CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Raphael glanced from the woman sitting on the curb to the vanishing airliner. Dollar, the name he had given the woman—she’d ignored his requests for her true name—was just rambling, as she always did.

  She wiped her nose with her fist, lowered her head, and viewed her outstretched legs as if only recently acquired. Appearing out of the darkness, a coyote ambled down the sidewalk, eyeing the humans fearlessly. Driven from the hills by development, the animals foraged the streets. It paused at a fire hydrant and lifted its leg. Dollar regarded the animal and tapped a few keys on her laptop.

  “Water 95 percent, urea 2 percent, sodium .6 percent, chloride .6 percent, sulfate .18 percent …”

  Her voice had an erratic cadence, an old-time cinema actress playing drunk.

  “Do you remember me?” asked Raphael.

  “… Calcium .015 percent, magnesium .01 percent.” Her forehead wrinkled. “Trace amounts of protein and glucose.” She lifted her head, eyebrows uncoupling. “Remember you?” She scanned him and shook her head. With a grunt, she pulled her pink jacket closed. Crumbs and stains covered much of her clothing, and strands of stringy, unwashed hair now stuck to her wound. She was a small woman, bird thin and bent.

  Raphael had encountered Dollar many times in the neighborhood, sitting on a curb or a low wall and always with her laptop. She’d be absent for a week or two, then reappear. Out of charity, he’d buy data from her, asking questions about nothing of consequence: 911 call records or AMBER Alerts or all words not containing the vowels a, e, i, o, u. She’d consult her laptop for a few minutes, and then rattle off the info. Her answers, often muttered and garbled, were difficult to follow, though he had no reason to try. Despite meeting him dozens of times, Dollar never remembered him, as if her memory was wiped clean after each encounter.

  “Did you fall? Is that how you got your cut?” He touched his own cheek. “Or did someone attack you?”

  The woman averted her eyes and mumbled something unintelligible.

  He slipped out his phone. “I’ll call the police.”

  She shook her head, rubbed her fist in her open hand, and lifted her legs. She stared at her flip-flops and wiggled her toes.

  “No cops. I’ve got hypertext databases and mobile databases, spatial databases and temporal databases, probabilistic databases and embedded databases. What you want?”

  Like those damaged people who lived out their lives on a square of sidewalk, she was in a prison too. He should buy some data, give her the money, and go; though she’d spend it on booze or something stronger. It was an off night when she wasn’t swilling or toking, and toxic synthetic marijuana was all over the place, not to mention printed opiates, faux fentanyl, and the unicorn pill (the world’s greatest high, but you only ride the unicorn once). Considering the shape she was in, it would be better to buy her food, which might cause further obligation. Guilt either way. Paint me. Paint me.

  He sighed. “If you wait here, I’ll get you something to eat. A burrito?”

  Scrunching her face, Dollar stared at the keyboard. “Medical? Demographic? Transactional?”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not looking for data right now.”

  “Name,” she barked.

  He pointed to himself. “Me?”

  She glanced around at the nobody else in the area, as if mocking his confusion.

  “Yeah, I’m a little slow. Raphael Lennon.”

  “Birthdate.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Birthdate,” she insisted.

  Shrugging, he gave her the date. She hammered at her keyboard.

  “Pizza, maybe?” He tried again.

  She ignored him.

  She didn’t want his help. Let her be. “Listen, I’ll return in five minutes with food.” She tapped intently on the keys.

  At the convenience store, he pulled a foil-wrapped chicken burrito from the warmer, grabbed a bottled water, and walked over to the sundries. Should he also get a first-aid kit? She wouldn’t be able to clean and cover the wound herself, which meant another responsibility. It was already past ten o’clock. He took a first-aid kit from the shelf, hefted it, and set it back. What was next? Finding her a home? A job application?

  A woman leaned on the checkout counter, addressing the clerk. Raphael had only a limited profile and a green-and-blue dragon’s tail braid tipped by an iron chastity ball by which to identify her, but for sure it was Addy. A week had passed since he’d heard her sing at Karaoke, and her voice lingered in his memory.

