End Time (14 page)

The baggie vanished into Dimples' hand. He grabbed the boy by his raggedy shirt and dragged him to the door. “Take him. And gimme your address and telephone number.”

A white calling card came out. “We're staying at the Grand Hyatt. Just ask for Michael. Maybe when you're ready, you come up to Forty-second Street and we'll have dinner. Talk about his future. Please try to dress appropriately.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. And call us when you're done. Now git.”

Before he knew it, the boy was out in the hall, tramping down the stairs after the long, tall man. Not so much afraid as when he'd watched the magic show. More confused now. The man didn't look like Angel Jacko any more, just that guy from Washington Square Park.

“Hey, we going to Neverland? We gotta take a plane for that.”

“No, like I told Dimples, we're going to the Grand Hyatt Hotel. Up on Forty-second. Better than Neverland. For one thing, it's still a going concern.”

They found a taxi on First Avenue; the rain had stopped for a while.

“You talk funny, man. Big words.”

Mr. Piper sighed. “Yeah, I know. And soon you will too. Incredulous, are we?”

The kid looked at him. “No … I'm not incredulous. I think I believe you.”

“Anything you want before we get there?”

The kid thought for a moment. “I want a Kit-Cat clock that works.”

The city streets streamed by, wet in the rain and glistening in the dark.

“Fair enough. But we'll get that delivered.”

*   *   *

They had a little trouble at the Grand Hyatt reception. A tall gaunt man in frayed tux and tails, shoes no socks, with a street kid in dirty jeans—and they wanted a room. Enough to give anybody a moment's pause, and Mr. P. was a little pooped after his deal with Dimples. The gaunt man turned from the desk and looked down at the boy. “You know, I think a change of clothes is in order, not to mention a bath and a haircut. We can get it all here, most of it anyway—as soon as I straighten out our accommodations.”

Accommodations. The word flashed into the kid's head off the dictionary page. He spat the definition back up at Mr. P.: “Room. Board. Lodging.”

“Very good.”

“Maybe we can go to Modell's down the street,” the kid said. The sporting goods store: $200 Lakers' jerseys, $100 sweats. Yeah. That
was
an idea.

“Okay,” Piper said, “but you'll still need a suit, some go-to-meeting clothes.”

Then to the receptionist at the reception desk: “Look, you little Putzette, run the card.”

The Piper was getting tired. The business on Avenue A had worn him out more than he realized. Every power-of-mind exertion required a recharge; the transmutation of matter and thought drained him at the molecular level. Nothing was free in this universe. With a last effort of will he showed her what he needed to get what he wanted.

The receptionist, whose name was Paulette, heard her own name. And nothing particularly rude. Something on the order of, “Paulette could you please run the card once more? I'd really appreciate it.”

Then as the card came back with plenty of credit to spare, he added, “My dear Tartlet, shimmy your nice little encased tushie onto your boss's lap with my thanks.” But what she heard was, “Thanks, that's great.” A swift image of her placing her behind on her boss's desk with a little wriggle flitted through her head and she paused, mildly confused. She coded his room key nevertheless, slipping it into a shiny paper wallet with advertisements for the Grand Hyatt and everything the place could do for you—massages, room service, the swank shops—saying, “Enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Piper.”

Yet what she heard come out of her own mouth was, “Sorry for the delay, Mr. Scumbucket.” And she gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

“Well, shucks,” Mr. P. told her. “Think nothing of it.”

*   *   *

A short two hours later, shopping bags stuffed full of Modell's Sporting Goods were piled everywhere in the room. The kid had a field day trying on his new threads. Settled back on the couch in purple Champion sweatpants, feet up in thick wool socks, he toyed with his new Garmin Forerunner 405 GPS watch with heart rate monitor and USB ANT Stick, a universal serial bus that could connect all his exercise data, heart rate, you name it into his computer. He didn't have a computer yet, but they'd fix that later in the afternoon—plenty of electronics stores on Lexington Avenue around the corner. The TV remote in his hand had settled on
Jeopardy
reruns.

