Shudder (19 page)

Anton took the bottle of whiskey from Dave and scrutinized at the label with urbane appreciation. “What's the occasion? You were quite mysterious over the phone.”

Dave raised an appropriately mysterious eyebrow while unbuttoning his coat with elaborate finesse, “I closed one of my cases. The least important one.” He nodded and comically blew away a lock of hair from one eye. “Nevertheless—another triumph for detective Cohran.”

Anton gestured to the small table near the window and after submerging momentarily into the kitchen resurfaced with two small glasses.

Two inches of amber liquid quickly appeared in each. Hard-hitting strands of whiskey aroma slithered through the air.

The two friends took their chairs, leaned forward—glasses clinked. The liquids inside rolled with the movements and miniscule droplets jumped into the air and onto wrists and floor.

“To the great detective.”

“To the last philosopher.”

Anton checked the movement of his glass three inches from his mouth. “Now that's an impressive title. Way to go, detective.”

“Eternally yours.”

Anton sipped his drink, made a quick appreciative grimace, relaxed his frame, leaned back and crossed his legs, “So, what's that inconsequential case that you've solved, and why does it make you so happy to have solved it?”

Dave put down his glass and made his eyes glassy, “You will enjoy my tale, for it is filled with mystery and shocking revelations. Squirm on your chair, as astounding visions make your skin crawl. Scream in fear as the...the...” Dave snapped his fingers a few times to regain his momentum, “...as the terrible apparitions...er...goose bumps...you get the idea.”

Anton plucked a cigarette from his pack, “Not really, no.”

“Well, the long and short of it is the sex dolls that were destroyed...”

“There were sex dolls which were destroyed?”

“Yes, sorry,” the detective darted a look at his glass, but decided to put off the next hit, “three people had bought a certain type of sex dolls from one shop...”

“Which kind of sex doll, if I may ask?” Anton's cigarette crackled as he applied flame to its head while sucking at its rear. He blew the smoke upwards, to spare Dave's face

“The fifth grader cyberpunk girl.”

“I see,” Anton nodded thoughtfully.

Dave resumed his thrilling and shocking tale, signaling the kick off with a slap on his thighs, “Right, and these three victims all had break-ins into their homes, hours after purchasing the dolls, and all three sex toys were smashed or dismembered.”

“How curious,” Anton squirmed on his chair from the delight of having his interest in the macabre tickled, “and nothing was stolen?”

“Well, some valuables, naturally.”

“Naturally.”

“Nothing big. So, I went on my quest, and yesterday night I caught the culprit.”

Anton raised his glass again, in acknowledgment of the detective's accomplishment. This time there was no grimace as he sipped the whiskey, only a brief tremor passed through his lips. Dave drank his like lemonade.

Anton put down his glass and immediately sucked at his cigarette again. His thoughts nibbled away at the new information from all sides. “So, that's why you asked me over the phone if I think sex toys can go on rampage.”

“Right. It
did
look like a small fifth grader sex-doll.”

“Was it?”

“No.”

“What was it?”

“It was a kid. A real kid.”

Anton studied the detective without showing excessive surprise, “A little cyber girl?”

“Only at first glance. A little cyber boy. A little cyber transvestite.”

Dave put his empty glass on the table with a slam and looked at the thoughtful albino. The thoughtful albino looked at Dave's glass and then at Dave, “But why?”

“Why what?”

“Why everything?” Anton shrugged.

“Good question. Here the story gets ugly. Apparently, although the sex toy robot is going out of fashion...”

“Is it really?”

“Yes, apparently now gene-vat butts and tits are all the rage.”

“Oh yes, I saw the first pop-ups already,” Anton sneered, “they claim they are grown copies of the relevant parts of famous porn stars.”

“Whatever. Now, although the sex toy fashion itself is now on the low, there is a secondary fashion, inspired by the sex toys.”

Anton tried to out wait the dramatic pause and gave up after four seconds. “Please go ahead, you can cut the tension with a chainsaw.”

“Well,” Dave's forefinger stood to stiff attention, “now people are more turned on not by the dolls themselves, but by other people pretending to be these dolls. Saying the same things, behaving in the same way...”

“Of course,” interjected Anton, a wave of agitation quickly rippling through his torso, “depersonalization. So, this kid was an underage transvestite prostitute, impersonating a sex toy?”

“That's right. Fucked up, eh?”

“Very. The poor kid snapped I suppose?”

“Yes. Good lock picker too. He said he was liberating them.”

Anton's features softened for a second and a shadow of melancholy passed over them, before he snapped back to his immediate social obligations, “Yeah. Well, congratulations for solving the case.”

“Thanks. Truth be told, I would have much rather preferred it to be a robot gone crazy.”

“Yeah, that would have been cleaner. So, what awaits to the kid in question now?”

“The usual,” Dave shrugged, “they'll try to locate the closest kin, and then evaluate whether the kid should live with them, or in an institution.”

“I used to live with foster parents and in institutions.”

That was Anton's custom. To drop a bomb out of nowhere, with a straight face.

“I, um, I had no idea,” Dave said.

“I know,” The albino calmly sipped his whiskey.

Dave quickly evaluated the atmosphere. Anton was ready to ramble on, without turning the conversation into a heavy drama.

“So,...wanna speak about it?”

