Dead Roots (The Analyst) Page 9

“Yeah. Yeah, I'm back. I hit you, didn't I?”

  “Yeah, and you hit like a bitch.”

  “I guess I should be thankful for that, then.”

  “Yeah, I should too.” Artie's laugh. Tom was actually glad to hear it.

  Harold turned his head back and barked back at Keda.

  “Shinichiro, get those two out of here. This was a bad idea. Take them to Shibuya, or Roppongi, I don't give a fuck. I'll catch up.”

  “Yes, Harold.”

  Harold turned to look at Tom. His grip tightened around Evey, whose arms looked suspiciously longer than they had a moment ago.

  “I apologize, Mr. Bell. There's a thousand American dollars in my account with your name on it, to make up for this little mishap.”

  Tom shook his head.

  “That's...”

  “Get a decent drink and a real woman. I'll meet you later. Okay?”

  Tom nodded his head dumbly, still bleary from the ordeal. “Sure thing, Harold.”

  Harold smiled at Tom warmly. His face returned to a death glare as he turned to look back at his captive. Keda couldn't shuffle them out of there fast enough.

  As the door to the stairwell snapped shut behind them, Tom shook away a pang of guilt, of regret, for leaving Evey in danger. It was bullshit, and he knew it. A lingering side effect, no different from drug-induced paranoia.

  “I am literally the hugest moron,” he groaned.

  “What?” Artie called over the music, which now drowned them out again. Tom shook his head.

  “Nothing.”

  ********

  “I'd never seen one of those things before,” Keda's fashionable friend piped up. He had introduced himself as Goichi. Tom had a little trouble hearing him over the clanking of the subway car.

  “A succubus?” Artie responded genially. Tom was nursing a bottle of water. Keda was, true to his behavior this evening, quiet.

  “Yes. Is that what it was called?” Goichi asked with interest.

  “Yeah. They're far more common in Europe, so don't feel bad. I'm kind of surprised to see one this far from home, honestly.”

  “And how do they operate?” Goichi pried further.

  “You probably know the old archetype. Seduce men, steal their souls. More or less accurate, but 'soul' probably isn't the right word, and they can snare women too, though they tend to prefer guys. They just kind of... drain your energy, I guess? It's hard to quantify it, because anyone who’s ever been drained by one has committed suicide within twenty-four hours. It completely saps the victim's will to live.”

  “Does that mean Tom is a special case?”

  Tom rubbed his forehead. Artie turned to look at him.

  “Well, she didn’t have time to drain him, but...”

  “She definitely snared me.”

  “What was it like?” Artie asked.

  Tom cocked an eyebrow.

  “Sorry, never mind. Too soon,” Artie tried to change the subject.

  “I was in a fantasy,” Tom explained with a frown. “Like... I was just somewhere else. She put me in this little world. I probably would have stayed there until she was done with me.”

  “What was it like in there?” Artie inquired.

  The side of Tom's lip curled up. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure. Goichi, right?”

  “Yes,” Goichi responded with a warm smile. He reminded Tom of Keda in a lot of ways.

  “What do you do? Are you a Medium?” Artie asked.

  “Yes, but not like Keda. I'm a pleasure host, or a concierge as some call it.”

  “I can guess what that means, and I'm not sure how to feel about it,” Tom chided.

  “It's fairly self-explanatory. I willingly rent my body out to demons who are here to experience the pleasures of the corporeal body.”

  “You're a prostitute,” Tom said sharply.

  “Sex is a large part of my job, yes,” Goichi said smoothly, running a hand through his hair. “But also substances. Anything demons find novel, I allow them to experience. Some are content simply to sit in an apartment listening to music or taking in films. In a lot of ways it allows me to enjoy simplicity to life that other people, ironically, can't appreciate. Many take the world we live in and the amazing bodies we are given for granted.”

  “I guess I see what you mean. But there are other things they might want to experience-- bad things. Hurting people, killing people. Rape. Dangerous situations. Do you expose yourself to that?”