Mr. P. sat in a nearby chair with a cold, wet compress on his head nursing a pounding headache. Phase One complete: Secure a willing apprentice. Now for Phase Two.… The tall man's plan for the kid, for the nation, the world—the Piper had many plans. But he wouldn't be putting any plans in motion with this miserable, throbbing head. The flinty voice of
Jeopardy
's host, Alex Trebek, drifted across the room:

“History for two hundred dollars. The fifteenth-century German most noted for employing movable type.”

“Who is Johann Gutenberg?” Mr. P. mumbled as he dreamily listened to the idiot box. Actually, a rather large flat-screen. Idiot boxes, a thing of the past—that's what they
used to
call them.

The kid glanced at Mr. P. The man breathed through the wet compress; as if aware of the youngster's gaze he murmured, “Knew that Kraut well, worked in his printing shop for a year or so. Many hands make light work. But the genius of the whole business was that we didn't need many hands to make a lot of work. And we made a lot of work for everyone else. Moveable type … We translated the Bible into multiple tongues: German, French, English, Italian.… No more priests murmuring Latin at the dirty illiterate parishioners sitting unwashed pew after pew. Didn't need a priest anymore to hear the word of God. Broke the Catholic Church into schisms. Some of the best work I ever did.”

“Idle hands are the devil's tools,” the kid said out of nowhere.

“That's half true,” Mr. P. mumbled from under his compress. “Busy hands can be much, much worse.”

During a commercial the kid had clicked to another channel. Turner Classic Movies,
Topkapi,
the Turkish wrestling sequence: gorgeous Melina Mercouri, manly Maximilian Schell, buttery Peter Ustinov, and the pompous Robert Morley all staring down from the concrete stands under the blinding sun watching the oiled bodies of the wrestlers writhing on the sand. The grisly homoerotic moment as the faces of the spectators looked down with anticipation and hungry eyes. An eager older woman with a faint lady's mustache gripped Peter Ustinov's arm in excitement, barely able to control herself, and the unctuous tout recoiled at her touch.

The kid switched back to
Jeopardy
.

Alex Trebek's voice returned. “Culture for four hundred points. The Turkish national sport.”

The Turkish national sport? Easy. The kid knew the answer. Wrestling. Wrestling was the Turkish national sport.

But instead he said, “What is buggery?”

In the kid's case, Mr. P.'s mind tricks were more than contagious; a Dale Carnegie course for the collective imagination. Find a strong, common frequency and exploit it. Almost every human impulse circled a nucleus of fear. Perceive those charged particles inhabiting the human mind and the ability to influence peoples' impulses was but a small step.

All of humanity was desperate for answers. Any answer.

Advertising copywriters, songwriters, novelists, movie makers—all of them employed telepathy or suggestion, but on a smaller scale. The Kid felt the power of his mind surge to broadband, his very name growing a capital “K.” He was becoming
Somebody
. He was becoming important. Slowly but surely he began reaching into the television, right into the studio, right into the contestant's very head. Past or present, dead or alive—they were all his puppets now.

And the
Jeopardy
contestant dutifully repeated Kid's suggestion, hitting the sound button and exclaiming,
“What is buggery?”
The siren went off, the backboard lights flashed, the contestant, a little old lady, faintly reminiscent of her Turkish sister with the mustache back in
Topkapi,
leaped for joy.

From his place under the cold compress Mr. P. murmured, “Save to file.” Though the answer might not have been strictly true, as buggery was also the national sport of the British upper classes at Eton and other English public schools.

In any case, the lad was learning fast.

*   *   *

Mama Whore and Dimples learned fast too. They showed up at the Grand Hyatt two days later when the Dalekto ran out. The new designer drug had a way of doing that. With an ounce of forethought they cleaned up a little so they wouldn't be stopped in the lobby. Still, their clothes smelled faintly of ghetto hallways and threadbare lives. A kind of stink that doesn't clean up so easy. Not without money, anyway. Money solved many problems of perception. And Mr. P. knew that better than most. And what money couldn't fix, a little mental suggestion solved.

They asked for “Michael” at the reception desk as instructed, and Sweet Tushie the Hyatt hostess didn't have to think twice to direct the call.

