Free Sleepless by Charlie Huston Page A

dense air traffic over LAX.
    "I operate quite well on a local level, but secure cross-country shipping has become a chancy operation at best, and toxically expensive."
    I faced her again.
    "I am more than capable of bearing all the expenses, but having done so, I don't care to trust anything but the most reliable of transportation services."
    Her left thumb folded across her palm and rubbed the nubbin of scar where her finger once was. A gesture that gave every appearance of unconsciousness, yet one I was certain originally had been adopted to unnerve. But in the realms of power and influence where she now moved, I doubted that very many were disconcerted by the prospect of self- mutilation. I imagined that the calculated detachment that informed the movement had been employed so long that it had evolved now to possess the spontaneity to which it had once only aspired.
    An observation that might have gotten me killed had I given it voice. Chizu did not care to have her psychology plumbed. It implied the plumber's interest in the whys and wherefores of her dealings. An interest that could never be considered healthy. For the interested party.
    She stopped rubbing the scar.
    "You would like access to my infrastructure."
    If I had been free to, I would have raised a hand in denial.
    "I wish to place a shipping order. And to ask that you personally see that the order is carried out."
    She rose, a grace that suggested a thread running from the ceiling to the very top of her head, pulling her gently to her bare feet.
    "To have shipped a hideous painting?"
    I faced the windows again, looking north this time, the inexhaustible glow of the wildfires above the rim of the Santa Monicas as evening fell.
    "It's meant to be part of my apocalypse collection."
    She came around the worktable, her hedgehog haircut no higher than my shoulder.
    "In the face of this view, I see no need for such a collection."
    I shrugged, helpless in the grip of one of my obsessions.
    "I can't help but think that the creation of this piece was an undeniable sign that the end was looming. Even if it wasn't regarded."
    She stood at the window, confronting her reflection.
    "Does it have a name, this harbinger?"
    I smiled at her reflection.
    "'Greeting Card.'"
    Her lips twitched and drew into a smile that she allowed.
    "Yes. I see the appeal."
    I joined her at the window.
    "I thought you might."
    I looked down at her profile, admiring the smoothness of her complexion, how it showed in youthful contrast to her gray hair, telling the story of a long impassive life, the dearth of wrinkles speaking of displeasures concealed, laughter abated, furrowed brows smoothed, pursed lips straightened.
    To eke a smile from that visage was a great pleasure.
    So I bowed my head in thanks.
    "And for you, Lady Chizu, what do you need found?"
    The smile left, and she looked up at me.
    "What is your opinion of these anachronisms?"
    She glanced back at the wall of obsolete machines.
    "My collection."
    A thick wad of purple scar tissue behind my ear throbbed. There was shrapnel still under there, decades old, that sometimes reminded me of its presence when odd atmospheric changes were nigh.
    I pursed my lips.
    "Some are quite beautiful. Others not. I admire its completeness. The fact that no machine seems weighted with more value than any other. The fact that they are clearly organized with purpose. Whatever the guiding principle may be, it is not readily visible. Not age, country of manufacture, color, design specifications, size, condition. All these qualities are distributed randomly, but not necessarily evenly. There is undeniable balance. And order. I am not drawn to these things, but I understand the need for such a collection. And I admire it."
    She looked out at the night.
    "The typewriters around which the others are arranged, the singularities that define the collection, are those upon which suicide notes were written. And not another word, after."
    I looked again at the devices