The City Under the Skin (11 page)

He drove out there a little before one. It was evidently some way from complete or habitable, yet there was no construction work going on, no activity whatsoever. There was just one car in the parking lot: the realtor's, he assumed. He made his way inside the building and followed some freshly printed signs up to the show apartment on the second floor.

The woman waiting for him was tall, fleshy, with an artful tangle of dense, ink-black hair. She looked businesslike, though glamorous in a way, and overdressed for the occasion, as though she might be going to a gala afterward. There was a scent of lilacs about her, and her heels clacked on the loft's hardwood floor. Hollow light flooded the room, picked out some long, low, cut-rate furniture, and the angular, anonymous art on the walls. Yes, there was a cheapness to it, and a brittle fakery, but there was certainly a lot more room to stretch yourself here than in a trailer.

“Miss Sibrian,” said Billy.

“Mr. Smith,” she said.

“I thought a loft would be on the top floor,” said Billy.

She smiled unconvincingly. Maybe she'd heard that one before. She was some way from being friendly, and Billy reckoned she must have made up her mind about him the moment she saw him, realized he wasn't a serious buyer, which of course was perfectly accurate. Even so, she went through the motions, showed him a thick, intensely colored, embossed brochure demonstrating the virtues of the place, which she then spelled out, talking about the apartment's many advantages, the “flow” from kitchen to living room to balcony, the quality of the soundproofing, the neighborhood, a little frayed at the edges right now but changing; a mall was planned, wine bars were opening, there was a fitness center, and, of course, the new Platinum Line subway would run close by. But her heart wasn't in it.

“I can see you're not impressed,” she said, without any particular disappointment. “That's okay. If the place isn't right, it isn't right. We can work together. What are you really looking for?”

Billy could see it might help to play along.

“I guess I'm looking for something more … genuinely industrial.”

“Yes? There's a new development in the old steel mill a couple of miles up the road. Can't get much more industrial than that. I can take you there now if you like.”

“Okay, but we go in my car. I don't like riding bitch.”

She laughed, not sure if he was joking.

“It's a little phobia of mine,” he said. “Call me crazy. I don't like being driven by other people. Indulge me. I'll bring you right back.”

It seemed she was prepared to indulge him. Maybe it had something to do with his smile, and after all, a potential sale was a potential sale.

As she was locking up the show loft, Billy said, “Do you always work alone?”

“Pretty much,” she said. “Realtors don't usually hunt in packs.”

“Don't you ever worry about what might happen?”

She gave him a frank, questioning look.

“What do you think might happen?” she asked.

Billy gifted her his smile again.

“
Anything
might happen,” he said.

“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Smith?”

“Sure. It's what I do.”

They took the elevator down to ground level, went out to the parking lot. Isabel Sibrian eyed the Cadillac and was not impressed. She hesitated, took half a step toward her own car.

“What?” said Billy. “My car's not good enough for you?”

“It's not that.”

“So, we'll do it now, right?” he said. “You can trust me. I'm a good guy. I have my own business. I have a daughter.”

“Well, I…”

She didn't get in with any enthusiasm, but she got in. Billy slid into the driver's seat, locked the doors, but left the windows open: the smell of lilacs was getting to him. He lurched the car into life, and Isabel Sibrian gave him some overdetailed directions to get to the steel mill development. He tried to look as though he were listening.

“You were right,” Billy said as they drove away. “I do think that apartment's a piece of expensive crap.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, and I think you know it too.”

“We all have to make a living.”

“That's so true.”

They drove for a while in silence. She looked out of the side window. They were passing a cemetery, a fire-damaged mall, some freshly built big-box stores. He was no longer following her directions. She hadn't a clue where they were. She suddenly got very nervous.

“Why don't you stop,” she said, as calmly as she could. “Let me out here and now if you're not interested.”

“I am interested. But I'm not here because of any apartment. I'm here because of the tattoos.”

The woman's fear arrived like a rolling wave.

“What tattoos would those be?” she said with forced, exaggerated calm.

“The ones on your back.”

He wondered if she'd deny it. He even wondered if he, or Akim, might have got the wrong woman. But no.

“How do you know about them?” she said.

“Why? Is it a secret?”

“From most people, yes. What do you know?” she demanded. The fear hadn't completely blotted out her essential curiosity.

“Less than you do, that's for sure.”

“Do you know who did it to me?”

“No,” said Billy. “I kind of want to know. But then again, I kind of don't. In any case, I'm here to take you to somebody who knows a lot more than I do.”

“You're really freaking me out here, you know.”

“I'm not trying to, but it's all the same whether you're freaked out or not.”

“Stop the car. Stop the car. Please.”

“Please is nice, but it won't do it.”

He saw her hand snake into her purse and she took hold of her cell phone.

“You know that's not going to work either,” said Billy.

He stopped the car for a second, grabbed her hand, peeled her fingers from the phone, and tossed it out the side window before driving on.

“Why don't we try again?” she said. “Why don't you tell me what you want? Is it money? Is it sex? Everything's negotiable.”

“Don't insult me,” Billy said. “I'm not some fucking … opportunist. I don't want money or sex from you, right? I just want you to come quietly. And look, if I were really a bad guy, I'd have walked in there, knocked you unconscious, and then carried you out to the car.”

She gave him a look of finely regulated distaste and condescension, and then her hand was in her purse again, grabbing something small, black, and cylindrical: a pepper spray.

“Now that's just annoying,” Billy said, and he slammed on the brakes again.

She lurched forward, her black hair falling around her face like a hood. He hit her once, good and hard so she understood the situation, then took the pepper spray and blasted a jet of the stuff into her face. She fell back in the seat, coughing, retching, and he popped her again, just to be sure. He almost felt justified.

“There's more where that came from if you don't behave yourself,” he said, hating the sound of his own voice.