  “I’ve been here all evening, miss,” said the clerk, “and I haven’t seen anyone who matches that description.”

  “No one else works here?” Addy asked.

  Raphael shifted sideways, as if on the perimeter of a six-foot circle. A dozen times, he’d considered approaching Addy at the end of her set, but never found the courage. He wanted nothing more than to shake her hand and tell her how much he enjoyed her voice. His imagination could carry him no further. Fans surrounded her. One night as he stood at the perimeter of her admirers, it seemed she’d met his eyes. The instant passed, and he attributed it to wishful thinking.

  Would she think him obnoxious—or worse—if he introduced himself now?

  “She’s about five feet, I’d say.” She brought her hand up to her ear.

  “I’m still sure,” said the clerk.

  Raphael hugged the skateboard to his side. Why was he getting so flustered? His heart beat hummingbird fast. He tracked miscreant possums all day long, treaded knee deep through the carnal and sly. He knew how things worked, and yet he was thirteen years old, explaining to the freckle-faced girl in the second row why the Magic Mountain class trip was a no-go for him. If all must end in disappointment, why take the trouble? Against all odds, hope, that engaging fast talker, nudged him forward.

  “She wears this pink jacket, unless the weather is terribly hot. She carries a laptop.”

  It had to be Dollar.

  Would it not be appreciated if he told Addy where he had seen Dollar and the good deed he was performing for her? Unless Addy would think he was just taking advantage of the overheard conversation to hit on her. Worse, that he was lying about seeing Dollar, and was planning to lure Addy into a dark alley or abandoned house or underground lair. But that would be paranoid, wouldn’t it? You’re the one who’s paranoid, Raphy. Now. Now! Hunching his shoulders to take an inch or two off his height, he put the tip of his sneaker into the circle. “I’m getting this for a woman in a pink jacket. Pink hair, too.”

  Addy spun toward him. For an instant, she seemed to recognize him; no, not quite. “Did you say you’ve seen her?” she asked Raphael.

  “She has a laptop and sells data.”

  Addy clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s her!”

  “She’s two blocks down Fairfax and kind of messed up.”

  “Drunk?”

  “Excuse me,” interjected the clerk. “Are you buying those or not?”

  “Oh yeah, yeah,” said Raphael.

  He set the burrito and water on the counter. He could use his finger debit, but fingerprints were vulnerable to print-swiping on older scanners, and the store’s appeared ancient. He dug a fifty out of his pocket instead. “I wouldn’t say drunk.”

  “Stoned?”

  “She fell. Or maybe someone hit her. Nothing real bad, but—”

  “Nothing real bad?” she snapped.

  Raphael tugged on his beanie. “Well, I meant small cuts, scratches.”

  “Oh, poor Pink.”

  “Pink, you call her Pink?

  “It’s not her real name, but I’ve always called her that.”

  “Are you a relative?” asked Raphael.

  “She’s my patient. The Corngold Center on Third Street.”

  “The shelter?”

  “Yes.” She revealed blue braces, thin as filigree.

  He’d never seen her wearing them onstage, nor would have thought she needed them. Her teeth were perfect. He’d always thought Addy pretty. Close up, she was gorgeous, beyond—stop.

  “Need a bag, boss?” asked the clerk.

  “I’m cool, man,” said Raphael, but upon picking up the purchases thought better of it. “Ah, may as well.” He returned a dollar of change to the clerk. “Another quarter. Tax, boss.” Raphael paid up. Bag filled, he hefted it and faced Addy uncertain what to say.

  Luckily, she saved him from the decision. “I’ll go with you.”

  His phone vibrated with a text. Drawing it out, he studied the message. The screen showed a black-and-white photo of him talking to Addy taken from above. He glanced up at the security camera someone grabbed the shot from. When he looked at the phone, the screen was blank. What the hell?

  “Something wrong?” asked Addy.

  “No, nothing,” he replied. But it was wrong. What could have linked the devices? An error in the vast interconnected world of communication? The back of his neck bristled. Weird.

