subsonic: almost! | cognac glow | smell of good luck | an urge a surge a swell a dip | saltwater | subsonic: bet it all | scent: black liquorice musk petrol | accelerate | subsonic: luckluckluck | tic-tic-tic â¦
The wheel is back in motion, the ball dancing around its rim, almost weightless. The dealer calls last bets, and in one smooth movement the tall man leans over and slides everything â five tall stacks of $500 chips â back onto number eight. Then his black eyes observe the wheel and its jittering passenger calmly, almost politely, as if everything is settled.
But the ball drops into the slot on twenty-six. The croupier reaches across and scrapes away the plastic towers with a mechanical flourish. It's all gone. He can afford it, Milk reminds himself quickly, feeling his own pulse jitter with adrenaline. That amount is nothing to a guy like him. He zooms out. No need to keep watching now.
The man just stands there with an empty face â some false certainty had swept through him, swift and tidal, leaving nothing in its wake. Deep in his pocket his mobile shivers and shivers, like a small sick animal. His wife always knows. This time he'll have to admit it, and everything will unravel from there.
[Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: proposal
Okay Frank your call. But why not just meet him? If he's a waste of time I'll say no. We're nine per cent down on last year. Uncertain times etc. Hate to remind you, but without changes I see worry ahead. Hey boss â is your spellchecker on?
[Excerpt, audio interview, location unspecified: Milk | Damon]
Good question. I'd say no, but it depends on the person: you get bad eggs in any profession. Remember that fake reporter, the Boston Headliner? Old Doctor Cyanide ⦠and that hypnotist lawyer? There are sick people in every field, my friend, even journalism. But as a general rule ⦠good people with true talent will use that talent for good.
No thanks. I don't drink. You go ahead.
Well, it's hard, being a pioneer, if I can use that word, because people don't really get it yet. You should hear me trying to explain it to my father, what I do for a living.
Do what â you call this job, to make some smells, make noises? Look, your brothers, proper job â dentist, lawyer. Not make some kind of smell. Is good for what?
You know, all that immigrant-made-good stuff. No, don't put that in. No, wipe it, it's not relevant, it was just a personal aside. Off the record, or whatever you guys call it these days.
What? Hey, I said no photos. Man, we discussed this already: anonymity. Moodies, we have to be unobtrusive, subtle. We're not, you know, celebrities ⦠But you can use my first name. That was the deal, right, Damon? You promised to use my name.
[Intercept: internal msg system: casino owner | operations manager]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Fw: proposal
Okay what the hell I'm entrigued, set up a meeting. Do what he said with the lights plants fish outside security patrols etc. And watch that new German croupier chick right, I don't trust her. And JJ forget my spelling mate. You just look after the numbers.
[Coach 261, pick-up, Double Six Casino: Carol | female casino patrons | bus driver #642]
Out on the balcony Carol is draining her third cocktail and performing calculations in her head. She has spilled over as usual, but the rent is safe. Just. The casino fades out, as her mind heads for its own warm, dark corner. Her bus driver: tonight he greeted her by name. Just below eye level, pinned to his shirt, is a laminated photo ID, which she's always been too shy to scrutinise. He could be anyone. But she recalls the details â the dim blue of old tattoo ink against a white cuff; his eyes, pale as gravel, tilting up as she hands over her ticket; that half-second of skin contact. His eyes always land first and fix steady, but hers arrive late and jump away fast. Neck, hands, skin. Tiny bus windows reflected in black pupils. She remembers it all clearly.
A sharp horn blast, the flash of headlights. A second of shame as she recognises that shape down there behind the windscreen, arms slack across the steering wheel. That face tilted up at her, light grey eyes watching from the blue space of the waiting coach. Arranging her emotions back beyond her face, pushing away the imaginary smell of his skin, Carol hurries down to the car park and climbs aboard the rumbling machine.
