The Nervous System (19 page)

Chinatown is not what it once was. Which is to say: there's a hell of a lot more of it today. You could safely say that today's Chinatown stretches north to approximately East 6th Street, east as far as one can go, south to the Seaport, and west to Greenwich Street … but these borders are constantly shifting.

Shit. I spin and check for Kathleen … There she is, across the passenger's seat, sealed in a black plastic cocoon, securely wrapped in duct tape. For a moment I'm thinking I killed her, which would have been a bad move, but I can see her breathing, see that I cut a slit in the plastic near her mouth … I suppose this is a relief. Another moment of panic as I pat myself down for pills … blessed are the poor. The reassuring contours of pill bottle, Purell
^TM
, etc…. wince at my sorry digits.

Last night? Details hazy. Trying to piece this scenario back together …

Well hell, on our merry way down here to 154 Hester Street near Elizabeth, found myself with an acute desire to shuck those miserable poly MP duds and get back into something proper. I cut across Houston to Greene Street and (not for the first time) tossed the Paul Smith store for some flossy new gear. Kathleen was out cold and pretty well immobilized, so I took my time, wandering around the stockroom till I found something temperature-appropriate (one of the pluses of the timing of 2/14, with fall being upon us now, slightly heavier duds that'd been bypassed over the summer become suddenly useful). Nearly everything hung tragically off my emaciated frame, but I ultimately landed on a dope wool flannel gray-check double-breasted suit, with which I married an off-white shirt and a gray-and-black-striped tie. Completed the outfit with a pair of oxford brogues, a touch big but manageable, and with great relief dug up a black trilby-style hat with a blue band that fits my skull to perfection.

This Paul Smith dude, he brought it strong when it came to threads. Before, I couldn't have come near this level of elegance, but now, what with all things being equal and money being no object, literally, I'm free to enhance my carriage with an extra dash of panache.

As an afterthought I grabbed a black wool-and-mohair overcoat with a velvet-top collar; it's not that cold yet but it'll get there … or will it? I suppose we shall see, as each year brings new surprises on the atmospheric front. None of them happy surprises. Ill breezes blowing hardcore. Old-testament stuff.

Two extra dress shirts, some multicolored underwear that I don't love, and four pairs of stripy socks. A pair of calfskin gloves. That's me set for the next several months.

Also grabbed a green-handled box cutter out of the storeroom. I dig box cutters, they take me back.

Time to ditch the limo and acquire a new whip. Easy enough; I hot-wired a BYD e6 just nearby. Transfered the unconscious Kathleen. Tossed my new wardrobe in the front seat with the rest of my shiz, took a break to disinfect, swap gloves, and I biz-ounced.

That's as much as I recall, I don't rule out a freeze but the facts are it's about six twelve a.m., according to the dashboard clock, and I have come to the one place I could possibly pop up and be welcome with a hostage in tow.

It's the old Overseas Chinese Mission building, which has been occupied and heavily renovated by my man Dos Mac, with whom I enjoy a fragile connection.

Before the Valentine's Occurrence, Dos was the chief computer tech guy for the NYC government, having been hired on straight out of the Navy. Dos had written the code that controlled the weapon systems on all U.S. submarines, later adopted by most military forces worldwide, the British, the Russians, NATO, etc. This code was based on something he sketched up during freshman year lunch breaks at Brooklyn Tech, so it is claimed, on a napkin from Junior's (of cheesecake fame). And yes, Dos is a homeboy, raised hard in Brownsville, a brainy kid with very few options by dint of his economic status and skin color. In this sense alone I am proud to call him my friend and spiritual brother.

Dude owes me, in a large way. But I won't need to remind him that.

And Dos, who refuses to reveal his real name to me, just as I can't return the courtesy, is a … complicated man. Again, not unlike your narrator. He is to be approached with great caution, eyes and ears wide open.

Make positive Kathleen is secure … tinted windows all around on this e6 … should be okay. The neighborhood stirring, old woman paying me no heed, squatting as if waiting for a bus, gray workers sporadic in coveralls wafting up and down the block, scarcely there.

Nearly every storefront has been scooped out like a pumpkin and flipped to serve other purposes, this is a hood where the original function of a given shop couldn't always be readily determined pre–2/14 (though I reckon Munchies Paradise across the street had something to do with, like, snacks. But hell, you never know).