  “It makes me happy you were nice to her,” said Addy, stepping toward the exit. “Most people aren’t.”

  “Oh, sure,” he said, as Addy pushed open the door and held it for him. He glanced back at the store’s camera, shook his head, put away his phone, and followed her through the exit.

  “Sometimes people are mean,” said Addy.

  The Infinite Power Ball display in the store’s window flashed, splashing Addy’s face in radiant but unhuman colors, as if her face were Warhol’s silkscreened Marilyn. Damn, she looked like Marilyn too with her round face and snub nose. Never before had he noticed the similarities. But never before had he been this close. Jesus.

  Addy sighed. “I guess we better get to Pink before she drifts away.” She set off across the parking area.

  “I’ve seen you a hundred times at Karaoke,” he said, striding to catch up to her, feeling as if he were stepping into his own body as he matched her step. “You’re great.”

  “Thanks. I’ve seen you there too. You sing the standards: ‘Creep’ and ‘Stressed Out’ and”—she gave him a sidelong glance—“‘Boulevard of Broken Dreams,’ right?”

  “Maybe once or twice.” She remembered him. They passed between two parked cars to reach the sidewalk. He stood on the board, moving along at Addy’s walking pace. “What do you do at that Corngold Center?”

  “I’m a calmer on the night shift, kind of a comfort animal. When a patient gets overexcited, I talk to them softly or read. I let them peer into my big”—she grinned mischievously—“teal eyes.”

  “Can I try it?”

  “Yes, you may.”

  He pivoted on the skateboard. Riding backward, he met Addy’s eyes, which did seem green and blue at the same time. He wondered at the pigments to mix to get the effect on canvas. “I feel calmer than I’ve felt all day.” No, not calm. Alive, exhilarated.

  “Anytime,” said Addy.

  Fast enough, heart. “So, what do you read to your patients?”

  “The classics. Dostoevsky and Dickens. George Eliot, I love George Eliot. Have you ever read Middlemarch?”

  “No, I, umm, haven’t.”

  “Virginia Woolf and Fitzgerald. Faulkner and Flaubert. Madame Bovary is decidedly the best novel in the history of the universe. There’s this scene where Emma, the main character—Emma Bovary, not to be confused with Jane Austen’s Emma—is at this fair.”

  Addy glowed. She seemed to be not walking but floating, as if she were under a spell, or maybe he was the one under a spell. He could listen to her tell another’s tale all night long.

  “So, Rodolphe’s trying to seduce her, and in the background …”

  They approached the block where he’d left Pink, passing the hydrant where the coyote had relieved itself, the smell still sharp.

  “I don’t see her,” he said.

  They poked about the area for a few minutes, bent over the bushes that lined the sidewalk. Across the street, music blared from the open door of Nevin O’Moore’s.

  “How often do you have to go out searching for Pink?”

  Addy shrugged. “Oh, she has her antsy moods. Usually, all she does is work on her laptop and watch news in the community room. The mass shooting and then the airliner crashing into the hotel spooked her. Awful, wasn’t it?” Addy slipped behind one of the larger plants and bent, so that she disappeared but for the rustling of leaves.

  “Hard to believe,” he said with a sudden and unexpected feeling of heaviness. Pink’s mime wasn’t random. The tragedy affected her too, though it couldn’t have anything to do with her inquiries of Raphael. “Will Pink be okay?”

  Addy popped out from behind the bush. “Pink’s a survivor. She used to be a hotshot in the data business. She told me the company once. Great something? Anyway, she had a breakdown, and the streets took her.” Addy gazed at the sky. “She knows things too. She’s one of those people.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Raphael

  “Sometimes she studies her data as if she’s reading tea leaves and then says weird stuff.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Kind of uncanny stuff. Stuff about the future.” Addy frowned as if a bad thought had struck her. She exhaled. “Let’s check on Wilshire. Sometimes I find her by the museum or that strange building on the corner.”

  Strange building. Raphael swallowed and arched his back as if to rid himself of a kick me note. “Night shift, huh?”

