Mazarin blues, p.9
Mazarin Blues, page 9
part #1 of Hep Cats of Boise Series
“Who did you hear that from?” Reed asked.
“Insurance company. Two-three-three-five is the new access code for the basement, right?”
“Yes.”
Jerry nodded, then scratched his head. “Do you need help cleaning stuff up? Heard he wrecked the place. I feel like it was my fault this happened. If you hadn’t caught him upstairs, he wouldn’t have been fired, and if I’d noticed him going upstairs in the first place, I could have stopped that from happening.”
“No, I cleaned everything up already, but thank you.”
“What about the loose basement door? Want me to fix it for you?”
“No need. I already put new locks on it.”
“Alright.” He glanced at the crew climbing out of the van. “I hope the TV didn’t cost too much, because the cops probably aren’t going to catch Carter.”
Reed’s frown was visible in the rearview mirror. “What makes you say that?”
“He was planning on using an interrupter to terminate his nav. Then there’d be no way to track him and no nav to turn him in.”
“Do you think that’s why Wave wanted to talk to him?”
Jerry shrugged. “Not sure how they’d know he was going to do that, unless his nav reported him. But Wave isn’t a government agency. If someone terms their nav, it’s the cops and navigator enforcement agency who get involved. I mean, I think the NEA is probably in Wave’s pocket since they have a monopoly on the software, but still. Seems weird to send a company van out to take care of it. And it’s not like this is the first time I’ve worked with someone who didn’t have a nav. It’s not uncommon in construction, really. You get drifters who used interrupters on themselves, or illegals who never had a nav to begin with, and they buy some fake documents to show the company. A Wave van never showed up for them.”
The repair crew disappeared around the side of the house with their tools, their conversation drifting. How many of them didn’t have navs? It would certainly make stealing TVs easier.
It would also make stabbing Reed in his sleep easier. I couldn’t let that happen. Nor would I let Wave, the police, or the NEA punish Reed for anything odd I had done. If I wasn’t functioning properly, that wasn’t Reed’s fault. But I had to know for certain. Maybe there was something I could do to test it…
REED
The van was gone when Reed returned home. A paper fluttered on his front door. He left the idling car and crunched through day-old snow to the porch. The note taped to the door read: “Mail lady came with a package. She wanted a signature, so I signed for it. Left it on a table in the basement. —Jerry”
Had he ordered anything recently that would require a signature? He plucked the paper from the door and pulled the car into the garage.
After passing through each room in the house clutching a golf club—just in case—he unlocked the basement door. The light carved harsh shadows across the creaky wooden steps. Reed wrinkled his nose at the scent of must and wet wood. Tools and chunks of drywall were scattered across the floor, a roll of spongy carpet occupied the corner, and waterlogged plastic boxes sat in a haphazard stack against the far wall, the insides slicked with green mold. On a tool bench near the outer door sat a cellulose box with no return label, his name and address scrawled across the front in black marker.
“If there’s a severed head in here, I’m going to be very unhappy.”
The box lifted easily. He gave it a small shake, heard nothing, and carried it up the stairs. After setting it on the kitchen counter and staring for a moment, he pulled a knife from a drawer and sliced through the tape on the top. A loud POP cut through the silence, and a cloud of glitter exploded from the box, coating Reed and the kitchen in a sea of shimmery blue. He stood, slack-jawed, with flecks of glitter stuck to the lenses of his glasses. Trying to wipe it away only made it worse. He set his glasses on the counter, soaking in his formerly white kitchen with clenched fists.
Who the hell sent him this? It seemed pretty mild for a potentially violent, thieving repairman. The mail lady hadn’t been amused last week when she asked Reed what was in the package she was delivering, and he’d told her he liked to take his work home with him. Had she sent it? Maybe it wasn’t delivered at all, and Jerry had brought it himself.
It would take him forever to vacuum all of this up. He’d probably be finding glitter in his hair weeks from now. And it was blue.
Blue.
He tore off his coat and turned on his holoscreen. Twelve new texts waited for him, all of them from Mazarin. He clicked on the most recent one.
“You sent this to me?”
A new text appeared.
“So you glitter bombed me.”
“You used my own money to glitter bomb me.”
Reed shook glitter from his hair and sighed. “So am I. I think I would have preferred you telling me to smash my fingers in a door.”
What would happen if he called Wave and told them about this? Would they believe him if he sent pictures? Maybe they’d accuse Reed of sending the package to himself.
