Processed cheese, p.20
Processed Cheese, page 20
“Back to the loom on that one.”
“Well, you know,” said Plexi. “Evil. It’s pretty stubborn shit.” He threw the towels onto the puddle of blood creeping slowly across the floor.
“Thought you said the gun wasn’t loaded.”
Plexi shrugged. “What do I know? Must’ve been a stray round left in the chamber somewhere.”
“So what are we going to do with this guy?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“What do you mean, don’t worry about it? There’s a body lying here in the middle of your apartment. A dead body.” He glanced over at what used to be a guy named RealDeal. “A decidedly dead body.”
“I know some people.”
“Oh, really?”
“People in sanitation. Supposed to be good but they’re pricey.”
“How pricey?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I can get removal and a squeegee for around five or so.”
“And how do you happen to be acquainted with such enterprising individuals?”
“I’m a gregarious fellow. Look, uh, think you could help out a little here?”
“He was your friend. Or something.”
“It was your money got us into this fix.”
“Nothing would’ve happened if you hadn’t ripped into that bag like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“What about half? I think that’s fair.”
“I’m not even half responsible.”
“You offered him a share.”
“All right. Two thousand.”
“Beautiful. You’ve helped make the world a better place.”
“I’m a goddamn saint.” Graveyard opened the bag and began counting out the bills.
“Yes,” said Plexi. “The timeless sorcery of money.” He extended his open palm. “It makes all the bad just go away.”
“We can hope,” Graveyard said. He peered over Plexi’s shoulder to see if, in the last few minutes, the body had moved at all. It hadn’t.
Chapter 14
The Man from the Upper Floors
First of all, NippersPumpkinClaws was not pleased. When the cage door was finally sprung, he stared attentively at the new opening. He sniffed the air. He stared again. He sniffed again. Then slowly, slowly, inch by careful inch, he crept warily out into the big beyond as if all this dubious space were a cage of a different order. All the while as Ambience enthusiastically called to him, appeals pointedly ignored. And when she picked him up, pressed him to her chest, cooed repeatedly in his ear, he refused to look her in the eye. Then, getting him in the carrier for the trip home required the gloved assistance of a trained FurryFarm tech. Ambience, who was by now feeling a jalapeño belly coming on, had never experienced such difficulty with Nippers, even on numerous traumatic visits to the vet. Obviously, he was hurt at being abandoned, locked up among strangers for all these days. But there was something more. Ambience knew her Nips. Her Nips knew her. He was reading her internal weather. All the static she’d been steadily transmitting since leaving Bullionvilla was not lost on him. Despite Ambience’s near-constant efforts at providing vocal comfort, he complained loudly all the way home.
Halfway down the block she immediately picked up on the suspicious intruder, the what’s-wrong-with-this-picture perched on her front stoop as if he belonged there when he obviously didn’t, a fairly complete representation of the industrious corporate bee type. Standard-issue uniform, though the Harrogate charcoal suit was too high end for government drone work. Oxblood quarter brogues obviously handmade and quite shiny. Impressive gold watchband peeking out of his left sleeve. Headful of closely cropped steel wool for hair. As she approached, she detected the distinctive reek of the played-out scent of Master&Manor’s Eden Ambush, the gentleman’s cologne for those who aren’t. Only aliasing in the picture: he was also a dead ringer for XSquared. You know, the lovably wacky morgue attendant on Here Come the Po-Po who liked to draw smiley faces on cadaver foreheads. Pointedly ignoring him, she turned and started up the steps.
“Pardon me, miss,” he said. “You don’t happen to be, by any chance, a certain Ambience?”
“Who’s asking?” she said.
“A friend.”
She gave him her patented puzzled look. “Sorry, not her.”
“Are you sure?” the man said. “Cause frankly, you bear a remarkable resemblance to this particular individual.” From his inner suit pocket he extracted a piece of paper, which he painstakingly unfolded and passed courteously to her. It was a copy of her last DMV photo, the one she refused to show anyone because, to herself, at least, she looked like a bloated body fished from a bad river. She pretended to look at the picture. She pretended to look at him.
“Who are you?” she said.
“I’m not gonna be so cliché as to say, ‘My card,’ but…” From his exotic-skin wallet he produced an off-blue business presentation that read simply:
BlisterPac
Senior Investigator
“Shouldn’t your name have a k at the end?”
“My parents,” he said. “Creative types.”
“Cute,” said Ambience.
“Perhaps we could step inside so as to discuss this complication in comfort.”
“Listen, what’s this bullshit all about, anyway?”
“Financial concerns,” he said. “Of a personal nature.”
She looked into his eyes. Closed door after closed door after closed door.
“Please,” he said, extending his arm invitingly toward the front entrance as if it were his residence. “No reason the entire neighborhood has to share in our business.”
“I have no secrets.” Nippers’s meows were beginning to sound like the cries of a human baby.
“Oh, I think you might.”
“I don’t ordinarily allow strangers into my apartment.”
“Good policy. I don’t, either. But you know, exceptions to every rule.” He was smiling like XSquared always did just when he was about to pull away the sheet on a gnarlyfest of a corpse. “I’m house-trained and I don’t bite,” he said.
