"No, Mrs. Smedley, we haven't seen him lately. Right, the other night. He left his house, walked down to the South Side, and placed a bet on a robot fight. No, we lost track of him after that, but we have absolutely no reason to believe that there's another woman. No, I seriously doubt he owes the mob money. We think he's just a scumbag. Right. Um... I really can't say for sure if he'd take you back. I suppose so, if you were desperate. Oh, sorry. No, the office is fine, Mrs. Smedley. We really appreciate it. Okay, you too."
Charlie hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair. She had a feeling this was going to be a long morning. Linda Smedley had already called, checking up on the case of her husband and his night-wandering tendencies, so she checked that item off her mental to-do list. A customer was due in at ten o'clock. He said his name was O'Hara--not one of her usual clients, but he was having problems with his brakes, and business had been slow all week long. Whether it's a stranger or a familiar face, they're still a paying customer.
She checked the clock on the wall. It was just before nine.
At nine-thirty, the door opened, its loud creak causing her to drop the book she'd been reading. Tommy's pilfered copy of Heaven is for Angels fell onto the hard concrete floor, resting on splayed pages like a tent, cover-side up. She hated to admit it to herself, but she found the novel hard to put down. She'd started reading it on a lark, having nothing better to do, but now she legitimately wanted to finish it--no matter how trashy and sexist she believed it to be.
She tucked away the paperback mystery just as the real one walked into the garage. Helena Beame strolled toward Charlie's tiny office in a blue dress, like a woman out of place. She looked like she didn't belong in a garage. She looked like she didn't belong in this city. She was a walking, talking anomaly with a Gucci handbag.
Charlie stared at her as she approached, her hips swaying and blonde curls descending beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She looked like she just stepped out of a Johnny Lightly novel, like the sort of girl who'd take you for a ride, both physically and financially. She looked like trouble, and Charlie had never been happier to be a straight woman. Beame opened the office door and leaned back against the frame.
"Good morning, Miss Grace," she said.
"Good morning, Ms. Beame," Charlie replied, wiping a smear of grease off of her hand and feeling somewhat underdressed in her stained blue jumper.
"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch lately. I thought I'd stop and see how the case is going."
Charlie wondered what this meant. Was Beame a fed or a pawn? How much did she know? Was she the one who pulled the trigger on Heap? A dozen more questions popped up in her head, delaying the formulation of a coherent response.
"I won't lie. It's going slow. I suppose you could say we're still in the information-gathering process, but I promise you that we're closing in. You'll have your friend back, Ms. Beame."
"Thank you. I'm glad to hear it, but you'll excuse me if I don't share your optimism. It's been a rough few days." Beame pulled a white handkerchief from her handbag. Tears had already swelled up in her eyes, though she appeared to try and hold them back. She wiped them away as they streamed down her face. Charlie had to admit, it was a good act.
"You heard about Heap, then. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"I spent all night being questioned by a detective named Faraday. I believe he said you'd met him. He went over each and every detail, questioning me--where I was, what I was doing. I don't still love him, you know, but I never wanted this to happen. He didn't deserve it."
"Faraday suspects you, then?"
"No, not anymore. He did, though, until I was able to prove that I was elsewhere."
Charlie rapped her knuckles on the desk, carefully contemplating the question she would ask next. "Ms. Beame, do you mind if I ask you where you were at that time?"
"Don't tell me that you suspect me, too," said Beame, her voice with a pointed, disgusted edge.
"Nothing of the sort, ma'am. I'm just a bit curious. When I put a puzzle together, I generally like to see all the pieces first, no matter how inconsequential they may seem."
"I was at a fundraiser, if you must know. I'm very active in my community across town, and my responsibility to it cannot be hampered, no matter how badly my heart aches."
"I do apologize. It wasn't my place to ask."
"It's all right, Miss Grace. I understand."
"Call me Charlie. I do have one more question, though--something more personal."
"Go ahead."
"Of all people, how did you end up married to Francis Heap?" she asked.
Charlie watched Beame's eyes. They became vacant at first, almost distant, and then there was a glint as Beame smiled. "I know the sort of man he'd become toward the end of his life, but he wasn't always like that. He was a stronger man when I met him. A better man. His business was in robotics, something I could barely understand. I had Fifty-two, of course, so I knew how important robots could be in our day-to-day lives, how important they were to me, but it wasn't until I met Francis that I realized how much of the creator's heart was put inside those cold, metal cylinders. Francis made me appreciate Fifty-two all the more, and for that, I fell in love with him. It was his heart, you see. For once, I wasn't seeing someone for the size of their bank account or what I believed they could do for my social status. Francis was all I needed."
"So what happened?"
"He lost his job, and he turned to the bottle. I think he blamed me--for what, I don't know. Maybe he thought that with my connections, I could have done something, I could have kept him in the business he'd devoted his entire life to. But he blamed me, and took it out on everything that I cared about. Our divorce was finalized the same day his sentence began, and I never spoke to him again. The last I'd heard, he turned to the black market--the only thing that would take him."
