Chapter Five
Paradise Lost
December 31st. Darkness and snow. Falling on the last day of the year, and on Job's tenth birthday. He stood in the gentle down-drift of flakes on the front steps of Bracewell Mansion and knew he was in paradise. In the city's desert of misery, toil, and deprivation, he had stumbled on an oasis of ease and plenty.
Every morning and afternoon he ran a couple of errands, picking up small packages and occasionally delivering one. He had new shoes and warm clothes for his travels through the city, and a smog mask for bad days. The professor, and even in a grudging way Miss Magnolia, had come to trust him, so they no longer worried that he might talk to the street people; and when Professor Buckler discovered Job's command of not only chachara-calle, but half a dozen other languages in use around the area, he encouraged the boy to chat, to listen, to look, and to become an extension of Buckler's own inquisitive eyes and ears.
Little errands, twice a day. That was all that anyone seemed to expect of him. In return Job was allowed to eat and drink as much as he liked. He had his own bed in his own room, and the run of all the floors except the three that Miss Magnolia controlled and which Job was strictly forbidden to visit.
"Women's territory," Buckler had said to him. "Paint and powder and underwear and female intimacies. Avoid them. You wouldn't want to go there if you could."
He was wrong—Job was intrigued, by the very fact that they were off-limits. But he was not about to do anything that might jeopardize his position at the mansion, and he was scared of Miss Magnolia.
The evening snowfall was continuing, in big, pure-white flakes. The steps of the mansion were completely covered. It was colder, but even cold was a pleasure to Job, knowing he could go in any time to closed-in warmth. Tonight was a big party night. He had been told to stay out of certain rooms while preparations were being made. But once the limousines had slid discreetly to a halt in the covered garage behind the mansion, and the passengers and cargo had been tucked away inside them, Job could go back in and do what he liked. All the same, he would like to have seen those preparations. They sounded fancy. There had been talk of tonight's party every day since the last big one on Christmas night.
" 'And now there came both mist and snow,' " said a voice behind him, " 'and it grew wondrous cold. And ice, mast-high, came drifting by, as green as emerald.' "
Job turned around, but he did not need to. Over the past month he had learned the pattern. Professor Buckler drank in the morning, every morning, "to save this crumbling corpse from rigor mortis." The prenoon liquor did not make him inebriated, but when he drank in the afternoon he became philosophical, poetic, and a little unsteady. After a lull around six o'clock, sometimes including a nap, he drank all evening, when instead of intoxication the bourbon seemed to sober him, sharpen his wits, and rejuvenate his body.
At the moment the professor was somewhere near the end of state two, with downtime due before state three.
"Magnolia told me to get out, too," Buckler went on. "All hustle and bustle, get ready for the big night—but we are not included!" The professor had a glass in each hand. He lifted his head and caught a snowflake in his open mouth. "I created this place, you know. Yet we have become supernumeraries, you and I, in this our own house. As the males of the company, we must revolt. It is time for us to sound the first blast of the trumpet against the monstrous regiment of Women."
A red-dyed head covered in curlers poked out of the door behind the professor. It was Tracy, Job's favorite among the score of women at Bracewell Mansion. "Miss Magnolia says to come inside," she said, "before you both catch pneumonia. And you, Job, stand by. I'll probably have a special errand for you in a bit, for the boss lady. Something come up unexpected. Come on, then. Hurry hurry hurry."
She gave a shiver—real or pretended, Job could not tell—and vanished. They followed her inside. As darkness fell the temperature had fallen with it, and regardless of Miss Magnolia's order it was too cold to stand about much longer. The professor led the way up two flights of stairs and on to his own private quarters. Job had been there a few times already. His amazement at rooms with so many books and bottles was a thing of the past.
"Hurry hurry hurry," said Buckler. He sat down in one brown leather armchair and gestured Job to the other. "It's always the same, and it's so wrong. Hurry, go fast, keep moving. The world today wants everything done so quick, changes so quick. All that endures is change." He held his glass in front of his face and stared into it like a tawny crystal ball. "Who would have believed, seeing me six years ago, that I would have come to this? A tenured professor of sociology, in an endowed chair, at a highly regarded and well-funded university, with my emeritus on the way and full retirement benefits. And then—pffft. All gone."