She was looking at his fingers. Sorry. She couldn’t help it. Meaty and stubby. Exceedingly hairy knuckles, too. “I hope I don’t regret this,” she said. She led him into the building and up the stairs. She unlocked the door. She paused. “Place is kinda messy.”
BlisterPac laughed the laugh he was supposed to. “You oughta see mine.”
She opened the door. They went in. Boxes of product, boxes of product, boxes of product. She set the cat carrier on the floor, stooped down, opened the wire gate. Nippers bolted out, dashed down the hallway, and went into the bedroom, where he could presumably be found hiding under the bed. “He’s happy to be back home,” Ambience said.
“Where’s he been?”
“The vet.”
“Anything wrong?”
“Not really. Just a routine neutering.”
“Ouch.”
“He wasn’t conscious through it.”
“Still.”
Ambience removed some stray wrapping paper and shopping bags from the couch. “Have a seat.”
BlisterPac sat. He looked around. “Nice,” he said. Just like the bad guy in the movies you know is only pretending to be friendly.
Ambience watched him eyeing the loot. “Please. Excuse the clutter. Just had an insane baby shower in here.”
“Killer haul.”
“Yeah. I have a lot of friends, and I guess they’re all pretty generous.”
“All this. For you?”
She nodded.
“Congratulations. When’s the big day?”
“December eighteenth.”
“Really? How fortunate. Maybe you’ll have a Christmas baby.”
“We’re hoping.”
“Tough, though, for the kid. You know, to have your birthday and Christmas so close together. Don’t get as much stuff.”
“True. Listen, can I get you anything to drink?”
“Thanks, but no, I’m fine.”
Ambience took a seat on the far end of the couch.
“Can’t help but notice,” said BlisterPac, pointing to one of the numerous unopened cartons. “Someone gave you a case of Premium OutlawGold for your baby shower?”
“I have weird friends.”
“Well, don’t we all. But you know, better to have the friends you’ve got than the ones you don’t.”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“Pleasant place you’ve got here. Homey.”
“Not exactly the word I’d use, but close enough.”
“And you reside here with your current husband?”
“There’s only ever been one.”
“One what?”
“Husband.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…” His voice trailed off for a moment, paused, then started up again. “That cat of yours, if you don’t mind my asking, seemed rather big to just be getting neutered.”
“He’s a Northern Blue Bog Tatterdemalion. It’s a famously large breed. About twice the size of an average house cat.”
“Isn’t a Blue Bog kinda pricey, too?”
“Normally, yes, but Nippers was a shelter rescue.”
“A beautiful animal with that pedigree? Wonder who’d abandon a cat so expensive?”
“People, sad to say, can be quite carelessly cruel.”
“You know, you’re right. I’m constantly struck by what passes for courtesy in this daffy world of ours.”
“You’re sure you don’t want something to drink?”
“No, no, I’m good. I suppose we might as well get down to business.”
“Yes. Let’s. Whatever this mysterious business could possibly be.” She gave him a smile that, though it wasn’t her intention, even she would have described as somewhat sickly.
“I represent a certain individual who wishes to remain anonymous, largely out of embarrassment. He’s lost, you see, purely by accident, a rather substantial sum of money.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Yes. And of course he’d like to get it back.”
“Makes sense. What sort of sum, exactly, are we talking about here?”
“Well, here’s an odd detail about our situation. My client isn’t certain of the total involved. It was a bag. A rather large bag.”
“A bag of money?”
“Yes.”
“Which your client has somehow mislaid?”
“Fell out of a window, actually.”
“Excuse me, but out of a window?”
“Strange to say, but that’s what happened.”
“Must be a hell of a story there.”
“Yes, but that’s neither here nor there.”
“So what does all this nonsense have to do with me?”
“My special client and I have reason to believe that you and your husband are in possession of crucial information about where these missing funds might be located.”
“You do? But I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I understand. It’s quite possible this matter concerns only your husband.”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Are you aware, say, of any recent purchases on his part of perhaps a rather extravagant nature? Purchases he’d ordinarily find difficult, if not impossible, to make?” She noted the quick glance at the boxes and understood he wanted her to note that glance.
“Is that a crime?” she said. Occasionally, depending on her mood, Ambience would enjoy a healthy verbal spar with the minions of petty officialdom. This BlisterPac guy, though, was somewhat creeping her out. The voice was all tea and scalpels.
“No, but sometimes it’s a tell. Sometimes not.”
“Look, Mr. Pac, this is a big city full of big people and big cash. In case you haven’t noticed, buying and selling seems to be the major, the only, activity going on around here. Dollars are everywhere. Why zero in on us? We barely scrape enough together to make the rent each month. And, besides, even if someone did happen to find your precious bag, how could you prove it was yours?”
“We have the video.”
“What video?”
“Of your husband. Or videos, I should say. More than one. Many more.”
“What do you mean?” She could actually hear her heart. She hoped he couldn’t.
“Visual confirmation of your husband—his name is Graveyard, I believe?”
She nodded.
“Of Graveyard coming into possession of our assets.”
“And where did this purported ‘coming into possession’ supposedly take place?”
