Agents of Dreamland(2)
“No one’s told me not to, and I don’t see any signs posted. I took that as a yes.”
The waitress comes back, and the Signalman knows that whatever she sees when she stares into the eyes of the operative from Y, it’s not what he sees. Civilians get all the breaks. Immacolata orders coffee.
“I will admit,” she says when the waitress has gone, “I was skeptical when I heard they’d assigned you to the case. After Maine and all. Rumor has it, an awful lot of the blame for that mess landed squarely at your feet. They say it was you who waited so long to take the situation seriously, that you were the man who ignored the writing on the wall.”
“Rumor,” he says. “Is that what passes for intel at Barbican Estate these days?”
She shrugs and lights a Marlboro; the smoke curls about her face. “Well,” she says, “it’s what I heard, that’s all.”
Of course she’s leading off with Maine. A sharp left hook and all that, get him off-balance and reeling right from the start. As if just the sight of her weren’t more than enough for that. Sure, he’s got his own headful of rumors to go with that face she wears, but the Signalman knows better than to start trotting them out. He knows better than to ask any one of the dozen questions darting about behind his eyes.
Is it true what they say about your mother?
About your father?
About Berlin and the night the Wall came down?
He rubs his eyes and turns his head back towards the wide diner window and the last smoldering dregs of sunset. Across the street, outside a defunct and shuttered movie house, there are two guards standing watch like rejects from an episode of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. Her guards, even though the deal was they each come alone, no entourage, no backup, no f*cking fan club, and he’s honored his end of the bargain. But f*ck it. There’s no profit in making a fuss, not at this late date. He’s here, she’s here, and the only way out, kiddo, is straight on till morning. The waitress from Heroica Nogales is back at the table, talking to Immacolata, serving her coffee, and he counts off the interminable seconds until they’re alone again.
“You can’t be too careful,” she says, stirring a packet of Sweet’n Low into her cup. The spoon clinks loudly against the china.
Is it true what they say about the night you were born?
“So, how was the trip up from Los Angeles?” she asks. “It’s been a long time since I went anywhere by train.”
“Forgive me, Ms. Sexton,” he says, and fishes the last cigarette from the crumpled pack of Camel Wides he bought at noon. “I’ve never been particularly good with chitchat. Nothing personal, it’s just—”
“Relax,” she says, and he could swear her voice drips honey. “We’re on the same side, aren’t we? United by a common cause?”
What big eyes you have.
“Comrades-in-arms?”
“That’s what they tell me,” he mutters around the filter as he lights his cigarette. The Signalman takes a deep drag and holds the smoke until his ears start to hum.
“Right, well, I brought everything we have on Standish,” she says, her demeanor changing entirely between one breath and the next, the strange creature that poured in off the cooling summer sidewalks of Winslow becoming suddenly businesslike and to the point, effortlessly shedding one mask and donning another. “We’ve had a million diligent monkeys with a million file cabinets hard at work ever since Barbican gave the thumbs-up last week. So, you go first. Show me yours, then I’ll show you mine.”
My, what big ears you have.
He hesitates only a few seconds before reaching into his suit jacket and taking out a brown kraft envelope, six inches by nine, stained with perspiration, creased down the middle, and bent at the edges. “Sorry,” he says, “if mine’s not quite as big as yours, but there’s a shortage of monkeys—”
“—in Hollywood?” She smirks. “You expect me to believe that?”
The Signalman surrenders a halfhearted smile and opens the envelope, spreading the contents out on the table between them. Ten glossy black-and-white photographs, a tarot card, a flash drive, and a very old gold coin. At first glance, the photos could be shots from any murder scene, snapped by any forensic shutterbug. But only at first glance. Immacolata looks at him, and then she crushes out her Marlboro in the ersatz ashtray and picks up one of the pictures. She turns it over and briefly examines the back, where a date, time, and case number have been scribbled in indelible red ink, along with several Enochian symbols, and then she exchanges it for the tarot card.
“The World,” she says. “The dancer is meant to signify the final attainment of man, a merging of the self-conscious with the unconscious and a blending of those two states with the superconscious. The World implies the ultimate state of cosmic awareness, the final goal to which all the other cards—of the Major Arcana, that is—have led. Der übergeist.”
“I seriously f*cking hope you’ve got something more for me than what we could pull off the Internet.”
“You’re an impatient man,” she tells him.
“We’re all on the clock with this one,” he replies. “New Horizons makes its closest approach to Pluto five days from now. So, you’ll excuse my sense of urgency, thank you and pretty please.”