“Oh sure,” Anton straightened out from his slouch and made a dramatic sweeping gesture with his left hand. “Prepare to hear the thrilling tale of the origin of the last philosopher.”

Dave applauded softly and cheered mutedly as if from very far away. Anton finished his whiskey and poured himself another one. Then he stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

“Well?”

“Patience, patience young Jedi.” Anton lit the cigarette and let out a jet of smoke at a right angle to Dave. “My real parents were unknown natives of the Amazon rainforest.”

Dave's eyes lit up with skeptical merriment, “Get away.”

“It's true. Deep in the Amazon jungle dwells the Aifaya tribe. Normal honest injuns, except for one thing—they have an abnormally high rate of albino newborns. Something like one out of eight.”

“But why?”

“No idea. Something in the genes. In these isolated tribes, there must be very little outsider DNA circulating,” Anton studied his smoking cigarette for a moment. “A stagnant gene pool.”

“Why, you're not stagnant at all, Anton.”

The albino made a complicated gesture with his left hand to convey vague old-world politeness, “I accept your compliment with good grace. As I was saying: an unusually large portion of the newborn in the tribe was made up of albinos. They were not quite considered good luck, as you might expect.”

“You were a bad omen?” Dave giggled. “An injun Damien?

“I was, yes. Just like every other eighth or tenth kid. In this tribe, the albinos were treated somewhat harshly. You know, abuse, stuff...”

“Were you abused, man?”

“I don't think so. If I was, there wasn't a lot of it. You see, a certain foundation, a branch of the Institute for Global Fusion, decided to interfere.”

Anton let out some more smoke. His eyes darted from point to point as if trying to find something specific to look at but failing. Dave looked at his friend with growing amazement. “And?”

“And they told the natives that they will take the wretched albino children off their hands, and reimburse them with pots and pans and antibiotics and various trinkets. So, I was taken at the age of about six months and flown here.”

“Wow.”

“Yes. It seemed a good deal for everyone back then. The injuns are relieved of the curse of the albino, and the poor albino kids are no longer abused but introduced into a white society. Back then, if you've read your history, you'll know that this here was a white society.”

“Spare me the Nazi nostalgia, Anton. Do go on with your amazing tale though.”

“Righto. So, I was brought up here, in civilized society. First in an institution, and then, from ten to eighteen with my foster parents. This is my thrilling story. There will be no refund.”

Dave looked at Anton with pointed evaluation, “So, you are not really Anton Martorino, are you?”

“I am, but I understand what you mean in your simple bumbling way. Yes, my surname is that of my foster family and my name was given to me by the foundation.”

“I've never heard of this project.”

Anton uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, putting the left one on top this time. “One hears mainly of successful projects.”

“You mean this one was not a success?”

“No. For two reasons. One, had the institute bothered to follow the advice of professional anthropologists...back then, if you've read your history, you'll know that there were real anthropologists...”

“For Christ's sake, man.”

“All right. So, put simply, the albinos had a specific role in the local injun society. Everyone could take it out on them and everyone did. They were legitimate scapegoats for letting off steam. The gods said so.”

Anton took a thoughtful sip of whiskey. “Once a generation of albino kids was taken away, the balance of this society was damaged, and people turned on each other. Stuff that was unheard of previously, like inter-village violence started happening, families fell apart. The end of days in short.”

“Just because the albinos were taken away?” Dave asked, unfolding a questioning forefinger with a swirl of his wrist.

“Yeah.”

“Hm.” The detective thought for a while, looked at the window, but it was already dark enough outside for him to be able to see from his angle only reflections of Anton and various furniture. “What's the other reason for the project's failure?”

The skin below Anton's right eye twitched once, as he exhaled more of his treasured poisonous fumes, “The other reason was that of the twenty albino children rescued from the tribe, fifteen committed suicide before reaching the age of eight.”

“What? But why?”

Anton shrugged, “No one can give a really convincing explanation. Anomie this, anomie that...I myself think of suicide every day, but haven't done it so far, and probably will not do it, ever. The only other Aifaya survivor with whom I keep in touch, old Deus, he also has these thoughts and urges but also manages to keep them in check.”

“So, you and him are the only ones left?”

“I don't know. Hopefully there are others too, but we just don't keep in touch with each other.”

The detective ran a humorous glance up and down the ruminating albino, “Why don't you start a
MyFace
group to see how many will join?”

“What a distasteful idea, Dave,” the lonely Aifa native said. “Let us pretend you did not utter it.”

“Whatever you say, child of the Jungle.” Dave leaned back in surrender.

Anton also leaned back in his chair. “This is the astounding tale of the child of the Jungle.”

Dave clapped some more and gave another muted hoot of admiration, “So, to get this completely straight, neither you, nor Natalie, are really Martorino?”

“I see you've grasped the main point.” Anton stood up, stretched himself with audible cracks, opened the window, and looked at the child of the concrete jungle, for whose sake he had done it. “So, mighty detective. Now that the android killer has been brought to justice, what are the more serious cases you're working on?”

“Ah, don't ask. Crazy, crazy shit.”

Anton saw that Dave really didn't want to talk about work. At least not the unresolved work that weighted down the horizon of the near future.

With mock precision, the albino opened the small black wooden box by the coffee table's leg and took out a legal joint. “After we finish with this,” he said, “we can watch some Wile E. Coyote episodes.”

“Now you're talking.”