Concrete Underground by Moxie Mezcal (most important books of all time txt) 📕

I grabbed the mask and pulled it out of the way, revealing her face.

"Holy shit," Max said. "It's your sister."

"She's not my sister," I said.

"D, you're fucking your sister," Max insisted.

I looked down at the woman, and she did bear an unsettling resemblance.

"It's not her," I repeated.

"D, it is me," the woman said, her Spanish accent thick and sweet.

Max started laughing - a deep, resonant laughter that filled the room.

"Shut up!" I screamed.

The woman said, "D, it's me, Jenny."

Everything flashed red with rage.

I was back out in the hallway, fallen to my knees and doubled over to vomit all over that plush red carpet. I could still hear the sound of Max's laughter. Then I looked up and realized he was there, standing over me

"Do you remember now who lost the game?" he asked. "You did. You were the last one out before I sealed the hatch."

"You drugged me," I said feebly. "I didn't know what I was doing."

"Nobody made you do anything you didn't want to do," Max replied. "Let's not kid ourselves, we both know you've got some serious issues with women."

Anthony and the doctor walked out of the room to join us. "I've done as much as I can," he said to Max. "But she'll be scarred, and the nose could not be reset properly."

All three of us looked back to see the woman standing in the doorway. I thought to myself, Goddamn you, Max, she does look almost exactly like Jenny.

"Get her out of here," Max instructed Anthony.

"Where is he taking her?" I asked as I watched Anthony grab the girl roughly and drag her down the hallway.

"I frankly don't care," Max responded. "She's no good to me anymore. Would you want a whore that looks like that?"

"So what, you're gonna toss her out on the street like trash?" I yelled at him. "She's a human being, for fuck's sake. And for all your bullshit and intellectual posturing, you're just a glorified pimp."

"Oh, you are certainly not in any position to lecture me on feminism, friend," Max responded. "I give people what they want - their dreams, their most secret fantasies. I can't help it if the world is full of sick children stunted by sexual repression."

He took a seat beside me on the floor and continued, "D, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. What I give to the people who win my games is exactly the same thing I give to the losers - I give them whatever it is they desire most. Whether that's a punishment or a reward is up to them."

"This is not what I wanted," I growled back.

"Sometimes what a person wants is good for them, and sometimes it isn't. Sometimes people want to lose. Sometimes they find themselves at a point in their lives where they need to be punished, and I am happy to oblige. Sometimes they choose to take their adversity and use it to spur themselves to become better. And sometimes they are happier just wallowing masochistically in their own misery."

My head had stopped spinning, and I was starting to think more clearly. I sat up and propped my back against the wall. He rested his head on my shoulder.

"I don't trade in base wish-fulfillment. I'm not interested in empty escapism. I show people who they really are. I purify human souls in the crucible of pain and struggle. I turn base matter into gold. That's what I'm about, and that's what the Highwater Society is about, even if they need to be reminded of it from time to time."

Suddenly I heard music playing and a voice singing.

I tried to call you before, but I lost my nerve.

I tried my imagination, but I was disturbed.

It took me a few seconds to realize that it was coming from Max's pants. He pulled my cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID display, then began to chuckle.

"That's your ringtone for your sister?" he said with amusement. "That's going to be stuck in my head all day now."

He tossed me the phone, but the call went to voice-mail before I could answer.

As we walked out of the building and back to the car, Max sang over and over, "Eight six seven five three-oh ni-iiine."

26. It Felt Good

Jenny's message said that her plane had landed and she wanted to invite me to dinner with her. And Brad. At James McPherson's house. So naturally I called her back and said yes.

I also called up Columbine to see if she wanted to tag along, but her response was a terse "No."

McPherson lived in up in the forested hills at the northwestern edge of the valley. It was a long, winding drive to his mansion, but the Boxster handled it just fine.

I arrived about twenty minutes early, hoping to get a chance to talk with McPherson himself before everyone else arrived. As I entered the house, McPherson was walking into the foyer from inside, escorting out two men - Max's friend Peterman and my friend Brian. They didn't notice me right away.

"All I'm saying is we can't afford to underestimate him," Peterman, his tone of voice and their body language implying that this was the tail end of a conversation that he was not willing to drop. "He is dangerous, and sooner or later everyone in this organization is going to have to pay the piper for his sins."

