In 2002, Alan Glynn wrote the celebrated suspense novel The Dark Fields. On March 18, The Dark Fields will come to theaters as the film Limitless, starring Bradley Cooper, Robert DeNiro and Abbie Cornish. To celebrate, Mulholland Books will run a three-part series: three chapters from the book (generously provided by Picador from their Limitless movie tie-in edition), accompanied by stills from the film. As well as some forthcoming extras. Get ready for Limitless, the author’s cut.
We went to a bar over on Sixth, a cheesy retro cocktail lounge called Maxie’s that used to be a Tex-Mex place called El Charro and before that had been a spit-and-sawdust joint called Conroy’s. It took us a few moments to adjust to the lighting and the decor of the interior, and, weirdly, to find a booth that Vernon was happy with. The place was virtually empty—it wouldn’t be getting busy for another while yet, not until five o’clock at least—but Vernon was behaving as though it were the small hours of a Saturday morning and we were staking our claim to the last available seats in the last open bar in town. It was only then, as I watched him case each booth for line of vision and proximity to toilets and exits, that I realized something was up. He was edgy and nervous, and this was unusual for him—or at any rate unusual for the Vernon I’d known, his one great virtue as a coke dealer having been his relative composure at all times. Other dealers I’d been acquainted with generally behaved like ads for the product they were shifting in that they hopped around the place incessantly and talked a lot. Vernon, on the other hand, had always been quiet and businesslike, unassuming, a good listener—maybe even a little too passive sometimes, like a dedicated weed smoker adrift in a sea of coke-fiends. In fact, if I hadn’t known better, I might have thought that Vernon—or at least this person in front of me—had done his first few lines of coke that very afternoon and wasn’t handling it very well.
We settled into a booth, finally, and a waitress came over.
Vernon drummed his fingers on the table and said, “Let me see—I’ll have a . . . Vodka Collins.”
“For you, sir?”
“A whiskey sour, please.”
The waitress left and Vernon took out a pack of ultra-lite, low-tar, menthol cigarettes and a half-used book of matches. As he was lighting up a cigarette, I said, “So, how’s Melissa?”
Melissa was Vernon’s sister; I’d been married to her for just under five months back in 1988.
“Yeah, Melissa’s all right,” he said and took a drag from the cigarette. This involved drawing on all the muscle power in his lungs, shoulders and upper back. “I don’t see her that often, though. She lives upstate now, Mahopac, and has a couple of kids.”
“What’s her husband like?”
“Her husband? What are you, jealous?” Vernon laughed and looked around the bar as if he wanted to share the joke with someone. I said nothing. The laughter died down eventually and he tapped his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. “The guy’s a jerk. He walked out on her about two years ago, left her in the shithouse.”
I was certainly sorry to hear this, but at the same time I was having a bit of a problem working up a plausible picture of Melissa living in Mahopac with two kids. As a consequence, I couldn’t really make a personal connection to the news, not yet at any rate, but what I could picture now—and vividly, intrusively—was Melissa, tall and slender in a creamy silk sheath dress on our wedding day, sipping a Martini in Vernon’s apartment on the Upper West Side, her pupils dilating . . . and smiling across the room at me. I could picture her perfect skin, her shiny straight black hair that went half-way down her back. I could picture her wide, elegant mouth not letting anyone get a word in edgeways . . .
The waitress approached with our drinks.
Melissa had been smarter than anyone around her, smarter than me, and certainly smarter than her older brother. She’d worked as the production coordinator of a small cable TV guide, but I’d always pictured her moving on to bigger and better things, editing a daily newspaper, directing movies, running for the Senate.
After the waitress had gone, I lifted my drink and said, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. It’s a shame.”
But he said it like he was referring to a minor earthquake in some unpronounceable Asian republic, like he’d heard it on the news and was just trying to make conversation.
“Is she working?” I persisted.
“Yeah, she’s doing something, I think. I’m not sure what. I don’t really talk to her that much.”
