Chapter 25
"THIS IS THE CRÈME BRÛLÉE DISTRICT."
"Pardon me?"
"My sister identifies neighborhoods by the dominant dessert served there," Jen said. "We're west of green tea ice cream and south of tiramisu."
It was true. The first restaurant we passed was a tiny bistro tucked between an art gallery and a flat-tire fix-it place. Checking the menu, we saw that they indeed served cr¨¨me brûl¨¦e, which is a small bowl of custard, the top layer cooked crunchy with a blowtorch. Pyromania is so often the handmaiden of innovation.
"How is your sister?"
"Less annoyed with me now that the borrowed dress has passed inspection and been found to have no rips or tears."
I may have flinched.
"Oh, sorry, Hunter. Forgot about your jacket for a second." She pulled me to a stop. "Listen, given that the whole disguise thing was my idea, I should go halfway with you on the refund disaster."
"You don't have to do that, Jen."
"You can't stop me."
I laughed. "Actually, I can. Where are you going to do, tie me up and pay my credit-card bill?"
"Only half of it."
"Still, that's five hundred bucks." I shook my head. "Forget it. I'll just make the minimum payment until I come up with something. Even more motivation to find Mandy. I hear that when people rescue her, she gets them more work."
"Well," Jen sighed, "it's not like I have the money anyway. Not after paying Emily's phone and cable. But I'll see what I can do with that jacket."
"I think it's DOA."
"No, I mean do something interesting with it. You might as well get a jacket out of this. AJen original."
I smiled and took her hand. "I'm already doing better than that."
She smiled back but stepped away, pulling me into forward motion again. When we passed a few steps later into the shadow of a long stretch of scaffolding, she halted, kissing me in the sudden darkness.
It was cool in the shelter of the scaffolding, the streets of the cr¨¨me brûl¨¦e district almost empty on a summer Saturday afternoon. A cab passed, rumbling across a patch of cobblestones; no matter how many times they're paved over, the cars wear the asphalt away, and the ancient stones emerge again, like curious turtles out of black water.
"French Revolution," I said. My voice was slightly breathless.
Jen leaned against me. "Go on."
I smiled - she was getting used to my wandering brain - and pointed at the bumpy surface. "The hoi polloi were pissed off everywhere back in the old days, but the revolution succeeded only in France, because the cobblestones in Paris weren't stuck down very well. An angry mob could take on the king's soldiers just by pulling up the street. Imagine a hundred peasants lobbing those at you."
"Ouch."
"Exactly," I said. "Your fancy uniform, your musket, none of it's worth much in a hail of rocks the size of a fist. But in cities where the cobblestones were stuck down better, the angry mob couldn't do anything. No revolution."
Jen thought for a few seconds, then gave cobblestones the Nod. "So the hoi polloi could get rid of the aristocrats just because of a flaw in the glue, one that was right under their feet."
"Yeah," I said. "All it took was some Innovator to say, 'Yo, let's pick up these cobblestones and throw them. And that was the end of society."
We left the shade, and I looked back up at the aging building. The scaffolding clung to the front all the way up, six stories of metal pipes and wooden planks. A faded, decades-old advertisement adorned this side, the pattern of the brick showing through the crumbling paint. I could see where another building had once rested against it, nothing left now but a change in color in the bricks.
"Hunter, do you ever feel like there's some problem with the glue these days? Like maybe if anyone figured out what to throw and who to throw it at, everything would fall apart pretty quickly?"
"All the time."
"Me too." We were crossing a worn patch of Hudson Street, and Jen swung a shoe at the top of a cobblestone. It was solidly submerged in sunbaked tar and didn't budge. "So, that's the anti-client's mission, isn't it? Ungluing things? Maybe they've figured out what to throw."
"Maybe." I shaded my eyes with one hand and squinted at the next street sign, then at the numbers. Movable Hype was halfway down the block, in an old and towering iron-frame building. "But more likely they're just throwing everything they can."
