by S. C. Jensen
“Where did Mook come in?”
Constance spoke up, her voice like a high, thin wire being plucked. “Forgery,”
she said. “I’d inquired about hacking biomarkers on financial documents and he connected me to Flint. He wanted in on it, he wanted to help, dug up the info on Martinez and everything. But when your friend at Libra suggested you talk to Mook, he had to go.”
I turned to Scarlett, with her hard eyes swimming behind a wall of tears. “You can shoot him,” I said. “You have time.”
She looked at me and smiled sadly. She lifted the gun. An ammonia smell came off the old man, and the carpet beneath his feet grew darker. She pressed the barrel of the little gun against his temple. She said, “Bang.” Then she dropped the gun in her bag and stalked toward the door.
“Be seeing you, Marlowe,” she said, and she disappeared into the darkness of the hallway outside.
Chapter Ten
I sat in the middle of my apartment floor sharing noodle bowls with Rae Adesina and Dickie Rho. Rae had made sure I got the fee I’d been promised before the HCPD confiscated Angelica’s fortune and passed it off to the family lawyers to fight over. So I’d splurged and invited Dickie and Rae for takeout and a pay-per-play VR gaming experience in my living room via an expensive rented console and visilenses.
“Oo, oo, oo!” Dickie jumped to his feet while browsing the game menu on his headset, somehow managing not to spill his noodle bowl on my head. “This one! It’s based on an old Raymond Chandler story called Trouble is My Business about an Old Earth private eye back in the early 20th century!”
I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “I think I’ve had enough of that in real life.”
Rae pushed the biofoam container away and wiped her electric blue lips with a napkin. Somehow, it didn’t budge. Her black skin shimmered with some kind of internal light that my brain couldn’t make sense of. I’d asked. She claimed it was proper hydration, nutrition, and plenty of rest, but I didn’t buy it. Must be some kind of gene-therapy.
She said, “So, I got the promotion.”
“Congratulations!” I slurped a noodle and clicked my chopsticks together like tiny clapping hands. “Does that mean you can score me a better upgrade?”
“Not until you start taking care of that one.” Rae arched a thin black eyebrow at me over the frames of her glasses. “Where’s that SmartPet of yours? I’m going to program it to remind you of your maintenance schedule.”
“Hey, Mittens,” I shouted. “Quit hiding out in the bedroom and come be sociable.”
“I’m a cat.”
I put my noodle bowl down and rubbed my hands together gleefully. “Come on, come out and show Rae and Dickie the present I got for you.”
Dickie took the headset off and called out, “Here kitty, kitty!”
“Perhaps you should explain to this imbecile what happened the last time there was an invited guest in this apartment.”
“Come out, Mittens,” I said. “That’s an official command.”
There was some muffled cursing from the bedroom and then a simulated click, click, click of the SmartPet walking down the hall. The cat emerged with a look of pure hatred in its narrowed yellow eyes where it glared at me over a cartoon pig nose. Little pink triangular ears twitched with rage, and a curly cue tail attempted to swish back and forth but only bounced up and down.
Dickie snorted, then gasped. “Oh no, I think I got a noodle up my nose!”
Rae tipped her oblong blue afro back and cackled. “What have you don’t to it? Why would you be so cruel?”
“After all I did for you.” Mittens hissed. Through the costume skin, it came out more like a snuffle.
“Yeah, you’ve been swell,” I said. “Right up to the part where you told Weiland how desperately lonely I am, and that if he had ever cared about me, he should probably check in every once in a while.”
“Well, it’s true.” The cat stomped its foot, and a little boot shaped like a pig’s hoof clicked against the floor. “And I can’t help it. It’s part of my programming. He’s registered as a safe contact, and you do miss him, whether you want to admit it or not.”
“I forgive you,” I said. “And after a week of piggy penance you can go back to being your usual delightful self.”
“I’m going to go do some updates,” the cat grumbled and clip-clopped back into the bedroom.
Dickie and Rae watched me carefully after the cat disappeared. Then Rae said, “So you forgive the pet, but are you ready to forgive Tom?”
I balled up my napkin in my fist and tossed it into my bowl. “Not even close.”
“He did ride in all guns blazing and save you from the Bricks,” Dickie said.
“Sure, after I’d already incapacitated the bad guys and started his paperwork for him.”
“But he left you out of the statements?” Rae’s voice tightened. “I don’t think I can handle any more ‘accidents’ happening to my friends.”
“Yeah,” I said. “He did. I can go back to lying low. No offence, Rae, but I don’t think I’ll be doing any more favours for friends.”
“Sorry it turned out like that,” Rae said. “I really did think it would be an easy job.”
Dickie finished his noodles and scooped up the rest of the garbage. “I’ll clean up. You set the game up. Please, just nothing where I have to run around in a half-naked superhero outfit. I always feel so depressed after logging out of one of those games.”
My tattler pinged and a ’gram of Tom Weiland’s face hovered above my wrist. I groaned. “It begins.”
Rae stood up. “I’ve got to visit the girls’ room.” She tiptoed into the hallway.