“In front of the Eyedropper building, as a matter of fact. Busy location.”
“Graveyard’s rarely in that part of town. Too tight-assed for his taste. You’re certain it’s him?”
“Security cameras don’t lie.”
“Aren’t they pretty low resolution?”
“Some are. Some aren’t. In addition, we’ve run the images through our facial recognition program. A primo program. A classified government program. There is no doubt.”
“I don’t know what to say. Graveyard is not a thief.”
“Never said he was. Look, we’re well aware that this entire event was simply an unhappy accident. The money was accidentally lost and then accidentally found by your husband. No one’s blaming anybody for anything. We, understandably, just want it returned.”
“I still think you’ve got the wrong people. I don’t know anything about any lost money. I’m sure Graveyard doesn’t, either.”
“I understand. As I’ve already made clear, you may be a completely innocent party in this situation. Given that, let me inquire again whether you have been at all aware lately of any sudden bumps in your husband’s personal finances, no matter how minor?”
She pretended to think. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Recent acquisitions of previously unaffordable luxury items?”
“Certainly not.”
“I think I should probably confess to you that my client is determined to bring this issue to a swift and satisfactory conclusion.”
“I hate issues.”
“Good. Then we’re in agreement.”
“If you say so.”
“Then I should also admit that my client, in strenuous pursuit of his self-interests and legally justified ends, is concerned with neither circuits nor consequences. There will be no blowback on us. There never is. Do you understand?”
“I appreciate your candor.”
“Then you can also applaud the seriousness of my offer.”
“Count on it.”
“I hope that you and your husband can resolve this matter in a fair and timely manner. What my anxious client demands is a prompt return of the remaining funds as soon as possible. Whatever has already been spent will be considered a reward for both finding and returning the bulk of—how should we put it?—the fallen misbegotten.”
“I’ve told you, there’s no ‘misbegotten’ here.”
“No one is claiming anything. It’s just that, let me repeat, my client believes you and your husband are, at present, in the best place to amicably resolve our current predicament.”
“It’s all about honesty.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Unfortunately, as I’ve repeatedly explained, I know nothing about any stray monies lost, mislaid, stolen, or whatever, and neither does my husband.”
“You have my card,” BlisterPac said. “We prefer a quick and painless solution to this matter as soon as possible.”
“In preference to what?”
“Why don’t we consider those options at the appropriate time, okay?” He gathered himself up off the couch. “I look forward to hearing from you.” He offered his hand. She shook it.
Ambience followed him to the door. “Have a good day,” he said.
“I always do.”
She closed the door. She locked it. She double-locked it. Done. And she was done. Goodbye to Mr. Pustule and his employer. Goodbye to foreign travel. Goodbye to orange-tiled roofs in the rain. Goodbye to money with pictures of people she didn’t recognize on it. Goodbye to shopping 24-7. Goodbye to the carefree, prodigal life. She got the vacuum cleaner out of the closet. She started vacuuming. In the bedroom, as if on cue, Nippers started crying. Nippers hated the vacuum cleaner. Ambience understood. She turned off the machine, cracked open a fresh bottle of OutlawGold (guzzling from half-empty liters lying randomly about the apartment was so déclassé), and poured herself a triple shot. She sat back down on the couch. She watched TV for a while. Some “reality” bullshit about a bunch of morons pretend-stranded on a desert island, killing time with fake flirts and fake arguments while armed only with spoons and jagged bits of glass, digging in the sand like deranged gophers for a buried pirate chest that might or might not be jammed full of enough glittery doubloons to finance a life. She liked the show a lot. The confrontations, the brawls, the tears. As she watched, she sipped her Scotch and consumed an entire pint of HoldMeClose chocolate butternut squash ice cream. Then she went into her room and began trying on new jewelry. That always made her feel better. And it did.
Chapter 15
Blowing Chunks
That Monday the eleventh was not, for MisterMenu, at least, your typical blue Monday. NationalProcedures finally closed on the record-breaking SpiritualEquities deal and, frankly, had made a freaking killing, and an hour later he was informed he had won the monthly HoneyDrippers Screen Meet Lottery. He had forgotten he’d even entered the damn contest. And especially unusual for him, he’d even forgotten the precise amount he’d had to shell out for the privilege of claiming a ticket in the draw. He had to log in and check out the girl’s image again. He was sure she’d be predictably stunning. He did. She was. Her name was LavenderLips. Her favorite fruit: the banana. Her favorite snack: cherry popsicles. Yeah, right. Nevertheless, MisterMenu was very excited. The clock would begin ticking in a week, at 0800 next Monday. More than enough time to get a crackerjack construction team over to the recently vacated PeerlessPolicies warehouse on the Lower West Side and prepare a suitable enclosure. What was required was a very specific look. Simple, spare, clean. And the walls, including floor and ceiling, had to be white, blindingly white, immaculately white. A solid door with a solid lock. The bag of money, the bottles of water, the roll of paper towels, and the bucket would be delivered to the room the morning of LavenderLips’s arrival. He was guaranteed a full day with her, all the way until 1700—more than adequate to explore every twist and turn of your particular kink. He was very excited.