I was puzzled at this. On the walk to the bar, and during Vernon’s search for the right booth, and as we ordered drinks and waited for them to arrive, I’d been having photo-album flashes of me and Melissa, and of our little slice of time together—like that one of our wedding day in Vernon’s apartment. It was psychotronic, skullbound stuff . . . Eddie and Melissa, for example, standing between two pillars outside City Hall . . . Melissa doing up lines as she gazes down into the mirror resting on her knees, gazes down through the crumbling white bars at her own beautiful face . . . Eddie in the bathroom, in various bathrooms, and in various stages of being unwell . . . Melissa and Eddie fighting over money and over who’s a bigger pig with a rolled-up twenty. Ours wasn’t a cocaine wedding so much as a cocaine marriage—what Melissa had once dismissively referred to as “a coke thing’—so, regardless of whatever real feelings I may have had for Melissa, or she for me, it wasn’t at all surprising that we’d only lasted five months, and maybe it was surprising that we’d even lasted that long, I don’t know.
But anyway. The point here and now was—what had happened with them? What had happened with Vernon and Melissa? They had always been very close, and had always played major roles in each other’s lives. They had looked out for each other in the big bad city, and been each other’s final court of appeal in relationships, jobs, apartments, décor. It had been one of those brother-sister things where if Vernon hadn’t liked me, Melissa probably would have had no hesitation in just dumping me—though personally, and if I’d had any say in the matter, as the boyfriend, I would have dumped the older brother. But there you go. That hadn’t been an option.
Anyway, this was ten years later. This was now. Things had obviously changed.
I looked over at Vernon as he took another Olympic-sized drag on his ultra-lite, low-tar, menthol cigarette. I tried to think of something to say on the subject of ultra-lite, low-tar, menthol cigarettes, but I just couldn’t get Melissa out of my head now. I wanted to ask him questions about her, I wanted a detailed update on her situation, and yet I wasn’t sure what right I might have—if any—to information here. I wasn’t sure to what extent the circumstances of Melissa’s life were any of my business any more.
“Why do you smoke those things?’ I said finally, fishing out my own pack of unfiltered Camels. “Isn’t it just a lot of effort for almost no return?”
“Sure, but it’s about the only aerobic exercise I get these days. If I smoked those things,’ he said, nodding at my Camels, “I’d be on a life-support machine by now—but what do you want, I’m not going to give up.”
I decided I would try and get back to talking about Melissa later on.
“So, what have you been doing, Vernon?”
“Keeping busy, you know.”
That could only mean one thing—he was still dealing. A normal person would have said
Shit, I should have known.
But then, had I really not known? Wasn’t it nostalgia for the old days that had prompted me to come here with him in the first place? I was about to make some wisecrack about his obvious aversion to respectable employment, when he said, “Actually, I’ve been doing some consultancy work.”
“What?”
“For a pharmaceutical corporation.”
My eyebrows furrowed and I repeated his words with a question mark at the end.
“Yeah, there’s an exclusive product range coming on-stream at the end of the year and we’re trying to generate a client base.”
“What is this, some sort of new street language, Vernon? I’ve been out of the scene for a long time, I know, but . . .”
“No, no. Straight up. In fact”—he looked around the bar for a moment, and then went on in a slightly lower tone—”that’s what I wanted to talk to you about, this . . . creative problem you’re having.”
“I’m—”
“The people I work for have come up with an amazing new substance.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his wallet. “It’s in pill form.” From the wallet he produced a tiny plastic sachet with an air-lock seal across the top. He opened it, held the sachet with his right hand and tapped something out into the palm of his left hand. He held this hand up for me to see. In the center of it was a tiny white unmarked tablet.
“Here,’ he said. “Take it.”
“What is it?”
“Just “take” it.’
I opened my right hand and held it out. He turned his left hand over and the little white pill fell into my palm.
“What is it?” I said again.
“It doesn’t have a name yet—I mean it’s got a laboratory tag, but that’s just letters and a code. They haven’t come up with a proper name for it yet. They’ve done all the clinical trials, though, and it’s FDA-approved.”