I ran a hand through my hair and answered the call before nerves or pent-up anger could get the better of me. I said, “Just because a robot cat tells you it’s okay to call—”
“Bubbles, listen to me.” Tom’s grey eyes were pinched at the corner and the bags beneath them were even darker than they were the last time we spoke. “Harold squealed about you to Swain. Told him you had connections with some gambling king pin and were poisoning the Grit against him.”
“What? That’s not true. I’m staying as far away from Swain as I can.”
“I tried to tell him that.” Tom rubbed a big hand over his face and looked at the wall behind my head. He said, “Swain’s livid, though. And paranoid. You’ve got to do better than lie low, Bubs. You’ve got to get out of town.”
“What do you mean ‘get out of town?’ Where the hell am I going to go?”
“Scatter,” he said. “Now.”
Dickie and Rae peered into the living room with wide eyes. Sweat had broken out on Tom’s forehead.
“He’s gunning for you, Bubbles,” he said, and his voice shook. “On both sides of the law.”
He killed the transmission, and the silence that hung in the room after his voice was thick enough to suffocate.
“Sorry guys,” I said. “Party’s over. Looks like I’m on the lam.”
THE END
Glossary
The following are some of the slang words I’ve used in Dames for Hire and Tropical Punch. Where applicable, I have indicated the original meanings of these words from classic pulp novels. Did I miss any? Please let me know if you’d like a term added to the list! Send me a message at [email protected]
Bangtail – space shuttles, originally “racehorse”
Boiler – both personal and rental maglev vehicles, originally “car”
Cush – money (a cushion, something to fall back on), original meaning
Dizzy – crazy or foolish, originally “to be gaga for”
Drift – get lost, original meaning
Fade – to kill, originally “go away” or “get lost”
Feedcasters – live video jockeys on social media
Feedreels – live video footage covering news, social events, gossip, and entertainment topics
Glow-up – originally “a glow” was to be drunk, here used
as a drug-induced high
’Gram – hologram image or video
Grid – the electromagnetic transportation grid
Hack – a taxi, original meaning
Highbinder – a corrupt official, original meaning
Kiss – to punch, original meaning
Kretek – clove cigarettes, original meaning
Long bird – sky train
Pinch – a drug addict, originally “to arrest”
Pro skirt – a prostitute, original meaning
Rate – used to indicate veracity or quality. “That rates” may mean either “That’s good” or “That sounds true,” originally “to be good” or “to count for something”
Scatter – a hideout, or to hide, original meaning
Shill – an accomplice of a hawker, gambler, or swindler who acts as an enthusiastic customer to entice or encourage others, original meaning
Silk – good/okay, original meaning
Skin – a nanoparticle “shell” used to change ones appearance, often used for robots, androids, and personal enhancement for those who can afford it
Slug – subway
Tattler – a communication device similar to a smartphone
Ticket – a license, original meaning
Topped – killed, original meaning
Twist – a romantic partner, original meaning (female only)
Upgrade – a cybernetic replacement part
Vetch – derogatory term for females and femmes
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Dames for Hire!
This tale was born out of my love for the classic noir pulp novels of Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, and the 1980s cyberpunk movement in science fiction. I love the tropes in these genres and I’ve tried to incorporate as many as I could.
One trope I’ve flipped in this story, though, is that of the alcoholic detective. Bubbles is a milestone character for me because she is the first character I’ve written who reflects my own battles with alcohol abuse and (thankfully) my recovery. I hope she will provide both insight and inspiration to others in their journeys toward sobriety. We need more sober heroes!
I will be releasing four more novella length stories in the HoloCity Case Files series, and at least five full-length novels in the Bubbles in Space series. If you’d like to be one of the first to read the next instalment in either series, please join my VIP readers club where you will be notified of pre-orders, new releases, and you can sign up to be on my Advanced Review Copy team!
You can join via the pop-up on my website, www.scjensen.com, or by clicking this link.
If you enjoyed Dames for Hire, please consider leaving a review on Amazon and Goodreads. Reviews help authors improve their craft and help readers find the right books for them.
Flip the page for a sneak peek at Bubbles in Space Book 1: Tropical Punch...
Sneak Peek: Tropical Punch
Chapter One
I wove my way through the writhing dancers on the floor of techRose with my eyes on the girl. My skin pinched beneath the cybernetic prosthetic on my left shoulder. It was time for a refit. Should have thought of that before heading out on the job, but I didn’t expect it to be a problem.
Find the girl, deliver the message. Easy enough.
The girl’s hair didn’t match, not black enough, but hair didn’t cost much to change. She was about the right shape and size to be the one my client was looking for. Petite and dark-skinned, with a silver dress that left only modesty to the imagination. The hair—purple now, not black at all—bounced hypnotically with her hips and faded to pink.
A wig.
I reached out to touch her shoulder with my real arm, and she spun slowly like a display mannequin in an all-night sex shop. A skim of sweat shimmered on her forehead and the wig pulsed yellow and green with the bass rumbling through the floor. Swollen black pupils stared out from beneath metallic-white paint, the frosted lashes so thick she could hardly keep her eyes open.
