I said, feeling in a perverse way as if I were actually bragging about it.

“Oooh, a bad boy.”

“And then some. I’m number twelve.”

If Bonnie was impressed, she didn’t show it. Just went on sipping her water and taking in the diner. Staying safe.

“So what’s new in you?” I asked. “You’ve got the Vocom, some ears—anything else?”

“A few,” she said. Was she deliberately being evasive?

“Such as?”

Narrowing her eyes into tight little slits, I got the feeling that she was inspecting me again, trying to get ahold of me. For a moment, I was pretty sure I could hear mechanical lenses focusing, spiraling in and out. “You get to choose three body parts to ask me about today,” she said.

“You’ve got three more artiforgs in there?”

“Choose.”

So many organs, so little time. I already knew about her ears and her larynx, both top-of-the-line Vocom models, so I decided to make my way across the face. “Eyes, nose, mouth.”

And this is what she said:

“Both of my eyes are Marshodyne Dynamics, each with standard 100× zoom capability and full-spectrum color enhancement. The left one has an additional lens that slips into place when I blink three times in succession, and can increase the long-distance zoom capacity to 300×, but that’s when I tend to get headaches. The right eye has a macro feature that allows me to go microscopic, up to 200×, but that one makes me nauseous. If I use them both at the same time, I mostly end up walking in circles, slamming back aspirin, and puking. I got the financing from Marshodyne through the Credit Union at a rate of twenty-nine point eight percent.

“The cartilage of my nose is a silicone variant made by the Boone Corporation out of Virginia, but the actual sensors and nerve pathways are Credit Union generic. The sensory modification on those is slight, but I’m able to block certain foul odors and enhance certain sweet ones. Recently, it’s been pretty useful. The financing came straight from the Union, and this was at a special rate of twenty-seven point four percent.

“And my mouth is basically a department store of brand-name artiforgs, but since you seem interested, I’ll give you the whole tour as a freebie. Lips are my own, but the sensors are Kentons at thirty-two percent, the tongue is a variable polymer of some sort with fourteen times the number of taste buds and shutoff features a lot like those nasal ones—that’s also Credit Union generic at twenty-eight point four percent—and the teeth are a plain set of dentures my orthodontist ordered up for me. No finance charge on those.

“Does that answer your question?”

That’s when I figured it out: As Bonnie spoke at length, giving me a litany of artiforg details, she leaned forward to replace her juice glass, and the motion of her arm brushed away that frustrating strand of hair that always fell into her eyes. As it dropped to one side, I finally got a good shot of her face for the first time since we’d met, and suddenly, instantly, I realized why she looked so damned familiar.

“You’re number one,” I gasped, lowering my voice as some other patrons turned and looked our way. “You’re right up at the top—”

“And you might wanna keep it down.”

“I saw the list,” I continued, dropping to a whisper. “In the Mall lobby, I was looking for my name—”

“I know, I’m number one on the Big Hundred. You think I’d be alive this long and not know a thing like that?”

Before I could say another word, the waitress arrived with our breakfast. The heavy plates hit the table with a
clunk
, and I took a stab at the bacon strips before continuing on.

“How long have you been running?” I asked, keeping volume in check. “Must have been awhile, to get listed that high.”

“It’s not the time,” Bonnie corrected me. “It’s the quantity. Later, you can ask me about my torso.”

My favorite Credit Union commercials, in no particular order:

1)
“What’s New In You?” Even though the phrase is practically a mantra these days, I’d be surprised if anyone remembers the ad itself. It was one of the earliest Credit Union spots, the one with the three little multiethnic kids singing about their newly implanted artiforgs. They tap-danced all over the great structures of the world, bringing life and love to the people of Earth. A new pancreas at the Taj Mahal, a shiny new bladder at Big Ben, everyone showcasing their excellent health after a speedy operation and recovery. More than the commercial itself, I’ve always been impressed at how easily the phrase slipped into the popular culture. Now, it’s almost more proper to say, “What’s new in you?” than it is to greet someone hello. The marketing folks got a big holiday bonus for this one.


2)
The introduction of Harry Heart and Larry Liver. I know it’s outdated, I know they’ve been marketed through the roof, that everyone’s sick to death of the cartoon and the plush toys and the theme park and the fast-food tie-ins, but I can’t help but love this rascally duo’s animated adventures.
Harry and Larry’s Magical Journey
was the first six-minute infocast to hit the marketplace, and it did wonders for the Union’s image. The best part was when Harry and Larry squared off in the boxing ring made out of ligaments before realizing that they worked better together than they did apart. Moral lesson for kids, right there.


