Mayor Hogug brought a light to the bowl of the pipe and gave the stem a good suck. Failing to ignite the tobacco, he gave it another try. Meanwhile in the crowd, Magnus had put his hand in his pocket and was carefully feeling for the rounded edges of a device the size of a key fob. Finding it, he lightly pressed a button on the mechanism.
Up on the platform in front of his constituents, Mayor Hogug was still unsuccessfully puffing on his pipe when the mini-missile inside the stem fired, the exhaust sending the tobacco in the bowl shooting into the air. The missile traveled down the stem in the other direction and into the mayor's mouth, blasting through the back of his head. The mayor dropped the pipe and fell against his chair, smoke drifting out of his open mouth while singed tobacco leaves fluttered down around his lifeless body.
The contract fulfilled, Magnus Black made this way back to the surface and left the way he came.
Chapter Seven
On most days, a martini was Lord Winsor Woodwick's favorite drink when he felt low. Today, however, the dry botanicals of vermouth had abandoned him like his no-good roommate, Lord Radford Groen. Sitting in an oversized armchair, Woodwick ruminated on his troubles even as he accepted tea from his niece, Lady Candice, who had paid him a visit.
"This will cheer you up," Candy said.
His walrus mustache nearly touching the dark liquid, Woodwick took a drink.
"I say, what is this?" he asked.
"Pumpkin spice, Uncle Winnie," she replied.
"Just what the doctor ordered," he said but thought, if he wanted to kill me.
"Do you know when Lord Groen will be back?" Candy asked. "We planned on going to Mudderfield Downs to bet on the horses..."
"I really have no idea, my dear. The man's gone off his nut, I'm afraid. I'm not sure I want him to return in his current state."
The door to the apartment buzzed.
"Would you mind?" Woodwick eyed his niece imploringly.
"Of course."
Candy checked the monitor on the back of the front door and found the face of a young man, no more than sixteen, looking back. She thumbed the button beneath the monitor. "Hello?"
"Hi," the boy said from the other side, "I was hoping to speak with Lord Groen?"
"I'm afraid he isn't in at the moment," Candy replied and saw the young man's expression drop.
"That's okay," he said sadly and turned to leave, but stopped when the door opened behind him.
"Perhaps there's something I could help you with?" Candy said in the doorway.
Woodwick, listening to the conversation, cringed at the thought of meeting a stranger, but his niece brought the boy into the living room anyway like a child with a stray kitten. Woodwick did his best to straighten himself in the chair.
"Who's this, then?" he asked.
"That's right," Candy replied. "I didn't ask your name."
"Well, I usually go by Roland," the young man said, "but apparently my real name is Jack Groen."
"Apparently?" Woodwick asked.
"I was adopted," Roland replied. "I didn't know who my real parents were until recently."
"Oh, dear!" Woodwick said, mustering up more energy than he had expected.
"I was hoping to talk with Lord Groen about them," Roland said.
"Why didn't you go to the Groen estate?" Candy asked.
"They refused to see me," the boy admitted. "I don't think they believed me, to be honest."
"How bloody beastly!" Woodwick remarked. "Typical Groens if you ask me..."
"Now, Uncle Winnie..."
Woodwick raised an eyebrow, remembering something. "Dear me, we've forgotten to introduce ourselves. I'm Lord Woodwick and this is Lady Candice."
With a short bow of his head, Roland replied, "Nice to meet you."
"Well, I'm afraid Lord Groen is far afield at the moment," Woodwick went on. "I dare say I don't know where the chap is presently."
"If you could tell his lordship I came by," Roland said, "I would really appreciate it."
"Yes, of course," Candy replied for her uncle. "It was a pleasure to meet you."
Roland smiled, his youthful face betraying a hint of worry. When she had closed the front door behind him, Candy turned to Woodwick.
"Quite handsome, don't you think?" she said.
Returning to his dour mood, Woodwick lay back in his chair.
"Don't start," he said with more bitterness than he intended. "You're a gold digger after all, not a cradle robber..."
