The Finder: A Novel (2 page)

Now Jin Li feels the wine in her bladder and slips out the passenger-side door to go pee in the sea grass. She has a bit of toilet paper folded in her purse with her and steps over the lip of the parking lot toward a dirt path that leads to a private spot. Private and disgusting. People hang out down there lighting up crack pipes or having sex, and so she is careful before she disappears into the grass. You have to watch out for broken bottles, used condoms, tampons, rotting chicken wings. The girls in the car can no longer see her, so she listens a moment—is
anyone lurking down there in the grass? She hears nothing, though the wind is blowing now, rain in it. She braves the dark path and finds a place where she will squat down.

She is just pulling up her pink panties when she hears a low diesel vibration nearby. What is it? She walks halfway up the path and crouches in the grass below the parking lot. Two trucks are pulling into the lot, one a big pickup, tricked out with fog lights and custom chrome parts, and the other a huge commercial vehicle, big as a municipal garbage truck but shaped differently. It's too dark to know what colors they are. The trucks brake to a sudden stop next to the little Toyota. The pickup sits directly behind the car, pinning it against the curb of the parking lot, and the other truck has slipped up on the driver's side, an inch away, so tight the door can't be opened. What are they doing? What do they
want
to do? Two burly men get out, one from each truck, and rush around to the unblocked side of the little car.

Standing in the weeds, the rain making her blink now, Jin Li can see that the two Mexican girls have rolled up the windows and are screaming inside their little car.

One of the men shatters the sunroof of the Toyota with a hammer, then keeps his foot on the front passenger door, in case the girls try to push it open. Meanwhile the second man hooks something on the back bumper of the car—a chain, she thinks—then starts a motor on the bigger truck. Moving quickly, he pulls a huge hose off a spool on the truck and drags it around to the broken sunroof. He shoves the nozzle of the hose downward into the car, releases a lever, and holds the thick hose as it sends its gurgling contents inside onto the girls. The hose bucks and kicks, the flow inside sloshy and heavy.

Behind the windows the screaming intensifies.

What should she do? The car is filling quickly, a line of dark stuff rising against the windows. The only way out is across the parking lot, where Jin Li will be seen. Behind her is the sharp sea grass and sand. Her cell phone is sitting in her apartment in Manhattan, charging. She never takes it to work, on purpose: cell phones give law enforcement a perfect record of your movements. She has an untraceable walkie-talkie in her purse that she uses to call the other CorpServe crews. But
its effective range is only about a mile, good enough for midtown Manhattan but no good in Brooklyn . . .

One of the girls is pushing on the driver's door now, banging it against the big truck pulled up tight against the car. But the door will open only a crack, no more. Then a hand shoots out of the passenger window, wildly firing pepper spray. The man holding shut that door slaps the hand and the spray can flies to the pavement.

"Richie!" the taller man calls through the rain. "That's enough!"

Jin Li fumbles in her purse for the walkie-talkie and clicks it on. Nothing but windy static. "Hello? Hello?" she tries in English. Nothing.

Now the lights of the car go on and the engine starts. The car lurches forward to the lip of the parking lot, jolting the truck behind it. But the chain on the bumper holds. The car's back wheels spin violently, burning rubber, the smelly smoke drifting over the sea grass. Then the engine slows, as if in capitulation. Inside the car the girl's foot is slack now. Something is oozing out of the passenger window, dripping down the glass.

"Richie, you fuck, let's go!" the man screams.

The man holding the hose doesn't move.

"Turn it off!"

The man named Richie pulls the lever and withdraws the nozzle. More stuff pours out lumpily from the broken sunroof. The car is full. He replaces the hose onto the truck, then unhooks the chain.

"Go faster!"

The little $125 car doesn't move against the lip of the parking lot, even though its lights are still on and the engine putters. The taller man removes his boot from the front passenger door, jumping back as it opens just enough to release a torrent of ooze. Then he does a strange thing. He reaches around to lock the door and uses all his weight to slam it shut. Then he waits as Richie moves the bigger truck and does the same thing with the driver's door.

He locked both doors, Jin Li thinks. Why?

"Get out of here!"

The bigger man hurries now to his pickup. The whole thing has taken perhaps six minutes. The big truck reverses in a half circle, then
shoots forward out of the lot. The pickup truck backs more tightly, swings around, and follows the big truck. They drive without lights, fast.

In ten seconds they are gone.

Jin Li runs toward the car. The wet wind has shifted, and the smell has alerted her. She knows that smell from China, would know it anywhere. The public pit latrines in the smaller towns. The holes in the ground next to huge construction sites in Shanghai where the workers squat over cutout boards. The raw sewage spewing into the rivers. Yes, she knows this smell.

