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NoLiMa

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I dressed, spending way more time than usual deciding which T-shirt to wear, trying to tame my hair, and stressing about a cou- ple of new zits that popped up overnight, feeling stupid because honestly, what difference does it make? I look pretty much the same, no matter what I do. But I had never met a filmmaker before and Nikko had freaked me out about how famous she was. Once I checked her out, I discovered her films were featured on BoingBo- ing all the time and she had a bazillion Twitter followers. Normally I don’t like famous people on principle, but she was my best bet for creating public pressure to free my brother and his friends. So,
nerves and zits. I left a note for Monica and headed downtown.
Normally, entering a fancy hotel would have been tricky. The guy whose job is to opens doors for people might have closed them for me. But I disguised myself as a credentialed geek by attaching myself to a group of T-shirt-and-jeans guys not much older than me going in the front doors for the conference. Then I headed for the elevators and rode to the tenth floor.
"Never mind!" said Emma Jane comfortingly. "Everybody says you're awful bright and smart, and mother thinks you'll be better looking all the time as you grow older. You wouldn't believe it, but I was a dreadful homely baby, and homely right along till just a year or two ago, when my red hair began to grow dark. What was the nice man's name?"
"I never thought to ask!" ejaculated Rebecca. "Aunt Miranda would say that was just like me, and it is. But I called him Mr. Aladdin because he gave us a lamp. You know the story of Aladdin and the wonderful lamp?"
"Oh, Rebecca! how could you call him a nickname the very first time you ever saw him?"
"Aladdin isn't a nickname exactly; anyway, he laughed and seemed to like it."
By dint of superhuman effort, and putting such a seal upon their lips as never mortals put before, the two girls succeeded in keeping their wonderful news to themselves; although it was obvious to all beholders that they were in an extraordinary and abnormal state of mind.
unless they're stationed inside, where they would do absolutely no good at all.
A long, forlorn and ululating cry chases them the final distance.
But they don't burst into the chamber as Ray would have them do, as they'd drilled it. Three steps, then a sort of stumbling halt. The soldier mentality drops away, submerged in a vat of darkness that is thick like oil. The chamber is large, a man-made dome maybe thirty meters across. At regular alcoves around its edges,
guttering clay lamps illuminate the dun colored rock, staining the curved walls black with their smoke in straight trails that look like charred ribs. There are a dozen men in the center of the floor, ranked into four neat files; they're down on their knees, the pose of a good Muslim facing toward Mecca. Except they're not praying. Rather, they're bent at the waist, their torso's straight, their arms extended above their head, and they slap their hands against the bare stone floor. The tight cadence of their slapping has become a reverberation that Ray heard in the tunnel, the chamber itself acting like a bell to their clapping. At the twelve o'clock, there is a sort of natural eruption of stone, a lectern that is melted like wax. Beside the lectern is a pool, a well surrounded by a low, stone parapet in the shape of a ring. The well is full to the top with a turbid and brackish and foul smelling water. In the space between pool and clappers, a shallow depression has been carved.
Tony laughed and said, That's where you're wrong! File-O-Gator is just the long arm of one of the Ones In Charge. He probably slept with the wife of the One In Charge who runs BBD&O, and now they're fighting it out.
I laughed at Tony and said, You keep talking about the Ones In Charge! Everything you say is stupid unless you believe in the Ones In Charge! What makes you think that there are any Ones In Charge?
There has to be, Tony said. Who else is running the show?
Rhindquist is! I said.
Tony looked at me like I was stupid. I'm pretty sick of him looking at me like that. Tony said, If Rhindquist is running the show, then how come he has time to waste on you?
I wanted to say something, but I didn't know what. Tony sure makes me angry! I got off the slidewalk and went home and wrote you this letter.
Hi Mom!
Gosh, poor Buddy! How can he be a spy? I played with him all my life! I never saw him being a spy! He'd have to be pretty sneaky to be a spy! I don't think he's a spy! I'm sure that the manager at his disciplinary hearing will figure out that he couldn't be a spy!