He looked at me as though he’d answered my question.
“OK,” I said, “it doesn’t have a name yet and they’ve done all the clinical trials and it’s FDA-approved, but what the fuck is it?”
He took a sip from his drink and another hit from his cigarette. Then he said, “You know the way drugs fuck you up? You have a good time doing them but then you get all fucked up afterwards? And eventually everything in your life . . . falls apart, yeah? Sooner or later it happens, am I right?”
I nodded. “Well, not with this.’ He indicated the pill in my hand. “This little baby is the diametric opposite of that.’ I eased the pill from the palm of my hand on to the surface of the table. Then I took a sip from my drink. “Vernon,
“There are no physical side-effects if that’s what you’re worried about. They’ve identified these receptors in the brain that can activate specific circuits and . . .”
“Look,” I was becoming exasperated, “I really don’t—”
Just then a phone started ringing, a cellphone. Since I didn’t have one myself, I figured it had to be Vernon’s. He reached into a side pocket of his jacket and pulled it out. As he was opening the flap and searching for the right button, he said, nodding down at the pill, “Let me tell you, Eddie, that thing will solve any problems you’re having with this book of yours.”
As he raised the phone to his ear and spoke into it, I looked at him in disbelief. “Gant.’
He really had changed, and in a way that was quite curious. He was the same guy, clearly, but he appeared to have developed—or grown—a different personality.
“When?”
He picked up his drink and swirled the contents of the glass around a bit.
“I know, but when?”
He looked over his left shoulder and then, immediately, back at his watch.
“Tell him we can’t do that. He knows that’s out of the question. We absolutely can’t do that.”
He waved a hand in the air dismissively.
I took a sip from my own drink and started lighting up a Camel. Here I was—look at me—pissing the afternoon away with my ex-brother-in-law. I’d certainly had no idea when I left the apartment an hour or so before, to go for a walk, that I’d be ending up in a bar. And certainly not with my ex-brother-in-law, Vernon fucking Gant.
I shook my head and took another sip from my drink.
“No, you better tell him—and now.” He started getting up. “Look, I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes.’
Straightening out his jacket with his free hand, he said, “No way, I’m telling you. Just wait, I’ll be there.”
He turned off the phone and put it back into the side pocket of his jacket.
“Fucking people,” he said, looking down at me and shaking his head, as if I’d understand.
“Problems?” I said.
“Yeah, you better believe that.’ He took his wallet out. “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave you here, Eddie. I’m sorry.’
He took a business card from his wallet and placed it carefully down on the table. He put it right beside the little white tablet.
“By the way,’ he said, nodding down at the tablet, “that’s on the house.’
“I don’t want it, Vernon.’
He winked at me. “Don’t be ungrateful now. You know how much those things cost?’
I shook my head.
He stepped out of the booth and took a second to shimmy his loose-fitting suit into position. Then he looked directly at me. “Five hundred bucks a pop.’
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I looked down at the tablet. Five hundred dollars for that?
“I’ll take care of the drinks,’ he said and wandered over towards the bar. I watched him as he paid the waitress. Then he indicated back in the direction of our booth. That probably meant another drink—compliments of the big man in the expensive suit.
On his way out of the bar, Vernon threw me a sidelong glance that said, Take it easy, my friend, paused, and then added, and make sure you call me now.
Yeah, yeah.
*
I sat there for a while pondering the fact that not only did I not do drugs any more, I didn’t drink in the afternoons any more either. But here I was, doing just that—at which point the waitress arrived over with the second whiskey sour.
I finished up the first one and started in on the new one. I lit another cigarette.
The problem I suppose was this: if I was going to be drinking in the afternoon, I would have preferred it to be in any of a dozen other bars, and sitting
Besides, I had work to do. I had thousands of images to pore over and select—to order and re-order and analyze and deconstruct. So what business did I have being in a Sixth Avenue cocktail lounge in any case? None. I should have been at home, at my desk, inching my way through the Summer of Love and the intricacies of microcircuitry. I should have been scanning all those magazine spreads I had from the Saturday Evening Post and Rolling Stone and Wired, as well as all the photocopied material that was stacked on the floor and on every other available surface in my apartment. I should have been huddled in front of my computer screen, awash in a blue light, making silent, steady progress on my book.