He could be smiling. âSorry to startle you,' he says. âThese ladies put me up to it.' Carol glances around: a non-committal shrug, an indifferent look, one woman dropping into a boozy sleep. With nothing to say, she takes the empty seat nearest to him. The women and their driver roll onto the highway, sweeping the night behind them. Light by light the city blinks out, and the dark hush of the subzones begins to fill the coach windows. Carol can't read his name from here, but their eyes connect briefly in the rear-view mirror. Something shoots through her, bright and swift. A little subtraction is nothing, when you weigh it up. She'll be back next week.
heart rate 92 | pulse flicker | sudden pupil dilation | spend: zero per minute
[Taxi 91163, pick-up 19, Double Six Casino: Milk | Tally | unidentified male patron]
It's dawn when Milk finally makes for the taxi rank. Walking home would clear his head, but he can't risk carrying his equipment through the streets.
The big boss had come down personally to shake his hand and give him a box of expensive cigars he'll never smoke. Then he offered him a job working the high-roller rooms and introduced him to an embarrassed lingerie model. Milk excused himself with a polite promise to return next week.
He's exhausted by the thousands of moments he's processed. He tries not to swallow the emotions of strangers, but he can't help it: he always gets too close.
A fine rain sifts over the casino car park. There are bodies in some of the vehicles: a small dog, two sleeping toddlers, a child sitting silent behind the wheel of a battered ute. In the grey morning light the koala mascot is just a concrete lump, its sparkle switched off at the mains. He can see someone huddled under its bulk: a street kid sheltering from the drizzle. Sharp little tomboy face, dirty feet. She squints at Milk as he passes, lifts something silver to her eye: a small flash explodes in the gloom. On reflex he ducks, turns his face away. Stolen camera, he thinks, tightening his grip on the handle of his case and signalling for a taxi.
The driver is wearing a spotless lilac turban. Windows rolled up tight, they slide past the pier where a tall, well-dressed man with an almost imperceptible limp is watching the oily water, into which he's just dropped his phone. How deep will it sink before it stops shivering? Can a machine drown? He's rehearsing a conversation that will begin when he wakes his wife to tell her there's a taxi driver parked outside, waiting to be paid. Anyone who caught his eye would notice a peculiar lack of light in there. But no one does: he's just a man in a suit, looking the other way.
Milk is bothered by a vague, faceless need. Tonight something changed: certain people proven wrong, certain plans clicking into place, his own brand of poetry taking a solid form. He is being validated, at long last. So why this itch?
Then he registers the smudge of dirt across the toe of his new sneaker, the left shoe. He scratches at it, but the mark stays put. Pressing the intercom to speak to the driver, Milk feels his anxiety begin to dissolve, his blood slide back to its regular rhythm. New shoes, he thinks with relief, as he gives directions to the all-night mall.
CHAPTER 3:
THIRST
[Frontage, So Yum, budget restaurant strip, New Docks, South Interzone: Tally | Diggy | miscellaneous unverified persons]
The first time Tally saw the guy with the golden puppy, he was holding the animal slung over his shoulder like a rifle, ears bobbing cartoon-style in time with its owner's jolting steps. It was a chubby, optimistic-looking pup with yellow eyes â part-dingo, maybe â and it rode the guy's shoulder with dignity, its wet chops flapping in their wake. But its owner was moving fast, and Tally soon lost them in the crowd.
When she returned to her doorway she found a woman in an apron slapping bleach-water around with a mop. She looked tired or angry, it was hard to tell, so Tally ducked round the back to find something to eat.
You had to learn where to look. Rice was dumped in the alleys every night, and the clumps on top were usually clean. Sometimes there was a whole chicken wing, sticky with sauce, but you had to watch out for grit and bits of glass. There were burgers in the Hungry Jack's bin, but they locked the lid so you had to jam your arm in up to the shoulder and grope around in the dark; once Tally heard something scuffling in there. At night the Jesus people parked a van near the train station and doled out dented apples and lukewarm soup in polystyrene cups, but most of the people lining up were much older than her. The drunk ones yelled, and sometimes the police came and asked questions. A stringy woman puffing badly rolled cigarettes told Tally to watch out: the cops grabbed scruffy kids with no papers and took them away to juvie, which was just like prison only with no box to watch, no music, nothing to do. Smokers are chokers, thought Tally, departing with what she hoped was a mysterious look. (After the truck journey she hadn't tried smoking again. She hadn't fooled the guy anyway.)