Aware that I've misused and abused the System of late, I intend on following it to the letter in compensation and hope all things balance out in the end. First we slap on the Purell
^TM
and scrub the bad dreams away. Then don fresh powdery gloves, and with my left hand I adjust my surgical mask and open the car door, step out, let my lungs and eyes adjust to the Stench. Hit the power lock on the vehicle, and shuffle left to the corner. Then it's a strict left across the street, and another left back to the entrance of 154 Hester. Recall, prior to 11 a.m.: left turns only. That's System 101.

Dos gets it. Gets the System. The man thinks systems too.

I move past an abandoned FedEx vehicle, within which I note stacks of boxes, mostly Amazon debris. Useless. Kindles and shit, no doubt.

Gazing high as I approach the door here, I see two closed-circuit cameras, no obvious weapons, concealed explosives, or bear traps, but in truth you're a fool to make assumptions when it comes to Dos Mac.

There's a button with a simple
A
and an aged sign underneath in Mandarin that reads,
NO MENUS/NO CLONES
. I grin at that, vintage Dos. Depress the button with my left thumb.

No response for the time being, but that's no shock. I remove my new hat and stand for about twenty seconds under the camera, rotate (left) so he can scope me should he be paying attention. It's pretty clear I'm strapped, the suit is cut a bit close and you can almost see the shape of my pistola under the jacket.

Burst of feedback from the intercom.

“Librarian.” Dos must be using a voice scrambler, or one of those old Kanye autotuners. Probably just for the fuck of it.

“What's good, Dos?”

“Clearly very little, if I got the Librarian wanna darken my door. You must be one desperate motherfucker.”

“My man,” I'm maintaining casual. “Who's saying I wasn't just in the neighborhood?” Spread my hands, slow, mellow, no sudden moves now. “Woulda brought croissants or something, but Balthazar was closed.”

A long pause. Uncomfortably long. Just a hair.

Decide to goose him a bit. “Still got my pistola, kid?” Knowing damn well he lost that thing.

Then: a pitched robotic trill, probably Dos simply letting out a long exhale. Then: “Just push on it, brother.”

Dos buzzes me in.

_______________

The reinforced steel door hinges open, revealing absolute darkness. I hesitate at the threshold.

Maybe this was a fucked-up idea.

Maybe I'm fresh out of good ideas.

Proceed inside, hands in the air. “Dos …”

The door whispers shut, me thinking I deserve whatever I get in here.

What I get is a faceful of high-wattage industrial light. Reflexively, I go to protect my face, straining to keep my movements mellow and obvious.

“Letting you know I got a shotgun on you, so just stay put,” says Dos, slightly to my right, pretty close.

I know better than to respond.

“Running a quick scan. If I read you as a clone, I'm gonna send you back uptown in a whole bunch of plastic bags. Try to hold still.”

I'm trying, but I wanna loosen the vibe. Say, “'Fraid I'm gonna disappoint you on the clone thing, Dos.”

“I sincerely hope so, now just hold still.”

Don't need to be told twice. Another minute with the light in my face, there's a fluorescent-sounding hum, and a buzz not unlike an electric shaver.

“Okay,” says Dos quietly.

The overheads come on, we're in that cavernous space I remember, which despite its size manages to feel cluttered, in constant upheaval.

Dos is blinking at me, no sign of a weapon on him, bit disheveled in a dirty white Adidas tracksuit. He's lost weight. Who hasn't? Hair longer, natural, nappy. I know him to be forty-five but he could be anywhere from midthirties to fifties, you just can't tell anymore. Big thick glasses, which I reckon is just a look he cultivates, not cause he needs them.

“I was bullshitting about the shotgun. And man, I never did apologize but I'm sorry about that nine, Librarian. Force majeure. Was just making coffee, you want some coffee?” Already with his back to me, busy with this and that.

The machine he had trained on me looks like one of those ancient overhead projectors we had in school. He's got it on wheels and is maneuvering it into a corner, the device making clicks and whirs.

“Looking trim, Dos. How have you been holding up down here?”

Dos scoffs. A single bark.

“I look like fucking death. Feel like death. You look like ass too, player. Somebody go buck wild on your face? Step all over your hand?”

Dude starts fussing with what looks like a homemade percolator.

“Yeah, a Korean chick kimchi'd my shit.”

