“Let me give you a ride,” he says.
“Actually,” she replies, “I’m not entirely certain where I’m going.”
“Get in the car, we’ll talk about it.”
“Actually, I’m waiting for my husband, also.”
“Get in the car.”
The door swings open, as though of its own accord. Flying machines never come for Swanny, only these long dark cars, like hearses.
“Excuse me,” she says, “but my pet is very protective of my personal safety. I’d hate to have him bite you.” She glances at Hooligan, who’s chosen this moment to start grooming his pubic region.
“Leave him. He ain’t gonna get run over.”
Swanny weighs her options. She could make a dash for it on foot, but he’s in a vehicle—and where could she go? Besides, to be entirely honest, there’s a good deal of curiosity mixed in with her trepidation. Even…attraction. Having a limo, one in working order, no less, implies a level of wealth and social standing that might make a person worth talking to. One shouldn’t judge a stranger on his ominous comportment alone.
Perhaps he’s not brutal, only intense.
“Stay,” Swanny instructs the dog sternly. Hooligan raises his sullied hands in confusion, as if to say Where would I go? “And watch the bag. I’ll be back shortly.” Frankly, she wants neither Ripple’s bag, nor his dog—it was enough to deprive Abby of both. With what little poise she can muster, Swanny climbs into the car.
The inside of the limo is cool and dark, both cleaner and more lived-in than the musty vehicle that the service sent to claim Swanny and her mother. The leather upholstery has upon it the living sheen of human skin. The tinted windows reveal a twilight version of the world Swanny just exited, a world that, in an instant, begins gliding away.
“I thought you looked lost,” he says, where she can see him this time.
The man who’s summoned her here is swarthy, Swanny thinks, a word that feels especially apt because of the strong association she makes between it and fictional characters who carry knives in their teeth. He’s not holding a knife that she can see, but he is wearing a golden fang on a chain around his neck, and there’s no telling what’s concealed beneath the pinstripes of his capacious zoot suit. He seems to have materialized from a villainous antique engraving. Black body hair crosshatches him, shades his face and neck, the top of his chest and the back of his hands, all to different degrees. Even sitting down she can tell he’s a very short man, gnomish, but in a strange way that contributes to the power he exerts: the risk of him isn’t just physical violence, but something sorcerous and delusive, something that can’t be undone.
“You got a name?” he asks.
“I’m the Baroness Swan Lenore Ripple, née Dahlberg,” she says.
“That’s a mouthful.”
“You may call me Swanny, if you like.” Swanny strains to get a look at the driver, but she can’t make out much more than a broad-shouldered, nearly neckless silhouette beyond a divider of reinforced mesh.
“Don’t worry. Duluth won’t bother us.”
“So tell me, do you have a name?”
“Sure.”
“May I ask what it is?”
“Sure.”
“Well?”
“Maybe you can guess.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I’m not from around here, you see.”
“That makes two of us.” He extends his hand, hot, hairy, and dry, with black under the nails. “Eisenhower Sharkey.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” They shake with an odd finality, as if agreeing upon something; Swanny wishes she knew what. “What brings you to the city, Mr. Sharkey?”
“I’m from the city. Just a different neighborhood. Sometimes I like to come up here and see the sights.”
“I wish I shared your enthusiasm. But it seems to me that there’s lamentably little worth seeing around here.”
“You don’t know how to look, is all.”
“I’d be delighted if you’d instruct me.”
“First you need a drink.” He opens a cabinet in the paneling and removes from it a vacuum flask and two teacups. He fills them both with a thin red liquid and hands one to Swanny.
The teacup is fragile bone china, almost translucent, featuring an intricate repeating pattern of humanoid figures with animal heads practicing the most exotic contortions. Steam rises from the top.
“What’s in this?”
“Hot water. Mostly.” Sharkey sips his, pinkie finger extended. So it must not be poisoned. “Good for what ails you.” He’s still chewing, even while he drinks.
Swanny takes a taste. It isn’t alcohol, but it’s a different kind of strong: herbal, almost medicinal, with a woodsy aftertaste.
“Black forest?” she wonders aloud. She isn’t sure why she says it. She doesn’t mean the cake. She feels as though she’s walking on a twisted, shady path, and the trees are moving behind her to conceal it. Soon she won’t be able to find her way back. She drinks again and surprises herself by finishing the cup.
“Now, look out the window,” says Sharkey.
Swanny obeys. Through the dusky glass, she sees a street much like the one she just left behind. Yet something is changed. The buildings, vacant shells which before inspired nothing but a quickening of pace as she attempted to get past them to somewhere, anywhere at all, now vibrate with meaning. These are things men have made. The fact that they’re beyond repair, deserted, with exploded windows and blackened walls and steel beams rustily exposed to the elements, only intensifies her identification with them. She has never been here before, but this is where she lives: condemned but not demolished.
“See that one there?” asks Sharkey, pointing to a curving cylindrical colossus of red enamel and steel, now as used up as a drained Voltage can. “That’s the Lipgloss Building. It was the first one They hit.” He says the pronoun with a capital letter, as if he’s referring to the gods. “Fifty years ago now, and it’s still standing. All those little people, jumping out the windows. Their best thinking got ’em there. Offices up in the sky no better than a prison. A fuckin’ kiln. And the only view was down. Makes ya think. I wasn’t even born yet, old as I am. Up there, people thought they were living in the future. But they were living in the past. We’re living in the past too, you and me. That’s why it’s good to pay your respects. Take note of what’s come before, because pretty soon, somebody’s coming after you.”
Swanny gazes at a fallen column of imperial granite lying on the curb. “Was there a great deal of screaming, do you think?”
“Screaming? Oh, sure. Lots of screaming. It’s a natural response to untold horrors. Close your eyes and scream. No seeing, no hearing. Gives you a little relief. Relief, not release.”
Swanny holds out her cup as Sharkey refills it. Her eyes cling to the building as it slips out of view. “I feel somehow that they’re screaming still.”