"What happened to you? What did you do?" Job had not understood half the other's words, and so far as he could see the professor was the most fortunate man imaginable. But he had learned that when Buckler spoke like this, Job would often find out something new.
"I? I did nothing. It happened to me. And not only to me. To the world—the whole world. To her, too." Buckler pointed a wavering finger to the ceiling. He was drinking faster than usual, and it was beginning to have an effect. "Five years ago Miss Magnolia was selling real estate. Very successfully. When the Great Crash came she lost everything. Her job, her house, even her husband—he died of worry. He was in commercial real estate, and businesses went first. Fast. It took longer for the university. Even when our endowments weren't worth spit, we still had students. For a little while."
The Great Crash.
They were the words that Job had heard about for years from the basura as they talked on the street corners. Quiebra Grande. Alboroto-oro. Dinero-fuego—the Great Crash, the gold riot, the money fire, a dozen other terms in the chachara-calle that was their common language. But nothing that told him what it was, or what it did.
"Seven years ago." The professor blinked at Job. "Seven years ago I had a dozen jobs open to me, all around the world. And then, four years ago, there were none. Not here, not abroad. No more foreign visitors, no foreign conferences. That's when I knew that the economic crash and the poverty were global."
Job didn't argue. But it seemed to him that Professor Buckler had no idea what poverty was. Poverty was Cloak House, not Bracewell Mansion. It was walking through snow in worn-through shoes or no shoes, not riding in limousines. It was stale bread or no bread, not a choice of a dozen dishes. It was winter rooms where water froze in the jugs, not the cozy mugginess of abundant steam heat. It was cold water with no soap, not long, hot showers or the mink-oil bubble baths that the women talked about.
"Or almost global." Buckler was not talking to Job now, he was talking to himself. "The trick is to find the pockets of money. They're still there, you know, the ones that control wealth. You have to get close to them."
Wealth.
A month ago Job didn't know what that word meant, but with Buckler's informal tutelage he had been learning. Wealth was more than having enough to eat, and clothes to wear, and a place to live. Wealth was so much food that half of it was thrown away uneaten. Wealth was so many clothes that most of them you never wore at all. Wealth was—still remote and almost unimaginable for Job—helicopters and airplanes and ships, on call to take a few people wherever they needed to go.
No. Not needed to go. Wanted to go.
Job's thoughts turned to a summer night, to barricades and protection systems and watchtowers, to helicopters lifting and whirring away through the warm air.
"You mean, pockets of money like the Mall Compound?"
"My boy, the analogy is well-intended. But it is not appropriate." Buckler's lids had drooped shut. He had refilled his glass with an effort from the bottle that stood on the floor next to his armchair. "If the Mall Compound is a pocket of money, then the Monument that stands within it is a toothpick. For within the Mall dwell the chosen people, the five hundred and forty worthy representatives who control the expenditures of this great nation. Do not demean the Compound by calling it a 'pocket' of wealth. Call it, if you will, a vast and bloated sock. And be thankful for its existence, and raise your glass to it." Buckler did so as he spoke. "Your meals and mine, and the very existence of Bracewell Mansion, are owed to the Mall Compound. We are all its slaves—its willing slaves."
He fell silent. If the evening ran true to form he would sleep for an hour or two, to wake clear-eyed and in good humor.
Job went quietly out and up to the kitchen. Before he ran an errand tonight, in the cold and snow, he wanted warm food inside him. He helped himself from the hot buffet and was still eating when Tracy came to the door.
"Good." She stayed at the threshold. "You're here. Go get your warmest clothes, then come right back. I'll wait. I don't know what's going on, but it's hell upstairs. Miss Magnolia wants you to go the minute it's ready."
Job ran up the stairs, and back down. He was coughing and holding his chest when he returned to the kitchen. Tracy came over and put her hand on his arm. "Are you all right? You shouldn't be going out on a night like this."
"I'm fine." Job hated sympathy, even from someone as nice as Tracy. He stifled another cough and sat down. "I choke a bit, but I'm real lucky compared with other people. Professor Buckler told me all about what happened to him at the university, and about poor Miss Magnolia, and her husband."
"Told you what?"
"What happened to them. In the Quiebra Grande." He repeated all that the professor had said to him. At the end of it, Tracy burst into fits of laughter.