Anda’s Da and Mum were watching the telly again with a bowl of crisps between them. She walked past them like she was dreaming and stepped out the door onto the terrace. It was nighttime, 11 o’clock, and the chavs in front of the council flats across the square were kicking a football around and swilling lager and making rude noises. They were skinny and rawboned, wearing shorts and string vests with strong, muscular limbs flashing in the streetlights.
“Anda?”
“Yes, Mum?”
“Are you all right?” Her mum’s fat fingers caressed the back of her neck.
“Yes, Mum. Just needed some air is all.”
“You’re very clammy,” her mum said. She licked a finger and scrubbed it across Anda’s neck. “Gosh, you’re dirty—how did you get to be such a mucky puppy?”
“Owww!” she said. Her mum was scrubbing so hard it felt like she’d take her skin off.
“No whingeing,” her mum said sternly. “Behind your ears, too! You are filthy .”
“Mum, owwww! ”
Her mum dragged her up to the bathroom and went at her with a flannel and a bar of soap and hot water until she felt boiled and raw.
I had to concentrate, because there was a lot of background noise from the people at the Owl who were stenciling signs and talking about oppression and capitalism and who had the glue and could somebody pass the scissors. But Simon’s voice was louder than the others (naturally). When somebody mentioned the good old days of the Occupy movement, Simon started ranting about how it was useless because the people involved were too hung up on consensus. “You want to speak truth to power? First you have to punch it in the nose to get its attention.”
A woman said something about non-violence, which set Simon off on macho mansplaining. “Peaceful protest? You think that works? Face facts. If you want real change, you have to be willing to act.”
He went on like that for a while, and while he never got spe- cific about what he thought should be done or who should do it, it was just edgy enough to work for our purposes. I was relieved that nobody else chimed in to agree. If Nikko took his recording to the feds, I wanted only Simon to become the target of a sting.
“What makes you think she isn’t?” asked Lexy cautiously.
He looked straight into her face.
“You’re playing with me,” he said. “You’re fencing with me, to make me give myself away; and it’s a pretty rotten thing to do!”
“Rotten?” Lexy repeated indignantly. “Rotten, not to answer questions from a perfect stranger?”
“Yes,” he said, “it is; because that’s a question you could answer for any one. I’ve only asked you if Miss Enderby is—all right.”
This high-handed tone didn’t suit Lexy at all. He was actually presuming to be angry, and that made her angry.
“I shan’t tell you anything at all,” she said, and began to walk on again.
He put on his hat and turned away, but in a moment he was back at her side.
“Look here!” he said. “Caroline told me you were her friend. She said you could be trusted. All right—I am trusting you. I’ve felt, all along, that there was—something wrong. I’ve got to know! If you’ll give me your word that she’s safe at home, I’ll clear out, and apologize for having made a first-class fool of myself; but if she’s not, I ought to know!”
The Story So Far was part game, part competition, part creative writing exercise, a massive shared universe drama with dozens of sub-plots, mysteries, betrayals, crosses, and double-crosses. Everyone kept saying it was only a matter of time until the big publishers started to cherry-pick the best writers from the message-boards, but in the meantime, there were these little hand-made editions, each one paying a small, honor-system royalty to the authors they anthologized.
"Have you tried asking your teachers for help?" He knew as soon as he asked it that it was the wrong sort of question. She rolled her eyes with adolescent eloquence, then looked down again. "Only you might be able to get credit for it -- independent study type of thing?"
She rolled her eyes again.
"Right," he said. "Right. Well, sorry I couldn't be more help." The little bell over the door jingled merrily as she left.
"Back again?"
She had her school bag in her hands, zip opened, bag gaping. He was reminded of all those terrible little signs that said "No more than two school kids in the shop at any one time." Fancy that -- imagine if it said "No more than two women in the shop" or "No more than two Asians in the shop" -- kids were the last group you could treat like second class citizens without being called a bigot.
What? After that neurotic song-and-dance he'd just given me in the park? I should have been overjoyed, but something about the whole thing immediately felt synthetic. I paused a long moment, trying to think the situation through. What was going on?