Dos makes a face. “Those people are loony toons. Run a tight grocery though. Unlike the motherfucking Dominicans, man. Twinkies, pork cracklins, and shit? I like me some kombucha.”

“I never got that kombucha thing. Rotten-ass tea? Fuck that,” I say. “But hey, for real, Dos, you look all right. Fuck it, man, it's hand-to-mouth, yo, it's no joke out here. To state the obvious. You're holding down your zone and that's doing pretty good in my book.”

Mac grunts again, says, “Want the good news or the bad news first, Librarian?”

I laugh. Dude is a cut-up.

“What kind of fucked-up question is that? If you got any kind of news, just come with it.”

“So good news first.” Starts singing a variation on that old MJ ballad, in a striking falsetto: “
You are not a clone
.” Grins wide. I'm stunned. My boy sounds
good
.

“Damn, Dos, you may have missed your calling …”

Him saying, “And the bad news. You, sir, are one popular nigger. Every law enforcement and government operative with a radio is talking you up. You jumped from under the radar negative to nation's most wanted, public enemy number one. Crazy-fast rise to the top. Give any man a nosebleed. But don't forget the little people, get all cocky on me, cause I knew you when. All I got is creamer. Want creamer?”

I'm processing. That was fast, again no surprise, but speedy with the APB.

The coffee. “Naw. Yeah, black is fine.”

“Indeed it is,” says Dos, eyeing me. I see him flash on my gun. Get a whiff of something, what is that? Smells like fear.

Good. Be afraid, Dos.

He pours two cups, hands me one.

“Thanks. Mac, check this,” trying to vibe breezy, put the boy at ease, “I gotta be straight about—”

He holds up a hand. “Before we get into that, before you explain to me why you'd drag my ass into your nightmare, I owe you the balance on the bad news. If you wanna hear it. Some folks, they don't even wanna know. Might not make any difference whatsoever.”

I sip at my coffee. Scalds my smashed upper lip but I don't flinch.

That he would even hesitate to drop it on me, this is concerning. Dos doesn't generally give a shit.

Fuck it, he's either gonna tell me I got cancer eating my heart and moments to live, or confirm some such suspicion I've had for ages anyway.

“Well goddamn. Since we're chatting like this and we got a minute or two, let's have the whole nine, Mac.”

Dos is watching me over the top of his glasses. Sets down his coffee. Rubs his forehead, sighs.

“You're absolutely riddled with implants, Librarian. I don't think I've ever seen anything come close.”

Ever gotten a niggling suspicion you always knew to be all too true independently confirmed? There's that satisfaction,
see I TOLD y'all,
and the pure horror of the thing itself.

Two fingers shoot to my throat and I hold them there, feeling my heart accelerate.

“You okay, Librarian?”

Swing my peepers here and there, looking for a place to land them …

DA Rosenblatt. “Decimal. Your file. The stuff they did …”

All this time, all this pain, all these fucking questions, all these blurry brain snapshots, and I'm closer to an answer than I've ever been. I am near tears.

“I just … ah.”

“Yeah, boss,” sighs Dos Mac, sipping his coffee. “Them's the breaks. They got you good.”

Now I focus, and take a nice long look at Dos Mac. How well do I really know this man? Certainly anybody could be employing him. Just as anyone could be employing me. Circles within circles.

My body is misbehaving. I go to set down my coffee and miss the table. My cracked mouth is numb. My voice is not my own and emanates as if from across the room.

“No doubt there's … surgery. Surgical procedures.”

“Hey. Hey, man,” says Dos, looking concerned. He laughs uncertainly. “Just playing, brother. I know you had hang-ups, but damn. Librarian, I'm just fucking with your head. You're clean, you're good.”

Relief and solid fury have a brief wrestling match in my throat. Relief wins.

Dos picks my coffee cup up off the floor, then wanders over to the homespun machine and retrieves what looks like a transparency, or an X-ray.

I'm trying to reestablish my ability to speak, and Dos adds: “Clean except for that big motherfucker at the base of your skull, of course. Wrapped around your, what's that called … your medulla.” Peers at the floppy sheet closer. “Got like tendrils going every which way, very very fine threads, my equipment's not sensitive enough to register all of them.” Slaps down the sheet of celluloid. “What is that nasty shit, some sort of pacemaker? Whazzit do for ya?”