"Sociology? He's studied sociology all right. From the ground up. Job, we call him professor, because he likes that, and he's got all those books and he talks so funny. But he's no professor, never has been. Way I heard it he's been right here in the city for forty years."
"Not teaching?"
"Not teaching, 'less you count pimping as teaching. And Miss Magnolia, she only sold one thing in her whole life—and it's sure not real estate." She laughed again. "Don't you believe two words the old prof tells you, because one of'em will be made-up. That man, he's got more imagination inside him than he's got bourbon. He just loves to talk." She shook her head. "Real estate!"
"But he didn't make up the Quiebra Grande."
"No, he didn't. Nobody has a mind diseased enough for that."
She went out giggling. Job sat with his face burning. He didn't so much mind what the professor had done, inventing a glorious past for himself. Job had had thoughts like that himself at Cloak House, when he imagined his real mother and father who would one day come to find him. What he hated was the idea that Tracy would tell the others how gullible he was, and they would laugh at him behind his back.
They would, too. He had heard them mocking Professor Buckler, when he came out with one of his extra-philosophical comments or poetic phrases.
Job sat with his coat and gloves on. He was too hot, but he wanted to go before anyone else came. He was not looking forward to Tracy's return. To his surprise, though, it was Miss Magnolia herself who arrived ten minutes later. Job's errands were mostly run for the professor, and for the rest it was Tracy or Rosita who brought instructions.
Miss Magnolia was frowning—nowadays she always seemed to be frowning—and she hardly looked at Job. Her attention was on the square box she was holding. "Now listen to me real careful. This isn't the typical drop-off, to the usual places. Do you know the Mall Compound?"
"I know where it is. I've never been inside."
"You won't need to go inside. Go to the northeast corner of the protection zone—that's the corner nearest here. Go in just far enough to trigger the alarm system. You know what that is? All right. You wait, until a man in a uniform comes. Don't worry about the warning message, the defense system will be turned off for you. Stay right where you are at the edge of the protection zone, let him come to you."
She paused, as Tracy came hurrying into the kitchen. "Well?"
"You were right." Tracy's manner had changed. She was pale and nervous. "It was Susie. Tromp saw her leave. On foot. She went east."
"With the shipment?" Miss Magnolia's face was like painted stone.
"I don't know. Tromp didn't see it, but Susie was carrying a cloth bag."
"She has it. She must have. Don't worry, I'll take care of her later. Stupid bitch. I have to get another batch over there right now, before their party starts. It won't be easy." She turned to Job. Her face frightened him. "A man in a blue uniform, with a peaked cap. Got that?"
"Will he come from inside the Compound?"
"Never you mind where he comes from. Just wait for him."
"You're sending him to the Compound?" Tracy's lower lip drooped in shock.
"Yeah." Miss Magnolia gave Tracy a furious glare. "Shut your yap, and stay out of things."
"But there's been patrols over there, the past week. Vince hasn't called me once, and Toria said the Compound—"
"I said, shut your big yap. Don't you know who the customer is for this one? We got clients here in fifteen minutes, every girl booked, and I'm late for this delivery. If we don't give service we'll all be out on the street. You'll be peddling your tight little ass to some rot-cock basura. You want that? Then shut up." She held the square box out to Job. "Here. Keep it inside your coat. It's got a waterproof cover, but don't let nobody see it. When the man in uniform comes up to you, he's going to say, 'A little something for the head honcho?' You don't say one word. You give him the box, and you come right back here, fast. I'll be waiting. All clear?"
Job had a dozen questions he would like to have asked, but not of Miss Magnolia. He nodded, stuffed the box down inside his high-collared coat next to his chest, and started off down the stairs.
"Gloves and hat!" called Tracy after him. But she did not follow to see him leave.
The snow outside lay deeper on the ground. It was still falling. As the temperature dropped, the thick, lazy flakes were changing to small icy points that stung Job's unprotected face. He pulled the brim of his hat lower, placed his hands on his chest to protect the box and hold it safe in position, and headed south and west toward the Mall Compound. The cold air was sinking to the very bottom of his lungs, producing an ache that rapidly drained his energy. He put one hand to his mouth, to filter air past his warmer glove, and trudged on.