The answer to that was clear as day. I was being set up. Somebody wanted me out of town, and they'd just found a way.
Or was I being paranoid again? Had the weather cleared? I reached over and pushed aside a curtain. Nope, it looked as threatening as ever.
No question. This was definitely a setup.
On the other hand why not use whoever had put him up to this? This told me for sure I was on the trail of Sarah, and the sooner I got going, the better. Aside from calling New York and then checking out the local Ninos del Mundo that Barry Morton wanted me to see so badly, I had no other pressing plans. . . .
"Alan, I thought you declared no 'effing' way were you going to go today," I said testing him. "Why the sudden revision in scheduling?"
"What are you going to do with the magnificent profits you get from this business?"
"We are not selling for our own benefit," said Rebecca confidentially. "My friend who is holding the horse at the gate is the daughter of a very rich blacksmith, and doesn't need any money. I am poor, but I live with my aunts in a brick house, and of course they wouldn't like me to be a peddler. We are trying to get a premium for some friends of ours."
Rebecca had never thought of alluding to the circumstances with her previous customers, but unexpectedly she found herself describing Mr. Simpson, Mrs. Simpson, and the Simpson family; their poverty, their joyless life, and their abject need of a banquet lamp to brighten their existence.
"You needn't argue that point," laughed the man, as he stood up to get a glimpse of the "rich blacksmith's daughter" at the gate. "I can see that they ought to have it if they want it, and especially if you want them to have it. I've known what it was myself to do without a banquet lamp. Now give me the circular, and let's do some figuring. How much do the Simpsons lack at this moment?"
"I can't cook, Ray."
"Yikes. It's a good thing you're independently wealthy, then. You'd have a hard time finding a husband with that resume." He winks; she smiles. She's more fun to play with than a bunch of uber-kids anyway, even if she doesn't like Captain Shadow. "Maybe you can run the mining operation and Frederick can run the Trust. That way each of you get a piece of the family business."
It's out of his mouth before he can even... ducks his head.
"I don't think that would be a good idea. Children don't like my brother very much either. I certainly didn't like him when we were children."
"Really?"
"Come on, Ray, have you not been... what is called slipping bait. But he can't just leave it there. "So kids don't like him because he's not a happy drunk. Why didn't you like him?"
Emma shakes her head, looks away. "I don't want to talk about this."
And he wants to stop there, should stop, but his mind fills with an image: Frederick grabbing Emma by the arm, his knuckles white. Not just bending her to his will, but intentionally causing her pain. Delighting in causing her pain. What did he do to you?
I kept jiggling the power-adapter, but it was hopeless. There was no way I was going to get the thing to boot without taking it apart. I groaned and put it beside the bed. I'd deal with it in the morning.
That was the theory, anyway. Two hours later, I was still staring at the ceiling, playing back movies in my head of what they'd done to me, what I should have done, all regrets and esprit d'escalier .
I rolled out of bed. It had gone midnight and I'd heard my parents hit the sack at eleven. I grabbed the laptop and cleared some space on my desk and clipped the little LED lamps to the temples of my magnifying glasses and pulled out a set of little precision screwdrivers. A minute later, I had the case open and the keyboard removed and I was staring at the guts of my laptop. I got a can of compressed air and blew out the dust that the fan had sucked in and looked things over.
Something wasn't right. I couldn't put my finger on it, but then it had been months since I'd had the lid off this thing. Luckily, the third time I'd had to open it up and struggle to close it again, I'd gotten smart: I'd taken a photo of the guts with everything in place. I hadn't been totally smart: at first, I'd just left that pic on my hard drive, and naturally I couldn't get to it when I had the laptop in parts. But then I'd printed it out and stuck it in my messy drawer of papers, the dead-tree graveyard where I kept all the warranty cards and pin-out diagrams. I shuffled them -- they seemed messier than I remembered -- and brought out my photo. I set it down next to the computer and kind of unfocused my eyes, trying to find things that looked out of place.
"Come along then." The door opened with a cotton-soft sound from its balanced hinges, letting light into the room and giving him the squints.
