I
We descended on the city, three dark birds with wings of leather, scavengers to pick this corpse clean of revelry and rue.
I feel her lean into me before her hand covers the pages of my notebook. Her lips brush my ear.
“I hope its sordid, and I hope I'm in it.”
The scent of leather envelopes us. Pressure builds in my ears from the descent. She kisses my cheek. I do not turn my head to look across her at Jon. She removes her hand from my journal. In the dim lighting of the cabin, the pages are a jaundiced yellow. I continue writing.
Four days we have, ninety six hours to be someone else.
I close my haggard notebook, collapse my telescoping travel pen, and shove it all into the breast pocket of my overcoat. I do not like take-offs and landings. Leaning back in my seat, I whisper in my head, “Don't tense up. Don't tense up.” My hands turn white from my grip on the seat arms. Serena, facing Jon, puts her right hand on top of my left.
The beverage cart rattles up to our aisle. I close my notebook and my telescoping pen. A short, emaciated woman in a blue jacket leans over me to set a plastic cup on the tray of the passenger next to me.
“Cranberry juice, just like you always get, Mrs. Hudson.”
Mrs. Hudson nods and picks up her juice. The stewardess stands up and looks down at me, her thin, crimson lips stretching into horrific caricature of a smile.
“The recommendation system malfunctioned when it got to you, Mr. Hale. I have no recommendations for you. What are we going to do?”
II
“I'll have ginger ale.”
I prefer cranberry juice, but I'm afraid I'll spill on my newly tailored shirt. Why do people dress for plane travel? Especially when there is no one meeting you at the airport.
After a virtuoso landing that avoids most of the craters in the runway, we give the pilot a round of applause. Serena puts two fingers between her lips and whistles. Jon grins at me.
Disembarkation moves smoothly. At the Ident kiosk, after she has Presented thumb and iris, Serena licks her index finger and touches the Caretaker's lips.
“Have some DNA, bonus,” she says.
The Caretaker freezes. I wonder if he's excited or terrified. After I Present, I hand him a disinfectant wipe. I follow Serena to Luggage Reclamation, my lizard brain calculating the swing of her hips by the counter swing of her leather overcoat.
Three crows alight in long term parking, among the cars with broken windows, and the dogs and cats that sleep in them. A fat moon, pregnant with portents, rises behind a burnt out warehouse. I recognize the wisdom of the vulture, the Creed of Carrion. Bet on failure, feed on the dead, and you will not want. Sandra leads us to her armored ride.
It's oddly quiet in the backseat. We pass under a traffic light, and my brain thinks it can feel, as a small burst of heat, the chip just under the skin of my right arm transmit its beacon signal. In the next few hours a cluster of computers will match the video from the traffic light cameras with the three Ident beacons in the vehicle. Everything as it should be.
“Damn its quiet.” Serena removes contraband from her coat, an unlicensed audio player disguised as a credit card. She hands it to Jon. I lean forward and remove the tie that holds Serena's inky black ponytail. When I accidentally pull her hair, I imagine her smile. I hand it to Jon, who clips one end to the contacts on the card. He places the player and antenna on the console between seats, and tunes to a particular station on the radio. “Heaven's on fire, Heaven's on fire” blares from the speakers. I pull the notebook and pen from my pocket.
As we cruise streets filled with glinting glass and shadows of the moon, my Ident chip pulses in time with the music.
That's the last line that will fit in this notebook. I open my duffle, unzip a pocket and remove a plastic sleeve. I slip the notebook into it and seal it. On the cover it reads
Blind Spot XXII
IV
I put the package in my right coat pocket. I then pull a fresh notebook from my duffle and put in the breast pocket of my coat. I'll label it later, in private. My cab approaches my moderately priced hotel, which appears to be in a slightly seedy part of town.
I made the hotel reservations, knowing what Serena would like, crumbling marble and patina. In the lobby, the spreads her arms and spins, careening into me, black eyes blazing, static electricity crackling in her hair. Jon curls his nose at the musty smell, and edges forward to put an arm around Serena's waist.
There is a pretty young woman behind the counter to hand you your keys and smile at you, to complete the Old World fantasy. No thumb scanner. They rely on on the Ident to maintain their illusion, confident that my vital statistics are smoothing inserted into the JMS. I smile back at the wage slave across the counter, noting the palor beneath her makeup. I imagine stunted wings wings bound tightly to her back, and reach across the counter to touch her cheek.
The sagging woman behind the counter frowns, threatening to crack her veneer of makeup.
“The lock is keyed to your Ident, Mr. Hale, but the system isn't telling me what kind of movies, or company, “ she flicks her eyes up to my face and then back down to the screen, “you like. Not even a damn thing about breakfast.”
“Same thing happened at the airport. Must be a glitch in the system. “ I shrug.
“Steaming pile of crap, the system, if you ask me. We don't have much of a breakfast, to tell the truth. Pattie's Diner does a good old fashioned artery clogger from 6 to 10, just around the corner. Your health insurance goes up 50 cents a day just for walkin' in the door.”
“Sounds great. Thanks.”
On the way to the elevator I step inside the little lounge with the blaring TV and the vending machine that dispenses hot, brown water in paper cups. I pull the notebook labeled, Blind Spot XXII, out of my coat pocket and set it on top of the machine. As I pull my hand down, someone passed by the door, someone whose footsteps I hadn't heard. I jerk my arm the rest of the way down and freeze, then curse myself under my breath.
After a few moments, I step into the hallway. I glimpse the trailing tail of what might have been a leather coat rounding the corner at the far end.
“Mr. Hale!”
I turn to look the back towards the desk.
“Did you want any movies?”
“No, thanks.”
I look back the other way. Nothing. I cross to the elevators.