But I wasn’t, and despite these good intentions I didn’t seem to be showing any signs of making a move to leave either. Instead, giving in to the numinous glow of the whiskey and letting it override my impulse to get out of there, I went back to thinking about my ex-wife, Melissa. She was living upstate now with her two kids, and doing . . . what? Something. Vernon didn’t know. What was that all about? How could he not know? I mean, it made sense that I wasn’t a regular contributor to the New Yorker or Vanity Fair, or that I wasn’t an Internet guru or a venture capitalist, but it didn’t make any sense at all that Melissa wasn’t.
The more I thought about it, in fact, the stranger it seemed. For my part, I could easily retrace my steps back through the years, through all the twists and turns and taste atrocities, and still make a direct, plausible link between the relatively stable Eddie Spinola sitting here in this bar, with his Kerr & Dexter book contract and his monthly health plan, and, say, some earlier, spindlier Eddie, hung-over and vomiting on his boss’s desk during a presentation, or raiding his girlfriend’s underwear drawer looking for her stash. But with this domesticated, upstate Melissa that Vernon had sketched, there didn’t seem to be any connection—or the connection had been broken, or . . . something, I don’t know.
Back then, Melissa had been akin to a force of nature. She’d had fully worked-out opinions about everything, from the origins of the Second World War to the architectural merits, or demerits, of the new Lipstick Building on Fifty-third Street. She would defend these opinions vigorously and always talked—intimidatingly, as if she were wielding a blackjack—about going back to first principles. You didn’t mess with Melissa, and she rarely, if ever, took prisoners.
On the night of the Black Monday stock market crash, for instance —October 19th, 1987—I was with her in a bar down on Second Avenue, Nostromo’s, when we got talking to a party of four depressed bond-salesmen doing shots of vodka at the next table. (I actually think Deke Tauber might have been one of them, I seem to have a clear picture of him in my mind, at the table, glass of Stoli clenched tightly in his fist.) But in any case, the four of them were all shell-shocked and scared and pale. They kept asking each other how it had happened, and what it meant, and went on shaking their heads in disbelief, until finally Melissa said, “Shit, fellahs, don’t let me hold you back from the window-ledge there or anything, but couldn’t you see this thing
I sat staring into my own drink now, wondering what had happened to Melissa. I was wondering how all of that bluster and creative energy of hers could have been channelled so . . . narrowly. This is not to denigrate the joys of parenthood or anything, don’t get me wrong . . . but Melissa had been a very ambitious person.
Then something else occurred to me. Melissa’s way of looking at things, her kind of informing, rigorous intelligence was exactly what I needed if I was going to be whipping this Kerr & Dexter book into shape.
Needing something, however, and being able to acquire it were of course two different things. Now it was my turn to be depressed. Then suddenly, like an explosion, the people in the next booth all started laughing. It went on for about thirty seconds and during it that numinous glow I had in the pit of my stomach flickered, sputtered and went out. I waited for a while, but it was no use. I stood up, sighing, and pocketed my cigarettes and lighter. I eased my way out of the booth.
Then I looked down at the small white pill in the center of the table. I hesitated for a few moments. I turned to go away, and then turned back again, hesitating some more. Eventually, I picked up Vernon’s card and put it in my pocket. Then I picked up the pill, put it in my mouth and swallowed it.
I made my way over to the door, and as I was walking out of the bar and on to Sixth Avenue, I thought to myself, well, you certainly haven’t changed.
To Be Continued…
Limitless Trailer VO: Jay Stevens from Jay Stevens on Vimeo.
Alan Glynn is the author of two novels, Limitless, which was adapted into the major motion picture of the same name, and Winterland, which was published earlier this year by Minotaur and Faber & Faber. He lives in Dublin, Ireland.