  “No. Those sorts of people are referred to as Hard workers, and they're usually the kind of people who would be doing those things, to themselves if not to others, regardless of if they had the convenient excuse of demonic possession to justify their actions. I take all the necessary precautions. I get tested regularly. I often take a partner along to keep watch in case the guest tries to push things further than I'm willing to let them. Some guests are more persuasive than others.”

  “Does it happen often?”

  “They commonly want to go quite far, I will admit. But I am experienced. The boundaries are set clearly when I make the pact, and I swiftly end the agreement if they make more than a cursory attempt to break them.”

  “Is this sort of thing common? Are there a lot of people like you?”

  “Very many,” Goichi said simply.

  “Goichi. This is our stop,” Keda said suddenly. The train slowed to a stop. Tom looked up at the LED display over the door. They were not in Roppongi.

  “Where are you guys headed?”

  “I'm very exhausted,” Keda said with a defeated smile. “Goichi is taking me back to the hotel from here. I'll see you in the morning, Tom. Don't hurt yourself.”

  “Sure, sure. Easy to get back there from Roppongi?”

  “Harold will be picking you up. Just keep your cellphone handy.”

  “Sure. You guys have a good night, nice to meet you.”

  “You too, Tom,” Goichi said. The train doors slid open with a pneumatic hiss. The Asian men stepped outside and onto the stark white tile, disappearing into a nighttime crowd.

  The train car, by contrast with the platform, was strangely sparse. There were other passengers, but Artie and Tom had a row of seats to themselves.

  “You think those two are...?” Artie said under his breath with a cocked eyebrow. He sniggered to himself drunkenly.

  “No, Artie. God, you're a child.”

  “I'm getting sober. How far is Roppongi?”

  “Map there says three more stops,” Tom said.

  “Fuck. Wish I'd brought one for the road.”

  “You'll live.”

  The train groaned into motion. Tom jostled in his seat as it picked up speed, and again the loud hum of the carriage drowned their conversation from the ears of others.

  “You think Keda is alright? Seems like the exorcism shook him up a bit,” Tom inquired over Artie's shoulder.

  “Probably just drained, man. It's tough work.”

  “Yeah.”

  Tom's head tilted back. He stared idly at the ceiling. The bright fluorescent lights of the car stabbed his eyes, but outside the car it was pitch black in the subway tunnel.

  Tom's eyes slid shut and he didn't feel himself drift off.

  ********

  He was in an empty field that sprawled to the horizon. He didn't know how he got there, and he realized he was dreaming, but he was too far under to do anything about it.

  The grass here was dead, brown. There were no trees. A flat, dead plain.

  Tom looked up at the gray sky and felt exposed, tiny, with nothing around him but space and nothing between him and the heavens.

  His head came back down to look ahead. Now there was something there. Figures in the distance, which he supposed to be trees, a short walk away. He set off towards them, having nothing better to do.

  Getting closer, he realized they were not trees.

  He almost tripped over a pothole in the ground. Something you might plant a shrub into. Or a tree. He n
oticed that there were many of them, spread out along the ground, then even more of them, stretching out into the distance.

  Not twenty or thirty feet ahead of him, the holes were filled. Not with plants, but with people, their feet buried in the ground and their forms rising up.

  The people were silent. Light- and dark-skinned people, men and women. The only thing they had in common, at a glance, being that they all stood dead still. A handful of them had their arms and torsos contorted like oddly-shaped plants, frozen in place, their arms like branches. Most simply stood there with their buried feet and heads hung as if in shame or defeat, eyes closed.

  “Hello?” Tom called. He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one.

  He approached one, feeling bold. A bald Caucasian man, his head hung, his arms slumped forward lazily. Tom reached his hand out and pushed the man's chest. The big man didn't budge. He was firmly rooted and stiff. Tom noticed that his skin was dry to the touch, and hard, like stone or wood.

  He slapped the man's cheek gently. The man’s head, at least, did move. It flopped to the side, but made no other response, physical or otherwise.

  “Hello?” Tom asked again.

  “Hello,” he heard faintly to his right, startling him.

  A long-haired, emaciated stranger was walking towards the field of people.