"I wondered about your friends," Lawrence said. "All those people at the restaurant."
"Oh," Randy said. He was a black silhouette in the doorway. "Well, you know. Honor among thieves. Rank hath its privileges."
"They were caught," he said.
"Everyone gets caught," Randy said.
"I suppose it's easy when everybody is guilty." He thought of Posy. "You just pick a skillset, find someone with those skills, and then figure out what that person is guilty of. Recruiting made simple."
"Not so simple as all that," Randy said. "You'd be amazed at the difficulties we face."
"Zbigniew Krotoski was one of yours."
Randy's silhouette -- now resolving into features, clothes (another sweater, this one with a high collar and squared-off shoulders) -- made a little movement that Lawrence knew meant yes. Randy was all tells, no matter how suave and collected he seemed. He must have been really up to something when they caught him.
Turned out there'd been plans for the concert in the park for weeks. It had hopped from blog to blog, turning into a full-blown movement without my noticing. And the concert was called Don't Trust Anyone Over 25.
Well, that explained where Ange got it. It was a good slogan.
Monday morning, I decided I wanted to check out that anarchist bookstore again, see about getting one of those Emma Goldman posters. I needed the reminder.
I detoured down to 16th and Mission on my way to... The store was shut, but I got the hours off the door and made sure they still had that poster up.
As I... to see how much of the DON'T TRUST ANYONE OVER 25 stuff there was. Half the shops had DON'T TRUST merch in the windows: lunchboxes, babydoll tees, pencil-boxes, trucker hats. The hipster stores have been getting faster and faster, of course. As new memes sweep the net in the course of a day or two, stores have gotten better at putting merch in the windows to match. Some funny little youtube of a guy launching himself with jet-packs made of carbonated water would land in your inbox on Monday and by Tuesday you'd be able to buy t-shirts with stills from the video on it.
"It was a very small meeting, aunt Miranda," began Rebecca, "and the missionary and his wife are lovely people, and they are coming here to stay all night and to-morrow with you. I hope you won't mind."
"Coming here!" exclaimed Miranda, letting her knitting fall in her lap, and taking her spectacles off, as she always did in moments of extreme excitement. "Did they invite themselves?"
"No," Rebecca answered. "I had to invite them for you; but I thought you'd like to have such interesting company.
"Stop your explainin', and tell me first when they'll be here. Right away?"
"No, not for two hours—about half past five."
"Then you can explain, if you can, who gave you any authority to invite a passel of strangers to stop here over night, when you know we ain't had any company for twenty years, and don't intend to have any for another twenty,—or at any rate while I'm the head of the house."
"Don't blame her, Miranda, till you've heard her story," said Jane. "It was in my mind right along, if we went to the meeting, some such thing might happen, on account of Mr. Burch knowing father."
It would be impossible for two children to see more, do more, walk more, talk more, eat more, or ask more questions than Rebecca and Emma Jane did on that eventful Wednesday.
"She's the best company I ever see in all my life," said Mrs. Cobb to her husband that evening. "We ain't had a dull minute this day. She's well-mannered, too; she didn't ask for anything, and was thankful for whatever she got. Did you watch her face when we went into that tent where they was actin' out Uncle Tom's Cabin? And did you take notice of the way she told us about the book when we sat down to have our ice cream? I tell you Harriet Beecher Stowe herself couldn't 'a' done it better justice."
"I took it all in," responded Mr. Cobb, who was pleased that "mother" agreed with him about Rebecca. "I ain't sure but she's goin' to turn out somethin' remarkable,—a singer, or a writer, or a lady doctor like that Miss Parks up to Cornish."
"Lady doctors are always home'paths, ain't they?" asked Mrs. Cobb, who, it is needless to say, was distinctly of the old school in medicine.
Her voice broke.
“No more!” she said. “It is finished. But—attend, Miss Moran! There must be no scandal. No one is to know that she is not here.”
She turned and walked out of the room. Lexy sank into a chair.
“I don’t care!” she said to herself.
“She’s wrong—I know it! It’s not what she thinks. Caroline’s not like that. Something dreadful has happened!”