“You let me take this one,” the Piper told the Kid as he left their suite. “Order room service.” Mr. P. met them in the imperial oaken atmosphere of the Commodore Grill, the maître d' leading them to a banquette off the main floor shrouded by royal blue drapes and under a five-foot mirror. Mirrors made people naturally glance at their reflections. Under a mirror you could almost be invisible.

His guests didn't need the menu; they ate and drank whatever was placed in front of them, slyly glancing up from their dinners as though expecting at any moment to be addressed as interlopers and get carted away with the dirty dishes. The conversation tended to be a trifle one-sided, Mr. P. doing most of the talking.

“I suppose I could pack both of you off to Cleveland to work at the Skidmark Underwear Company as Inspectors numbers 86 and 69—but it's probably best we all stay a little closer for now.”

Mama Whore and Dimples stared at him without comprehension. But Mr. P. could see the wheels beginning to turn in the crack heads' noggins. The two lovebirds sitting at his table suddenly suspected there'd be more Dalekto somewhere down the line, and more importantly, that their lives were about to change. Good times just around the corner.

“You're going to apply for jobs here at the hotel,” Mr. P. told them. “You'll have about as much trouble getting work as you did getting to see me. All you'll have to do is show up every day for your shift, so I strongly suggest you scale back the
‘vacations.'
You'll have samples of Dalekto to pass around. Then you'll have customers. Then you will become wealthy. Wealthy enough to stay in this hotel if you like, get your laundry done and merely take an elevator to work. Good-looking enough to put your skanky ass up on Craigslist for a twist if you still like the skin trade. How does that sound?”

Mr. P. saw his pitch intrigued them.

Dimples seemed okay with all this, but Mama Whore couldn't quite understand her stroke of good luck. Suspiciously, “Why you doin' this, mister?”

The long, gaunt man took a sip of his merlot, gently correcting her, “Why are you doing this, Mr. Piper?”

And she repeated dutifully, “Why are you doing this, Mr. Piper?”

“None of your business,” he said calmly back. “Now go get some decent clothes in the hotel shops, charge it to my room, and apply for the jobs. Any job will do. You can make up your Social Security numbers if you want. That's nine digits. Hold up your fingers.”

Both Mama Whore and Dimples held up their hands, like they were under arrest. “Now take away one thumb.” They dropped a thumb. Nine digits.

“That's how many numbers you need to give them. Your new names will be Adam and Eve. Adam Smith and Eve Jones. Now go forth and multiply.”

*   *   *

Back in the room the Kid had gone whole hog with room service. Ordering up two shrimp cocktails, broiled lobster, a hunk of steak, a raspberry torte for dessert, espresso, and a bottle of Armagnac, because it was expensive and sounded fancy. He'd never had lobster before, and though it looked like a big bug, he really liked it. The Kid was still wearing his lobster bib sprinkled with drawn butter; obviously, he'd figured out how to eat the thing all by himself.

Mr. P. dipped a French fry into the little cup of drawn butter, then popped it in his mouth. “I saw your parents. Well, your mother anyway—and Dimples. They're not going to bother us anymore. Whattaya say, let's order that Kit-Cat clock?”

 

9

Desperately Seeking Sweet Jane

Bhakti found a funeral home for Janet's remains where he could grieve in private, the Cremation Society of Los Angeles. Officer Cheryl Gibson went with him to the LA coroner's office to release the body. Corpses weren't supposed to be transported in private vehicles, so Cheryl helped Bhakti with a special waiver allowing them to make the ten-mile drive on their own.

With the death certificate and transport authorization they were able to take Janet to the funeral home in the back of her father's rented SUV wrapped in a body bag. Cheryl being a cop and the one who discovered the body, the county coroner's office looked the other way on this breach of bureaucratic protocol, sparing Bhakti the added expense of renting a long black station wagon that nobody rides round-trip.

The coroner had stitched Janet's arms back to her shoulders, making her look almost normal. There were all kinds of stories in the news about funeral homes botching the job, leaving the autopsy stitching still visible, but what could anyone do to Janet worse than what happened already? Nothing.