She whimpered indignantly and behaved herself. Billy delivered her to Wrobleski's compound, received the envelope of money; this time he didn't even bother to see how much was in it. It would again be too much, maybe even more than before. He knew he hadn't earned it. He looked at his watch. He was in good time to pick up Carla from school. He hoped she wouldn't notice the scent of artificial lilacs or the sting of pepper.

*   *   *

He thought he was doing well. Carla smelled nothing, but then she pulled something out from under the front passenger seat, an embossed real estate brochure. Billy hadn't noticed it; Isabel Sibrian must have put it there, and he knew that was bad, he was supposed to be aware of these things. Carla turned the few heavy pages, looked at them in deep fascination.

“Wow, we really are moving up in the world,” she said.

“We're not moving
there
, that's for sure,” said Billy.

“No? Why not?”

Billy could think of a lot of reasons, all of them plausible, but he wasn't sure which one would satisfy Carla.

“I didn't like the realtor,” he said at last.

“Why not?”

“Just a feeling.”

“What? She didn't treat you right? She didn't show enough respect?”

Billy wished he'd never started this. “Sure, something like that.”

“You see, Dad,” Carla said triumphantly, “if only you'd been wearing a suit…”

 

17. OFF THE WALL

Early morning, Marilyn got on her bike and rode out of the city center, thinking about Cadillacs in general and one Cadillac in particular. Supposing, she asked herself, you drove a classic metallic-blue Cadillac, where would you take it to have it serviced and maintained? You'd want somebody who knew what he was doing. But given the distressed state of the car, it obviously hadn't been looked after by a fancy dealership or restoration boutique. Chances were it had been taken to some cheap, halfway-honest, gritty establishment out in the boonies. It would be a place that knew the car inside out and also, obviously, they'd know the name, phone number, and maybe even address of the owner. If she could find that garage, and charm a mechanic into revealing some or all of the above information, well then … well, she wasn't sure exactly what, maybe another punch in the eye somewhere along the line, although she would try very hard to resist hitting him with her backpack if she saw him again.

She had made herself a map of sorts, actually more of a loosely schematized list, names and addresses of garages that fit the bill to a greater or lesser extent, arranged by location and what she imagined to be relevance. She was surprised how many there were, less surprised that they were located in some exhaustingly out-of-the-way parts of the city, places she'd never been before and would never go again. It was a brave old world out there, one of industrial parks, service roads, freeway on- and off-ramps, chemical plants and landfills, waste lots littered with sagging huts made out of sheet metal. Were these the kinds of places Zak had said he liked to explore? She wished she'd asked him a few more questions. She also found herself wishing, to her considerable surprise, and not only because he had a car, that she'd brought him along. But that was not to be: he had a day job and a sense of responsibility. She imagined the latter could eventually be diluted, but for now this was something she had to do by herself.

She started optimistically enough, and met a lot of hardworking men, caked in oil, grease, and road gunk. They seemed like good guys, but once she started asking questions, they all became similarly surly and tight-lipped. Showing them a picture she'd printed out, of the Cadillac and a man in a battered leather jacket, didn't melt their hearts any.

One or two wanted to know why she wanted to know. She tried a few fake answers: the guy in the picture was an old friend she needed to reconnect with (although this story capsized when it became evident she didn't actually know his name), or she wanted to buy the Cadillac from him, or she'd accidentally scraped the car while it was parked and she wanted to do the right thing and pay for the damage. Her stories were greeted with sullen disbelief. The guys all said they knew nothing, and although they wouldn't have any reason to tell her the truth, she suspected they weren't actually lying. Her black eye surely was no help. She'd tried to cover it with concealer, but it was hard to keep makeup intact while riding a bike through various more or less threatening interzones.

The day slithered on, used itself up, and although Marilyn tried to sustain an air of energy and commitment as she pedaled, eventually she no longer knew for whose benefit she was keeping up appearances. The project had been a bust: there were still more garages to try, but they were long shots, they were miles away, and they might well be closing for the day by now. In any case, her legs and her butt ached: she'd had enough.

And then, as she was pedaling back into the city, she saw another garage, not one from her list, a cube of purple-painted cinder block, with two metal shutters in the front, the first wide open, the other rolled firmly shut. There was no name on the building, but on the side wall was a clumsy and garish mural, a broad black road narrowing through sand dunes into a high vanishing point. On that road was a line of classic, cartoon-style Cadillacs.

She slammed on her brakes, skidded the bike to a halt, and went to look more closely. She was aware of two men inside the garage, one older, one younger. The older man was elbow deep in the guts of a pickup truck; the younger was sweeping the floor with exaggerated care. She could hear a radio playing loudly inside, tuned to a religious station, a voice blustering something about grace and redemption.

She stood and stared, saw that the mural was signed
Carlos
, and before long the man with the broom, not much more than a boy, she saw now, came out to talk to her. He had a wide, goofy smile; she hadn't seen many smiles in the course of the day.

“I did that,” he said, pointing at the mural with a little too much enthusiasm.

“You're Carlos.”

He seemed both astonished and infinitely proud.

“Yes, I am. My dad's called Carlos too, but I'm the one who did the painting. How did you know?”

“Your fame is spreading,” Marilyn said, hoping that didn't sound like she was mocking him.

He considered this. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, my fame is spreading, yeah it is.”

The older man now stepped out of the garage.

“Hey, Carlos, how's that sweeping coming along?”

“Really well,” said young Carlos, and he returned obediently to the job in hand.

Carlos senior was an unthreatening Latino, short, fleshy, with a thick head of glossy hair, a thin band of mustache across his upper lip, and a tattoo of the Virgin Mary on his oil-streaked forearm. He looked at Marilyn, looked at her bike, and said, “Yeah?”