Glimmering (54 page)

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Authors: Elizabeth Hand

BOOK: Glimmering
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Trip swallowed. Fear nudged at him; too late he tried to wrest his gaze from the icon, one leg drawn up beneath it like a heron’s.
Fear the end of the end . . .
 
 
Whirling stars swept across its eyes, green trees and blue water, a rippling brown mat of living creatures racing across an emerald plain. The icon opened its hands. Within its palms golden-eyed frogs crawled, throats bubbling as they sang. They leapt into the air, forelegs extended so that he could see their tiny toe pads, their glistening skin. Where they had been an egg trembled in the icon’s cupped hand, its shell a color that Trip had forgotten he ever knew. Cracks appeared upon the shell, the clawed nub of a minute beak. Something pushed its way free until it sat with lidless glaring eyes. Something like a tiny feathered dragon, eagle’s curved beak and claws, pointed ears that flattened against its skull as it hissed at him.
Trip’s flesh prickled. With all his will he forced himself to look away, to stagger in the other direction; and directly into Leonard Thrope.
“Trip . . .” Trip looked up to see the slight man standing somewhat unsteadily. “Trip Marlowe?”
Trip swung at him. Leonard moved backwards as a hand grabbed Trip’s and yanked him sideways. “Oh, hey, Trip, nice to see you too—”
Flash of crimson as he smiled; another flash as someone struck Trip on the side of the face. He cried out, looked up through watering eyes to see a blond woman a full head and shoulders taller than he was, her body sheathed in pink latex, face hidden behind a Barbie mask.
“Check him, Mikey,” said Leonard.
Within the mask a mouth opened, showing white teeth filed to a point and tipped with gold. “Okay,” she said to Trip. “C’mere, you—”
She spun him to face her, ran her hands expertly up and down his sweater and pants; found the wallet Martin had given him. She glanced inside, with a shrug handed it to Leonard and reached for his knapsack. At Leonard’s admonitory glance she set it down. “Nothing on him but that.”
As she stepped away Trip slumped to the floor. His cheek throbbed where she’d hit him, his head felt as though it’d been pumped full of Novocain. He stared murderously up at Leonard Thrope, who only grinned and took the wallet. He opened it, raising his eyebrows at the amount of cash; then screwed up his face to examine the driver’s license. “Old enough to drink yet, Trip? Let’s see.”
Leonard frowned. Then his appearance changed, melted from malign amusement into something Trip had only seen once before, when his mother received the news of his father’s suicide. An utter void of expression, lines smoothed away, eyes blank. He looked at Trip, then at the license. He perused it for a good minute, thumbed through the rest of the wallet, examining business cards, photographs, whatever was in there. Leonard held the driver’s license between two fingers and stared at it, finally slid it into a pocket of his leather jacket.
“Where did you get this, Trip?”
Trip glared at him sullenly. He thought of lying, of saying he’d stolen it. Instead he got to his feet, squaring off with his fists at his sides. The Barbie Amazon edged closer to him. “He gave it to me.”
“Who gave it to you?” Leonard asked.
“He gave it to me.” Trip said defiantly. He stuck out his hand. “Martin Dionysos. Can I have it back?”
“Martin Dionysos gave this to you.” Leonard glanced at Mikey. He nodded and she backed away to lean against a wall, eyes blank as pewter, her body giving off the scent of rubber and vanilla.
Leonard turned back to Trip. “Where, Trip? Here? In this club?”
Trip shook his head. The other man seemed uneasy, staring back at Trip with an intense, fearful hunger. Trip felt a sting of poisonous exultation: so Leonard Thrope could be afraid of something!
“No.” He grinned disarmingly. When Leonard ventured a wary smile back, he snatched the wallet from his hand, ducking as Mikey lashed out at him.
“You little
fucker
—”
“Mikey—no!” Leonard shouted. Like a snake she drew back. “Leave him . . .” Quickly he turned back to Trip, who had grabbed his knapsack and was breathing heavily. “Is he here? Martin—is he in the city?”
Trip shook his head. “No. It was back in Maine. At a place called Mars Hill . . .”
Leonard nodded, eyes distant.
“Though actually, he did give me this here”—Trip held up the wallet, then shoved it into his front pocket—“on his boat.”
“When?”
“Yesterday—” Trip frowned. “No, this morning.”
“What were you doing with him?”
Trip hesitated. “He saved me. I—I tried to kill myself, up there. At home. I jumped into the water to drown. But I was washed up on shore. Martin found me.”