"Yeah, so I've seen. Thanks, Ms. Beame."
"If there's anything else I can do to help, Miss Grace... Charlie, please let me know," Beame said meekly. "Is there anything you can tell me, yet? Any leads, I mean?"
Charlie nodded. "A few. We have reason to believe that Fifty-two made contact with Heap."
Beame's eyes lit up. It was a look of surprise that lasted only a brief second, but Charlie had played enough poker to know how to spot a tell.
"Did you find anything in his salvage?" Beame asked.
"No. We searched his associate's garage--one he'd been using as a front, but there was no sign of Fifty-two. It's likely that most of the parts are gone, I'm sorry to say. We have his log book--receipts and such, so we're in the process of tracking down some of the buyers."
"Remember, as long as we can find the memory bank, we can restore her."
"Don't worry about a thing. We'll find her."
"We are such terrible liars, aren't we, Charlie?"
Charlie was taken aback. She tried her best to keep a straight face, but she was sure that this was it--her cover had been blown.
"Pardon?"
"We tell ourselves that everything will be okay. We convince ourselves not to worry. We look each other in the eye and tell lies, because there's little else we can do. We know the truth, though, deep down. We know that the world is not a nice place, that things don't always work out for the best, that hope is only a delusion. We all know this, but we'd rather lie than accept it. We want to believe that good things really do happen to good people and that a robot is worth more than the sum of its parts."
"Oh... yeah, I suppose we do."
Beame pulled a small, flat electronic pad from her hand bag and began scribbling and tapping on its face with a silver stylus.
"I'm sorry I haven't done this sooner, but I've just wired twenty thousand to your bank account. When the case is over, there'll be another twenty thousand waiting. Will that be enough?"
Charlie's eyes felt suddenly dry, as if she'd forgotten how to blink. She had twenty-thousand dollars in her bank account--approximately fifteen thousand more than she'd ever had in it before. She imagined the bank would be calling to verify, and they would be just as surprised as her. Before she could even picture herself spending it--or double that amount, for that matter, she realized where it came from and what it was for. This was an enticement for betraying her best friend. It wasn't something to be enjoyed, to be happily spent on extravagance. This was blood money.
"Charlie, are you all right? If that isn't enough--"
"No, no, Ms. Beame, that's plenty. Thank you."
"It's my pleasure. I must be going, but I'll be in touch."
Charlie waved goodbye and watched until she could be sure that Beame had left the building, and then she collapsed onto her desk, taking deep breaths while her heart pounded in her chest. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to pack up everything, Tommy included, and run--as far and as fast as they could while they still had time. But she was wrong. There was no time left. They were just treading water now. As Charlie struggled to regain her composure, she could feel the current wrapping itself around her waist, pulling her along.
Charlie hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair. She had a feeling this was going to be a long morning. Linda Smedley had already called, checking up on the case of her husband and his night-wandering tendencies, so she checked that item off her mental to-do list. A customer was due in at ten o'clock. He said his name was O'Hara--not one of her usual clients, but he was having problems with his brakes, and business had been slow all week long. Whether it's a stranger or a familiar face, they're still a paying customer.
She checked the clock on the wall. It was just before nine.
At nine-thirty, the door opened, its loud creak causing her to drop the book she'd been reading. Tommy's pilfered copy of Heaven is for Angels fell onto the hard concrete floor, resting on splayed pages like a tent, cover-side up. She hated to admit it to herself, but she found the novel hard to put down. She'd started reading it on a lark, having nothing better to do, but now she legitimately wanted to finish it--no matter how trashy and sexist she believed it to be.
She tucked away the paperback mystery just as the real one walked into the garage. Helena Beame strolled toward Charlie's tiny office in a blue dress, like a woman out of place. She looked like she didn't belong in a garage. She looked like she didn't belong in this city. She was a walking, talking anomaly with a Gucci handbag.
Charlie stared at her as she approached, her hips swaying and blonde curls descending beneath a wide-brimmed hat. She looked like she just stepped out of a Johnny Lightly novel, like the sort of girl who'd take you for a ride, both physically and financially. She looked like trouble, and Charlie had never been happier to be a straight woman. Beame opened the office door and leaned back against the frame.
"Good morning, Miss Grace," she said.
"Good morning, Ms. Beame," Charlie replied, wiping a smear of grease off of her hand and feeling somewhat underdressed in her stained blue jumper.
"I'm sorry I haven't been in touch lately. I thought I'd stop and see how the case is going."
Charlie wondered what this meant. Was Beame a fed or a pawn? How much did she know? Was she the one who pulled the trigger on Heap? A dozen more questions popped up in her head, delaying the formulation of a coherent response.
"I won't lie. It's going slow. I suppose you could say we're still in the information-gathering process, but I promise you that we're closing in. You'll have your friend back, Ms. Beame."
"Thank you. I'm glad to hear it, but you'll excuse me if I don't share your optimism. It's been a rough few days." Beame pulled a white handkerchief from her handbag. Tears had already swelled up in her eyes, though she appeared to try and hold them back. She wiped them away as they streamed down her face. Charlie had to admit, it was a good act.