Her mouth ajar, Candy glared at him. "Uncle Winnie!"
The Greenwood Country Club might not have served brunch as famous as the Grove at the Emissary Hotel, but what the club lacked in crêpes and croissants, it made up for with immaculate fairways, putting greens like smooth carpet, and a fully stocked beverage cart driven by a robot dressed as a young woman. It was the latter that caught Lord Radford Groen's eye as he stumbled out of the underbrush along the course. The robot, wearing pink shorts and a tightly fitting gold shirt, had just rolled up with her cart at the tenth hole tee. Three men greeted her and began ordering drinks almost immediately. One of the men, wearing a panama hat, was Eugene "Ducky" Davenport.
"Can you make a Manhattan?" Ducky asked the robot.
"Sure can!" she chirped.
Groen nearly tripped over a sand trap rake as he lurched toward the tee box. His hair, a tangled mess, hung around his face. His expensive clothes were torn in places.
"Ducky!" he rasped.
"Good lord!" Ducky replied, seeing the man approach. "Who the hell are you?"
"It's me, Radford..."
"Oh, my," Ducky said, grabbing Groen under the arm with one hand while accepting the cocktail with the other. "What's happened to you?"
Groen fell to one knee. "I need your help."
Ducky laughed before taking a drink.
"Well, of course," he said with a smile.
"I've been looking all over for you..." Groen said. "I need more petals."
Ducky removed his hat and shooed the other two men away, giving him and Groen some privacy.
"You haven't been abusing my little gift, have you?" Ducky asked. "They're more of an 'as needed' kind of chem. You shouldn't be taking them all the time."
Groen tried getting back to his feet, but failed, his knees digging into the soft grass.
"I couldn't stop," he said, staring down. "Now I need more."
"Well, I can't help you," Ducky replied.
Groen looked up, straining his neck. "Why not?"
"It just wouldn't be seemly," Ducky said. "I have a reputation to uphold, you know!"
"But I'm so tired," Groen replied. "I feel weak..."
"Have you tried a cold shower?" Ducky suggested. "That perks me right up!"
"I can barely stand."
"Well, you came all this way, didn't you? Get something to eat and—I'm saying this as a friend—take a shower. You positively reek!"
"Are you coming?" one of the other golfers called as they climbed into their cart.
"Listen, Radford," Ducky whispered while leaning down to him. "Nobody likes a man who can't act like one. If I had known you couldn't handle those Lotus petals, I never would've offered them. Now, get yourself cleaned up and don't bother me again with this business." Ducky tipped his hat and smiled. "Ta-ta!"
Ducky boarded the cart and they drove away, leaving Groen on his knees, feeling sick.
"Can I get you a cocktail?" the robot asked.
"No," Groen replied quietly.
"Alrighty then!" the robot said cheerfully and left in her own cart, the bottles of gin and other spirits inside rattling as the little transport disappeared around a hill.
Usually when Mister Munge tugged rudely on an arm there was blood spray and screaming, not a blinding flash and waking up to the smell of his own burning flesh. That detective had dragged him out of the alley and back to Griefer turf, and for that Munge would pay back the favor, but the scars along his face were a constant reminder that the Cyberpunks deserved payback as wel
l.
Standing in Kid Vicious' office, Munge barely heard what his boss was saying.
"Are you listening?" Kid asked.
"Yes," Munge replied.
"Like I was saying," Kid continued, "who does Big G think he is, calling a summit between me and Gregor Ivanovich? Gang wars are bad for business? I'll tell you what's bad for business: Gregor Ivanovich! The sooner he's dead the better!"
"Munge kill him," Munge said.
Kid cringed while looking at his enforcer. Munge had never been a natural beauty, but his new disfigurements made him a gruesome sight.
"No," Kid replied, glancing away, "I've got somebody else in mind..."
The speaker on Kid's desk buzzed and one of his men said, "That guy you sent for is here."
"Send him up," Kid replied.
Munge listened for the usual footsteps on the stairs outside, but not a sound came through the door until a man, like a dark ghost, pushed it open. His head and face were shaved to a fine stubble and he wore a black leather coat that reached the floor. His sharp, gray eyes surveyed the room and everyone in it the moment he walked in.