Leonard’s gaze shifted from whatever far-off thing he had seen to Trip’s face. “This is after I saw you. After we made the recording.” Trip nodded. “Lucius said you’d do that—he said you’d split and go back to Maine. He thought you’d freak out on tour. He said you wouldn’t be able to handle it—he said you’d go home. Nellie thought you took off with her foster daughter.” Leonard nibbled his lip; a ruby spark flared and died. “That’s what I thought, too. But you didn’t?”
“No. Do you know where she is?”
Leonard shook his head. “No,” he said. “I really don’t.”
He sighed, ran a hand through his long mass of greying curls. He tugged at an intricate braid of gold and leather and tiny mirrors until it stretched before him; stared into the spectrum of tangled glass and metal as though divining something there. He raised his eyes to Trip’s. “You said Martin gave you his wallet, here in the city. He left Mars Hill, then? He came with you? Where is he now?”
Trip shrugged. He had lost his balance: Leonard Thrope had moved his hand and once again the world had shifted under Trip’s feet.
“
Where is he?
” repeated Leonard.
“He left,” said Trip. The words tore at his heart. Because suddenly he saw the blond girl again, a shaft of bright pink disappearing through a revolving door.
“To where? Did he tell you?”
“I don’t know. He had his boat—we sailed down here, we left about two weeks ago—”
“But why did he leave?” Leonard’s tone grew anguished. “He was so sick! The only thing keeping him alive was that he stayed up there—why would he leave?”
“Well—he brought me here. I mean, I asked him to,” Trip said; then, with slowly dawning astonishment, “You
know
him?”
“I’ve known Martin Dionysos for twenty fucking years. We were at RISD together, I left my goddamn high-school sweetheart for him. Then Martin dumped me. We ended up at different galleries—”
He laughed harshly. “—we had, oh, different views about art. Among other things. He hasn’t left that place up in Maine for years, now.”
“But he
wanted
to—” Trip’s voice rose defensively. “I mean, I didn’t, like,
force
him or something—”
Leonard stared at Trip.
“Didn’t you know how sick he was?” he asked. “Couldn’t you tell? You stupid fucking kid.”
“No! He
wanted
to do it—”
“Of course he wanted to do it!” Leonard grabbed Trip’s arm and shook him. “Look at you! Little blond piece—he fucking fell in love with you, you little prick! Christ, he thought he saved you? Martin spent his whole life looking for stray dogs! You fucking asshole!” Trip saw tears glowing in the basilisk eyes. “Didn’t you notice anything? Didn’t you see he was sick?”
“No.”
For a long moment he held Trip’s gaze. The boy stiffened, sure that Leonard was going to strike him. Instead he shook his head and glanced over his shoulder.
“Mikey,” he shouted above the music. “Get the others. We’re going. You—”
He turned to Trip. “You’re coming with me—”
“The fuck I am.” But before he could pull away another Barbie appeared, identical to the first shimmering plasteen mask, effaced eyes, latex catsuit.
“Bring him to the limo,” Leonard commanded. “We’re going. Now.”
The second woman dragged Trip through the crowd, following Leonard as he pushed his way downstairs. By the makeshift doors the caftaned bouncers stood, talking. As Leonard approached one began to shout.
“Hey man, no one leaves till—”
But then the others broke in.
“Leonard!”
“Yo, Lenny! Takin’ off?”
Leonard nodded as the caftaned men pulled aside a heavy metal fire door. Icy air roared inside, a flurry of ashes.
“’Night, Leonard.”
“Later, Leonard—”
They were outside. The ashes were snow; it coated the ground like dark fur. In the street a huge seal-grey limousine idled. A figure in black rubber and mouthless black mask stepped from the driver’s seat and opened one of the back doors, holding it as Leonard slid inside.
“Fayal, this young gentleman will be accompanying us,” said Leonard, jerking a thumb at Trip.
“Wh—” Trip began, but before he could say more was shoved into the seat beside Leonard.
“Shut up.” The older man smiled coldly, reached to take Trip’s chin in his hand. “You ought to thank me,” he said, as the two Barbies and several other people clambered into the limo’s backseats, laughing and complaining.
“Oh yeah?” Trip hunched against the window, trying to sound tough. He and Leonard had the middle seat to themselves. He could see the others watching him with amusement.
“Sure.” With a soft thump the last door closed. “You’re going to a party, Trip.”
“A what?”
“A
big
party. And you weren’t even invited.” As the limo shot into the street Leonard gazed out to where the sky moved overhead, gyring in upon itself. “You lucky kid.”
Trip stared at him. He cradled his knapsack and stared resolutely at his knees. “What kind of party?”
“What kind of party?” Leonard raised his eyebrows. From the backseat came raucous laughter. “Don’t you know what today is, Trip?”
The boy sank sullenly into the seat. “Yeah.”
“So!” Leonard reached over and grabbed Trip’s knee, shook it in mock excitement. His hazel eyes narrowed. He leaned in close as the limo roared around a corner and his entourage shrieked delightedly. “Well, gee whiz, Trip, gee whiz—Happy fucking New Year.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
 