Although it was New Year's Eve the weather was too much for most celebrants. They were still indoors, hoping that the snow would ease. Job had the sidewalks to himself. He stayed close to the walls of the buildings, sheltered from wind and safe from the occasional city patrol car purring half-blind through the snow, and crunched through the firm white layer. Even with the bright reflection of streetlights from the snow, street names were invisible. Job navigated by feel and counting, until he turned at last onto the deserted south-bound avenue that ran to the edge of the Mall Compound.
As always, the Compound was ablaze. Job stood on the perimeter, nervously watching. The searchlights on their tall towers scanned the cleared zone, ready to home in on anything that moved. Their beams made oval white circles on the untrodden snow.
Hurry hurry hurry. Job thought of Professor Buckler's disdain for haste. Real professor or not, no other adult but Mister Bones had ever been as good to Job—and none had ever talked to him as much as an equal. But this time Job had to hurry, or he'd freeze on the spot. He started forward onto the unmarked surface of the protection zone, wincing in anticipation of the strident voice in his ear.
ATTENTION. It came in a few seconds. YOU ARE MOVING INTO A RESTRICTED ZONE, PROPERTY OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT . . .
Job froze, his legs telling him to run, his mind forcing him to stay. Miss Magnolia had said the defense system would be turned off. But if it wasn't . . . At the end of the message he stared around in an agony of fear. The end of the warning was ringing in his ears. RETREAT AT ONCE TO THE BOUNDARY OF THE MALL PROTECTION ZONE, SERIOUS INJURY OR DEATH MAY RESULT. DEFENSE PROCEDURES WILL TAKE EFFECT AUTOMATICALLY IN THIRTY SECONDS.
Thirty seconds. Surely it had already been more than thirty seconds.
There was sudden movement at the inner edge of the protection zone, within the Mall Compound itself. Job shielded his eyes and peered through the driving snowflakes. No man in uniform and peaked cap, but a great cloud of blown snow with a dark blob at its center. It moved through the barricade at the edge of the Compound, then turned with a scream of air-jets to head straight for him.
Job forgot Miss Magnolia's instructions. He turned and tried to run. His feet skidded and slid on the snow-covered surface. He had moved no more than a few yards when the machine reached him. He knew it was right behind him, and he tried to throw himself out of the way to one side. His feet slipped again. Before he had moved a foot he was scooped up from behind by something that lifted him and rolled him end-over-end into a dark enclosure. A clang of metal sounded around him. The machine accelerated in a turn, throwing Job's head and shoulder into a cold metal wall. He lay in total darkness, bruised along one cheek and eye socket, dizzy and disoriented.
The ride was a short one. Within a minute the machine jerked to a halt, its side opened, and Job was decanted onto a vinyl tiled floor under dazzling yellow lights.
"Stay right where you are." A hand reached down, grabbed his collar, and hoisted him to his feet. Other hands searched him. They opened his coat and pulled out the square box. Job squinted around him. Already his left eye was beginning to swell and close. He stood inside a garage with a low, paneled ceiling, beside the machine that had picked him up. The snow was melting from its windowless sides, and he could see no place for a driver.
Three men held him. Two of them wore the blue uniforms and peaked caps described to him, but Job was not naive enough to think that would help. Something had gone terribly wrong.
The younger of the two uniformed men opened the box. He unwrapped the waterproof packet inside and sniffed at the contents. "One hundred percent, for a guess," he said. "We'll know in a few minutes. God, look at him. Next thing they'll be using kids in diapers."
"They should be shot." A fat, gray-haired man who was not in uniform sat down on a workbench. "All right, let's get it over with. Who's the parcel for, boyo? Let's have a name."
"I don't know."
"Sure. You decided to wander into the protection zone in the middle of a howling snowstorm, with a million dollars worth of brain-burner on you, just for the fun of it. What made you think the defense system wouldn't fry you on the spot?"
"I thought it would."
The gray-haired man studied him. "Damned if I'm not inclined to believe you." He handed him a white cloth. "Here, kid. Wipe your face."
Job did as he was told. Until that moment he had not realized that he was crying.
"Did you know what you were carrying in the package?" said the fat man.
Job thought about that. He didn't know, but he had been developing his suspicions. "I wasn't sure."
