Antenna Syndrome by Alan Annand Page A

Sweet. The place deserved a Good Housekeeping Seal of
Approval in my books. Dead bugs were a sign of a well-run
building.

Chapter 18
     
    I returned to the underground garage and recovered
my ride. Except for a toxic spill of cat vomit on the front hood,
the Charger was intact. I used some newspaper and windshield washer
fluid to clean the mess off the car. It looked like a handful of
cockroaches swimming in clotted cream.
    Between the bugs, stray cats and dogs left homeless
by fleeing residents, lower Manhattan was a Darwinian experiment
gone sour. Cats ate roaches and silverfish, and got sick on boric
acid and DDT. Dog packs foraged for food, killing rats, pigeons and
cats. Cars ran over dogs and cats, their carcasses eaten by rats.
When the rats died, the roaches closed the loop on it all.
    I started the car and locked the doors. As I was
leaving the underground garage, I almost ran into two derelicts
hobbling crookedly down the sidewalk, holding onto each other like
assigned partners in a three-legged foot race. Bowery BFFs.
    I drove up Essex to Houston and found Luna Deli. It
had a big neon sign with a crescent moon in blue tubing. I parked
the car in a delivery zone a few doors away, put the four-way
flasher on and trotted down the sidewalk to the deli.
    The smell of smoked meat took me back. Gwen and I
used to favor a deli on Neptune Avenue with a sidewalk terrace.
Before Lily came along we used to go there for Saturday lunch. The
sandwiches were so big we’d often split one and bag the other to
eat on Sunday. We’d each have a beer and watch the neighborhood
stroll by, nobody running for their lives, just a typical Saturday
afternoon in the good old days.
    “If you can’t make up your mind, buddy, step back
and let me serve someone else.”
    I blinked away some tears and stared at an old guy
in an apron with a white cap cocked on his head like some demented
sailor.
    “Sorry. Chopped liver on rye with Swiss.”
    He buttered a slice of rye and flung a scoop of
chopped liver at it.
    “You ever see a guy in here, looked like Tom Cruise
in a wheelchair?” I asked him.
    “Used to. Not in a while, though.” He spread the
liver and covered it with two slices of cheese.
    “This your regular shift?”
    “Days and evenings.” He slapped another slice of rye
on top and knifed the sandwich in two.
    “You’re open all night, aren’t you?”
    “One of the perks of being an owner, I no longer
work graveyard shift.” He wrapped the sandwich in waxed paper and
handed it to me.
    I fetched a small can of Heineken from the cooler
and paid. Back in the car, I drank the beer and ate half the
sandwich before a delivery truck started making rude with the horn.
I drove down the block until I spotted a garbage can where I
ditched the beer can. The police were so busy with property crime,
they scarcely bothered with traffic stops, but just in case I got
pulled over, I didn’t need a suspension over a DUI.
    I went across town on Houston and down Varick into
Tribeca. Normally I’d have used my travel time to gather more intel
on the Avatar Clinic but, without my iFocals, I was distinctly
handicapped. I’d have to go in naked.
    I idled down Laight looking for the clinic. Once
upon a time, Tribeca had been industrial, but late in the 20th
century its warehouses had been converted to lofts for well-heeled
artists who liked the Village, or investment types who worked at
the World Trade Center. After the Brooklyn Blast, the rich had
decamped to less radioactive climes, but I’d no idea how the
demographics had changed. Once the pop stars moved out, who’d
entered in their wake?
    Most buildings were three to eight stories, many
with garage doors for vehicle access. On the corner of Laight and
Collister was a red-brick three-story building with a large brass
plaque that read Avatar Clinic . I found a metered
parking spot a block away and walked back.
    I rang the doorbell and got buzzed into the foyer.
In a waiting area were four