Hunger was always there to be beaten, but thirst was the nasty one. Thick coils of heat lay trapped between the buildings, the sunlight burned your eyeballs, and a constant slick of sweat coated her skin. All day she hunted fresh water, and at night she dreamed of mysterious taps rising from the asphalt. People threw away unwanted food all the time, but liquid was more elusive. The rare trickles she found were of suspicious origin and soon vanished into the filthy cracks of the city.
A river slid through the casino district, but it was choked with plastic bottles and old coupons; its tea-brown depths merged with the oily harbour of the Docklands, where vacant high-rise towers and basement strip joints marked the dodgy part of town. Most of the fountains in the city grid were dry now, just drifting spots for dead leaves and fast-food litter. The fountains in the rich part of the city still ran clear, but they were monitored; thick-necked guards materialised like magic if you stopped. Tourists could throw coins in, but you weren't allowed to drink. The city was already teaching her tricks: scoop and slurp, slip away, keep moving.
And all the while, every moment, your eyes scanning the crowds; even when you were asleep it didn't stop, always scanning for that familiar shape, that pale skin and red hair, a certain way of walking.
Someone had left an old coat on the church steps. It smelled inky, like newspaper, and came down to Tally's ankles. It was too hot to wear in the daytime so she stashed it in a crack between two buildings and pulled it out after dark. When she wore it, her steps became lighter and her senses sharper. Fear could not creep in when the belt was knotted tight. It was a beige detective coat with inside pockets, one the perfect size for her camera. In the others she stowed two shoplifted pencils, an old docket book for making notes and maps, and a fresh box of bandaids she'd found at a tram stop.
Tally was wearing the coat the second time she saw the puppy guy. He was outside the 7-Eleven talking on his mobile, the golden pup tethered to his belt by a long droop of string. It stared up at him in adoration as he paced a restless semi-circle back and forth under the store's fluorescent lights. Tally marked the pair's position carefully on her map, then sat back to watch. She'd discovered this vantage point in the cheap and noisy part of the Docklands: a sliver of space between an abandoned hot-dog stall and a stack of cement bags solidified by time and rain. Sheltered from the street by a scraggly plastic tree, the lookout seemed to render her invisible. The moment she found it, Tally knew it would reward her patience with clues.
It was late, but not late enough to begin searching for somewhere to sleep. Words danced across shopfronts, music throbbed and overlapped in discordant waves as people stumbled along the footpath, pouring into fast-food joints and eddying at the open mouths of bars.
The puppy guy jabbed the air with his forefinger as he spoke, then hooked it into his jeans pocket while he listened, the pup's eyes following him as he paced out his tight arc on the footpath. It was hard to tell his age: maybe eighteen, maybe twenty-five, short and compact with a sharp jaw and quick eyes. Clean clothes, baseball cap, glasses flashing in the white glaze of the convenience-store lights.
From her hideaway across the street Tally watched him clock each passer-by, attention flicking from face to face. He had a certain stance she recognised: the bearing of someone who spoke to strangers and connected this with that; someone familiar with fire escapes, with punching in digits and making swift decisions. His body seemed to transmit a code through the air, a complicated ripple of meanings that jumped off his skin like electricity. Tally caught snatches of it â
cash
,
chance
,
opportunity
â but the content seemed to shift according to the flow of people. The guy was hard to decipher, but the puppy lent him a benign air. Grace loved dogs. The girls had always wanted one, but no dice, Max had said: they moved around too much. Just another mouth to fill, no point.