Rabbits(15)

I know the Magician fairly well now, and if he’s capable of messing with the code of a videogame from 1983, then I’m Hazel—and, spoiler alert, I’m definitely not Hazel.

Baron didn’t find any difference between the Magician’s Xevious machine and that machine in Oregon, but while he was playing it, he did find something.

He found a kindred spirit.

He found me.



* * *



—

Baron poured the last of my Count Chocula cereal over a small scoop of freezer-burned vanilla frozen yogurt that I’d had in my fridge for at least a year.

“Do you have any chocolate chips?” he asked.

“I met Alan Scarpio last night,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice level and unaffected.

“Yeah, right,” Baron said as he picked up a spoon and started eating.

After a moment, he set his spoon down slowly and stopped chewing. He knew me well enough to understand when I was most likely joking, and when I might have actually just met Alan fucking Scarpio.

“Are you being serious right now?”

“He was at the arcade. He finished your game of Robotron.”

“Alan Scarpio was at the Magician’s place?”

“Yeah.”

“Last night?”

“Yep.”

“He was the guy in the hoodie who took over my game?”

“Sure was.”

“Fuck. And you met him?”

“Yeah. We had pie.”

Baron just stared, his mouth hanging open.

“Well, Scarpio had pie. I had coffee.”



* * *



—

I eventually managed to talk Baron into leaving my place, but only after I’d told him everything that had happened the night before and promised to call him the second I finished my morning meeting with Scarpio.





6


    SABATINI VS. GRAF


The rain in Seattle is different.

I’ve experienced the weather in London, New York, Hong Kong, and a handful of other places around the world, but nothing sticks to you like the rain in the Pacific Northwest. This deep emerald gloom is eternal, cellular. It’s part of the landscape—and, before you know it, it becomes a permanent part of you as well.

It was raining as I walked down the street toward the diner.

I was wearing a faded blue hoodie, jeans, and light gray Converse All Stars.

I’ve lived in Seattle most of my adult life and, although I’ve found myself under an umbrella from time to time, I’m not sure I’ve actually ever owned one.

Thirty days of rain in a month isn’t all that unusual here. You get used to it. I can’t imagine seasonal affective disorder is something that happens to Seattleites; when you live here, that’s just life. And, frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I love the rain; you can hide in it.



* * *



—

I got to the diner half an hour early and drank cup after cup of spiritless coffee as I waited. Part of me was convinced that I’d imagined last night, but the business card Scarpio had given me was sitting on the stained Formica table, right next to my diner-standard off-white ceramic coffee mug.

It had happened. It was real.

I’d always imagined I was connected to the world of Rabbits somehow, but it was an ephemeral feeling, fleeting, always just out of reach. And yet something felt different this time—something that might finally justify the hours spent online searching for clues to a game that at times over the years I wasn’t sure actually existed, saving up for road trips to decidedly nonglamorous locations like Winnipeg, Canada, following leads that turned out to be nothing, and temporarily working two jobs in order to afford a special edition of a weird roadside atlas rumored to contain information about the game.

It was all coalescing now. It felt like Rabbits was finally coming to life.

But Scarpio was late. It had been almost an hour.

I drank more coffee and stared at the number on Scarpio’s card for another fifteen minutes before I finally decided to call.

A woman’s voice answered after the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi. I’m looking for…Mr. Scarpio. I think we were supposed to have a meeting this morning.”

“You think you were supposed to have a meeting?”

“He told me to meet him here for breakfast.”

“How did you get this number?”

“Mr. Scarpio gave it to me last night.”

There was a long pause.

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the diner.”

“What fucking diner?”

I gave her the address.

“Stay put.” She hung up.

I had no idea if she was going to get him to call, show up, or maybe reschedule. I was hungry, but I didn’t want to be halfway through a plate of runny eggs when Alan Scarpio showed up, so I didn’t order anything.



* * *



—

“What’s your name?” the woman asked, as she slid gracefully into the booth.

She was about thirty-five, Asian, subtle highlights through shiny black wavy hair. Everything she was wearing looked expensive. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she was an FBI agent or a salesperson at Tiffany & Co. She smiled slightly, and I could tell immediately that her smile didn’t mean what most of us mean when we smile.