Golem 100

3

By now, of course, the Northeast Corridor was the Northeast slum, stretching from Canada to the Carolinas and as far west as Pittsburgh. It was a lunacy of violence inhabited by a swarming population with no visible means of support and no fixed residence. It was so vast and chaotic that demographers and the social services had given up all hope. Only the police continued the struggle.

It was a monstrous raree show that everybody denounced and adored. Living in the Corridor, and particularly in the Guff of the Corridor, was like being desperately in lust with a freaked-out Hottentot Venus. You hated it but you couldn’t kick it.

Even the privileged class, like Queen Regina and her seven bee-ladies, who could afford to live protected lives in luxury Oases and, indeed, could escape to anywhere they damn pleased, never dreamed of leaving the Guff. The jungle magicked you. It was alive, by God! Its dementia churned up exciting new vices, sins, crimes, outrages. You never knew when you might be suddenly dead, but you always knew you were superbly alive.

There were hundreds of daily survival crises in the Corridor. Cold was a major discomfort. Everybody was chilled and winter seemed to be stretching out into half the year. A popular revival movement preached that another Glacial Epoch was on the way, announcing the Second Coming. The mystic (?) year 2222 was to be the final freeze when all sinners would be called to judgment. The Scriabin Finkel stable of musicians had composed the Glacial Army’s anthem: “Where You Beez Come God’s Big Freeze?”

Even more exasperating than the lack of heat was the lack of fresh water. Most of the natural potable water had long since been impounded by Ibet (Industry Building a Better Tomorrow) so there was very little left for the suffering consumer of today. Rainwater tanks on roofs, of course, frequently siphoned off by thieving “HOjacks.” Recycling and purifying. A black market. And that was about all, which meant that very few could bathe or launder properly, so the jungle stank. You could smell the Northeast’s bouquet from ten miles out at sea.

Not to believe that everybody minded stinking as they skipped merrily over the rot in the streets, but a lot did, and their only recourse was perfumery. There were a hundred competing companies manufacturing perfume products, but the leader, far and away, was the Corrugated Can Company which had had the good sense to diversify when the great perfume explosion burst.

CCC had the grace to admit, privately, that it had been neck-and-neck with their competition until Blaise Shima joined them. Then it turned into a no-contest. Blaise Shima. Origins: French, Japanese, Irish. Family: None. Education: B.Sc. Princeton, M.Sc. M.I.T., Ph.D. Dhow Chemical. (Dhow had secretly tipped CCC that Shima was a winner, and unfair-practice suits brought by the competition were still pending before the Business Ethics Review Board.) Blaise Shima, thirty-one, unmarried, straight, genius.

His sense of scent was his genius and at CCC he was privately referred to as “The Nose.” He knew everything about perfumery and its chemistry: the animal products—ambergris, castor, civet, musk; the essential oils distilled from plants and flowers; the balsams extruded by wounded trees and shrubs—myrrh, benzoin, storax, Peru, Talu; the synthetics derived from the combination of natural scents with the esters of fatty acids.

Shima had created all of CCC’s premium sellers; “Vulva,” “Assuage,” “OxteF,” (A much more attractive brand name than “Armpitto,” which Kornbluth in Sales had suggested.) “Prep-F,” and “Tongue War.” He was treasured by CCC, paid a salary enormous enough to enable him to live in a super-luxury Oasis that was comfortably warmed. Best of all, CCC had the clout to win him a generous supply of fresh water, h. & c. No girl in the Guff could resist Shima’s invitation to come up and enjoy a hot shower.

But Blaise Shima paid a high price for these comforts. He could never use scented soaps, shave creams, pomades, perfumes, depilatories. He could never eat seasoned foods or drink anything but glass-distilled water. All this, you understand, to keep The Nose undefiled by contamination so that he could smell around in his pure and sterile laboratory and create new masterpieces. He was presently composing a promising new product (working title, “Dil-d’Eau”) but he’d been on it for two months without any firm results and CCC Sales was alarmed by the delay. There was a meeting of the board of directors.

“What the hell’s the matter with him anyway?”

“Has he lost his touch?”

“Not a chance.”

“After all, he has slowed down before. Remember that girl from Ipanema? She wiped him out. What was her name?”