She hurries up to the car and pulls on the doors just to be sure they are locked. Does she see movement inside, a hand flailing through the dark liquid against the glass? She looks around for something to break the window and flies over to the edge of the lot, where she frantically scrabbles around in the grass, her hands raking through plastic bags, old newspapers, beer cans, anything but what she needs. Suddenly she finds a heavy chunk of asphalt. Too much time has gone by! Right? How could anyone—? She awkwardly carries the asphalt back to the car and after three tries breaks the front passenger window. Wet, thick muck streams out, spatters her, the smell horrific. Fecal gases. Fetid urine. She gags, bile burning her throat. She hits the safety glass again and again to make a hole large enough to reach through. Finally. She drops the asphalt and thrusts her arm into the cold, lumpy wetness and feels around for the door lock, the broken glass rasping against her wrist. She finds the lock, pops it up, pulls on the door—it flies open, a great thick black tongue of filth spewing out across the lot.

"Come on!" Jin Li shrieks in Chinese. The stench is sickening, burns her eyes. She reaches in and finds one of the girls. No movement! Too much time has gone by! Seven or eight or even nine minutes! She pulls an arm, and the body of the girl falls limply out to the pavement, covered in muck. Jin Li wipes at the girl's face. Her mouth is filled, black hair tangled and wet with the stuff. She is not breathing. Jin Li rolls her over, clears the mouth, pushes on the back. Nothing! She runs to the other side of the car, breaks the glass there, soaking herself, opens that door, the sewage gurgling as it empties from the car.
The girl is dead weight, slumped against the steering wheel, but Jin Li pulls her free and tries to get her breathing. She doesn't respond. Jin Li is weeping in fear and frustration. Come on, come on! she says, pushing on the girl's back, wiping the stuff out of her mouth. Nothing. Jin Li can't even look at her eyes, which are mudded over with gunk. The girls were scared, they hyperventilated, they inhaled the wet muck deep into their lungs. As they lost consciousness, the stuff oozed down their throats, suffocating them. Same as being held underwater for long minutes. Now the girls both lie on their stomachs on the pavement, still as death while the tongue of filth spreads across the parking lot as the car empties, the rain faster now and forming rivulets that travel toward the storm drains at the end of the lot.

Jin Li hears a woman's voice talking excitedly in Spanish, and she freezes. Who? She looks at the girls. But the girls appear to be—yes—
dead,
bodies already sinking softly into themselves. Yes, it's true, she tells herself. Dead! Now comes Latino dance music. The radio is still on in the car and the muck has drained below the dashboard speakers.
"Yo te voy a amar hasta el fin de tiempo!"
wails a singer's voice.

The first light of day is on the horizon, showing the rain gusting across the lot.

Jin Li understands now. Someone knows. Someone knows what she was doing. They saw her get into the car in Manhattan and followed. They wanted
her.

She runs. Fleeing over the pavement, wet black hair streaming behind her, eyes wide, she runs for her life.

The seats
directly behind home plate in Yankee Stadium are so close to the field that the usual metaphysics of baseball spectatorship are warped by reality. What was distant becomes near. What was giant becomes life-size. What was fantasy is observable fact. You are so close that you can see the calm face of Alex Rodriguez as he steps up to home plate. You can watch the clay fall off Derek Jeter's spikes as he taps them with his bat. You can see Jorge Posada, the great Yankee catcher, tighten his meaty fingers around the handle as the pitcher begins his windup. An aisle rises from field level directly behind home plate, perfectly centered. The seats to the immediate left and right of the aisle are thus the best positions from which to judge the perfection of a pitch, especially if one leans into the aisle to get a centered look over the backs of the umpire and catcher crouching behind home. From this perspective it seems that the pitcher is throwing the ball at
you,
and spectators in these seats find themselves leaning back as the ball pops into the catcher's mitt. It's that close. You are here, you are in the game.

These seats are also notable for the population that occupies them—the city's power hitters and those whom they favor. Corporations own large blocks. The Yankees management itself doles out tickets to sponsors, celebrities, and major league officials. The half dozen or so eye-level seats on either side of the aisle that afford this opportunity are thus, for true fans, arguably the best seats in the stadium, bet
ter than the plush corporate boxes and the media suites above them. The proof can be discovered by who sits here: the select few often include a scout from the archenemy Boston Red Sox, armed with a radar gun to measure pitch speed and a clipboard on which to record the subtle patterns of each player's behavior. That the man sports a fat World Series Championship ring on his hand is a sacrilege to the Yankees fans around him. They remember how the Red Sox stole the championship from the Yanks back in 2004. But these are not the cheap seats high in the upper deck, where men hoot madly when the Yanks score, belly bumping and sloshing their beers in tribal frenzy. No, down here in the realm of money, such an enemy figure is in no danger. Everybody is
always
safe in the good seats, because the security men in their blue blazers are nearby,
always
watching—

