Rivers of Gold (10 page)

Crunch Time. I send a text message to the number I've been given of the cabbie working Product at this location for tonight. This will appear on a phone given to the cabbie earlier by Reza or one of his minions and won't show up on the GPS meter installed in every taxicab by order of the TLC. I take N's hand and tell her we need to be going. It's not fair to her, and it's by far the shortest night I've ever spent at Le Yef, but it's also by far been the most eventful one, and N can't possibly claim to be bored, given the night's erratic course thus far. I'm apologizing to the bartenders for cutting out so early, Chris and V can't take their eyes off N, though Song-hee appears to be on autopilot—I hope she's not using again—when Kyle returns, clearly feeling no pain. Dylan's with him, but judging from his anxious sobriety, he hasn't taken a cab ride yet.

—Surly fucking African, Kyle says with a smile, oblivious to the impact of his words on Chris. Can't you at least get drivers that speak English?

I try to shift the group away from Chris, who at maybe six-two and two hundred pounds would tie both these nimrods in a knot. Renny's Rule Number Six is, Befriend Bartenders Everywhere, they are your infantry.

—Renny, are you out? Dylan says with concern, too anxious to stay in the closet. I've got this super-hot wrestler down from Bowdoin for the weekend, and—

—No worries, lads, I say breezily, stepping between them and N. Thirty minutes tops. I'll call when it's ready. Ante up.

Below waist level, out of common eyesight, hundreds fill my hands.

If this doesn't scare N off, nothing will. But whatever went down between her and LA seems to be carrying her now, regardless of Business.

—How 'bout a change of scene? I say to her softly, taking both of her hands in mine, kissing their smooth backs.

She doesn't speak, doesn't even smile. But she looks me fully in the face and nods, once.

Exeunt
.

Thankfully we don't attract nearly as much attention leaving as we did arriving, though we do have to share the elevator down this time with one of my clients, who at least has enough discretion to maul his girlfriend instead of talking to me. I wouldn't mind doing some of that myself, but N's still experiencing some residual effects from her first trip to Le Yef. Getting her back in the mood will take some work. But, as they say, This Is What I Do.

Out through the loading dock, down the alley to Twenty-fourth Street, under the skywalk, to where Cipriani used to be. But it's out of sight, and there's the Dodge Angus, right where it should be. A quick glance down the block registers Arun's Hereford (he's working Flesh at this location tonight), and, sure enough, there's Luigi climbing in. Didn't notice him upstairs, he must've been there for a while getting his load on. Arun will drive him to whichever location Reza's arranged to be his brothel tonight, and maybe make an extra few bucks on the side slinging him some smoke, which is suicidal in my book, but Arun doesn't think Reza really minds. Why would he? His operation's bringing in more money than any of us can know, since we're each working different parts with no way to tally up total volume. You've got to hand it to Reza, he could teach the MBA program at the Stern School of Business all by himself. My cabbie does in fact have a surly, jaded expression, and judging from the name on his hack license (Ngala), he is most likely African. N stiffens up a bit at the less-than-pristine interior, the driver's sullen glare in the rearview. Me, I'm nonplussed by the separate seating, but the driver straightens up a bit when he sees me. We've never met, but Reza's probably told him about my hair. I give him my address and tell him
Vite
! When in doubt, Reza says, you can always go French with Africans. A most well-traveled executive, Reza.