“Ildefonsa Lafferty.”

“She was a killer, from all reports, but Ildefonsa didn’t hold him up this long. Maybe he needs a rest.”

“Why, he had two weeks’ holiday last quarter.”

“What did he do?”

“Spent a week eating and drinking up a storm, he told me. He’s got feisty appetites.”

“Could that be it? Hangover?”

“No. He said he spent the second week purging himself before he came back to work. Sincere.”

The chairman of the board, massive, magisterial, his skin resembling a crocodile’s, broke in. “Is he having trouble here at CCC? Difficulties with middle management, perhaps?”

“Impossible, Mr. Chairman. They wouldn’t dare annoy him.”

“Is he sulking for a raise? Give it to him.”

“He says he can’t spend the money he makes now.”

“Wait. Has our competition got to him?”

“They approach him all the time, sir. He just laughs them off. He’s happy here.”

The chairman considered. “Then it might be something personal.”

“Agreed, sir.”

“The usual woman trouble?”

“My God! We should have such trouble! In his private life, The Nose turns into The Stud.”

“Family?”

“He’s an orphan, Mr. Chairman.”

“Ambition? Incentive? Should we make him an officer of CCC? I believe we have a vice-presidency open.”

“I offered that to him the first of the year, sir, and he laughed at it. He just wants to play around with his chemicals.”

“Then why isn’t he playing?”

“What the hell’s the matter with him, anyway.”

“Which is how you started this meeting.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Not.”

The chairman broke in again, his heavy voice sounding like a controlled roar, “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Please! It would appear that Dr. Shima has personal problems which are stifling and/or blocking his superb genius. We must solve them for him. Is it urgent?”

“It is, Mr. Chairman. Sales has already booked over a million in advance orders for ‘Dil-d’Eau.’ It will be a disaster for our future credibility if we don’t fill them, and I hate to think what it will do to Shima’s reputation.”

“I see. Suggestions?”

“Psychiatry?”

“That won’t work without voluntary cooperation. I doubt whether he’d cooperate. He’s a stubborn gook.”

“Senator!” the chairman chided. “I beg you. Such expressions must not be used with reference to one of our most valuable assets.”

“Mr. Chairman, you said our problem is to solve his problem.”

“I did, governor.”

“Then shouldn’t we find out what it is first?”

“Your point is well taken, governor. Suggestions?”

“I think the first step might be to maintain a twenty-four-hour covert surveillance; all of the gook’s—Excuse me! All of the good doctor’s activities, associates, contacts, and so forth.”

“Very good, senator. By CCC Security?”

“I would suggest not, sir. There are bound to be internal leaks and finding out would only antagonize the good gook—I mean doctor!”

“Outside surveillance, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Suggestions?”

“We’ve used Skip-Trace Associates in the past, sir. They’ve always done an honest and efficient job.”

The chairman considered, then arose and lumbered out with the gait of a lazy crocodile. Enroute, he called over his shoulder, “Very good. Agreed. Meeting adjourned.”

* * *

“Ladies, this is a dreary bore.” The Queen Bee flowed with gracious exasperation. “Learning all those spooky spells and burning all those smelly smells, and absolutely nothing happens. No Lucifer. Not even an assistant demon. I vote for a change.”

“Couldn’t agree more, Regina,” Oodgedye said. “Let’s try something else, but no more Latin.”

“And no more Hebrew. My face still feels backwards.”

“Ladies, your cruise director speaking.”

“We tremble with suspense, Regina.”

“I’m more like trembling from the cold.” Nell Gwyn’s milky skin showed goose bumps. “I’m congealed, Regina.”

“Pi-girl! More peat on the grate. Quick now. And put the kettle on the hob. We’ll have coffee.”

“Only recycled bathwater left, Miz Regina.”

“It’ll do. Ladies, my game-plan. What would you all say to an old-fashioned quilting bee?”

“A what bee?”

“A quilting bee. Women persons used to hold them ages ago. They got together every so often, just like us, and sewed patchwork quilts.”

Sarah Heartburn was astonished. “You mean those BEAUTIFUL things were actually all !!!handmade!!! by H*A*N*D? I always thought museums produced them by spontaneous combustion.”