"Closed on Saturday," I said, stating what should have been obvious even before we'd bothered to walk over here. No one had answered our buzz. This was a place of business, and no matter how crazy Futura Garamond's typesetting aesthetic might be, he didn't work on Saturdays in summer.
"Good," said Jen, reaching for the buzzers. This motion gave me a nervous feeling in the bottom of my stomach.
Through the speaker: "Yeah?"
In Jen's fake gruff voice: "Delivery."
Muttered by me: "Not this again."
From the buzzer: buzz.
Movable Hype was on the top floor, and the stairs wound upward around the old-style elevator, locked up for the weekend at the bottom of its ten-story cage. Jen soon took a half-floor lead - I could see her red laces flashing through the ironwork surrounding the elevator shaft. She took the stairs like someone who lived in a walk-up. (My parents' building was over the critical six-floor limit, so I was used to riding.)
"Wait up!"
She didn't.
When I arrived on the tenth floor, Jen had already found the door to Movable Hype at the end of one long hall. "Locked."
"Gee, that's a surprise. What are we going to do, break it down?"
"Too strong. But check this out."
She led me around a corner to where a set of windows overlooked a central air shaft. In the old days, rents in New York were based on the number of windows a place had. So landlords invented buildings with hollow centers, creating that famous NYC feature: a window that looked out onto someone else's window about three feet away. Mandy always complained about how Muffin, her cockroach-eating cat, would jump across the gap to other tenants' apartments on hot, open-window days, presumably to see if their cockroaches were any tastier or less cat-shy.
Jen pointed through one of the windows. Across the corner of the air shaft was another window, perpendicular to the one we peered through. I could see a few desks and darkened computers.
"Movable Hype," she said, and unlocked the window.
"Jen..."
The window slid up, and she hooked a leg out over the hundred-foot drop.
"Jen!"
She reached toward me. "Hold my hand."
"No way!"
"Would you rather I do this alone?"
"Uh, no." I realized this wasn't an idle threat: she was ready to lean across and try the other window whether I helped or not. I felt a burst of | sympathy for Emily. If this was Jen at seventeen, what had she been like I at ten?
"Look at it this way. It's only a couple of feet across. If it wasn't for the drop, you wouldn't think twice about it."
"Yes, if it wasn't for the certain-death issue, I wouldn't think twice about it."
She looked down. "Pretty certain, yeah. Which is why you're going to hold my hand." She reached out again, impatiently waving me over. I sighed and grabbed her wrist with both hands.
"Ow. Too tight."
"Live with it."
Jen just rolled her eyes, then leaned her weight away from me and out over the shaft. Her other hand reached the Movable Hype window easily. Her wrist twisted in my hands as she tugged the window sash upward a few inches; then it stuck.
"Hang on." She shifted her weight on the sill, leaning farther out. I leaned back as if Jen was a rope in a tug-of-war, propping my feet against the wall just below her. She managed to pull the opposite window open another foot.
"Okay, you can let go now."
"Why?"
"So I can go over, silly."
I thought about refusing, just standing there holding her wrist until my hands wore out, keeping her on the sane side of the air shaft. But she would just outwait me. And cutting off the circulation in one of her hands wasn't much of an answer to the certain-death issue.
"Okay, letting go." I straightened, releasing Jen gradually, and she shook out her wrist.
"Ow. But thanks."
"Just be careful."
She smiled again and swung the other leg out. "Duh."
Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the near window with one hand, she slowly slid her weight from the sill, planting one black trainer in the corner of the air shaft. Her other hand reached out and grasped the other sill, then she pulled herself across.
In the seconds when her weight was equidistant between the windows, I felt my stomach flip inside out and then twist once around. I wanted to grab her hand again but knew that my sweat-slick palms were the last thing she needed contact with at this exact moment. Then she was across, both hands on the far sill, her feet scrabbling on the outside wall to push her up through the open window.
The red laces disappeared inside with a muffled crash.
"Jen?"
I leaned out, not looking down at the vertiginous drop.
Her face appeared in the window, all grins.
