Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [46]
“I can believe it,” I said. “I’m going now. But one thing…The edges aren’t holding.” I turned and started walking back toward the gate. There was nothing more I could do, not tonight, I didn’t have a gun. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a brain.
Vinaldi stayed motionless. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s not just the hits you’ve got to worry about, Johnny. Word’s going round the lower floors. Word says you’re losing it.”
“What do I know from people down there? What should I care?”
“No reason,” I said, opening the gate. I looked back at him for a moment. Tableau: upmarket hoodlum plus human accessories. The two guys at the table were looking at each other. His men knew what I was talking about, and so did their boss. When I was halfway down the path I heard a shout behind me.
“Randall! What’s done in the past is done, understand?” Vinaldi’s voice echoing over manicured lawns. “It’s over!”
I kept walking without turning round. Vinaldi was an intelligent man. He knew it would never be over.
I got off on 72 trembling, and I knew I was going to have to go through with it. My fist hurt from a discussion with the guard by the elevator on Vinaldi’s level, but the fifty dollars was back in my pocket, next to my gun. I felt like I was on a doomed downward spiral, as if I’d reached that stage in the evening when you’ve had too many beers to turn back but know that going forward is going to be even worse. The idea of buying a truck was getting more and more laughable to me, as if it had always been a ludicrous fantasy.
72 had gone down in the world. It was never stylish. It was just a normal suburban neighborhood, done out in corridors. Originally part of one of the MegaMall’s mid-range hotels, it had a couple of small stores in what used to be suites, but apart from that it was entirely residential. When I’d lived there people had been making an effort, pretending it didn’t matter that they lived below the 100 line. Low-paid white collar: a few cops, some bohemian old people, even a couple of teachers. There’d been window boxes lined up by front doors, in lieu of gardens, filled with struggling flowers grown under little ArtiSun lamps. At the right time of year, walking the subcorridors had been like strolling through meadows in spring, if you ignored the fact you were inside.
No longer. I stepped out of the elevator by myself and stood for a while, looking down the long corridor in front of me. One of the apartments on the left-hand side had been burnt out. It looked as if it had been reinhabited, and someone had made a reasonable job of patching it up, but the damage still showed and informed the rest of the view. The carpet was five years dirtier, and the paint on the walls looked like a thousand drunks had pissed on it after imbibing unusual substances. The ceiling lights were still working, at least, but with a buzzing and fitful air, as if they reserved the right to stop at any moment. There wasn’t a single window box to be seen.
I passed doors behind which there might still be people I knew. I didn’t knock on them. I didn’t know which would be worse: discovering the people I knew were all gone, or finding they were still there. I took my turnoff and followed subcorridors that led out to the edge. All were nearly as wide as the main corridor, which I’d always thought gave the floor a feeling of openness. Now it just made it feel deserted.
Things had changed, but not that much until I made the turn into 31st and 5th. The