Who, exactly? It really
isn't
celebrities and politicians, not day in and day out. Who, then? The complete game-by-game information as to who possesses the tickets to particular seats is available only to the management of the New York Yankees, but to someone who frequently sits in this area, the season ticket holders would be apparent—there is the Citicorp section, the Time Warner section, the Goldman Sachs section, and so on. Ford, ExxonMobil, HSBC, DuPont, Pfizer, Google, Japan Airlines. This dense clustering of corporate power adds a second layer of prestige to the seats; one is
among
the elect, which would appear to prove that one is
of
the elect as well—a pleasant conclusion few can resist. Sprinkled through these official and corporate blocks of seats are smaller blocks—two, three, or four seats, usually—held by wealthy individuals who treat their family, friends, and business associates. The section is also notable for its density of attractive young women, who are not shy about how they bounce up and down the narrow aisles. Indeed, many of these women observe a baseball game dress code, which combines a pink Yankees cap—excellent for holding a ponytail aloft in flirtatious display—sunglasses, and a Yankees shirt insouciantly short about the midriff. Their inhibitions weakened by cups of beer, well aware of the acres of male flesh around them, and frequently harboring not-so-secret fixations on the famous millionaire
athletes on the field, these women often perceive the booming musical entertainments on the public address system as an opportunity to stand and dance with unabashed stripperish zeal, arms over their heads, shaking this and grinding that, their collective abandon—dozens! hundreds of dancing girls!—a kind of ritualized female offering within the great echoing male temple of baseball.

Thus, for the male corporate executive alert to his changeable status in the world—down as well as up—the small patch of real estate behind home plate offers so many rich, interlocking pleasures that it is not unusual to see such men sit back in their seats with a deep sigh of gladness and expectation, eager to receive what they know they so rightly deserve.

Which was why Tom Reilly used his corporate seats as often as possible. His job was to make rain for Good Pharma and that meant wooing and wowing a steady stream of potential investors. He himself loved the Yankees—though how many baseball games could a man see in a year?—but what he
really
loved was how great seats at the game put people in a great mood. And he made sure to keep that mood going. After the game he had the limo take his group straight from the stadium to one of the best night spots, maybe a hot little lounge crowded with models, maybe a jazz club downtown. Always something to do in New York, folks. Affable Germans, clever Brits, fake-relaxed Japanese, high-tech cowboys from out west in $7,000 snakeskin boots or gumbo-guzzlers from down south—gimme anybody! They
all
had a blast with Tom Reilly. Show them a good time, make sure they get back to their hotel exhausted with fun. Good
fun.
Good
Pharma.
The first equals the second. They were no longer just a small company. Last year's revenues topped $800 million. Market capitalization now $33.2 billion. Growing steadily. Twenty-eight percent last year. See what happens when you whip
that
out of your pants! New drugs in the pipeline. Emphasis on lifestyle improvement therapies. Good stuff coming out of Good Pharma. That was the message, and the message was the medium, baby. Good Pharma was a new enough biopharmaceutical company that it needed to keep hustling investors. Nibble on our stock, graze on our bonds, get a taste of it. Rub a little of that surging
market penetration on your gums, snuff a bit up into your nostrils. Like that?
Taste
that . . .
feel
that—that stream of patents, the awesome products under development? The new applications, the category killers, all aimed at global use? Good stuff, right? Then gobble some of the pills or, better yet, just inject the stock right into your bloodstream.
Good
Pharma! Nine million dollars spent on branding research, too: respondents liked the postironic pun in the company title. Seemed hip, new, futuristically cool in its faux–Big Brother cleverness. "Big pharma" (derogatory but perceived as powerful and efficacious) plus "good karma" (retrohippyish, naturalish, organic or Hindu or religious or
something
kind of humane and nice) equals Good Pharma! They had drugs coming along that were going to make the aging baby boomers start cha-cha-ing all over the golf course. Make them remember their sixth-grade homework, hump everything that moved, lose weight while they slept, dunk basketballs. That was true, in fact, even if anecdotal. The Good Pharma researchers in one of the cartilage-therapy trials had enrolled a couple of
old
NBA players, geezery black giants who felt so good they started dunking the ball again. The stuff was based on some kind of Brazilian tree frog bone cells that they'd cloned. Think of when that hit the market, think of the clip in the webcast commercials when a seventy-year-old black man dunks a basketball! Millions of thick-hipped white women would
demand
prescriptions! Score with Good Pharma!