Specimen Days

Simon held his collar in one hand and bumped his head rhythmically against the column. These were called love taps. He extracted the bills from the wallet, did a quick scan. Yes, it was the exact amount. Simon pocketed the bills. He threw the wallet on the ground.

"You're a lucky boy," he whispered. "You're lucky you aren't fucking dead right now."

He let go of the client's collar. The client was panting, clinging with both arms to the column, his face squashed against the stone.

"Repeat after me," Simon growled. "I am a lucky boy."

"No. I won't."

Simon gave him a final slap across the back of his bright blue head. "Say it."

The client wheezed. His voice was barely audible: "I am a lucky boy."

"You got that right, sport."

Simon decided to give him a bonus. He hooked his thumbs under the client's belt, pulled his pants down to his knees, and smacked him across his shivering, naked buttocks.

"I swear I think there is nothing but immortality," he said. At this point, the client did not appear to notice the incongruity.

Simon walked off. He thought hopefully of his tip, though experience indicated that Germans were not reliable in that area.

* * *

He returned to his crash at twenty past four. He poured himself a shot f Liquex, paused over its aquamarine glow. It was a glassful of brilliant blue serotoninade, about to be downed by a man who had done a day's work. Beautiful? Probably, in a minor way. It had, of course, been designed to be beautiful, to attract the buyer. Various color possibilities had been considered and rejected before the company arrived at this one, the precise color of a swimming pool at night.

Corporate intention diminished the liquid's beauty, shallowed it out. The most potent incidences of beauty were the ones that felt like personal discoveries, that seemed to have been meant specifically for you, as if some vast intelligence had singled you out and wanted to show you something.

Simon removed his shit-kickers. He peeled the fetid T-shirt over his head and tossed it in a corner. He tumbled onto his bedshelf and sipped his fiery drink.

There was a message on the vid. "Speak to me," he said. Marcus shimmered up. Right. Who else would call?

Mini-Marcus appeared, pallid and wavering. It would be nice to have a vid with better resolution. It would be nice to have a lot of things.

Flickering Marcus said, "I'm nobody, who are you? Are you nobody, too? Call me when you get in."

He vanished in a fist of sparkles. Simon said, "Marcus." The vid purred up the number. Marcus answered on the second tone. He reappeared with slightly better resolution, being live.

"Hey, Simon," his image said. He was still in his kit, his blacks and kickers. He had not taken off his eyeliner yet. His model, called up out of the Infinidot archives, was Keith Richards with no money. Simon had been told to alter his first choice: Malcolm McDowell more than a century ago, in A Clockwork Orange. Deliberating over the ancient vids, he had finally decided on Sid Vicious instead and had added Morrissey hair.

"I celebrate myself, and what I assume you shall assume. How was your night?"

"The usual. Listen. I think a drone was watching me tonight."

"You do?"

"I'm not completely sure. But yeah. I swear it hovered over me for, like, almost a minute."

"Might not have been interested in you. Where were you?"

"By the band shell."

"They cruise the band shell. It's a campsite. They're always checking for Nadians there. You know that."

"I've got a feeling. That's all."

"Right. But do you think you're being, shall we say, a little oversensitive?"

"I hope I am. I've just had a feeling. For a couple of days now. I didn't want to mention it."

"I am satisfied I see, dance, laugh, sing." "Could you stop that?" "You know I can't."

"I'm starting to think," Marcus said. "Maybe this whole June 21 thing is just crazy. Old New York is too risky for us. They watch too closely here."

"They watch the Nadians and the tourists. Scabrous subprostitutes such as we are low on the priority list."

"Still…"

"Just a few more days, Marc."

"I've been wondering if we should split up."

"Say not so."

"We're conspicuous, Simon."

"Parting track'd by arriving, perpetual payment of perpetual loan."

"Concentrate. Please."

"I'd be all alone without you, Marc. And you, without me."

"I know. I just think"

"I'd rather risk it with you. Listen. Have yourself a Liquex or two, get some rest, meet me for breakfast tomorrow."

"At Freddy's?" "Where else?"

"Okay. Two o'clock?" "Two o'clock." "Goodnight." "Sweetest of dreams."

Marcus clicked off. He dissolved in a shiver of silvery dust.

Simon drank off his Liquex and poured himself another. Was Marcus in fact overreacting? He ran to nervousness. And yet. Old New York was riskier than other places, no denying it. But it was the best place for picking up a few quick yen with no questions asked.