Titan's Day

by Dan Stout

  Desperate to turn my attention elsewhere, my eyes fell on the booth across the aisle. It was occupied by two human men with the appearance of a couple well into the tail end of their relationship. One was horse-toothed and dressed like he enjoyed spending money, the other was clearly a gym rat, his shirt a size too small to better showcase the product of countless hours spent lifting heavy objects and setting them back down. They were arguing, the more muscular one gesturing at the television, where talking heads debated how the upcoming special election could affect the city’s standing in the AFS, and our ability to utilize what they insisted on calling “next gen manna.” As if a new catchphrase would do anything other than confuse things. A source of power was still a source of power, no matter what you called it.

  I risked a glanced at my partner. He was between bites, so I faced him and returned to our conversation.

  “So the Harlqs.” I struggled with the pronunciation, but got an encouraging nod from Jax. “If they go after the killer, how do they know who to target? It could be any one of a dozen other organizations. Maybe even one of their own.”

  “Not one of their own.” Jax waved his spoon in the air. “They’re too disciplined. Any decisions of significance by the Harlqs are made by committee from another town, maybe even another city-state.” He swallowed with a tinkle of the sharp, inward-curving teeth that lined his speaking mouth. “That’s why I don’t think it was this Harlq boss that Dungan mentioned—Anders. If it were an internal Harlq thing, the body wouldn’t have been found. St. Beisht would’ve been killed in front of an audience and the body never recovered.”

  “An audience?”

  “Of his peers.” Jax lifted another spoonful of oatmeal, but didn’t swallow. “They’d have stood and watched. Or been forced to join in.” The spoon hovered in his grip, steaming, as if he’d forgotten about it. “As a lesson.”

  The waitress appeared at the end of the booth. “How is it, Hon? Good?”

  I mumbled a thanks and Jax slid the oatmeal into his mouth.

  As the waitress departed I leaned across the table. “Okay,” I said. “What’s your deal with these guys? Long as I’ve known you, you’ve clenched up as soon as anyone mentions the Harlqs.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He took a sip of coffee as a bunch of teens who should have been in school sauntered past our window.

  “Look.” I dropped my voice. “Everyone’s got their deep darks. I get that. I’m not asking for all the details, only what I need to know.”

  Ajax furrowed his brows and studied the streaks of oatmeal in his bowl as thoroughly as a divination officer studying the entrails of a murder victim. The couple across the aisle raised their voices. Whatever their conversation was about, it was starting to grow heated. I ignored them, focusing on my partner.

  “Your life’s your business,” I said. “But if we’re about to wade into something and you’re gonna go sideways on me, I gotta know.”

  The couple’s voices grew louder, snippets of insults, something about “keeping what’s ours.” Jax pulled the napkin from his collar and tossed it on the table.

  “It’s nothing you gotta worry about.”

  My pager buzzed, and I fished it out of my pocket. The morning news had moved on to the next story. Technical troubles at the manna strike meant that production was far below projections. More pressure on the city. If the new well didn’t produce, then the shutdown of the other sites would have been for nothing. The number displayed on the pager was a Bunker extension. Dungan calling with our details. I signaled the waitress for the check.

  As we waited, Jax shifted the conversation. “What about the CaCuris? I don’t know much about them besides the name.”

  “They’re Titanshaders,” I said, “and operate by knowing their neighborhoods in and out.”

  “Know the city,” he quoted my advice back to me, and I almost smiled.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Same concept, different goal. They run drugs, candies, gambling . . . Pretty much any racket you can name. But they keep their residents happy.”

  “How?”

  “Stupid little things.” I glanced at the trash-littered streets past the window. “Say someone wants a pothole fixed. They can complain for months, years even, to the city, and nothing happens. But go to the CaCuris . . .”

  “Pothole gets fixed?”

  “Gets fixed the next day. Doesn’t cost the resident anything. Until,” I said, “election time. Because when you go to the polls you—and your family—had better vote for politicians that the CaCuris are backing.”