His interface holoscreen disappeared, then popped up again with the words: “INSTALLING UPDATES.” An ellipsis ran under the words, disappearing and reappearing.
Reed fought to pull his heavy, old-fashioned vacuum from the hall closet. His tiny, deactivated cleaner bots sat on a shelf above. Even if he had liked using them, sending them in to clean up all that glitter would be a suicide mission. He plugged in the vacuum and clicked it on. Blue glitter swirled like a frosty wind as the vacuum made a clean track through the piles. He removed the detachable hose and ran it along the counters and behind canisters of coffee and flour. After most of the mess was gone, he hurried down the chilly basements steps and threw his sparkly clothes in the washer. Hopefully what was left on his skin and in his hair wouldn’t clog up the shower drain.
He jumped, gripping the edge of the washer; flakes of glitter drifted to the floor. “Yes. I can.”
Mazarin’s voice came again, quieter and forlorn.
“You’ve never done anything to hurt me.”
“He said you were rude too.”
Reed snorted. “You what?”
“That Wave technician said all navs are the same and you don’t have personalities.”
“Clearly. If you don’t have a personality, then there’s no hope for me.” He climbed the steps, rubbing his goosebumped arms, and headed into the bathroom.
He turned on the shower and stepped into the hot stream; glitter spiraled down the drain. “But if they ‘fixed’ you, they’d be removing everything that makes you who you are.”
Maybe he did need to call Wave. After all, if they weren’t aware that their AI had personalities and free will, that was quite the oversight. Maybe they’d pull all the betas and give Reed back his old version. But then what would happen to Mazarin? Would he be destroyed? That didn’t seem right.
I can’t believe I’m thinking like this. Just last week, the nav didn’t even have a name and I would have gladly done anything to be rid of him. Just what side of the robot revolt am I on, anyway?
“You know, you say that often enough that I’m starting to wonder.”
He shut off the shower and toweled off, inspecting his skin for glitter. “You mentioned navs not placing calls when asked and ignoring emergencies.”
Mazarin lowered his voice.
Reed’s stomach clenched. “When did that happen?”
“Apparently not.” Reed and Mazarin got along fine though, didn’t they? They’d never argued, and Reed had only snapped at the nav a couple of times, and always apologized afterward. Surely Mazarin wouldn’t do something so violent, given how much he liked Reed. Still, if these stories were circulating, Wave probably did know about these issues and were working on a patch for the problematic navs. If Reed let Wave know Mazarin was among them, maybe they could help.
He crossed into the bedroom, searching through his underwear drawer. “Alright. Call Wave so we can get this taken care of.”
Reed swallowed, hoping his heart would go back into his chest where it belonged. “Answer.”
Jax’s voice entered his ear. “Heya, daddy-o.”
Reed sat on the bed and pulled in an unsteady breath. “Hey.”
“So, it’s karaoke night at the Gator Club. Not sure why Em has it on a Monday—maybe they hope no one will show up so they don’t have to listen to all the awful singing, but it’s usually a gas and I’m gonna go. Thought maybe you’d like to bump up our date and accompany me.”
“Karaoke” and “date” didn’t have any business being in the same sentence together, especially on a Monday, but Reed heard himself saying “yes” before he realized it.
“Copacetic. You don’t have to sing or anything. We can just sit in the back and beg for earplugs. I can swing by and pick you up if you want.”
Reed stared at his closet of neutrals. “Um, sure, but… I don’t have anything to wear.”
“It’s not fancy.”
“I mean I don’t have any deco clothes. That shirt you saw me in last time is the closest thing I’ve got.”
“Ah, I gotcha.” Rustling and static came through the other end of the line. “Well, you’re taller and thinner than me, but I bet I have something you can wear.”
What would Jax pick for him? Something flashy like the neon green button-up he’d worn last time? Excluding Reed’s undergarments, he’d never had a color like that against his skin. Maybe it would be better than sex. Or maybe he’d burst into flames when he put it on because he wasn’t as deco as someone like Jax.
“Alright. I live on Snohomish, off of Cole. Is that too far out of your way?” Reed asked.
“Nah. No problem… You gotta give me the exact address. Hang on, lemme get a pen.”
He must really not have a nav if he needs to write down directions. And with a pen.
After telling Jax his address and ending the call, Reed paced the bedroom in his boxers, shaking out his tingling hands. “What pants do I wear? Black? With which socks?”
He rubbed his face. “That’s not helping.” After pawing through the slacks in his closet, he found a pair of dark denim jeans at the end of the rack. He’d worn them once, several years earlier, but decided the deep indigo was a bit too flashy. Maybe they still fit.
