Feynman, and why are all these people quoting him?”
They went on like this. Kim e-mailed some of the more pertinentinfo to Goldwyn back at the office. A waitress brought them their sandwiches and wondered why two officers of the law found it necessary to speak so vulgarly.
After a few bites, Finch noticed that his thoughts had sped up a bit. But there was still the clarity, a deep blue, cold clarity. It felt strangely familiar.
“Hey, Jim.”
“Yeah.”
“I think I know what happened to me back in that restaurant.”
With special attention paid to Lionface’s breasts, Finch described what had happened at the Being Abundance Cafeteria.
Kim said, “That is fucked.”
“Fucked.”
“She was topless?”
“Yes. And who has ever heard of a bee pollen allergy?”
“Everything looked scaly?”
“Yeah. And some of the light was bulging.”
“Your pupils do look dilated, Keanu.”
“Exactly. She looked like she was checking for that.”
“Are you seeing things very clearly right now? Like, is there some calm clarity to your thoughts?”
Finch burped. Kim’s mouth swung slightly open, and the hard, sarcastic gleam in his eyes softened a bit. Then he picked up his knife and sawed his sandwich in half.
After chewing thoughtfully, he said, “Why would these weirdos drug a homicide detective?”
“To be fair, it might have been for the other guy.”
“Do you want to go down there, arrest them all?”
“I don’t know.”
For a second, because neither knew what to do, they stared at the computer screen.
An e-mail popped up in Kim’s in-box. It was from Goldwyn.
TO: James Kim
FROM: Eric Goldwyn
SUBJECT: getoverit.com
Thought that website looked familiar. Went back over the Dolores Stone file. Turns out her neighbor, PHILIP KIM (your cousin?), works for the same site. Called up the office. They said he hasn’t been to work in nine days. Not sure if it’s relevant, but thought you might be interested.
ALICE’S ADVENTURES THROUGH
THE WINDSHIELD GLASS
1 . Taxidermy, the spot where I agreed to meet up with Performance Fleece, was a bar up on 22nd and Guerrero. Back when it was called The Liberties, I used to meet Adam there for drinks because none of the flabby old drunks at the bar reminded us of what we had left behind in New York. All traces of the old Irish pub had been entombed in a thick layer of staple-gunned fur—the heraldic shields that once hung above the top shelf of the bar had been replaced by Goodwill salvage stuffed animals.
Performance Fleece was at a small, furry table near the back.
She said, “Why did I want to see you?”
“Hello.”
The lines on her face had fractalized, deepened. Those cheeks, which had radiated with the pink good health of New England, now looked drained of any health or protest. I admit, it made me feel a bit empowered to be on the other side of one of those girls who so tightly, and effectively, guard the secrets of their makeup bags.
Still, she smelled like freshly cut grass.
I sat down, smiling stupidly. She clacked the salt and pepper shakers together. Pewter deer heads. I asked, “What are you drinking?”
She shook her head, but then, miraculously, smiled. She said, “Whiskey and soda.”
I went up to the bar and ordered two. The bartender looked me over and poured two doubles.
We drank them down without saying much. The color—that good post–hockey practice color—flushed back into her face.
“So,” I said, “what’s this about?”
“I’m a direct person.”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’ll just come out and say it, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I left Mel.”
2 . There’s no need to detail a girl’s domestic misery in her own words, especially when those words are frazzled words, so for Performance Fleece’s sake, I’ll paraphrase. She and Mel had been having problems for quite some time. They had met as freshmen at Williams—he, the dark Italian star of the hockey team (her words), and she,
They went on like this. Kim e-mailed some of the more pertinentinfo to Goldwyn back at the office. A waitress brought them their sandwiches and wondered why two officers of the law found it necessary to speak so vulgarly.
After a few bites, Finch noticed that his thoughts had sped up a bit. But there was still the clarity, a deep blue, cold clarity. It felt strangely familiar.
“Hey, Jim.”
“Yeah.”
“I think I know what happened to me back in that restaurant.”
With special attention paid to Lionface’s breasts, Finch described what had happened at the Being Abundance Cafeteria.
Kim said, “That is fucked.”
“Fucked.”
“She was topless?”
“Yes. And who has ever heard of a bee pollen allergy?”
“Everything looked scaly?”
“Yeah. And some of the light was bulging.”
“Your pupils do look dilated, Keanu.”
“Exactly. She looked like she was checking for that.”
“Are you seeing things very clearly right now? Like, is there some calm clarity to your thoughts?”
Finch burped. Kim’s mouth swung slightly open, and the hard, sarcastic gleam in his eyes softened a bit. Then he picked up his knife and sawed his sandwich in half.
After chewing thoughtfully, he said, “Why would these weirdos drug a homicide detective?”
“To be fair, it might have been for the other guy.”
“Do you want to go down there, arrest them all?”
“I don’t know.”
For a second, because neither knew what to do, they stared at the computer screen.
An e-mail popped up in Kim’s in-box. It was from Goldwyn.
TO: James Kim
FROM: Eric Goldwyn
SUBJECT: getoverit.com
Thought that website looked familiar. Went back over the Dolores Stone file. Turns out her neighbor, PHILIP KIM (your cousin?), works for the same site. Called up the office. They said he hasn’t been to work in nine days. Not sure if it’s relevant, but thought you might be interested.
ALICE’S ADVENTURES THROUGH
THE WINDSHIELD GLASS
1 . Taxidermy, the spot where I agreed to meet up with Performance Fleece, was a bar up on 22nd and Guerrero. Back when it was called The Liberties, I used to meet Adam there for drinks because none of the flabby old drunks at the bar reminded us of what we had left behind in New York. All traces of the old Irish pub had been entombed in a thick layer of staple-gunned fur—the heraldic shields that once hung above the top shelf of the bar had been replaced by Goodwill salvage stuffed animals.
Performance Fleece was at a small, furry table near the back.
She said, “Why did I want to see you?”
“Hello.”
The lines on her face had fractalized, deepened. Those cheeks, which had radiated with the pink good health of New England, now looked drained of any health or protest. I admit, it made me feel a bit empowered to be on the other side of one of those girls who so tightly, and effectively, guard the secrets of their makeup bags.
Still, she smelled like freshly cut grass.
I sat down, smiling stupidly. She clacked the salt and pepper shakers together. Pewter deer heads. I asked, “What are you drinking?”
She shook her head, but then, miraculously, smiled. She said, “Whiskey and soda.”
I went up to the bar and ordered two. The bartender looked me over and poured two doubles.
We drank them down without saying much. The color—that good post–hockey practice color—flushed back into her face.
“So,” I said, “what’s this about?”
“I’m a direct person.”
“Yeah.”
“So, I’ll just come out and say it, okay?”
“Sure.”
“I left Mel.”
2 . There’s no need to detail a girl’s domestic misery in her own words, especially when those words are frazzled words, so for Performance Fleece’s sake, I’ll paraphrase. She and Mel had been having problems for quite some time. They had met as freshmen at Williams—he, the dark Italian star of the hockey team (her words), and she,
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