  “Ballots are secret,” said Jax.

  “Yeah, well, bodies aren’t supposed to show up in washing machines. But they do.”

  The waitress brought our check and I took it, waving off Jax’s attempt to pitch in. I handed her a pair of eight-tael bills and told her to keep the change. Jax eyed me.

  “Feeling generous?”

  I was feeling depressed, and didn’t see the need to spread that state around to the people who came into contact with me. At least, not the ones who didn’t deserve it.

  As she walked away the news show returned from commercial, announcing, “Now here’s Brent with the weather!”

  The phrase “Lazy as a weatherman in Titanshade” is an old cliché. In a town where the warmth of any given area is based more on its distance from the mountain at the crown of the city, and a swing of a few degrees is considered surprising, our meteorologists mostly say “same as yesterday,” and cash a check. Everyone hates weathermen because we’re all a little jealous of them.

  I drained the last dregs of my coffee and we stood to go as Brent the weatherman began to deliver the forecast. By the time I’d set my mug down, two fur-suited figures carrying buckets burst in on Brent from off-screen. They doused the weatherman with what appeared to be a watered down syrup and multicolored confetti. A classic Imp’s Run prank, part of the lead-up to Titan’s Day. Brent sputtered and wiped sticky, glittering confetti from his eyes, doing his best to be a good sport while on camera.

  Laughing, the anchors announced, “Look like the imps have struck early this year!”

  The couple across from us burst into laughter. Whatever their dispute, someone else’s misery brought them together. Maybe a war between the gangs would bring them both down. Or maybe it would unite them against a common foe.

  On the television, the announcers concluded the program with a coordinated wave.

  “Good Day’s Dawning, Titanshade!”

  * * *

  I returned Dungan’s page from a pay phone in the Borderlands and he gave me directions to a garishly ritzy neighborhood, where wealthy landowners could show off their income by living separate from the rest of us.

  We arrived to find Dungan’s Hasam parked on the side of the street, and we piled into his larger vehicle to talk. I claimed the front passenger seat, hefting Dungan’s accordion files of crime families over my shoulder and into Ajax’s lap in the rear.

  “You two have a nice breakfast?” said Dungan. He puckered his lips as he chewed on what I assumed was another hard candy.

  “Nice and healthy,” I said. “What’s your game plan?”

  “My guy’s up there.” He indicated one of the mansions, a stupidly large house for a single family, let alone an individual. Real estate this close to the Mount was the ultimate in conspicuous consumption.

  “Who’s your CI, the mayor?” I loosened my tie. In this part of town the geo-vents released enough heat that we’d left our scarves and overcoats in our vehicle, and Jax had already slipped out of his suit coat.

  Dungan shook his head. “It’s No-Dick Donnie.”

  I let out a whistle of surprise.

  Jax paused his admiration of Dungan’s file organization. “I’m pretty sure I misheard that.”

  Dungan grinned. “You didn’t.”

  “You really
think you can flip him?” I asked Dungan. “The guy’s entire business is founded on him being discreet.”

  Dungan’s eyes lit up. “Which is why this’s gotta stay below the radar. Nice and low-profile, like I promised.” He held my gaze, an unspoken ask whether we could be trusted. A bit of arrogance, considering how he’d threatened to tank Jane’s case if we didn’t come along.

  “Trust me,” I said. “We don’t put cases at risk.”

  His child’s grin spread wider. “Knew I could count on you.”

  “That’s great,” Jax chimed in. “Now are you going to explain his name, or just leave me sitting back here to wonder about it?”

  I craned my neck to face my partner. “Happened years ago, before you came to town. Donnie was a small-time crook who helped some city workers out of a flaming car wreck. When the redbacks arrived, they thought he was robbing the unconscious survivors. They worked him over pretty good.”

  “What, they didn’t—” He made a slicing gesture toward his crotch.