“I always thought the word was ‘spontooneous.’”

“Oh hush, Mary,” Regina laughed. “Yes, they were sewn by hand and we can make one, if you like.”

“I like, Regina.” Yenta Calienta looked shrewd. “But which of us gets it when we’re finished?”

“None of us. We’ll sell it to a museum and buy gallons of lovely scent for all of us.”

“Heaven! Count me in, brrr!” Nell Gwyn shivered. “Anybody else in favor? Hands, please. Not you, Pi, you don’t get to vote. One, two, three, four… Six out of eight. Oodgedye and Udgedye dissenting, as usual.”

“We’re not dissenting. We’re recusing.”

“What does that mean? Is it dirty?”

“Another time, Priss. So what now, Regina?”

“The problem is cloth patches, Nell. Colorful ones, and real cloth; nothing recycled.”

“No problem, Regina. My Droney has a fantastic collection of antique silk ties. There are lots of dupes he’ll never miss. I’ll pinch them.”

“Beautiful, Nell. There’s a fascinating design in one of my wicked books, and we’ll start next session. Pi! The coffee! I must say, a quilting bee will be a relief from trying to get in touch with silly old Satan.”

* * *

Skip-Trace Associates, Inc. was furious. It was the first time the firm had failed for a valued client, and somehow they felt they had been deceived. After two weeks the general manager threw the case back into CCC’s lap, asking for nothing more than expenses.

“Why in hell didn’t you tell us we were assigned to a pro, Mr. Chairman, sir? Our tracers aren’t trained for that. We only handle deadbeats.”

“Just a moment, please. What do you mean by ‘pro’?”

“A professional rip.”

“A what?”

“A ripjack. Gorill. Gimp. Crook. Geek. Goon.”

“Our Dr. Shima a crook? Preposterous!”

“Look, Mr. Chairman, sir, I’ll frame it for you and you draw your own conclusions. Yes?”

“By all means.”

“It’s detailed in this report anyway. We put a double-trace—that’s two tails, shadows, ops—on Shima every day outside your shop. You didn’t need us inside. When he left, they followed him. He always went straight home. No meetings, outside of girls. No contacts, outside of girls. No nothing. Yes?”

“Go on.”

“We staked his Oasis in double shifts. It’s got prime protection, so that was easy. He had dinner sent in every night from the Organic Nursery, which is a legit place on a pure-food-nothing-added gig. Our ops checked the delivery boys. Legit. They checked the meals—sometimes for one, mostly for two. Legit. No tincts, no chromes, no mords, no tinges, no nothing.”

“Excuse me. I don’t understand what you’re referring to.”

“That’s all right, sir. It’s street language; Guff talk for the squeams—that’s drugs—they’re tripping on these days.”

“Thank you.”

“Our ops tailed the girls who left his penthouse and checked them. All clean. So far all clean. Yes?”

“And?”

“Now here’s the crunch. Couple of nights a week he leaves his place and goes out into the Guff. He leaves around midnight and doesn’t come back until four, more or less, give or take half an hour.”

“Where does he go?”

“Ah! That’s the unch in the crunch. We don’t know. We don’t know because he shakes his tails like the pro that he is. He weaves through the Guff like a whore or a faggot cruising for trade, and he always shakes our ops. I’m not putting them down. They’re good, but he’s better. He’s smart, shifty, quick, a real pro, and he’s too much for Skip to handle.”

“Then you have no idea of what he does or who he meets between midnight and four these several nights a week?”

“No, sir. We’ve got nothing, and you’ve got a problem. Not ours anymore. Sorry to let you down. Expenses is all we ask.”

“Thank you. Now, contrary to the popular conception, corporations are not altogether callous. CCC understands that negatives are also results. In fact, it was Dr. Shima himself who taught us that. You have given us results, and I’m satisfied. You’ll receive your expenses and the agreed fee as well.”

“Mr. Chairman, sir, I can’t—”

“No, no. Don’t feel that you haven’t earned it. You’ve narrowed it down to those missing four hours. Now, as you say, they’re our problem. I’m afraid we’ll have to call in a rather strange specialist; but then, Dr. Shima has also taught us that strange problems require strange solutions.”