Metrophage

front of the vehicle. 'Fuera! Fuera! Vamanos!'

Jonny held up his hands. 'Ricos! That you, man?'

Someone came around the car and raised the shattered door over Jonny's head. A low laugh. 'Hey, maricon. I was all planned to kick your ass, but I see somebody do it for me, no? Lucky for you.'

'Yeah, I must be about the luckiest guy in Last Ass,' said Jonny.

'Senor Conover es muy enojado, you take off like that,' said Ricos. 'He be happy to see you.' The man moved closer. 'Quien es?'

'That's Sumi,' said Jonny. 'She's a Watt Snatcher. Friend of mine.'

'Not bad, maricon,' said Ricos.

'You keep staring, ass-eyes, you're gonna find out how bad I am,' Sumi said. Jonny smiled.

Ricos tapped Jonny's shoulder. 'Come on,' he said. Then, 'Hey maricon, you bleeding.'

Jonny put his legs over the side of the car and slid to the ground. Sumi came around the front and took his arm. 'It's the story of my life,' he said.

'We fix you up good,' said Ricos, pushing Jonny toward the trees. 'Watch your step.'

'Very funny,' Jonny said.

'A nasty piece of work, son,' said Mister Conover, turning Jonny's face in his hands. 'You're never going to have to learn to take care of yourself, are you? The plastic surgery looks first-rate, though. Tell me, what condition are the optic nerves in?'

'Shot,' said Jonny. Sumi sat next to him on the plush sofa in the Victorian wing of Conover's mansion. The room was warm ad the air smelled of aged wood and patchouli. The smuggler lord had given them Earl Grey tea spiked with Napoleon brandy. Jonny was working on his third cup, rolling with the buzz, letting it build up slowly. He was warm and despite everything, was feeling pretty good. Conover was having one of his twice-weekly blood changes. Jonny could hear the medical techs moving quietly around the room, mumbling to each other, adjusting tubes and compressors. The optic nerves are sealed, but they're pretty useless.

'Interesting,' said the smuggler lord. 'I'm sorry my tiger mauled you tonight.'

'That's okay,' said Jonny. He moved his shoulder, feeling the tight weave of gauze where the techs had dressed his wound. 'Sorry I had to blow its head off.'

'Completely understandable, given the circumstances,' said Conover. 'I'm sorry, too, in a larger sense, that any of this had to happen. All this was avoidable, if you had just stayed put. But you're still young and sometimes your energy outstrips your sense. Considering what you've been through, I think could forgo the I-told-you- so's.'

'I'd appreciate that,' said Jonny.

The blood change took another hour. After that, Conover announced that he was going to bed. On his way out, the smuggler lord paused by the sofa and said, 'Nice to have you back, son,' and, 'Thank you for not hurting Ricos that night in the garage.'

Jonny smiled toward Conover's voice. 'All I wanted was the car. Did you get it back?'

'Of course,' said Conover. 'I took the fact you didn't do Ricos any real damage as a sign of your goodwill. That you were not Zamora's man, after all. But please-'

'I know-'

'Don't run off like that, again.' Conover's tone was friendly enough, but there was something underlying it that chilled Jonny. He nodded at the lord.

'No problem,' he said.

'Good,' said Conover. 'Fela, here, will take you to your room when you're ready. I'm putting you in the same one you had last time, Jonny. Since you're already somewhat familiar with the layout, I thought you might be more comfortable there.'

'Yeah, thanks.'

''Night all.'

'Good night,' said Sumi.

After Conover left, they finished their tea in silence. At three, dozens of clocks, porcelain and grandfather, cuckoo, music box and free standing chimed, rang and called the hour, slightly out of sync, so that the sound had the effect of a musical waterfall. When the sound died down, Jonny asked Fela, a member of Conover's African house staff, to take them to their room.

To his surprise, Jonny found that without his eyes to trick him, the mansion was much less confusing than the last time he had been there. He was learning the place by touch, sound and smell, not sight, so the false doors and back-lit windows, the peculiar angles of the floor and wall joints could not throw him off. He memorized as much of their trip through the house as he could, mentally comparing what he was touching to what he had remembered seeing in the mansion.

He knew when they reached the corridor where their room lay.

Inside, he was greeted with the familiar feel of filigreed wood on the French antiques. He felt a kind of elation, a childish sort of pride, completely out of proportion to what he had accomplished. He smiled and staples stung him.

Fela left them (silently, as always) and Jonny took Sumi out into the hall, walking her past the paintings, describing each he could remember.

'That's a Goya, picture of a nude woman lying on a couch.'

'This is a Rembrandt, right? Dark portrait of an old man with no teeth.'

'On that table's a sculpture. I forget who did it. Bronze of ballerina.'

Sumi made appreciative noises as they walked along. He could not tell if she was admiring the art or his memory or neither. He did not really care, either way. He had a surprise for her.

When Jonny felt the edge of a heavy gothic table, he stopped and pointed to the wall above it. 'What do you see?' he asked.

'A painting of some kid dressed all in blue. He's holding a big feathered hat,' Sumi said. 'Am I supposed to like this guy or something? He's not my type.'

'It's 'Blue Boy' by Thomas Gainsborough. And it's a fake,' Jonny said. 'The only one in the hall.' He nodded back the way they had come. 'Touch it. The texture's just a holographic trick.' He waited a moment. 'Well?'

'Well what? What's supposed to happen?' asked Sumi.

'It's plastic. Didn't you notice?'

She grunted. 'I don't think it's plastic.'

'Of course it is,' insisted Jonny. 'I found the real one in a storage room-' His fingers brushed wormed wood, but where he was expecting thin, ridged optical plastic, he felt fleshy mounds of oil paint. 'Is this the right painting?' he asked.

'It's a young boy dressed in blue,' said Sumi.

Jonny shoved his hands in his pockets. He turned around in the hall, confused, suddenly unsure in which direction their room lay. He touched the painting again. Sumi took his arm and walked him back to the room. He sat up the rest of the night brooding, wondering who had changed the painting. Sumi tossed in her sleep. The brandy had upset her stomach and she sweat with a low-grade fever. By dawn (He could tell the sun was up by the warmth that came streaming through the lace curtains. It made his face itch.), her fever had broken. He lay down beside her on the damp sheets and fell asleep.

He dreamed, but there were no images, just darkness. Endless, unbroken night.

'It's the nineties all over again,' Conover told Jonny and Sumi.

Silent waiters set bowls of what smelled like miso soup before them on the low lacquered table. They were in the Japanese wing. Conover had gone all out for the dinner, the third the three had shared. Silk kimonos had arrived at Jonny and Sumi's room earlier that evening, along with split-toe socks and wooden sandals. The scent of sandalwood incense filled the house, along with koto music, fragile, ancient, quarter-tone melodies, coming from the halls and every room, flowing from speakers hidden in the walls. The three of them sat cross-legged on tatami mats, firm, pumpkin-sized pillows resting against their backs.

'It was an exciting time. There was blood in the air then, too,' the smuggler lord continued. Jonny thought he sounded a little drunk. He had been celebrating by himself the completion of some big business deal. It amazed