We're rocketing up Tenth Avenue before I reestablish physical contact with N, and this time, there's no mistaking our intentions. She's not shy about it, either. Flipping up the armrests between our seats, she straddles me, one hand gripping the passenger strap, the other locked on my cock in a Wimbledon-worthy forehand grip. I'm trying to push her dress up above her waist, flailing for balance in the swerving cab, gasping for air while she bastes my molars with her dextrous tongue. (My god, this girl.) I'm starting to worry that I should've put on a condom back at Le Yef, not that I had the chance, when the Angus lurches to a stop and Ngala-whatever-the-fuck raps on the partition with his knuckles. We're at my building already, he got us home so fast I lost track of the time. That's how it is with the best cabbies, though, granted, I had quite some distraction. N's arranging herself and returning the driver's unfriendly expression with one of her own as I fork over the money. Here's the next hurdle: making the re-up on the sly without tipping off N. I tell the driver to circle the block—no one remembers cabs that leave, only cabs that linger—and guide N inside. I want so badly to touch her; there's heat radiating from her lower body that's liquefying my insides while turning my cock to pulsing veined granite. I give her an absurdly chaste kiss and tell her I'll be back in five minutes, she asks where the bathroom is, I show her, and when I hear the door close, I bolt through to my bedroom and pull the rest of the stash from its lair. I run awkwardly, painfully back out to the front of the building (ever try running flat-out with a raging hard-on?) just as Ngala's completing his lap around the block. I jump in and tell him to make a loop around Morningside Park. Five minutes and fifteen bucks later, the stash is replenished. I give Ngala a twenty and bid him
adieu
, which earns me a scowl. Well,
I
can't help it if he doesn't like his job. No one's
forcing
him to do this.

When I've double-locked the door behind me and followed the soft glow of candlelight into my bedroom, I find N with her back to me, facing the wall, studying my Mall Series, wearing nothing but a sterling silver belly chain that nests just above the inverted tulip bulb of her impossibly perfect ass.

—Where were these taken? she asks in a near-whisper.

—Central Park, the Mall, next to Sheep Meadow, I whisper back. My throat's constricted and my hands are shaking slightly, but the rest of me is throbbing.

—They're beautiful, she says over her shoulder, not quite looking back at me.

—No. You are, I say, coming up behind her.

Let there be no underwhelming descriptions of the ineffable glory, the mystical transmutation that occurs when two likeminded lovers, of equal prowess and appetites (unhindered by age or familiarity) collide. Her body is an instrument that is mine to learn how to play, to spend eternity seeking to master. We are outside of time, N and I, as we each seek out every minute unit of pleasure to be wrung from the other. Up against my display wall, spread-eagled across couch and coffee table, on rug and bedspread and bath mat and chair back. I cannot get enough of her. Each part of her becomes a lightning rod for further sensation, each crevice a new receptor quest. I can only keep track with condoms. On our third, when I am (very deeply, very slowly) thrusting into her from behind, she drops her head, her thick hair falls away from her neck and dark block lettering forming the words
AETAS ANIMA
across her cervical vertebrae reveals itself to me (I
live
for moments like this!).

Finally sated, languid, tangled up in linens and limbs, sharing a Davidoff, my semen drying in her hair, I'm telling her about the garden behind Donna Karan's flagship store, and which positions (ostensibly for photography, at least at first) would be ideal for the heavy stone chairs by the fountain, when she says:

—Renny, how many women have you fucked this month?

If sudden, the question is not entirely unexpected, and, having faced it before, I'm ready with a counter.

—I don't view relationship development conventionally. People meet, they interact, they come together and drift apart, that's the nature of the universe we inhabit, and our social patterns naturally reflect that. It's when you start imposing
conventions
on that movement, or worse yet,
legislating
them, that the trouble starts. I think that people need to collide, to bounce off each other a few times, in order to determine if they're really a good fit for combining. If not, it's best they Keep Moving. Because otherwise you get stuck in a vicious cycle of expectation and disappointment, and everybody ends up getting hurt. Throw kids and property into the mix and you've got our seventy-five-percent national divorce rate. I think at our age, it's best to earn some practical experience about what kind of person would make for that ideal combination, if there really is such a thing. But learning that takes a lot of trying, a lot of mistakes, a lot of movement. And I think it's best to Keep Moving.

(That came out better than I thought.)

N exhales smoke through her smile.

—Well, now, that's the most I think you've said at one time all evening. Is that supposed to be my cue to get dressed and leave?

—No, no, a thousand times no. I have had a truly exceptional time with you this evening, and I want it to continue. It's true. I've made my Fast Forty, set up my twenty-thousand-dollar
Roundup
gig, got some extra drink and cab money from Ma, and had this extraordinary encounter with this extraordinary woman. Only two things mar this day, Eyad's death and that strange occurrence between N and LA. Whatever it is, I feel neither bodes well for me somehow.

—Since we're taking non sequitur shots at each other, mind telling me just what was going on between you and LA? There is something going on, isn't there?