"Magnus Black," Kid said, "I've heard a lot about you..."
"I got your message," Magnus replied.
"I've got a job for you—"
"Who’s this?" Magnus interrupted, gesturing toward the enforcer.
"This is my associate Mister Munge," Kid said.
"He looks like somebody used a cheese grater on his face," Magnus said.
Munge growled and took a step forward, but some primal instinct stopped him.
"Good boy," Magnus said before turning his attention to Kid. "What's the job?"
"The head of the Si-Sawat, Big G, has called a summit between me and my rival Gregor Ivanovich," Kid said. "Gregor and I have been at each other's throats and Big G thinks he can make peace between us."
"You disagree?" Magnus asked.
"Big G only cares about himself," Kid replied. "Apparently our gang war has scared away the high rollers from his casino so now he's acting all diplomatic like." Kid held out his arms, imitating Big G's girth. "Look at me, I'm a peacemaker!"
Munge chuckled, but the man in black remained stone-faced.
"Anyway," Kid went on, "I want you to come to the summit with me."
"And do what exactly?" Magnus asked.
"Kill Gregor Ivanovich, obviously!" Kid replied.
"Not exactly subtle," the assassin remarked.
"That's the point!" Kid shouted. "I want to get rid of Gregor and send Big G a message that he's not as big as he thinks he is. Kill two birds with one stone so to speak..."
"Alright," Magnus said. "I'll do it, but I want to get paid in advance."
Kid removed a credit stick from a drawer and slid it across the desk. "Yeah, I figured as much."
Magnus took the stick and dropped it into his pocket.
"When's the summit?" he asked.
"In a few days," Kid replied. "And wear something nice. We've got standards to uphold."
Lord Radford Groen gathered the remainder of his energy and took a gravtaxi to Ashetown. This was not his first time in the district. Groen often visited the Fat Cat Casino, gambling away his family's fortunes at the craps table or roulette. Groen had never noticed all the garbage on the sidewalks before, but even in the darkness beneath a broken streetlamp, he saw the cracked concrete and abandoned vehicles parked along the curb. Still, even as a fog clouded his mind, Groen knew that Ashetown was the place to find chems.
Groen's datapad vibrated in his pocket. Pulling it out, he stared into the face of his roommate.
"Dear lord, Radford!" Lord Winsor Woodwick shouted. "You're positively a mess!"
"Piss off, Winnie..." Radford grumbled, but batted his disheveled hair down all the same.
"I say, that's a fine way to talk," Woodwick replied.
"I'm busy."
"Too busy for my niece?" Woodwick went on. "She was here earlier. Apparently the two of you were going to the track again, not that I was invited..."
Groen wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
"She doesn't need me," he said. "I taught her all I know about betting on the horses."
"Well, that can't have taken long," Woodwick replied. "Where in heaven's name are you?"
"Ashetown."
"At the casino?"
Groen hesitated. "No."
"You're looking for more of that chem, aren't you?" Woodwick asked accusingly. "Ducky called and said you made a scene at the country club."
"Ducky can go to hell."
Woodwick's walrus mustache rustled like a bush full of birds. "I say, Radford, this has gone too far!"
"You can go to hell too," Groen replied.
"If that's the case," Woodwick replied, "then I don't want you to come home, at least not until you've shaken this demon that's gotten hold of you."
Groen mumbled something unintelligible.
"One other thing," Woodwick said. "I don't know why I should bother, but a young man came to visit. He said he was a relative."
"Who?"
"Roland, I believe," Woodwick replied.
"Never heard of him," Groen said.
"Oh, he used another name too. Jack, I think."
"Jack?"
"Yes, Jack Groen," Woodwick replied.
Groen stopped on the broken sidewalk.
"That's impossible," he said. "How old was he again?"
"How should I know, Radford?" Woodwick protested. "In his teens, I suppose."
"I don't believe it."
"Really, Radford, I have no reason to lie. Honestly, I think I've had enough."
