“You saw him?” I ask. “Was it a lady with neck tattoos? A guy with a guitar?”
Jimbo turns his head to the side. It wasn’t either of those people. But Jimbo also isn’t giving up names, not without getting the juice first. Problem is that Mallory will take twenty minutes to make it out here, slogging through all the horse crap that Hemingway and the rest are throwing at her by way of scintillating conversation.
The thing with Mallory is this—it’s not that she isn’t terrible at her job. She is. But as a customer, you’ve got to have perspective. She considers those old buzzards at the bar to be her adopted grandparents. When Johnny Morals passed away last winter she leaked tears behind the bar for a week. And he left her his car. So you know the buzzards feel the same way about her.
I go ahead and nudge my half-full beer back across the table to Jimbo. He decides to take it and I let out the breath I was holding.
“I didn’t see,” he says, wiping beer off his upper lip.
“Damn.”
He shrugs. I sigh. I got a feeling, though.
“But?” I ask.
“The robot,” he says, pronouncing it “ro-butt.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s got cameras on it. Records things.”
“Yeah, but the Shine’s gone—”
He’s waving his hand at me, shaking his head.
“Things that could be used as evidence. By the cops.”
This guy isn’t slow. His brain is moving fast. Lot faster than mine.
“The Shine saw them bridge kids robbing the pigs,” I say.
Jimbo nods. Leaning on an elbow, I look over his shoulder and spot Sherry sitting inside the Goose. She’s glaring at me through the sliding window with a look so malignant it would make cancer pack up and hit the road. The pint glass held to her lips is filled with ice and vodka and hate.
“Thanks, Jimbo,” I say, slapping the table. “I owe you one, buddy.”
Joe picks a fight.
Everything goes down under the I-5 highway that runs like a spine through the middle of the west side of Portland. It’s an elevated highway, snaking close to the ground until it leaps up and turns into the Fremont Bridge—like a colossus that stepped out of some kid’s dinosaur book, only bigger.
Underneath, you’ve got to deal with the constant thunder of traffic passing by twenty stories overhead, but you got no rain. Depending on the state of things, by the whim of whatever mayor or police chief we have, it’s either a thriving tent city or a barren wasteland.
Right now it’s trending toward the former.
I start noticing the trash on the street a few blocks before I get there, and my hands tighten on the leash like it was a weapon. Which it could be, I guess. Around here you can see scorch marks on the pavement from old barrel fires, and tarps tucked against leaning chain-link fences, the bones of cardboard poking through underneath.
There’s a whole complicated ecosystem at work in a place like this, but the one constant is the grind of age. The young ones are always the most dangerous ones, and that goes for anywhere you find yourself.
The urchins are already milling around me on bicycles, doing lazy circles, most with their faces covered in bandanas. Lot of dogs are wandering around, belonging to anybody and nobody. There are a lot of observations to make here, and a whole lot of shit waiting to go down.
I just keep my legs moving, pushing quickly through the homeless camp as it gets thicker under the shadow of the bridge. My head is on the swivel, looking for the Shine or whatever might be left of the poor sap.
That pile of tarps, I’m thinking. That’s where they’ve got him.
Planting a heel in the mud I pivot and head straight toward a pile of dirt-streaked rain tarps with blocky shapes under them. Before I get ten steps, a hand closes over my bicep and a kid in a black hoodie is pulling me back.
“Where you going, mister?” he’s asking, eyes dark over a bandana.
“Taking back what’s mine,” I say, yanking my arm back.
He swipes for me but I’m already hoofing it, like an asshole, like a dope who thinks he’s invincible. Friendship will make you do these things.
I almost make it to the tarps before the urchin tackles me. The kid knocks me onto my knees in the mud, and I catch myself with skinned palms. Then he stands up and starts kicking me in the ribs and back. Meanwhile, I’m crawling toward the tarps.
“Shine!” I’m shouting, closing my fingers over the edge of the tarp. I drag it away to reveal a glittering pile of metal—a tangle of half-stripped bicycles, stinking of spray paint and grease. It’s only a bunch of stolen bikes.
The Shine isn’t here.
Just then, the kid gets me by the scruff of the neck and drags me back. Heels cutting furrows into the mud, I’m just trying to get on my feet.
“Shine,” says the kid. “That’s a stupid name for a bike.”
“Hey!” calls somebody. “Leave him alone! What’s the matter with you, dude? He’s an old man!”
“That’s right!” I’m agreeing, because I’ve got no shame where the composition of my ribs are concerned. Getting your head kicked in is a young man’s game, and they can keep it. “I’m defenseless, for chrissake.”
The kid drops me and I manage to get up, smears of mud caked over my pants.
“And I’m muddy, too, now, thanks to you, you goddamn urchin—”
Now I see who the voice of my savior belongs to—it’s Adrian the busker, that criminal. How is he calling me old, I’m thinking. He’s nearly my age.