She gets that serious look again, and starts to withdraw. But I'm not letting her off the hook so easily this time. And where's she going to go? Her answer, after a long pause, surprises me.

—She was sizing me up. She was appraising me, N says with a touch of weariness, of resignation.

—I see, I say, without meaning it.

—Do you ever get the feeling that your direction in life is preordained? That you're not really free, you're just playing a role in a script that's already been written?

—Absolutely, I say softly. It's funny how she managed to express the vague uneasiness that I think resides in every young person so concisely—another echo of X.

—Is that why you do what you were doing tonight? For the one she called your boss?

I surprise myself and say:

—Yes. And tomorrow I'm going to have to get up and do it all over again.

And I'm surprised by how much that prospect, ordinarily exciting, suddenly seems frightening and unwelcome.

—Well then, N says, stubbing out her cigarette and moving the ashtray off the bed, we'd better do more of what we came here to do, while we still can.

And she softly aligns her fingernails in perfect formation along my scrotal seam, and arcs the tip of her tongue unerringly into my urethra.

My god, this girl.

F I S H   F A C E

S
antiago had a plan.

Or at least he did up until he met More. Before then, the plan looked something like this:

Into the Academy at twenty (after doing his obligatory two years at CUNY for the deflating department requirements and in order to get his parents off his back), out with full pension at forty (assuming a pension fund would still exist by then). In between, gather as many of the relevant certifications, degrees, and initials after his name as necessary to take it to the next level. Teacher, lawyer, Fed, judge? Santiago hadn't made up his mind yet as to what the next level would be, but he'd long since decided on the tool that would help him get there: the combination Baccalaureate/Master's program in Police Studies at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan. He was pretty sure that the combination of undergrad and graduate degrees would make him stand out from those cops who finally clawed their way to the hallowed gates of OCID.

Naturally, this didn't come easily for an Anticrime cop with a second job. Anticrime officers were considered the NYPD equivalent of trashmen: knuckle-dragging thugs who hauled the most noxious human garbage off the streets. Investigations were unheard of, initiative seemed unwarranted, and the whole credit scheme brought sneers and jeers from the rank-and-file veterans.

However, John Jay being what it was, Santiago was able to use some of his patrol time as field credits for the Criminology Research Internship, his Patrol Function class, his Investigative Function class, his Psychology of Criminal Behavior class, and, of course, his big Computer Applications in Criminal Justice seminar, which enabled him to gain access to COMSTAT reports before they entered general circulation, something which few officers below command rank ever achieved.

All of which was greatly facilitated by McKeutchen, who had from the start been impressed by Santiago's zeal, and who actively supported his quest for his degrees. McKeutchen had long and loudly bemoaned what he saw as a lowering of standards for each successive class of recruits (the force had been straining to make its minimum intake for the past seven classes, and seasoned veterans were retiring in ever-increasing numbers each year). Academic requirements had been eased in favor of military service done, something that was hardly lacking among the thousands of veterans of the Afghan and Iraqi campaigns. The resulting influx of young, gung-ho servicemen with itchy trigger fingers did occasionally make for rather incendiary newsfeeds and even some headlines in the few remaining newspapers around town, but hey, you couldn't have everything.

Santiago had known the day he transferred to the CAB unit that he'd have a rabbi in McKeutchen. The captain was paternal and encouraging, and Santiago suspected he had an ulterior motive as big as his ass.

This was confirmed within a week of Santiago's transfer. McKeutchen had confided to Santiago one day in his office, as he sat in his reinforced chair demolishing a tuna melt sandwich in a way that made Santiago feel sick.

“Economic extremes breed social ones,” McKeutchen yawned around a mouthful of melt. “Social extremes, in turn, breed political ones. Witness the steady Republican sweep of state and federal legislatures. Nothing to do with a newfound love for the GOP, just Dem fatigue, same as the previous cycle when we first went into Afghanistan and Iraq. Now, four years of inflation, layoffs, and plunging home prices have conspired to make the natives restless—even if said social ills can be traced back to the previous Republican-dominated cycle. They exercise their displeasure through the electoral franchise. Out with those greedy corrupt DNC fuckers, they cry. Up with the right, in with a new mandate, the red banner of change! The collective memory is a feeble, fallible thing.”