  “No,” I said. “But they beat him bad enough to put him in the hospital. Then that went sideways, too.”

  Jax set the accordion file aside. “How bad sideways?”

  “Complications from a catheter bad,” said Dungan.

  I shuddered. “He got a healthy court settlement from the city for the beating, and from the hospital for the emergency amputation.”

  “Still . . .” Jax indicated the tony neighborhood, with spacious plots and private parking spots. “Enough to live up here?”

  “Enough to set up shop as a kind of dirt-ball venture capitalist,” said Dungan. “He made his real money bankrolling organizations, laundering money, all the white-collar crap that funds the real thugs.”

  “And the City Attorney doesn’t want the headache of prosecuting him and making it seem like the city’s settlement got used as seed money for a criminal enterprise.”

  “It don’t matter how he got the name,” he pointed at each of us in turn, “just don’t use it around him. I’ve been working for months to get on his good side, so don’t blow it by saying something stupid.”

  “Fine,” I said. “So what are we supposed to call him?”

  Dungan exhaled deeply, as if working up some inner courage. “He likes Donnie Starshine.”

  I was halfway through a laugh before I realized Dungan wasn’t joking.

  “He thinks that’s an improvement?” Jax asked.

  “He says it’s because he parties till the sun comes up.” Dungan spit through his open window. “Look, he wants to meet you. Just stand there and look famous, and you’ll be fine. Long as you call him anything but No-Dick Donnie.”

  “That might be easier,” I said, “if you’d stop saying it every time you mentioned him.”

  Dungan shrugged and opened his door. “Duly noted. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The sound of the party was audible from the mansion’s drive. There were echoes of laughter, music, and—incredibly—the occasional splash. Jax and I exchanged a look. Did this guy have a pool?

  I rang the doorbell and waited. The front doors opened to reveal a man who stood a handspan taller than me, wearing a frown and a thin white tank top that put his muscular arms and their crisscrossed pattern of scars on prominent display. He might as well have had “bodyguard” tattooed across his forehead. But that would have been silly. Instead, the tattoo that arched over his forehead like a jail-yard rainbow read “Ass-Kicker.”

  “Morning, Biggs,” said Dungan. “These two are with me. Donnie’s expecting us.”

  The man ignored Dungan, focusing instead on me and Jax, and his angry frown shifted into something more like amusement. But whatever his thoughts, he nodded and stepped aside. We walked ahead of him through the halls of the mansion, turning right or left according to surprisingly high-pitched orders from the big man behind us. In every passage and room the walls were lined with photos of a skinny young man posing with celebrities of all stripes and levels of fame. Donnie Starshine and his collection of heroes. I didn’t need to turn around to know the bodyguard kept his eyes on us at all times.

  We passed a wall of glass that faced the backyard, showcasing the upward slope of the hill and the centerpiece of the rear of the building: a swimming pool. It was the size of three or four parking spaces, and that made it a veritable luxury in a town where real estate was a precious commodity. Hells, I was a grown adult and I’d never been in a body of water deeper than a bathtub. A crowd of fifteen or twenty danced in and around the pool, writhing to a synth-rich track matched to heavily modulated Mollenkampi vocals. One woman in particular enjoyed the attention of the crowd. A fin-headed Gillmyn dressed in a cropped shirt and white shorts, she spun a slow circle on roller skates, pumping her fist in the air. The motions were more or less in time to the beat, but perfectly syncopated to the strobing house lights. Her other hand clutched a chain of prayer beads. With each fist pump she also flicked a thumbnail over a specific bead, as if she were flicking a light switch on and off. Or in her case, an entire houseful of light switches.

  It wasn’t the first time I’d seen the stupidly rich do something brilliantly wasteful, but before the manna strike the idea of such a display would have been scandalous, almost sacrilegious. Now it was only more proof that everyone in Titanshade believed themselves part of the bright and shiny future. An iridescent gilded age. But I didn’t have time to ponder the economics of the pool party. Biggs directed us around a corner, moving away from the revelers and pausing at a pair of leather-upholstered doors, the seams of the material fastened with gold-plated rivets and door handles made out of refurbished pistol grips. The sound of voices raised in anger came from beyond the doors, muffled enough that we couldn’t make out what was being yelled.