"Wow. That was cool!"
I took a deep breath, adrenaline still pounding through me. Now that Jen was safely over the air shaft, I realized that I was itching to get across myself. Funny how that happens: a minute ago I'd thought the idea was completely nuts, but once I'd seen an Innovator do it, I was dying to be next in line.
I remembered my resourcefulness in the meteorite room, my mighty escape through the valley of the Poo-Sham flashes. I had no bangs and I was ready for danger.
I hooked one leg out. The air shaft seemed to tug at me, calling me to cross it.
"Uh, Hunter..."
"No, I want to get in there too."
"Of course, but - "
"I can make it!"
She nodded. "I'm sure, but I could just unlock the door, you know."
I froze, my weight poised evenly atop the sill, one hand clutching the near window in a grip of death, the other reaching out over oblivion
"Yeah, I guess you could do that."
I pulled myself back in and padded down the hall to the slightly less challenging entrance of Movable Hype. The metal-jacketed door rattled once for every keyhole, then opened.
"You're not going to believe this," Jen said.
Chapter 26
THE WALLS WERE COVERED WITH THEM. PAGES AND PAGES.
They weren't the usual Futura Garamond layouts. For once he had reined himself in, mimicking exactly the pseudo-hip but unthreatening style of a certain magazine for rich young trust-funders.
"Hoi Aristoi," Jen said.
"Sort of." I looked closer. The photographs in the layouts were all from the party, penguins and penguinettes looking drunken and wild-eyed, almost animal in their petty squabbles, overt jealousies, posturings for status. You could read the body language like a neon sign. The crumpled dresses and crooked bow ties were also crystal clear. As the pictures progressed, the whole machine of privilege and power became unglued before your eyes - as pathetic as a cummerbund spattered with Noble Savage. By contrast, the occasional stuffed caribou glimpsed in the background seemed intelligent and sane.
Thousands of printed photos were piled on a long workbench along the wall, the booty of five hundred cameras, an embarrassment of riches. As per Jen's theory, every photo taken on the giveaway cameras had been wirelessly captured by the anti-client.
"Futura must have come back here after the party and worked all night," I said, looking nervously at the entrance to the office. "You suppose he went home to sleep or just out for coffee?"
"He'll probably be back soon," Jen said. "These pages must have already been laid out, just waiting for the photos. Which means they want a quick turnaround."
"Okay," I said, edging toward the door. "Speaking of quick turnarounds..."
"But what's this going to be?" Jen asked. "A fake issue of Hoi Aristoi or a real one?"
I shrugged. "It's whatever people decide it is, I guess."
"The cover must be this way."
She followed the wall, counting down the page numbers. I despaired of a hasty exit and went after her. The job was completely professional: Futura Garamond wasn't going for parody; he had created an exact imitation. He had even added real advertisements lifted from the first issue. Of course, the ads were as essential to the magazine as anything else.
At the far end of the office we reached the masthead and cover. The headlines read: Launch Party Exclusive! Special Subscribers-Only Issue!
"Issue zero," Jen said, pointing at the upper-right corner of the cover.
"That's what they usually call trial issues of new magazines. But Hoi Aristoi already tested their prototype. The free one we got in our gift bags was issue number one."
"So this isn't real."
"No, but it looks real enough," I said. Except for the grotesque photographs, it would have fooled anybody.
"Well, I guess you were right - this isn't blackmail. It's something much weirder. But what, exactly?"
"Good question."
We looked around the office. The late-afternoon sun slanted in through the windows, filling the loft with warm light, revealing the inevitable layer of dust on darkened computer screens. High-end printers waited to feed on wide spools of paper, and stacks of big hard drives flickered away in semi-sleep. A few laptops sat around a pile of wireless base stations. No doubt they had captured the launch party photos from the Wi-Fied Poo-Sham cameras.