“Adrian,” I sputter. “You son of a bitch. What’d you do with him—”
“Nothing, nothing.” He’s waving at me, trying to reassure me. I’m rolling up the sleeves of my flannel shirt, hot again. Ready to wave my fists around.
“It’s Sherry,” he says, palms up. “It’s the girl I’m after, you dope.”
“Sherry?” I ask. “What do you want with her?”
“I’m in love with her.”
Oh Jesus Christ.
“Oh Jesus Christ,” I say. “Get out of here with that…malarkey.”
“Me and Sherry have been hooking up for a while now, Joe. So I sent the Shine off up the street and left his leash where she’d find it. I knew you’d freak the fuck out.”
“You set me up? Goddamn it, Adrian. Of all the cockamamie—”
“Sherry’s too good for a degenerate like you.”
He says it with a straight face.
“Me?!” I sputter. “You—you sleep in the park for chrissake!”
“I love her, Joe. Do you?”
Just over Adrian’s shoulder, I see Mr. Nice Guy walking quick across the trash-strewn field, mouth pinched in anger. Sherry’s husband has his fists clenched tight, knuckles white. He must have heard about what she said in the bar today. Even with his hair parted like a little boy, I can tell he’s out for my blood.
“Oh great,” I mutter. “This guy.”
“I’m being serious,” says Adrian, not noticing the new arrival.
“It’s a misunderstanding!” I shout to Mr. Nice Guy, ignoring Adrian and his ridiculous proclamations of love.
Now, Mr. Nice Guy breaks into a run, a roar building in his throat.
“Now wait just a goddamn second!” I shout, hands up, backpedaling as the spurned husband lumbers toward me and Adrian.
“What’re you—,” asks Adrian, finally starting to turn around.
And that’s when Mr. Nice Guy cracks my least favorite busker up against the side of the head. The old guy still wears that harmless green fleece jacket like he was about to pick his grandkids up from school, but he’s also hollering at the top of his lungs. Adrian goes down in a tumble of coats, gray-brown hair flying.
“Fight!” sh
outs the urchin kid.
I’d almost forgot about him, but my ribs are still lost in memory about those boots of his. Mr. Nice Guy is pistoning his fist into Adrian’s messy mass of coats and scarves. And meanwhile, an army of whackos and criminals from under the bridge is streaming toward us, rubbernecking and cheering on this pathetic battle that’s unfolding.
“Hey,” I’m shouting. “Calm down, buddy!”
Fist raised, Mr. Nice Guy looks up at me.
“He’s been sleeping with my wife!” he says through clenched teeth.
I take a few steps back.
“Oh,” I say. “Well then.”
Adrian is laid out on his back, trying to fend off Sherry’s husband and shouting for help. Just then the overexcited urchin tackles them both. And more of the kids are crowding around, some of them joining the fight. Most of them are going after Mr. Nice Guy, but not all of them. For his part, Mr. Nice Guy is giving them back some hell of his own and good for him.
I guess he wasn’t really that nice, after all.
With careful steps, I start backing away from the mob. I’ve got no dog in this fight anymore, so I’m ready to ghost the whole situation.
“Joe!” shouts somebody, as I move away from the scrum.
Oh, for chrissake. What now?
And there’s my boss Dave, puttering across the muddy lot in his beat-up post office van, leaning out the open door and shouting my name. He must have tracked me down from the Goose, and come looking for the Shine.
I wave him off, pretend I don’t know him. I got nothing for him.
“Joe!”
I notice three or four bridge kids zeroing in on the van.
They start pelting the vehicle with bicycle parts and mud clods, laughing and giving chase. Dave leans back inside the van, in a panic now, clinging to the steering wheel and frantically trying to slide the door closed.
I keep walking.
Bandanas and army boots, streaming past me. Shouting and punching and tackling, weals of muddy dirt torn by steel-toed boots.
An engine revs up and Dave’s mail van lurches past me, out of control, a couple urchins hanging off the side of it. He pops a curb at about walking speed and the whole shebang crunches into a bridge pillar.
Another step and this time I keep going without looking back.
Next thing I know, I’m back at the Goose.
Joe is reunited with the Shine.
“Shine?” I ask. “Shine!”
The little walker is standing there next to my usual seat, looking lost and worse for the wear. He’s like a cat that’s been out all night, nonchalant, but with dirt caked around his feet and crumbling leaves pasted to his back.
“You villain,” I exclaim, coming up on him. “Where the hell you been?”
I put a hand on his shoulder and turn him around half a step. I try to check the battery readout on the side of his head but it’s muddy. I spit on my thumb and rub off the dirt and see he’s on virtually zero power.
“Damn, you barely made it back,” I say. “Let’s get you some juice. Can you walk?”
In response, the Shine takes a trudging step.
“All right—”
“Joe! Damnit, Joe!”
And there’s Dave, his dented-up mail van idling on the curb. He’s wrapped in a green sweater, with a whole lot of sweat on his forehead. He looks like a Christmas tree dragging himself out of the van and struggling up the sidewalk, waving a hand to get my attention.
“Hello, Dave,” I say.
