Grey

But I can’t let the company turn into fuck water. I want you to have something when I die, and merging with Ribo- Kool is the only way.”

He had admitted that he was an idiot before, but it never prevented him from being an idiot again. “Let’s go back to MKG.”

“Nooo!” he screeched like a baby. “Don’t say those three letters! I hate them. And you know what the new rumor is? They’re gonna make a big announcement soon, like they think they have a big booger on their finger and want to show the world!” He turned to his girl, “Right, my little punta?”

She giggled obliviously and then pouted. “It’s stinky out here.”

“Yeah… stinky!” he said inhaling deeply and appreciatively, as if odor were his own invention. A second later, he dropped to his knees. “Look here, son, I’m begging you. The company really needs your help.” He smiled a big phony smile. “You’ll do it?

“No.”

“Do you see my knees on the ground? That means I’m begging you. I’m really begging you!” After a beat, his shoulders sank and he sat back on his haunches. “Fine. I grant you, it’s not real begging. There is a difference. In real begging, I’m just on my knees… you know… begging.” He scrunched up his mouth as if he thought he was being clever. “Here, if you don’t do what I want, I’ll throw you over the wall and let those slubbers slice you into hors d’oeuvres.”

My head hurt so much and felt so heavy I could barely keep upright, but I did my best to stare back at him.

“But technically, with the knees on ground, it is begging. And you can tell people I begged you if you want. Right, guys?”

“Tell them your father begged you, Master Rivers! Big deal, that!”

“Extra-extraordinary,” said Xavid.

“Anyway,” he said, “we’ve got an agreement, right? You go on your publicity date with Elle—pretend to like the bitch if you have to—but be nice, and at the product show you say good things, and smile for the cameras. Do that and I’m not going to dump you back into slub hell. That’s our full agreement.”

I glanced toward the hole in the Loop wall. I wouldn’t last for more than minutes there, but I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t betray Nora and our dreams.

“You hear me?” he screamed.

I wished a Loop car would run him over—or both of us.

“You hear what I’m fucking saying?” The veins on his forehead and neck bulged. “Say something! Open your fucking mouth and push some air over your vocal chords.”

“No!”

Father snapped his fingers. In an instant, Gold Visor picked me up by my ankles and held me over the Loop wall. At first, the rush of blood to my head felt good, but soon the pressure made my eyeballs feel like they were going to burst. Then my stomach felt like it was going to slide down my throat.

“Which is it?” asked Father. “Are you going on the date, or should I have him drop your ass?”

Beneath me, I could see the sandy embankment, the rank water, the dirty square where the slubbers had been, and the body of the prostitute, where swarms of black flies now crawled over her face and bloody abdomen.

Five

Strolling down the long spiral hallway leading to Mr. Cedar’s showroom had always been a cleansing and meditative retreat. Usually, I spent an hour or two meandering down the polished glass path, stopping along the way to push the buttons on the wooden booths and observe motorized fabric strength or abrasion tests, or to study mannequins dressed with his latest designs, treasures from his design past, or selections from his burgeoning historical collection.

That day, however, I did not walk as the doctors had advised me to let my leg heal. So, I rode atop an annoyingly bright green frog scooter—a single steady-wheel chair and handlebars—that the medical staff had given me. Motoring straight to the sugar maple and hammered palladium doors, I arrived in one minute flat.

His assistant, Pheff, in a charcoal suit, textured white shirt, and a cream tie, said, “Welcome, Mr. Rivers. He’s expecting you.” Usually I met with my tailor in his gallery, where currently a dozen black robot mannequins, each impeccably dressed in his latest creations, mimed the actions of daily life—drinking coffee, strolling through indoor parks, and posing for cameras, but this time, Pheff led me to a black door in back. After entering a long code into a lock, he released several bolts and pulled it back slowly.

I had not been in Mr. Cedar’s design studio before and felt honored. The air had the tangy aroma of new fabric and starch. Down the center were a dozen wide, flat worktables piled with bundles of material, projects in various stages, boxes of notions, and all manner of tools. Along the interior wall, I saw sewing machines, de- weavers, and other muscular-looking equipment, some with large knobs, lit dials, and levers. The exterior wall was some sort of a translucent material from floor to ceiling and through it was a view of a hundred buildings. In the hazy morning sun, the closest tower was indigo, the rest of the edifices faded to sapphire in the distance.

“Michael,” he said, as he stood and stepped toward me, “good to see you.”

Mr. Cedar was ten years older, an inch shorter, but sturdier. His hair, which stood up in front, was black, but lately, from different angles and in various

lights,

I’d seen flecks of grey. He was one of those men whose looks often go unnoticed. He was not stunningly handsome, and still had a faint scar down the middle of his face, but once the eye found the details beyond the basic color, texture, and silhouette, it could appreciate both his graceful features and the complexity of his steel eyes.

Today he wore what I assumed were his work clothes—an unconstructed charcoal jacket and matching pants, a soft-looking, off-white shirt, and a silvery ascot.

“Your suit design saved my life,” I told him. “Thank you.”

From the center of his chin grew a single black hair three inches long. He twirled it between his index and thumb a few times. “You exaggerate.”

Next, he gave me a tour of the studio, showed me his de-weaving equipment, the design systems, water looms, and demonstrated a new sonic, double-lock sewing machine.

“Impressive,” I said.

“We’re quite modest.” He then escorted me toward his screens and sat. “I understand that you have another publicity date.”

“I do,” I said, instantly depressed.

“At the MonoBeat Tower.

She’s a Petunia Tune girl.” As I mentioned the magazine, I saw him wince. “I don’t like it either, but I don’t have a choice.” All morning I had tried to call Nora, tried to see her on the channels, tried to send messages, but everything was blocked by RiverGroup code. The same notice kept coming up: You are disallowed from this communication, Michael. And your father has been informed. After I had tried several dozen times, Father and the gold visor satin had come. Gold Visor picked me up by one ankle and we got as far as the garage, when I promised I wouldn’t try to send Nora a message again. The satin summarily dropped me onto the floor, and I bruised my head.

Sitting up, I realized that I had slipped into a daydream and not finished my thought to my tailor. With a futile shrug, I added, “All I would like to do is share a single cream-coffee with Nora.” I exhaled a shaky breath and tried to gather myself.

Twisting his beard hair a few more times, Mr. Cedar spun around, picked a brush from a jar, and began working. I watched the sable flip and dash over the glowing surface, and then glanced up at the overhead display where the drawing appeared.

On a terracotta oval, the figure assumed a pose like the models in Pure H. The left leg was forward, the foot, straight. The head was turned far to the left so that the face was in profile. The left arm rest on the hip, the right hung straight. As he worked, he added a tiny dot of red between the thumb and the index, as if a drop of her blood remained. While the suit was lean and elegant like always, it was boxier and darker. The lapels were higher. The white shirt looked stiff like paper, and the patterned ash tie gave an iridescent glow.