Body Surfing

with Dr. Thomas had been—what? A little weird, to say the least. Basically all Q. had done was sit down in the garden and fall asleep. Forty-seven minutes after the doctor said “Tell me” in that Dr. Freud kind of way, Q. felt a little shake on his shoulder. “Time’s up, my young friend.” A teacup and saucer sat on the wide arm of the doctor’s Adirondack chair. There was something a little creepy about a middle-aged man drinking a cup of tea and watching you sleep, but it was by far the most restful three quarters of an hour he’d spent since the accident, so when Dr. Thomas gently suggested Q. stay in the city until their next appointment, he’d thought, well, why not? His dad had flown to Nigeria to discuss security on the oil pipeline, of which he was an investor, and his mother had jetted off to one of her spas—Costa Rica, Q. thought, or Geneva, or maybe Bangalore. He decided toorder a pizza, get something off pay-per-view. Something light. Nothing with car chases or naked girls. A real SIS night, as Sila would say.
    Sila .
    Jasper .
    Jesus.
     
    The elevator bell rang just as the taxi dropped Tom Hanks off at the Empire State Building. Q. paused the movie but didn’t get up immediately. No one besides Lombardi’s Pizza knew he was in the city, and the night man should’ve called before sending someone up. Feeling a little silly, Q. picked up the phone and called the front desk.
    There was no answer.
    Maybe he was just paranoid after the events of the past few days, but who could blame him? After midnight there was only one man downstairs, and he could’ve easily been called away by another tenant. Nevertheless, Q. traded his third slice for a brass poker and tried to remember if he’d locked the elevator gate after the pizza came.
    As soon as he stepped into the hall a voice called to him. Almost as if he’d heard him, even though the foyer was a good forty feet away.
    “’Lo? Anybody home?”
    Q. didn’t recognize the voice. It was against building policy to let a guest come up in the elevator unescorted, but the staff was always a little lax with teenagers when their parents weren’t around.
    “Just a minute,” Q. called.
    He tiptoed to the foyer, paused outside the door. He could see the elevator gate—closed, but he couldn’t tell if it was locked. Couldn’t see who was inside either. As he set the poker in the umbrella rack—no point in looking like a crazy person, assuming the guy was just some plumber or electrician—his eyes were caught by the Chinese figurine on a side table. A plump man with upraised arms. Abig round face, flowing robes, an enormous headdress that made it look as though his head was haloed in flames. Q. had seen the statue a hundred times before, but now he suddenly recognized it as a Tang Dynasty Lokapala, a Buddhist deity exported to China from India. This was…Q. squinted. Virupaksha. The guardian of the west. Of the gates of death. A flash of heat seared his cheeks, as if his face were on fire.
    “Hello?”
    Q. started, almost knocked the statue off the table. A mahogany Empire table. Probably Duncan Phyfe. Jesus Christ, where was all this coming from? Virupaksha. Duncan Phyfe. Anschluss. He took a deep breath and stepped into the foyer.
    “Hey there. I was wondering if you were coming.”
    Q. looked at the lock on the security gate before he looked at the man. Latched. He tried not to sigh in relief.
    “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”
    There was something familiar about the face on the other side of the metal lattice. Thirtysomething, shaggy bangs, washed-out blue eyes. At least three days’ worth of stubble. He was wearing a sloppy version of the building’s livery—the jacket was unbuttoned, and there were splotches of something that looked like tomato sauce on the shirt—but Q. didn’t recognize him.
    “Evening, Mr. Qusay. I’m Larry, the night guy.”
    “What happened to Ramon?”
    “Ramon got called home.” Larry mimicked a pregnant stomach. The buttons of his shirt strained across his torso, even though he was junkie skinny. Like he was wearing a shirt that belonged to someone significantly smaller than he was. “Baby number three. Couple weeks early, but everything seems okay, knock wood.” He rapped his knuckles on the coffered paneling of the elevator, and the sound echoed sharply into the foyer.
    “That’s good,” Q. said. “So, can I help you?”
    The man smiled awkwardly. “That’s usually what I say.” When