“What,” he pants, “what’s the deal? What were you doing today? There’s a big fight down the street, it’s crazy—”
I put a hand on the Shine’s shoulder. Snap his leash into its spot.
“Don’t know anything about it.”
But Dave has caught up now and he’s starting to get his breath, God help me.
“Don’t give me that,” he says. “What were you doing down there? Why wasn’t your unit with you?”
Ah, fuck it. I put my hands out.
“To tell you the truth, Dave, the Shine got away from me a little bit today.”
“I know. I check your logs.”
I blink.
“My logs?”
“Yeah, the unit keeps track of its path. You didn’t think we’d just let it loose without any way to track it? With you?”
Now this is a surprise.
“My logs?!” I repeat, like an idiot.
“You’re doing the work of ten men, Joe. The paths you take through the city. You two really get around—”
“So you’ve been spying on us? You knew where the Shine was today?!”
“Why, sure. It looked like an odd route. Wandering—”
“Damn it, Dave, that’s an invasion—”
I’ve got too much anger to express, and it just comes out in a single word.
“Why…why, you goddamn tomato.”
I really let him have it. Now I’m embarrassed. Just like that.
“Tomato?” asks Dave.
“It’s the shirt you were wearing. The day I met you—”
“I been called a lot of things, but a tomato? It doesn’t make any sense, Joe.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you—”
“It’s not even an insult.”
“Just shut up, will you? Stop interrupting—”
“Matter of fact, I like tomatoes,” he says, drawing up his double chin in a little pout.
It’s too much for me. I shouldn’t—he’s my boss, after all—but I shout.
“Good!”
Now it’s his turn to blink, and finally shut up for a second.
“Good, you goddamn tomato. I’m glad you like vegetables. Now, will you leave me alone and let me take the Shine back to his office? I got work to do.”
Dave shakes his head at me, trying to contain a little smile.
“You weren’t worried about him, were you?” he asks.
I snort.
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Joe.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, walking away, leading the Shine behind me. “Okay, Dave.”
“Take it easy, Joe,” he calls after me.
“Yeah.”
Goddamn tomato.
As soon as we round the corner, I turn to the Shine.
“Stop for a second?” I ask and he pauses. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
With a rap, I knock on his compartment and it flies open. A flask of Jameson pops out into my hand like magic. Unscrewing it, I take a deep breath of warm summer air and break out into a little smile. My ribs hurt, but not that much, all things considered.
“Hell, Shine,” I say to him, “it’s still a pretty good day for a walk.”
Joe and the Shine go for a walk.
ONE FOR SORROW
A CLOCKWORK DYNASTY STORY
PART I
The dark woods; a lost boy with the fey sight; and an inauspicious meeting.
Alas, alas, how terrible to have wisdom, when it brings no profit to him that is wise! This I knew well, but had forgotten it; else I would not have come here.
—Sophocles, Oedipus Rex
England, 1756
The fall of raindrops in the empty countryside forms a pattern that has become a familiar comfort. Twitching leaves and rippling puddles. English oaks sway, rough bark stained with water, roots worming through heaving clumps of sweetgrass. The woods seem alive with the traces of ghosts playing in the dusk.
I stand here during the hours that men walk.
A soaked and tattered lace dress hangs from my thin wooden bones. I can feel stripes of my long black hair clinging to the handcrafted planes of my face. In these times, I do not b
other blinking or breathing.
I imagine myself as a scarecrow, waiting.
And yet a scarecrow is endowed with such clear and simple intent. I can only envy that, for my own purpose is more elusive. I am avtomat, and my makers left a single Word written upon my heart—a compulsion that I have followed into an abyss.
My Word is logicka.
Obeying the dictates of logic has sent me roaming these marshy woods on bare porcelain feet. The cold does not send shivers through my body. Though I appear to be a girl of twelve, this appearance has grown superficial. My breath is silent and my limbs still, save for a slight, shuddering clockwork pulse that forms another pattern, equally steady as the rain. But in these patterns I have found no meaning.
I am months into my wandering when the human boy sees me.
Rough-featured and about fourteen, he has freckled cheeks and ha’penny-blond hair. He does not cry out when his wide green eyes find my figure where I stand knee-deep in the marsh, my features shrouded by lolling tongues of grass. Instead of running away, he pushes toward me through mud and branches.
He comes nearer and I do not move.
These wild woods have gnawed at me. Brambles and branches have torn and scratched my dress and stockings. The calf-skin leather of my face, once smooth with ash and cream, is dark and damp now with the glint of brasswork beneath. I have become a monster—alive and not alive. The boy’s eyes widen in wonder and horror.
But he does not flee.
“Georgie!” comes a shout. It’s a grown man, somewhere beyond the wall of reeds. I can hear him splashing and cursing. “Where’ve you got to?!”
The boy’s mouth opens.
I lift a porcelain finger to my lips. Shh. If necessary, I will pull him into these woods and ensure he never emerges again. We avtomat must protect the secret of our existence, always, and even from the innocent.