McKeutchen emphasized his point with a massive bite. The ends of the sandwich gaped at Santiago and the suspect pink goo within swelled menacingly toward him. “Now with the big election, there's nothing left to distract the public from the ugliness of reality. The new mandate for change looks a lot like the old one: disruptive tax code changes, austerity budgets, and forced housing subsidies. All for the greater good, we are told. But the pendulum whiplashing from left to right does not fix our national predicament overnight. In fact, given the campaign rhetoric, it's clear the new boss is no better than the old one, and there will be no balm for our pain. Now, people who've lost their jobs and their homes slide down through the layer cake to the stained cardboard slab at The Bottom. Reclaiming their previous status becomes a myth. They have no incentive and no hope. They seek solace in self-medication. When this fails to offer relief, they become bitter. Inevitably, they blame their situation on others, as is human nature. Occasionally they punctuate their feelings with sharp objects, firearms, or the ever-popular IEDs. Which is where we come in.”

The sandwich vanquished, McKeutchen licked his fingers and smacked his lips loudly; the sound reminded Santiago of the surgical documentaries he sometimes watched on cable during late-night insomniac channel surfing. “The recent rise in, shall we say, large-scale discontent among our citizenry begs the question: Where do these good people get the goods with which to cut up, light up, and blow up one another with the frequency that has sadly become the workaday norm?” McKeutchen wiped his fingers with one paper napkin, then blew his nose in another. Something solid hit the inside of the paper with an audible
pock
. “Explaining the current scenario of decay and depravity I leave to those with higher learning and pay grades to sort out. Myself, I am concerned with bad guys getting through the cracks while everyone's distracted by the carnage in the foreground.” McKeutchen pensively inspected the contents of the napkin, an augur divining the future from entrails.

“There's something new happening here, a change in the shape of the street. It's more, whaddya call it,
amorphous
than what I'm used to. The more brick-and-mortar businesses collapse, the bigger this shadow game gets. The speaks are taking over from the bars and there's an ocean of shit moving through them, but since the whole game floats, there's no way to pin it down. There's profiteers working this chaos, naturally, but not your garden-variety mopes, no sir. All this takes money, planning, logistics, and a lot of muscle.”

McKeutchen paused for effect, which was undermined somewhat by a stifled belch.

“The difference between organized and disorganized crime today is measured in billions, in nautical miles and international borders. Where were you when they sold the Chrysler Building? The same thing's happening on the street. And I just can't believe it's the same bottom-feeding knuckleheads we roust night after night pulling it off. They don't have the brains or the manpower. There's too much dope out there, too many guns, too much black-market business.”

McKeutchen folded his arms, braced himself on his elbows, and leaned over the desk intently, causing it to creak under his bulk.

“OCID should have its arms buried up to the shoulders in the ass of this beast—” Santiago winced at McKeutchen's unfortunate choice of imagery—“but it doesn't. Something's wrong. Something is rancid in OCID. The machine's not doing its job, at least not for
us
. I want to fix it.”

Santiago gaped at his
CO
. “You want to ghost
OCID
?!”

It was unprecedented, unthinkable. There had been enough departmental investigations in the NYPD's checkered history, but the most successful ones had been spearheaded by the Feds and backed by the state. For a CAB unit—street-sweepers, drag-haulers, cabbie cops, call it what you will—to go undercover in a top-tier investigative unit like OCID was simply unheard of. And dangerous.

McKeutchen flashed an imp's smile, which quickly reverted to his customary golem's glare. “Indeed I do. But I can't just stick you in there. You've got to earn it. And you can't do it alone. I want to send at least two teams to OCID, maybe more as time goes by. The officers recommended will have to be absolutely stellar, on paper as well as on the street. They've got to make and break real cases, not just rack up the credits in this bullshit program. We need to get a handle on the speaks. Who's running them, how they're being supplied, where they're going to pop up next. If we can crack just a few of them, interrupt the supply lines, get some people to flip, we can find the money. Once we do that, we follow it right to the top.”

