Dagger Key and Other Stories

  The woman closed the door on her patient and said firmly, “All the rooms have machines.”

  “Not the room I was in!”

  She let out an impatient sigh. “Which room was it?”

  I pointed. “There.”

  She preceded me into the room.

  “You see?” I said, triumphant.

  She pushed a button on the wall; a section of ceiling slid back, and a machine like the one I had seen in the other room lowered to a point directly above the surgical chair.

  “She didn’t use the machine,” I said. “I have no memory of it.”

  “I have to see to my client.” The woman retracted the machine. “But I’m sure you’ll be happy with the work. Amorise is extremely capable.”

  “You don’t understand!” I said. “I think…”

  “Have you tried out what she did?”

  “No, I…”

  “Give it a try,” she said. “If you’re not satisfied, call and we’ll set up another appointment. You can ask for me. My name is Jane Eisley. Now, please…I do have to get back to my client.”

  The earthquake of ’19 had leveled downtown Seattle, and from the windows of my apartment I could see out across the rebuilt city, the skyscrapers replaced by green domes of glass silicate whose facets winked like emeralds, nested among gardens and stands of firs. The Emerald City. Perhaps it had been a foolish conceit on the part of the city fathers to remodel the business district after the nickname applied by an advertising agency, but I enjoyed the view it afforded. However, after pronouncing the phrase, “Je t’aime, Amorise,” I found the prospect trivial. Jewels like fat green bugs and not the subtle traps and trickeries of light that true gems embody. I wanted to stand in the sky above them and piss down the purest of criticisms. The century, I thought, aspired to be its own ornament, a bauble floating upon the bloody river of history.

  I had a thirst, but there was no wine in the apartment. I called Spirits, an environment of black leather booths and chrome ornaments in the subterranean levels beneath my complex that pretended to be a bar, and ordered a case of wine sent up. Shortly after I received it, while sitting by my window and trying to discover the characteristics of whatever it was that Amorise had done, my message wall bonged and the larger-than-life image of my ex-girlfriend Angelica Korn snapped into view. I had not talked with her for several weeks, and I saw that she had lost weight, her skin drawn taut from cheekbone to jaw. She had always struck me as somewhat clownish in appearance. Coarsely, commonly pretty, with her thick eyebrows and an overly generous mouth. But there was nothing clownish about her at that moment. Her body language, formerly a vocabulary of exuberant head-tosses and giddy gestures, was restrained, elegant, and her steady gaze unnerved me. Instead of offering pleasantries, she said, “You’ve been down to Emerald Street. How was it?”

  “I’m not sure yet,” I said. “I didn’t tell you I was going, did I?”

  “You need to explore it,” said an off-screen voice.

  Carl McQuiddy stepped into view behind Angelica. A slim dark man whose goatee and receding hairline lent him a vulpine look. He was one of those who had recommended Emerald Street Expansions as a cure for my malaise. Yet had it been his recommendation alone, I would have paid it no mind. I didn’t care for him, and I had assumed Angelica felt the same. If the Devil were to need a lawyer, McQuiddy would be a perfect choice. His black eyes were cold and inexpressive. If anything, they seemed more so than usual that day.

  “Perhaps you should get out of the apartment,” he suggested. “Go someplace that will bring it out.”

  “Bring what out?” I asked.

  “The effect.”

  “Are you afraid?” The corners of Angelica’s mouth lifted in a half-smile, causing me to believe that her repetition of Amorise’s words was no coincidence. It angered me to think that she might be playing games, that she and McQuiddy were baiting me.

  “Afraid of what?” I said.

  “Whatever it is you’re afraid of,” she said. “Take my advice. You won’t remember much. Just scraps. So don’t waste time trying.”

  “Tacque Thibault,” Carl said. “Do you recall the name?”

  “No.” The name did sound a murky resonance, but I had no wish to say anything affirmative to him.

  He smiled thinly. “Yet your name is familiar to me.”

  “Are you trying to trip me out?” I asked. “That’s pitiful.”

 Carl turned his back. “See you tonight,” said Angelica, and the wall was restored to its normal white blankness.