  “Who are you?”

  “Hank,” the stranger said simply. He didn't make eye contact.

  'Hank' approached one of the holes in the ground. He knelt down and patted the dirt, sizing it up.

  “Good spot,” he said. He sat down and placed his feet in the hole. He scraped his hands against the ground, pushing more dirt into the hole to cover his feet.

  Tom watched him wordlessly. He was still vaguely aware that he was dreaming, and wanted to see where this was going. Hank made no more attempt at conversation. He covered his feet in soil and packed it. When he was finished, he stood up straight and stretched his arms.

  Hank's bones made loud popping sounds, as if he were cracking his joints. His legs straightened, then his waist, then his torso, all locking in place. Tom watched as the tops of his arms froze in the air, then his forearms, so that his hands were hanging limply from his wrists. Hank looked to the sky and sighed.

  “Where... are we?” Tom asked.

  Hank took in a deep breath. His voice was raspy, as if he was struggling for air, but his chest didn't move.

  “Orchard.”

  Hank's eyes slid shut. His mouth hung open and froze, and there he stood, face turned up to the sun.

  Then he was silent.

  ********

  Tom had awoken and gotten off the train some time ago, but he wasn't lucid until Roppongi assaulted his eyes.

  “Let's go see some titties, Tom,” Artie chortled.

  Tom looked up at what Artie was pointing at. There was an entrance to a nearby club, with naked Japanese women depicted in posters on either side. Tom groaned.

  “Fuck. I just want to find a nice quiet place to wait for Harold. I'm dying over here.”

  “You lightweight.”

  This place reminded Tom of the Vegas strip, but it was distinctly Japan. The small galaxy of lights were cool colors, whites and blues, lots of street signs shaped like squares and small circles. But much like Vegas, the concrete thoroughfare was filled with tourists. There were ten Caucasians for every Asian person in view. Most were wasted out of their minds, waiting in lines to clubs to get more wasted, or both. Tom rubbed his face.

  “When did we get off the train...?”

  “Like five minutes ago, are you blacking out?”

  “I think so.”

  “You pussy. Come on, let's find you a fucking day-care center.”

  “Fuck your face, Artie.”

  They stumbled down the walkway for several minutes. Artie kept looking around and guffawing at the signs for hostess clubs and strip joints.

  “Haven't you been to Bourbon Street, Artie? Shit, you act like you've never seen titties before.”

  “That one is an anime girl. Oh God, have they got one of those hentai arcade games in there? We have to go.”

  “No.”

  “Tom.”

  “Artemis. We're not going to a hentai arcade.”

  “You are the fucking worst.”

  “Tomorrow. We'll do it tomorrow. Get me somewhere with a glass of water.”

  “If by water you mean Jagerbombs, then that place looks pretty good.”

  Artie pointed at a bar with a subdued blue sign. There was no line outside. Tom approved. He reached into his pocket to get his wallet ready, but then had a revelation. He swore.

  “Keda's got Harold's cards.”

  “Eh?”

  “We're broke. Keda has Harold's money.”

  “Oh, Tom, he'll reimburse us. Come on, let's find an ATM.”

  Another several minutes were spent wandering the light-drenched streets. Tom was beginning to feel nauseous.

  Tom knew things were taking a turn for the worse when they were approached by a tall, gangly black man in a cheap-looking suit. He had a smile like Rumpelstiltskin, and his hair was done up in cornrows. He hid his eyes behind designer sunglasses, even though it was well after midnight.

  “How you doing, boys?”

  “Too sober,” Artie responded quickly. Tom eyed the guy's outfit with a grimace. The streetlights bounced off of his sunglasses and gave Tom a headache.

  “Japan is beautiful,” the guy said in a thick accent. “Back home there is nothing like this. Best place in the world.” Tom picked him for somewhere in the Caribbean, but a vague factoid Tom had heard about Nigerian immigrants floated around in his head, and he decided that was where the guy was from.

  “Yeah, it sure is,” Artie said in that tone of voice, the one you take when a very enthusiastic person is talking to you in an almost impenetrable dialect.