"You heard about Heap, then. I'm very sorry for your loss."
"I spent all night being questioned by a detective named Faraday. I believe he said you'd met him. He went over each and every detail, questioning me--where I was, what I was doing. I don't still love him, you know, but I never wanted this to happen. He didn't deserve it."
"Faraday suspects you, then?"
"No, not anymore. He did, though, until I was able to prove that I was elsewhere."
Charlie rapped her knuckles on the desk, carefully contemplating the question she would ask next. "Ms. Beame, do you mind if I ask you where you were at that time?"
"Don't tell me that you suspect me, too," said Beame, her voice with a pointed, disgusted edge.
"Nothing of the sort, ma'am. I'm just a bit curious. When I put a puzzle together, I generally like to see all the pieces first, no matter how inconsequential they may seem."
"I was at a fundraiser, if you must know. I'm very active in my community across town, and my responsibility to it cannot be hampered, no matter how badly my heart aches."
"I do apologize. It wasn't my place to ask."
"It's all right, Miss Grace. I understand."
"Call me Charlie. I do have one more question, though--something more personal."
"Go ahead."
"Of all people, how did you end up married to Francis Heap?" she asked.
Charlie watched Beame's eyes. They became vacant at first, almost distant, and then there was a glint as Beame smiled. "I know the sort of man he'd become toward the end of his life, but he wasn't always like that. He was a stronger man when I met him. A better man. His business was in robotics, something I could barely understand. I had Fifty-two, of course, so I knew how important robots could be in our day-to-day lives, how important they were to me, but it wasn't until I met Francis that I realized how much of the creator's heart was put inside those cold, metal cylinders. Francis made me appreciate Fifty-two all the more, and for that, I fell in love with him. It was his heart, you see. For once, I wasn't seeing someone for the size of their bank account or what I believed they could do for my social status. Francis was all I needed."
"So what happened?"
"He lost his job, and he turned to the bottle. I think he blamed me--for what, I don't know. Maybe he thought that with my connections, I could have done something, I could have kept him in the business he'd devoted his entire life to. But he blamed me, and took it out on everything that I cared about. Our divorce was finalized the same day his sentence began, and I never spoke to him again. The last I'd heard, he turned to the black market--the only thing that would take him."
"Yeah, so I've seen. Thanks, Ms. Beame."
"If there's anything else I can do to help, Miss Grace... Charlie, please let me know," Beame said meekly. "Is there anything you can tell me, yet? Any leads, I mean?"
Charlie nodded. "A few. We have reason to believe that Fifty-two made contact with Heap."
Beame's eyes lit up. It was a look of surprise that lasted only a brief second, but Charlie had played enough poker to know how to spot a tell.
"Did you find anything in his salvage?" Beame asked.
"No. We searched his associate's garage--one he'd been using as a front, but there was no sign of Fifty-two. It's likely that most of the parts are gone, I'm sorry to say. We have his log book--receipts and such, so we're in the process of tracking down some of the buyers."
"Remember, as long as we can find the memory bank, we can restore her."
"Don't worry about a thing. We'll find her."
"We are such terrible liars, aren't we, Charlie?"
Charlie was taken aback. She tried her best to keep a straight face, but she was sure that this was it--her cover had been blown.
"Pardon?"
"We tell ourselves that everything will be okay. We convince ourselves not to worry. We look each other in the eye and tell lies, because there's little else we can do. We know the truth, though, deep down. We know that the world is not a nice place, that things don't always work out for the best, that hope is only a delusion. We all know this, but we'd rather lie than accept it. We want to believe that good things really do happen to good people and that a robot is worth more than the sum of its parts."
"Oh... yeah, I suppose we do."
Beame pulled a small, flat electronic pad from her hand bag and began scribbling and tapping on its face with a silver stylus.
"I'm sorry I haven't done this sooner, but I've just wired twenty thousand to your bank account. When the case is over, there'll be another twenty thousand waiting. Will that be enough?"
Charlie's eyes felt suddenly dry, as if she'd forgotten how to blink. She had twenty-thousand dollars in her bank account--approximately fifteen thousand more than she'd ever had in it before. She imagined the bank would be calling to verify, and they would be just as surprised as her. Before she could even picture herself spending it--or double that amount, for that matter, she realized where it came from and what it was for. This was an enticement for betraying her best friend. It wasn't something to be enjoyed, to be happily spent on extravagance. This was blood money.
"Charlie, are you all right? If that isn't enough--"
"No, no, Ms. Beame, that's plenty. Thank you."
"It's my pleasure. I must be going, but I'll be in touch."
Charlie waved goodbye and watched until she could be sure that Beame had left the building, and then she collapsed onto her desk, taking deep breaths while her heart pounded in her chest. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to pack up everything, Tommy included, and run--as far and as fast as they could while they still had time. But she was wrong. There was no time left. They were just treading water now. As Charlie struggled to regain her composure, she could feel the current wrapping itself around her waist, pulling her along.
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