After pulling them on and cinching them with a belt, he stood before the mirrored closet door, hands on his hips. They looked nice, and might not attract too many stares from mainstreamers. He was certain he wouldn’t be able to say that about whatever shirt Jax brought him.
Reed did as instructed, then threw on an undershirt and gelled his hair. “Mazarin, I’m going to wait to call Wave tomorrow. When Jax gets here, will you go into sleep mode for the evening? I appreciate—”
“Thank you.”
Eventually a knock came at the door in the pattern of “Shave and a Haircut.” Reed shook his head—maybe that wasn’t the Gator Club’s secret knock, but the one Jax always used.
Reed opened the door; Jax stood on the step, his hair molded into a high pompadour and icy breath drifting around his smiling face. He stepped inside and thrust a shirt into Reed’s arms.
“It’s colder than fuck out there.”
After shutting the door, Reed held up the shirt—a bubblegum pink bowler with contrasting black sleeves. Pink… how would he pull off wearing something like this? He couldn’t just refuse and throw on a gray sweater, though.
I’ll stand out with it on here, but not in the Gator Club.
“Hope it fits.” Jax walked into the living room, running his fingers along the back of the oatmeal couch.
How hideous that couch must appear to him. As hideous as it appears to me.
Reed snatched the landscape painting off the hallway wall and tossed it into a nearby closet. “Um, do you want to see my books while I try on this shirt?”
Jax turned around. “Yeah. Where are they?”
“In my den.” Reed slipped the key from his pocket and unlocked the door.
Jax peered inside and his dark eyebrows shot up. “Whoa.” He stepped inside, touching the burnished sconces and caramel celluloid inlay running along the wooden bar. After flopping into the wingback chair, he uttered, “This… is ginchy.”
Reed smiled. He pulled a leather-bound tome from the bookshelf and handed it to Jax. “This is my favorite one. It’s a medical journal from nineteen-twelve.”
The spine creaked as Jax opened the cover. He gently turned the pages, stopping on an ink illustration of a heart. “Beautiful. This would make an ace tat. The heart is your favorite, right? That’s what you said?”
“Yes.”
He closed the book gingerly and Reed imagined Jax’s gentle hands on him, treating him as reverently as he did the ancient paper. He slid the book back into its spot on the shelf, then pulled on the bowler shirt, pushing the shiny black buttons through their holes.
Staring at his front, he said, “Do I look like an imposter?”
“Are you shitting me?” Jax stood and gestured to the den. “I’m the one who feels like an imposter. My place is nowhere as deco as this.”
“The rest of my house is a sham, though. A front. I hide my love in this one room.”
“I like that about you. You’re not peacocking it up to fit into the deco scene like some cats—like Mikey. God, he uses so much slang I want to slap him silly. Your love is genuine.” Jax fixed the spread collar on Reed’s shirt, then let his hands linger there.
Reed’s gaze roamed Jax’s chiseled face, a magnetic pull inviting him to lean closer, to give Jax an invitation to let his hands wander, but anxiety prickled in Reed’s gut. Would it be too soon for that? What if he regretted it later? Anyway, weren’t they going somewhere? He pulled away and walked out of the den. “Let’s get to the club. If I miss ‘Jump Jive’ sung loudly out of key by a shit-faced patron who’s forgotten half the lyrics, I’ll never forgive myself.”
7
REED
They left the house, crossing the drive to Jax’s idling BMW. Reed moved a pork pie from the passenger’s seat and strapped himself in.
Jax picked up the hat. “This is for you to wear too, if you want.”
A pink bowler, rolled jean cuffs, and a hat?
He’d certainly fit in then, and it was a nice hat. He eyed Jax, then put it on, staring at himself in the mirror.
Jax grinned. “Hot.”
Cheeks burning, Reed looked into his lap. “Thanks.”
Rockabilly that Reed couldn’t name blared from Jax’s speakers as they turned out of the dark subdivision and headed for the freeway. Being a Monday night, the traffic was sparse, but cars lined 18th Street in front of the bistro above Em’s Gator Club. Jax struggled to parallel park between a Honda and a pickup truck with a cherry red paint job, swearing under his breath.
He pulled a slim, translucent card from his back pocket and swiped it in front of the nearby parking meter. “I’m gonna be screwed when they switch these things over to transactors.”
“Empty interfaces don’t have an option for loading money?” Reed asked.