The screen went blank and Groen was alone again, or so he thought. From the shadows cast by the neon sign of a laundromat, the form of a man emerged. Lanky and with bad posture, he stepped out of the shadows. With an Irish accent, he said, "Evenin', sir, souns like ya in a bit of botha?"
"Who are you?" Groen asked.
"A friend, sir," man replied. "You lookin' for some petals then?"
"How did you know that?"
The man gave a knowing smile. "I've a keen eye for it. Lotus Eaters have the look, ya see."
"You can get me more petals?" Groen asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.
"Aye, I can," the man replied and beckoned Groen toward the door of the laundromat. While every fiber of his body told him not to, Groen followed. Once inside, the door closed behind him.
With a new case and an advance payment from Lord Maycare in hand, Thomas Martel decided to drop by the Sous-Sol for a drink. The stairway from the street down to the bar was even more dark and grimy than he remembered it, though it had only been a few days. Getting a taste of the high life in the West End may have colored his judgment, Martel concluded as he went inside.
"Louis wants to see you!" Red the bartender shouted, his only greeting.
Of course he does, Martel thought.
He wondered what strange outfit Louis Rion would be wearing this time, but Martel had to admit seeing a little brown dog in the office was the last thing he expected. At Louis' feet, a wire-haired dachshund watched Martel closely as the detective entered. Louis himself wore an overcoat with leather gloves and a tweed Trilby hat. To complete the ensemble, a dark mustache was glued above his lip.
"Bonjour, Monsieur Martel," he said, his faux accent more exaggerated than ever. "Merci beaucoup for yeuwr help with zat swine Monsieur Meung."
"Who?" Martel asked, barely understanding.
"Meung," Louis replied again.
"What?"
Louis grew irritated. "Meu-ng...Meu-ng!"
"Oh, Munge," Martel said.
"Of course!" Louis replied, whispering beneath his breath, "Idiot..."
"Actually," Martel said, ignoring the remark, "I just got a new case and could have paid my tab without running your little errand."
"C'est la vie," Louis replied. "Yeuw may drink freely again at Le Sous-Sol."
"Good to know," the detective said.
Martel
eyed the dachshund. "Does your dog bite?"
"Non," Louis replied absentmindedly, his attention focused on a datapad on his desk.
The detective bent to pet the dog, but the dachshund leaped at him, biting Martel on the hand. Drawing back, he scowled at the bar owner.
"I thought you said your dog doesn't bite?" Martel asked.
Louis glanced at the animal. "Zat is not my dog."
Martel closed the office door behind him, his eye twitching, and sat on a stool at the bar.
"Whiskey!" he said.
Red poured the drink and pushed it in front of him. The bartender grinned, amused by Martel's mood.
"You think you've got it bad?" Red asked. "Try having him as a boss..."
Behind the bartender were pictures of his days as a boxer. As far as Martel knew, Red hadn't been particularly good at it and was deaf in one ear for his troubles.
"Do you ever miss boxing?" Martel asked.
Red scoffed. "Hell no!"
"I'm working a case that might have something to do with gambling," the detective remarked.
"Yeah?"
"Somebody sabotaged my client's racing sled," Martel went on. "Maybe to win a bet."
"Gambling's a dirty game," Red replied. "It wouldn't surprise me..."
"Boxing isn't exactly a clean sport either," Martel said. "You ever throw a fight?"
The bartender's eyes narrowed and he pointed a stubby finger at one of the scars on his wide forehead.
"You see this?" he asked. "I got this for not taking a dive!"
"Sorry."
"Whatever," Red replied, waving his hand.
"Can you think of anybody who might know if a fix was in?" Martel asked.
Red thought a moment and then replied, "Go see the Irishman."
Shady O'Shea, as he was called, worked the streets of Ashetown like the dealer in a game of Three-card Monte: just when you thought he was in one spot, Shady would turn up somewhere else. A jack of all trades, he could also get things done, usually under the table, and he did odd jobs for many of the gangs of Regalis.
The Dreams of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 4) Page 8