I found a few issues of Futura Garamond-designed magazines from the past, a mocked-up bottle of Poo-Sham, and a few sketches for the label of Noble Savage rum. So that had been a fake too. I wondered how strong the stuff in the bottles was and if it had been just alcohol or something more. There was nothing to suggest that Movable Hype had any real clients. Garamond was working for the anti-client full time.
"Check this out," Jen said. She was holding a thick, accordion-folded printout. "Names and addresses. Phone numbers, too."
"A mailing list. I wonder if it's the mailing list."
Jen looked up at me. "You mean all the Hoi Aristoi subscribers?"
I nodded. "See if you can find Hillary Winston-Smith. She's under W, not 5."
Jen flipped to the end of the mailing list. "Yeah. Here she is."
"So it is the Hoi Aristoi mailing list." I glanced over Jen's shoulder to scan the addresses and confirmed my theory. Every third one was on Fifth Avenue - a few of them actually lacked apartment numbers. Owning an entire house in Manhattan is like having your own airport anywhere else: it means you are rich. Hillary Winston-hyphen-Smith's address was no slouch, for that matter: she resided in a certain Upper East Side building famous as a home for movie stars, oil sheiks, and arms dealers.
"They bought the subscriber list," I said.
"So they're going to send out copies to all their victims," Jen said, chuckling. "That's friendly of them."
"And all the wannabe subscribers as well, just to show them what aristocrats are really like. I bet the press gets issues too." I shook my head. "But why? All this money just for a practical joke?"
Jen nodded. "What did you say to me after I pissed off Mandy at the focus group? Messing things up takes talent, right?"
"Yeah." I looked around. "Garamond's got plenty of talent, that's for sure."
"And he's got a plan, too, which I'm starting to figure out. Sort of."
"Please, let me in on it."
She shook her head. "I'm not totally sure yet. But we're getting closer. It would help if we knew who else was behind this." She pointed at the mailing list. "How much would that cost?"
I leafed through the printout, pondering the question. Whether they're about snowboards, pet ferrets, or the latest gadgets, most magazines make more money from selling their subscriber list than they do off newsstand sales. It's big business to know how people perceive themselves, how much they earn, and how they're likely to spend it. A magazine may just be wrapping for advertisements, but it's also a bible for a lifestyle: it tells readers what's going on, what to think about it, and, most importantly, what to buy next. That's why you get a ton of new junk mail every time you subscribe to a magazine - you've pigeonholed yourself as a snowboarder, ferret lover, or gadget buyer.
Advertisers divide humanity into marketing categories, tribes with names like Shotguns and Saddles, Inner City, or Bohemian Mix. Magazine subscriptions are the easiest way to tell who's what. In my hand I was holding a list of high-grade, uncut Blue Bloods. Hot property.
"Very pricey, like the rest of this operation."
"Well, I bet you Movable Hype didn't pay for it."
"Why not? Futura's made decent money over the years.
She nodded. "Sure, he has. But would he want everyone to know he was behind a job like this?" Her gesture took in the pages stretching along the walls. "Something so unoriginal and tame? Even if it's a great practical joke, it's pure imitation."
"Yeah, and also pretty likely to guarantee he never works in the magazine industry again."
"So somebody else paid for it. Someone involved with the anti-client."
I shrugged. "Even if we could find out who paid for the mailing list, wouldn't it just be a front company or something? Like Poo-Sham, Inc.?"
Jen nodded. "Maybe. But whoever's putting up the cash had to pay for the really expensive stuff in those gift bags: hundreds of bottles of Poo-Sham and Noble Savage, not to mention all those wireless cameras. Those aren't things you can just stick on your credit card. There must be some kind of money trail."
"Okay." I looked at the front door of the office, imagining keys jingling at any moment. At least this would get us out of here. "Where do we start?"
She lifted up the mailing list. "With this. Doesn't your friend Hillary work for Hoi Aristoi?"
"Hillary doesn't work for them; she just did some PR. And she's not my friend."
"Still, she'd tell you what she knows, wouldn't she?"
"Give me private information about a client? Why would Hillary do that?"
Jen grinned. "Because she's probably dying to find out who turned her head purple."