The Thought Pushers (Mind Dimensions #2)(50)
“As flattered as I am to be the future and all that, allow me to play the devil’s advocate for a moment and take your idea to its logical extreme. It wouldn’t be just Readers and Guides who would need to intermarry. You’re saying the human race should do so also?”
“Right,” she says.
“But don’t you think something would be lost if everyone assimilated into one giant human race? All those cute little cultural diversity things would go away, for example. Like ethnic foods, different languages, even ethnic music or mythologies.” I’m not necessarily convinced that she’s wrong, but I want to hear her counterpoints.
“I’m not sure you’re right about that.” She downs her glass of coconut water in a big gulp. “Certain things would stay. Take holidays such as Easter that stem from ancient pagan holidays. They’re still around—colored eggs and the bunny and all. But even if we did lose some of this cultural heritage, it would be worth it if it meant world peace.”
“But why stop at someone like me?” I ask. “That logic can be used to say that both Guides and Readers should intermarry with regular people.”
“That’s right,” she says.
“But that would essentially wipe out our abilities. You’d get the same genocide sort of situation that Readers were trying to perpetrate on Guides—only in this case, it will be voluntary.”
“That’s not true. We’d have less divisiveness. And who said our abilities would go away? They might spread. In any case, once Guides and Readers accept you for what you are, I believe it will open a new dialogue between the groups.”
“Or I would get killed to maintain the status quo.” I’m no longer arguing for the sake of argument, but with a growing sense of peril.
“I won’t let that happen,” my aunt says seriously, and despite her size, she seems astonishingly formidable all of a sudden.
Chapter 23
After Hillary and I spend half the night talking, I wake up late—but thankfully, not too late for lunch. I text Mira to confirm our plans, and she gives me the address where I’m to pick her up.
This time, when I go to a car rental agency, I get a much nicer car. I also wholeheartedly agree to buy the insurance, in case I end up in another high-speed chase with Russian mobsters.
After a frantic drive to make sure I’m not late, I park my shiny black Lexus near the lobby of Mira and Eugene’s hotel.
Once I notify Mira of my arrival, I finally take a moment to check the emails on my phone. And there it is, the email from Bert I have been waiting for:
Dude,
I was able to find a good location where you can look at Arkady Bogomolov. It was an ingenious hack, if I do say so myself. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you next. If I see you, that is, because this guy is bad news, and you best stay away from him. Your best course of action is to delete this email right now and go hang out with Mira.
Oh well, you have always been stubborn, so I guess you’re still reading. The guy will be at a Russian banya called Mermaid. It’s in Brooklyn, and the address is 3703 Mermaid Avenue. Hence the name, I take it. In their system, he’s listed as getting a massage at 4:00 pm today. From a guy named Lyova—yuck.
Your mom’s murder case files are attached.
You owe me.
Bert.
I quickly write a response:
Thanks, I owe you big.
Bert really outdid himself this time. I should take the time and figure out a way to help his girl troubles, as he requested. If the subject comes up, I will ask Mira if she has any girlfriends. I suspect she might not. There is something of a loner vibe about her. Also, the person for Bert would need to be pretty short, unless the girl wasn’t into traditional gender binary.
Aware that I have little time, I quickly research the place Bert wrote about. As I learned from reading that gangster’s mind the other day, banya is a kind of spa. I now confirm and expand on that memory online. Apparently, it’s not the kind of place where girls get their manicures and pedicures. Instead, Russians go there to sit in extremely hot saunas and—I kid you not—to get spanked by brooms made out of birch tree branches. Yeah. It’s essentially a public bathhouse with some weird S&M spin. Sign me up. Not.
This specific place is located not far from Coney Island Park, according to the map in the phone.
I guess I should tell Mira about this development. Maybe after we eat something, though—I’m starving. And, while I’m at it, I need to talk to her about meeting the Pusher community. This one is trickier. But then again, she’ll be away from her gun, so it might be the perfect opportunity. Yes, she might freak—likely will freak—and I might ruin the date, if this is a date, but holding out on her might lead to an even bigger disaster.
And then I see her.
She walks out of the hotel lobby wearing tight Capri pants, sandals, and a strappy tank top. Her hair is done in a simple tight ponytail. This look is pretty casual, compared to her usual high heels, war-paint makeup, and skimpy cocktail dresses. I’m not sure what this dressing-down act means, but I think it’s a good sign. After all, she usually dresses to kill when she’s out looking for revenge.
I get out of the car and wave. She smiles and approaches. With a strange impulse of chivalry, I walk over and open the car door for her. She kisses me on my cheek—a surprise. Either based on my reaction to the smooch or because of my opening the door for her, I get rewarded with an even bigger smile and a thank-you.