  “Well, every night except Thursday and Saturday.” She grinned. “Those are my weekend.”

  They walked a half block in silence, then Addy said, “I seem different, don’t I?”

  From other girls? “No, I mean, yes, a little different. Nice, I mean, different.”

  She stopped on the sidewalk and drew back her lips, showing him her braces, which she nudged with her finger. “I mean, different from the last time you saw me. The braces.”

  “Oh, the braces.”

  “Demosthenes,” she said. “Do you know him?”

  Demosthenes? “Umm, I think so …”

  “He was an ancient Greek with a speech problem. I got the idea from him. About the braces, I mean. Demosthenes put pebbles in his mouth to learn to speak better. I wear braces so I can learn to sing better. They’re kind of expensive, but it’s for art. Do you think I’m silly?”

  “Oh, no. Makes sense.” He wondered if it made any sense at all.

  “If it works. I’m not sure it works.” She prodded at the braces with a finger.

  “You sing great already.”

  Addy shook her head. “Even if I sang great, which I don’t, it wouldn’t be enough. I auditioned for ‘Sing or Die,’ and the judges advised I slit my throat.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “I’m kidding.” She tapped a tooth. “What’s your name?”

  “Raphael Lennon.”

  “Lennon, huh? You resemble Bowie. I mean the way he looked when he was young, like in the old film. The Man, um, The Man Who Fell to Earth.” He knew what she meant: skinny as hell, narrow nose, prominent cheekbones. Addy tilted her head sideways and inspected Raphael up and down. “A jaw line that could cut diamonds.”

  Raphael shrugged. The legendary rock star was otherworldly handsome, while he was just otherworldly, yet he got the comparison all the time. He used to feel flattered, then complacent, and now it annoyed him.

  She rocked her head as she considered him. “Only a little more stretched out. So what do you do?”

  “I work for Norval, data compilation.”

  “I think I’ve heard of them. What’s your job?”

  He swallowed the lump of uncertainty rising in his throat. “Me? I’m an End Man. Necrologist is the technical term.”

  “End Man, huh? What do they do?”

  “We, uh, work with the dead.”

  “A data compiling mortician?”

  “It’s a little hard to explain.” She had already called the Norval building strange. Now he would be a strange man with a strange job in a strange building.

  “We find the dead, and then we sell them, sort of.”

  “Explain.”

  When he first interviewed for the job at Norval, he had asked Geovanni Maglio the same thing, and his explanation to Addy paraphrased that indelible conversation:

  “Addy, did you know that 8,000 people die each day in the United States?”

  “No.”

  “Well, they do. In the past, the dead for all practical purposes would just vanish. Our CEO Geo Maglio had a vision.”

  Addy nodded.

  “The right to be forgotten. Have you heard of it?”

  “That’s one I missed in civics.”

  “European Union idea. I’m going to quote Mr. Maglio.” Raphael took a breath and summoned up Maglio’s often uttered words. “‘The damned continentals argue that people have the right to cut their past off at its knees. Strike what they consider inaccurate or unflattering information from the record. Practically unworkable before the Internet and now impossible.’”

  “It would be nice,” said Addy.

  Raphael laughed. “That’s exactly what I said. Ready for his response?”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Raphael cleared his throat and lowered his voice to Maglio’s baritone. “‘Yes, and it would be nice if we could erase the entire history of mankind’s crimes. Why should we have to remember all the wars and inquisitions, and slaveries? Unfortunately, it’s throwing the baby out with the bathwater. We can’t not remember. A few European countries have made a half-ass effort at enforcement. A sham and an easy workaround. Still … well, let the Europeans sink into the quicksand of their socialist experiments. In the U.S. we have the First Amendment, lifetime sex-crime registries, and no damn abstract right for anything to be forgotten.’”

  “You have a good memory for monologue,” said Addy.

  “I’m boring you.”

  “Oh, no, it’s fascinating, but …”

  “I’ll speed it up. Paraphrase.”

  “Please.”

  Raphael rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. “In a nutshell, Americans don’t want to forget, and Norval has stepped up to the plate.”