There was a slight ringing in Santiago's ears and a drumbeat in his wrists. In his mind's eye he saw dawn breaking over snow-capped mountains and heard the sustained bleat of horns calling for war. At that moment, he would have followed McKeutchen into hell. Or East New York.

But that was before he'd met More.

“
Stale
” was the first word that came to Santiago's mind that night before getting into his cab. It was nothing new. Stale odor of junk food, stagnant coffee, sun-baked vinyl and much-maligned radio and scanner. Stale feel of old aluminum and tired plastic, fake leather fraying off the steering wheel. Stale breath and perspiration, stale aftermath of countless exertions in the backseat by drags desperate to avoid jail. Stale subway smell on the clothing of the innocuous, somewhat disheveled-looking white guy in the black field jacket and plaid newsboy cap taking up the front passenger seat.

The guy, who was to be Santiago's new partner, assigned by McKeutchen himself, didn't bother to look up from the stapled printout he was reading when Santiago (in full street gear, hoodie and vest, watch cap and drag-stompers) slammed his bulk behind the wheel. He didn't look up when Santiago introduced himself. He didn't even look up when Santiago laid down Rule One, that no matter where they were or what they were doing at the moment, if they got a call that Santiago's parents were in immediate danger, they would drop whatever they were doing and go straight to them, lights and sirens and backup. And Santiago would do the same for the other guy's family if he requested it. Which was, of course, completely illegal.

No response.

“Hey,
cabrón
, I'm talkin' to you,” Santiago snapped, shifting in his seat so that his massive shoulders blocked the garage lights coming through the driver's-side window.

That got the stranger's attention; his head came up and around, and for the first time Santiago was confronted by what he would forever think of as the Fish Face.

Several branches, boughs, and twigs of Santiago's family tree lay in southern Florida, and since childhood he had been making visits to various cousins and uncles, almost all of whom were blue-water fishermen. Some of Santiago's happiest memories were of sitting in an angler's chair on the stern of some relative's rickety old boat, a cooler full of Presidente within arm's reach, plying the waves for kingfish and tarpon and marlin. Santiago had always found himself looking into the eyes of what he managed to snare from the depths, always taken aback and a bit unsettled by the utterly distant and alien gazes of the fish. Looking into the eyes of the fish was looking across a chasm of evolution; he felt none of the empathy, the recognition he otherwise did when confronting people, livestock, or pets. The wild fish represented something other, something older, something
else
.

Looking into the eyes of the man McKeutchen had called Everett More, Santiago felt that same distance, that same lack of mammalian warmth, the same disconnect between species. This fucker More did not read like a human. Santiago did not know what sort of opponent he was facing, and this made him, for the first time in quite a long while, feel something that bore a vestigial resemblance to fear. He would admit this to no man.

They stared at each other like that for too many seconds. Finally, Santiago decided to break the ice. “What're you reading?”

More blinked, once, and folded the top sheet of the printout over, holding the packet up four inches from Santiago's face. The printout did not quiver or shake at all. Santiago read:
ANTIGEN CARTOGRAPHY: FROM VECTOR TO VACCINE
by A. N. Chakramurtii, Chuasiriporn Duang-prapha, and Lo Dingxiang—each of whom had various initials and suffixes after their names, as well as the name of some university Santiago had never heard of. It occurred to him that this was not the sort of reading material that uncles—undercover police officers—typically pored over between drag hauls.

Maybe More had some extracurricular job activities too.

Santiago realized one of the things that was creeping him out about More was that he didn't seem to blink much. That, and there didn't seem to be any heat coming off him. In Santiago's experience, a face-off like this would cause some noticeable responses: elevated pulse, flared nostrils, perhaps the first tinge of sweat—the hallmarks of a body preparing for combat. More gave off no such spoor. If he was uncomfortable, sitting half-twisted in the front seat of a Crown Vic facing a cranky cop nearly twice his size, he showed absolutely no sign of it. Santiago wondered if More could hold that position indefinitely, and decided he could. He blinked his tingling eyes, mentally brooming away images of coffins and ghostly white men hanging upside down by their feet.

He decided that the best way to proceed was to initiate some sort of dialogue. “Did the captain tell you who I am?”

That at least took the Fish Face away. More went back to reading his printout. It's like I'm not even here, Santiago thought.