"But now you are? So who sent you? Tell me that, and take us there, and you'll do yourself a favor. If we can get someone good, we won't worry much about you. Come on, now." The man could see Job's hesitation. "They dropped you in it, didn't they, without one word of warning? What do you owe them?"
Tracy hadn't done anything to him—she had done her best to protect him, even argued with Miss Magnolia. She had wanted to warn him. Job shook his head. The fat man shrugged. "If that's the way you want it. Take him away, Lou. Let him stew for a while."
The younger of the uniformed men nodded, grabbed Job by the arm, and led him through to another room. This one was warmer, not just a garage and repair shop. The man gestured Job to a chair.
"Want a drink? You must be frozen." Without waiting for an answer he filled a cup from a big metal jug and handed it to Job. It was a hot, sweet liquid that Job had never tasted before, and it burned his gullet all the way down to his stomach.
"There. Warming you up a bit?" The man had a cheerful dark face, and when he took his cap off his hair stood up in damp spikes. "Hell of a night to send a young kid out, 'specially for a drug run." He was studying Job. "Just how old are you, anyway?"
"I'm ten." Job paused, then added, "Ten today."
"God love us. What a birthday present. Did you get any presents?"
Job shook his head.
"Well, happy birthday anyway. Like your drink?" "It's good." But it was making Job dizzy. "More there when you want it. So what's your name, kid?"
"Job Salk. Job Napoleon Salk."
"Good. And where do you live?" The man's voice was casual. "Not out on the streets, I'll bet money on that. You'd freeze to death in this weather."
"At Bracewell Mansion." Job had answered before he thought. "And before that I was at Cloak House," he added.
"So they sent you here straight from Bracewell?" The man ignored Job's feeble attempt at misdirection.
Job knew he had been trapped; but it was too late to do anything about it. He nodded.
"Good lad." The man seemed pleased, but he wasn't gloating. "Sit there and drink as much as you like. Keep warm. I'll be back."
When he returned the other two were with him. They were wearing overcoats, and the young uniformed man was carrying Job's gloves and hat.
"Horrible night for it, but we have to take a little ride," said the fat man, his gray hair hidden now by a fur cap. He was holding the square packet in its waterproof wrapping. "Can you identify the person from Bracewell Mansion who gave you this, and sent you here?"
Job nodded unhappily.
"So you'll do that. You won't need to talk. Fasten your coat. You'll be in a car most of the time, but wrap up."
He led the way out, with the uniformed men on either side of Job. Under other circumstances, the trip back to Bracewell Mansion could have been thrilling. First they rolled nearly a quarter of a mile underground on a labyrinth of smooth transportation belts that rose, fell, and merged with each other. Some were deserted, some carried dozens of people. At last they came to another garage and Job was led forward to a long, black car. He sat in front between the driver and the fat, gray-haired man. The dashboard was filled with gadgets that Job didn't understand: range sensor, radar navigator, thermal tracker. The engine was not running, but when they were all aboard the car began to move. It entered a tunnel, traveled for thirty seconds in total darkness, then unexpectedly emerged at ground level outside the Mall Compound and protection zone. The engine started with a low-pitched purr. Although the night was dark and the snow drove down harder than ever, the opaque front windscreen of the car showed the passengers a clear, hard-edged view of roads and buildings in black and white.
The car eased forward, lights off. As midnight approached more people were refusing to let the weather halt New Year party plans. They were in the streets, many of them ignoring the sidewalk in favor of the center of the road. Drunk or drugged, they took little notice of the dark car sliding past them. It took almost as long to get to Bracewell Mansion as it would have on foot.
Job stared nervously at the front steps of the mansion as the car approached, hoping to see a familiar figure. He had been sent to do an errand, and not only was his mission unaccomplished but he was bringing strangers back with him. The only person who might understand how it had happened was the professor.
The front steps were deserted. Strangely, they had been cleared of snow. Stranger yet, the usual entrance was closed off, while the boards in front of a great pair of double doors in the middle of the steps had been removed.
The gray-haired man opened the door of the car and motioned Job to get out. "Wait here," he said to the others. "Give me fifteen minutes. If I'm not back you know what to do." And to Job, "All right, kid. Take me to your leader."