No necklace.
The air, greasy with sweat and glitter, stuck to my throat. She wasn’t my girl, but I might still get some answers out of her. “You look like you could use a drink.”
Closer to the stage, music ground my eardrums with more passion than the boys up in the go-go boxes. The girls on stage gave their poles the juice, though, and HoloCity credit chips flew through the air like confetti.
She blinked up at me and licked her black painted lips. “You buying?”
She didn’t mean drinks, but I led her out of the crowd toward the bar anyway. This time I used my other arm, the metal one, to part the swath of writhing bodies. It earned me some dirty looks, but no one wanted to pick a fight with a chick with a robotic fist.
Sheets of corrugated metal had been welded together and painted with cheap pink holographic paint to make up the bar. The paint had chipped off in rusty scabs and it crumpled in on the side nearest the entrance, probably where the bouncers had gotten a little too excited about their jobs. Class joint, techRose.
I hailed the barkeep with my cybernetic arm just to show him I had money. I didn’t, not much, but tech prosthetics don’t come cheap—even ugly ones like mine, with all the metal bones and tendons exposed like a silver skeleton, that pinch when you move. Anyway, it wouldn’t hurt him to make some assumptions. I said, “Get her something to sober her up.”
“You’re not buying,” she said. Disappointment tugged her lips into a pout, pretty if you like them slack-jawed and bleary-eyed.
“Just drinks.”
The bartender, a skinny faced weasel with the sallow complexion of a man who sampled too much of his own wares after hours, swung a glass of noxious green liquid toward the girl. He turned his carefully bored expression on me. “And you?”
“Give me a shot of the pure stuff.” I held out my chipped hand to pay for the transaction. “Tall glass.”
His eyes had all the colour and life of a wrung-out dishrag, but this got his attention. “How pure?”
“The purest.” I snapped my fingers. “I have the credits.”
He narrowed his eyes and scanned my wrist. The till screen lit up green and he slunk off to the back room where they hid all the stuff that doesn’t kill you. At the sunken end of the bar, he tipped his nose at someone and jerked his head a bit, just before he swung open the tetanus-riddled door to the back room.
“You’re Bubbles Marlowe.” The girl’s eyes were a little less dead now that the drink had hit her, but as the glow-up left her cheeks a hollow, soulless look replaced it. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“You don’t have to talk.” I flashed her a ’gram from the tattler embedded in my metal arm. “Just nod your head. You know this girl?”
“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, just loudly enough for anyone else who might be listening. She ducked her chin faintly and finished her drink.
The barkeep sidled back up to us and dropped a dirty glass filled with scuzzy-looking tap water in front of me. Best of the best. It probably cost me a week’s wages.
He looked from the girl to the glass and to me again and grinned with pink gums and long teeth. “Expensive taste.”
“She’s not buying, Sy.” The girl slid off her stool and almost crumpled. I caught her arm. Nothing like sobering up to realize how pinched you are. She steadied herself and pulled away from me. “I’m going up for a bit. Gotta fix my head.”
Sy leered at her as she swayed toward the stairs to the dressing rooms. Then he turned to serve a big guy grunting into the seat next to me. The girl looked over her shoulder once and twitched her eyes toward the stairs before slipping back into the writhing crowd. Sober or not, she had a job to do. I tossed back the last of my water and started to slide off my stool to hit the stairs.
“What’s the smoke, Bubbles?” a well-gravelled voice rumbled beside me.
I winced and turned to face the lump of flesh beside me. Grey eyes—eyes I once found irresistible—appraised me. He smirked. I resiste
d the urge to poke him with my metal fingers. I said, “Detective Weiland. You slumming it with the pinches tonight?”
“You used to call me Tom.” He had the wide, easy mouth of an orator. A politician’s smile. He wouldn’t be a detective for long with a face like that. “When we were partners.”
Weiland’s rounded shoulders and barrel chest stretched out the shiny black button-down shirt he always wore undercover. His imitation-denim pants looked like he’d just paid a mint for them and forgotten to take off the tags. Probably it was the only outfit in his closet that wasn’t the stark-grey HoloCity PD uniform.
“Things change.” I spun toward him and rested my flesh-and-blood elbow on the bar. “Plasma rifles explode, arms burn off, partners get canned.”
Weiland took a punch of his drink and bunched up the skin around his grey eyes like he was smiling. He spoke through his glass. “Ex-cops on disability buy cybernetic prostheses and forget to file their licence with government services.”
“That why you’re on me?” I hit the tattler again and flashed him my numbers. “I’ve got a ticket.”
“You’ve probably got more tickets than you need.” He set his glass on the bar between us and leaned back on his stool until the metal screamed its protest. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“If you’re going to throw me a retirement party, you’re about a year too late.”
Weiland waved the bartender over and pushed his glass over the counter’s chipped paint. The pink holographic surface looked sludgy in his shadow. The bartender flashed his weasel teeth and topped up Weiland’s glass.
Weiland tipped his glass toward mine and clinked the rims. “You still hitting the hard stuff?”
The bartender sneered, and I covered my glass with my hand. “H2O.”