The Chairman Dances
The elevator opened onto night: thousands of stars thrown across the sky, tree limbs scratching at streaks of cloud, silver moon. Beneath his feet crunched a thin layer of snow, and beneath the snow the firm-mattress spring of earth. There was the perfume of balsam, so fragrant Jack felt as though his face had been thrust into a soft-needled bed, and underlying that the faint sickly smell of Viconix.
“May I see your ID, please?”
He was so enraptured of the sky that it wasn’t until someone touched him lightly but insistently on the arm that he realized he’d been questioned.
“Sir?”
Jack looked up into the broad face of a veritable security giant, former linebacker or WWF hero in GFI’s red-and-gold livery, the outlines of his formal jacket corrugated by the bulletproof vest he wore beneath, his head haloed with chatlinks: headphones, mic, beepers, vocoder.
Oh: and
three
guns.
“Yeah, sure, wait—”
Jack patted anxiously at pockets for his wallet. He sensed shadows moving just beyond his vision, the premonition of many huge hands about to clap onto his shoulders.
“Oh! No—of course, wait,” he stammered, recalling his hand, the image scanned there by the foot courier months before. “You need this—”
He grinned feebly and held up his palm. The gryphon glowed a brilliant red-gold. A huge black-gloved hand encircled Jack’s wrist, held it steady while the other hand drew a flattened disc across his palm. There was a reassuring chime. Jack felt a warm, not-quite-painful tingling. The guard did a thorough pat-down, checking Jack’s pockets, running fingers through his lank hair.
“You enjoy the evening, sir,” he finally pronounced, beckoning Jack forward. Somewhere behind him he heard excited voices, the
sooosh
of a revolving door.
“Happy New Year.”
Jack stepped away; when he was at a safe distance glanced down at his clothes. He was still wearing what he’d had on at Lazyland when Jule kidnapped him—white oxford-cloth shirt, quite soiled; dark green chinos; worn brown corduroy jacket. His temple throbbed; he rubbed it gingerly, trying to make sense of time. It had been, what? Wednesday morning when he left Lazyland? The twenty-ninth of December? He was fairly certain of the date, if not the day of the week.
Nellie’s words came to him:
You’ll be at the party tonight . . .
He had lost a day; more than that, two days, squandered in a cell within the Pyramid. He had a flash of his grandmother sick with worry, his brother Dennis tending her; of the blond girl going into labor.

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