3)
“Ask me about my brain.” Probably the funniest commercial to come out of the Union marketing department, though it was actually a supply-house ad for Kenton’s first Ghost system. It’s the one with the guy who has that incredible memory and runs around town with the film undercranked, moving ten times normal speed, and when he gets back to the office and they ask him what he did, he blurts out this laundry list of his adventures without missing a beat. And like, “What’s New In You?” it created a new phrase for every artiforg patient, a way in which they could introduce their new organ into conversation. Finally, there was no shame in having an implantation.

I’m sure there are more, but these three stick out. Maybe it’s because I’ve forgotten all the others. My memory, in general, isn’t what it used to be; perhaps I should have gotten that Ghost system implanted when I had the chance. Nowadays, all I can say is
Ask me about my heart
, but after more than a year of that, the glamour has sort of worn thin.

Funnily enough, the first Credit Union commercial I ever saw was during a rerun of
The Six Million Dollar Man
. Not the original, or the remake, but the second remake that ran for three seasons, back when they’d first given up on original programming. The commercial was for a heart, I think, the Jarviks being ahead of the game when it came to safe implantation, and I remember being not so much surprised at the irony as I was saddened by it. The truth is, even with the excellent credit history that Steve Austin no doubt sported, there’s no way he’d get out of that hospital these days for a penny less than 12 million.

None of my wives had any artiforgs, with the exception of Melinda, though she did not have the implantation while we were married. Back then, she was all natural and proud of it, scoffing at the clients whose houses I visited nightly.

But when Peter was around twelve and over at my apartment during a court-ordered weekend, he let it slip that his mother had been into the hospital for some surgery.

“What sort?” I asked him.

“Kidneys,” he said innocently, with a hint of wide-eyed excitement. “She got some new ones!”

“What kind?” I asked, trying to make the question seem nonchalant. I didn’t know back then that nothing is nonchalant to a twelve-year-old.

“Gabelmans,” he replied. “My friends are
so
jealous.”

And that was how I found out that Melinda was packing metal. I suppose it was better for me to know then as opposed to finding out later on, but I wonder if things would have changed had Peter kept his big mouth shut.

Probably not. I would have killed her either way.

Bonnie had a place we could go. Rather, she had a friend who might know of a place we could go, which was good enough for me, as I was fresh out of ideas.

“So you’ll call him?” I asked her as soon as we were a few blocks away from the café. Most of my attention was taken up by the throngs of people that passed by; I inspected every one of them for the hardened grin of a Union stooge, waiting for the hum and beep of a scanner to give us away.

“No phone,” she told me. “But we can go to his place. He can probably help with my knee, too.”

“No,” I said emphatically, “we can’t trust anyone else—”

“He’s clean,” she promised. “He’s outside the Union.”

Outside the Union.
This was the preferred term for a black-market artiforg dealer, and though I’d done some repo work for them, I didn’t like the type. Usually they’re ex-loan officers who score a deal with a shady buddy back at a supply house; they steal the artiforgs off the manufacturer’s shelf, then sell ’em at discount prices with cut-rate financing. The more ambitious and sleazy “Outsiders” follow licensed Bio-Repo men to their assigned jobs, then wait until they’ve done the dirty work and scurry inside to pick at the bodies for remaining parts. A Union man only takes what he’s assigned to; the Outsiders scavenge the rest.

But in terms of our personal safety, we were clean. This guy was bound to be as much on the lam as we were, and would have no interest in calling the Union down on our asses, no matter the reward money.

And what other choice did we have? We went to see the Outsider.

For most of my professional life, I spoke every foul word against the Outsiders that I could; they were the competition, and their tricks stole food off of our tables. Special task forces were formed every so often to search out their nests and hunt them down, but most of the time we came up empty-handed. We were the lions, and they were the vultures. But if it hadn’t been for their meddling, I never would have met Melinda.

Sixth year on the job, and Mary-Ellen was all but a memory to me, a slight twist in my stomach that could easily be put off to indigestion. Work was going well, and I’d recently been promoted to clearance level three, which meant that I would be allowed to undertake certain repossessions that previously would have been off-limits to me. This included high-level professionals and celebrity clientele, as well as repossessions under difficult extraction conditions.

To that end, my supervisor called me into his office and handed over a case file that had all the trappings of an easy night. An elderly woman, her time all but expired, had stopped payments on her Jarvik unit a few months back; the Union wanted it out before she died and ended up buried with the device. There had been situations like that before, ugly little scenarios necessitating messy exhumations that wreaked havoc in the PR department, so it was up to me to recover the unit before anything untoward occurred.