Job ascended the steps and paused at the top. He had never been in this way, or seen the double doors from inside the building. He had no idea where they might lead. At last he opened one of them and went in. He found himself in a tiled hallway. It led to a broad staircase carpeted in pale mauve, and at the head of that, twenty feet above them, stood Miss Magnolia in a long gown of vivid green.
"That's her," said Job in a whisper. "She gave it to me."
If Miss Magnolia heard him, she gave no sign of it. She stood unmoving and expressionless as Job led the man up the stairs towards her.
"Can I help you?" she said at last. She was looking calmly at the man and gave Job not even a glance.
"I believe you can." But there was a first note of uncertainty in his voice as he held out an oval badge. "Can we go somewhere to talk?"
"No. We can talk right here." Miss Magnolia did not even glance at the badge. She inclined her head towards the next flight of stairs." I have important visitors tonight. I do not want them disturbed. And I would appreciate it if you would state your business promptly."
"You have important visitors. And I have important business. You sent this boy to the protection zone." The man held out the packet. "To deliver this. I don't have to tell you what it contains."
"I did what?" Miss Magnolia sounded more amused than afraid.
"You sent the boy—"
"You're out of your mind. I have no idea what's in that packet, or what you are talking about."
"You deny that you know this boy?"
"Oh, I know him." Miss Magnolia gave Job a brief inspection. "Slightly. He's a local street urchin. Once or twice my assistants have given him a free meal in our kitchen. A kindness that has not been returned, by the look of it."
The man turned to stare at Job.
"I live here," said Job desperately. "I have a room upstairs."
But Miss Magnolia was shaking her head. "Captain, I don't know what your game is, but I won't play it. He doesn't live here. He never has. If he says he knows his way around, then it's because when he ate here he went places he had no right to. Go get a search warrant if you like, look over the mansion top to bottom. If you find any sign that the boy lives here, or ever did, or if you find a sign of anything illegal, I'll give you free service for a month."
"Professor Buckler," said Job desperately. He turned to the fat man. "And Tracy, and Toria. They live here, too. They'll tell you about me."
"Captain, I ask you, does this look like the home of a professor?" There was a sound of laughter from farther up the staircase, and Miss Magnolia turned her well-groomed head to stare that way. "I don't know the boy," she went on, without looking at either Job or the captain. "There's certainly no professor who lives here. No Tracy or Toria, either. I know nothing about that package you are holding, or where it came from. What I do know is that I have very important guests, waiting for me upstairs. I always try to cooperate with officials, but if you want to detain me longer, you will have to argue with my guests, too."
"To hell with your guests—"
"Senator Nelson is here tonight. So is Senator Walsh."
The gray-haired captain said nothing, but to Job he seemed to crumple and shrink. "So we'll find nothing upstairs, eh? I hear you. And I thought I had good sources. Who told you we were on the way?"
She smiled, and Job saw a glimmer of satisfaction in her mascara-limned eyes. "Now, Captain, that's a silly thought. And it's New Year's Eve, and awful weather outside. Why don't you stop worrying, relax, and enjoy yourself here for an hour or two? I always like to make new friends."
"Yeah. I'm sure you do." The captain hefted the package he was holding. "Senator Nelson and Senator Walsh, eh? Yep. So what happens now to the kid?"
"I have no idea. But that's more your worry than mine, isn't it? You brought him, Captain. And since you will not be staying . . ." She turned in a rustle of skirts, and began to walk up the stairs to the third floor. "Close the door firmly when you leave, please. Heating this place costs a fortune."
"I wasn't lying," said Job, as she vanished around the curve in the staircase. "I do live here. Really."
"Not any more, you don't." The fat man's face was twisted with frustration. "You heard her. Senators in her pocket. We'd not get to square one. I don't know why I fucking bother." He turned, and began to walk slowly down to the double doors.
Job took a last look up the stairs, then hurried after him. "What will happen to me?"
"Possession of illegal substances. Intrusion on protected property. That's got to go in the record." The captain sighed. "I'm sorry, kid. I believe you told us the truth, and I'll put in the best word I can for you. But I don't know how much good it will do. Once I file my report, it's out of my hands." He was watching Job's face. "Cheer up. It's late, and you're tired out. Tomorrow's another day. Let's go to the Compound and have some food. Things won't seem so bad in the morning."
But in the morning, Job was sent back to Cloak House.