  “You boys like the clubs?”

  “We love the clubs,” Artie continued. Tom was getting ready to smack his friend if Artie didn't disengage from this shyster, but he refrained, blearily taking in his bright surroundings.

  “You boys been to Brunette?”

  “What's Brunette?”

  “Great club, if you love girls,” the guy continued. “I can't help you if you don't like girls. No one can.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Artie said through a forced laugh. Tom grimaced.

  “Only a short walk from here. I'll take you to Brunette. Seven thousand yen for an hour and a half of bottomless drinks, great looking girls.”

  “How much is that, Tom?”

  “Like seventy dollars.”

  “Shit, we can cover that. Let's do it, Tom.”

  “Artie.”

  “Tom, listen to the guy. Seventy bucks and we are set for the night.”

  Tom grumbled. “Get us to an ATM and we're in, I guess.”

  The guy's face turned up into a smile like a broken lock on a rusty chain link fence. Tom waited to hear the junkyard dogs barking.

  The shyster patted Artie on the shoulder and led them down the road, past a couple of convenience stores, to a little gray ATM. Tom stumbled towards it and pulled out his card, with his arm drawn across his chest to shield himself from the cold. The rain had let up for now, but he could feel a drizzle starting again. It wouldn't be long before the torrent came back.

  Tom withdrew 8,000 yen and stuffed it quickly into his pocket, half expecting the tall man in the suit to snatch it out of his hand and run.

  Their concierge had more class than that, it seemed. They were led another short walk away, to a door leading into a derelict stairwell. It was dark and sparse inside, and a few steps up the stairs cut the outside light from Tom’s vision almost completely.

  The interior of Brunette reminded Tom of the restaurant they had been to earlier, brown paneling and dim lighting, but it was clear it had been put together on a much tighter budget. The place was trying to put on airs, pass itself off as something classier. The bar itself on hi
s right was abandoned, all the patrons sitting in booths. They were almost all wearing sunglasses, and either drinking in relative silence or getting private lap dances. Tom's ears were burdened with some trendy dance-pop. He suddenly couldn't wait to get back to drinking.

  “This is a pretty good place,” Artie remarked. Their guide was still there, to Tom's surprise and chagrin.

  “Let's set you boys up,” he said with that devil's grin. Tom couldn’t figure out if Artie was just gullible, or had dealt with worse hustlers back home. Either would have been feasible.

  “All you can drink special,” their chaperone said to the bartender. Tom fumbled around in his pocket for the cash. His other hand brushed against his left jacket pocket, causing a twinge of anxiety to pass through him when he remembered he wasn't armed.

  “Tequilas,” Artie requested. Tom's money disappeared behind the counter, and they soon had a pair of shot glasses. The black man had disappeared.

  Tom sat himself down on a stool. The guide had been replaced by a pair of fancy women: a Japanese girl, and a black girl flashing painted-on smiles.

  “Evening, ladies,” Artie said through a chortle. Tom snorted as Artie's mouth curled back to reveal his missing incisor. At least the girls looked like the sort who would take money.

  “Hi, are you guys on vacation?” the dark-skinned one inquired with a sweet smile.

  “Yeah,” Tom answered, taking down his tequila shot. “Americans.” No more girls tonight, he thought, but he could at least make conversation while Artie did his business.

  “Oooh,” cooed the Asian girl. She leaned up on the bar next to Tom. She'd marked him for death, evidently. Artie sidled up with the black girl, and flagged down the bartender for another shot.

  “What's your name, miss?” Tom asked.

  “Yuriko,” she said.

  “I'm Tim. Tom. Thomas.”

  Yuriko laughed, he head tossing back. “Which is it?”

  “Tom-ass,” Artie guffawed. “Tom-ass Smell.”

  “What is he talking about?” Yuriko drawled, her plastered-on smile not fading in the least.

  “Nothing. I'm Tom. Nice to meet you.”

  “I'm Yuriko. Nice to meet you, Tom.” Her voice was thickly accented. To her this was probably good English practice.