Brian caught sight of me and shot me a contemptuous glare. McPherson turned his head, following Brian's gaze.

"Ah, Mr. Quetzal, you are early," he said gregariously.

"Hope I'm not interrupting anything," I replied.

"Not at all, I was just showing my guests out."

The two other men exited quickly, leaving me alone with McPherson.

"We were actually just discussing your new employer," he explained.

"I gathered."

He smiled. "Yes, Max and I are good friends going back more than a decade now. But he does have a tendency to rub people the wrong way, as I'm sure you've noticed."

He led me down a hallway to a set of large oak double doors. They opened into his study, which was remarkable for how busy it was. One entire wall was dominated with overstuffed book cases. The opposite wall was literally covered with framed pictures, awards, declarations, newspaper clippings, and other remembrances of his life, all hung with scant centimeters of space between frames. A third wall was taken up by two large curio cabinets, one on each side of the double doors leading into the room, filled with various gifts and trinkets.

The rest of the room was filled with furniture - couches, chairs, coffee tables, end tables, short bookcases - all expensive antiques, all covered with more books and trinkets.

He seemed to have a neurotic compulsion to surround himself with things, giving the entire place an almost desperate feel. It was almost as if he was worried in his age that his life was slipping through his fingers like falling sand, and he was trying to hold tight onto as many little grains as he could.

I sat in an arm chair in front of his large mahogany desk, while he poured us each a glass of brandy.

I continued, "The thing I don't understand is why you all put him in charge to begin with if you were so concerned with him being a loose cannon. I mean, anyone who talks to him more than a couple minutes is going to quickly figure out that Max's hardware is severely mis-wired."

"What do you mean, put him in charge?" he asked.

"Doesn't he run your Highwater Society?"

"Good lord, no," McPherson laughed. "I don't know what he's told you, but there's a lot more to the Highwater Society than Max's little games. The fact of the matter is that Max did us a very big favor once by helping us recover something we had lost, and so we repaid him with a largely ceremonial position, which he in turn has managed to make a bloody mess of."

"So what's your group really all about then?"

McPherson leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "It's not something I can just tell you, it's something you can only learn through your own experience. I will tell you, though, that our organization goes back a very long time."

"Back to when your family first set up shop in this valley to bilk money from gold miners?"

"Yes, we have existed in this city since its founding, but we also have antecedents that span back centuries in the old world."

I stifled a laugh. "What are you, the fucking Illuminati or something? Rosicrucians? Stone Cutters?"

He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a ring with the crown and globe symbol. "Are you telling me you don't know what this sigil means?"

The symbol started to shimmer like the one I'd seen last night, and suddenly I heard a loud, piercing shriek of feedback along with the incessant mechanical clatter of a film projector. I gritted my teeth and tried suppress the cacophony in my head.

"Now, I don't tell you this to poison the well for you with your boss," he continued. "But if you're going to be part of our family now, it's time you started figuring these things out."

"What do you mean, part of the family?" I asked, the noise subsiding.

"I mean just that. Not only is your sister married to my nephew and heir, but now my daughter has apparently decided that the sun rises and sets on your head. You're one of us."

"I haven't fucked Columbine," I blurted out.

"Pardon?"

"Natalie, I mean. We're not a couple. Whatever. Nevermind." Where the fuck did that come from?

A brief look of concern flashed across his face but soon resolved itself into a magnanimous grin. "Be that as it may, I understand you've been spending a lot of time with her," he said, sipping his brandy. "Incidentally, I hope she's well; I haven't had a chance to see her in quite some time."

"She's good," I replied. "In fact, she came here to see you a few days ago, but you were leaving just as she pulled up. She said you were riding with some other men in an old classic car - a blue Chevy Del Rey."

I studied him closely for a reaction. If he was surprised or made nervous by my mention of the blue car, his face didn't betray it.

"Really?" McPherson responded, shaking his head. "Well, my daughter does like to tell stories, so it wouldn't surprise me if that little detail is one of her embellishments."

"That's true, she does like to tell stories," I said and shot the entire glass of brandy he had set in front of me. "I guess I'll just have to ask Anthony about it, since that's who blue car man drove you to meet."

Again, no reaction - not even a twitch.

"You know, you really should sip a liquor this fine," he admonished.

I burst into laughter, which caused him to arch an eyebrow quizzically.

"Sorry,"