  The bodyguard made a flicking motion. “Arms out.”

  We didn’t move.

  “You know we’re cops, right?” Dungan was indignant, a little flush showing on his meaty cheeks.

  “I know who you are.” His voice was squeaky but confident. Past him the yelling continued. One voice deep, the other higher pitched.

  “So you know we’re carrying,” I said. “Everything your boss says, he’s saying to a group of cops. We’re not wired, but I might as well be.”

  He gave me a once-over, weighing my words and deciding how much he wanted to push this particular set of houseguests. Beyond the doors, something slammed on a table. A book, perhaps, or a fist. Maybe even someone’s head. Shouting followed. Biggs made up his mind with a roll of his eyes and a gesture to hurry along.

  “Weapons,” he said. “Show me.”

  I hesitated. The shouting beyond the door made me uneasy. Dungan elbowed past me and raised his windbreaker, displaying his service revolver nestled in its waistband holster. He muttered, “Do it,” as he stepped to the side.

  I gritted my teeth and followed suit, as did Jax. Biggs still patted us down, and Dungan and Jax told him where to find their backup weapons. I wasn’t carrying one—I had a tendency to drop things as it was.

  Apparently satisfied, Biggs stepped to the door and wrapped his hands around the pistol grip doorknobs as if he was about to draw two weapons out of the fabric of the door itself. He paused, the muffled shouting still coming from within.

  “Carter.” The bodyguard’s high-pitched voice caught me by surprise. He stared at me intently. “If you meet him, don’t call him No-Dick.”

  I nodded my thanks, though the usage struck me as odd. If I met him? But I didn’t press the point, and the big man swung open the doors. The yelling ceased abruptly.

  We walked into a living room, a sunken relaxation space that featured an immense television and a pull-down screen for viewing films. On the opposite wall was a small throne of stacked stereo components. Turntable, 8-track, reel-to-reel, receiver, and a massive equalizer, all flanked by a pyramid stack of over-priced speaker
s that were more about size than sound quality.

  In the center of the sunken living space, a pair of well-dressed criminals waited for us. I recognized them from the photos in Dungan’s accordion file.

  We were standing before the CaCuri twins.

  9

  THE DOOR SHUT BEHIND US with a click. Biggs stood solid before it, arms folded, blocking our exit. To my right, Dungan was board-stiff, head pulled back turtle-like into his windbreaker. Whatever was going down, he hadn’t planned it. A quick glance confirmed that there were no windows in the room. Perhaps to make for a more pure blackness when Donnie screened movies, or perhaps so that anything that occurred there would have no chance of being spotted by random passersby. Whatever the reason, the lone exit out was barred by double doors and the man with the Ass-Kicker tattoo. That meant our only way out was to go forward.

  Slightly below us, in the middle of the fashionably sunken room, Catherine CaCuri sat in a plush chair, legs crossed at the ankles and eyes alive with a mixture of curiosity and malice. Thomas stood behind her, one hand resting on the chair back, the other fiddling with a watch chain that draped across the vest of his three-piece suit. They stared at us, united as one, as if they hadn’t been at each other’s throats a few moments earlier. Just like family.

  The twins were in their late twenties, though they had the look of thugs who’d spent years honing their craft. They were overdressed for the neighborhood, and both had an air of casual malice, as if they’d have slit my throat to get a better seat on the bus. Thomas had embraced a retro fashion. His tall forehead was exposed, dark hair slicked back and held in place with a generous helping of gel. His suit was vintage cut, a dark wool that helped set off the sparkle of his rings, one or more on every finger. The kind of man who’d gotten his fashion sense from watching too many old gangster movies, never understanding that he was rooting for the wrong side.