“No.”
“She’s good, she’ll take care of you. Everything you’ll need on her will be with the money.”
They sat a while longer in silence. Across the plaza, a trio of Rollers, headwheels spinning and flashing green lights, had faced off with the True Millennialists, and the two groups shouted back and forth, an exchange that to Tanner seemed almost ritualistic in its tone and cadence.
“You don’t have to do it, Tanner. It’s not your job anymore.” He paused. “You don’t have to do it.”
Tanner gave him a half smile. “Sure I do. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“No. But I don’t need one.” He stood. “I’ll see you, Carlucci.”
“Stay in touch.”
“Sure.” He glanced over the True Millennialists. The Rollers were gone, and the Millennialists were now settling down on their pile of rubble, as if they were going to sleep. They seemed to be at peace. Then Tanner looked one more time at the armored upper reaches of the Tenderloin, sun glinting off metal and glass, and started for home.
13
TANNER BEGAN THE night in the Financial District. With the blaze of light from all directions it was nearly as bright as day, though the light was cleaner, white and sterile as it reflected from shining alloys, polished stone, dark glass, and bleached ferroplast. Streets and sidewalks were fairly busy even at this hour—between foreign market hours and the security of the checkpoints, the District never closed down anymore; it only slowed its pace a little at night.
Tanner was still uncomfortable from the checkpoint run. He had never become accustomed to the body searches, and without a permanent pass there was no way to avoid them. He’d had to put up with the searches even as a cop—only those stationed within the District got the passes. On the other hand, Tanner thought, he didn’t really want a permanent pass to this place. He did not like the Financial District and did not like most of the people who worked here.
Tanner pulled his raincoat tight, though there was no rain yet—an attempt at regaining some comfort. The raincoat was a marvel, coated with some kind of semi-permeable membrane that kept the water out, but actively breathed, kept him almost cool even in the damp heat.
As Tanner moved through the crowds, he noticed the glint of metal on flesh all around him. A lot of men and women appeared to have metal prosthetic limbs or facials, but Tanner knew that most, if not all, were fakes. It had become a fad, a fashion trend. Faux Prosthétique, Alexandra called it. Money people had taken to wearing the metal add-ons and coveralls like jewelry or makeup—put them on in the morning, take them off at night. Very expensive—they had to be custom fitted to allow full limb function—but not permanent. Like rub-on tattoos, Tanner thought.
He climbed the steps leading to the massive glass doors of the Mishima building. Workers streamed in through the doors, the evening shift coming on for the opening of the Tokyo and New Hong Kong exchanges. Tanner noticed that none of them wore metal—Mishima Investments strictly forbade any fakes.
Tanner stepped through the high doors and approached the security desk. A visitor’s pass complete with his photo was already prepared for him, and after a quick and polite identity check he was passed through to the elevators.
When he emerged into the open fifty-eighth-floor reception area, Tanner was enclosed by a solid hush of quiet. A wide expanse of pale carpet, sand walls, and low furnishings surrounded him. At the matte black reception desk on the opposite wall sat a tall, dark-haired woman with a silver metal face. Tanner had never seen her before, and the shining metal disturbed him. It was not a mask; the polished metal contoured to the woman’s skull was her face. He wondered if it had been elective.
“Mr. Tanner.” The woman’s voice, emerging from between metal, segmented lips, was soft and cool. “Mr. Teshigahara will see you now.”
The wall to her left swung open. Tanner walked toward the opening, and as he passed the woman he thought he heard a long, low hiss. He turned to look at her, but she was facing the elevator, silent and unmoving. He turned away and went through, the wall closing behind him.
Two of Teshigahara’s office walls were all glass; through them was an expansive view of the bay and the Golden Gate. The wall through which he’d entered was fronted by a series of cherry-wood cabinets; behind their closed doors, Tanner knew, was a bank of television and computer monitors. In front of the last wall was Hiroshi Teshigahara’s desk. Teshigahara sat behind it, immaculately dressed in black except for a white shirt. His thin, black tie was tastefully streaked with silver, nearly matching the streaks in his hair.
“Mr. Tanner,” he said.
“Mr. Teshigahara.” Always so damn formal, Tanner thought.
Teshigahara stood and walked to the largest of the windows, facing north. Tanner joined him, gazing out through the glass. Almost directly ahead, out in the bay, the bright lights of the casinos on Alcatraz pulsed in the night, their reflections flashing off the choppy waters around the island. The Golden Gate Bridge, intact once again, was a beautiful lattice of amber and crimson lights spanning the entrance of the bay.
“My friends in New Hong Kong would like me to express their appreciation for the shipment of swiftlet nests.” He turned to look at Tanner. “They believe the vital qualities of bird’s-nest soup are of even more value in the orbitals than on Earth.”
“What do you believe?” Tanner asked.
Teshigahara smiled, shrugged, then said, “They are Chinese.” He turned back to the view. “The nights are quite beautiful from here,” he said. “The worst of the city is hidden by darkness and distance, or given a false sheen by the lights.” He paused. “You have something for me?”
Tanner took a sealed manila envelope from inside his jacket and handed it to Teshigahara. TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF THE DEATH OF LOUIS JOSHUA TANNER, the label read. A hint of smile flickered across Teshigahara’s lips.
“It sounds so ominous.” He looked at Tanner. “Are you going to die soon?”
“I hope not.”
“A precautionary measure.”
“Yes.”
“Some items you wish attended to if you are…incapacitated.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going somewhere?”
“Not far,” Tanner said. “Into the Tenderloin.”
Teshigahara moved his head slightly, a gesture of dismissal. “Its dangers are greatly exaggerated,” he said. “Outsiders are not killed in the Tenderloin, at least no more frequently than in any other part of the city.”
“I know,” Tanner replied. “It’s not the Tenderloin. I am looking for someone.”
“Ah.” Teshigahara nodded.
Tanner half expected an offer of help, but Teshigahara made none. Instead, the small man crossed the room and laid the envelope on the desk before turning back to Tanner.
“When you have completed your task,” Teshigahara said, “my friends in New Hong Kong will want to resume making use of your services.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Teshigahara nodded once more, then said, “Good-bye, Mr. Tanner.”
No offer of help, no wishes of good luck.
“Good-bye.”
The wall swung open. Tanner walked through, glanced at the metal-faced woman, then headed for the elevator. Once again he thought he heard hissing come from the woman, but this time he did not pause, he did not look around. The elevator doors were open. Tanner entered, the doors closed, and he descended.
Chinatown. It was a long trip to the other end of the Corridor, where it abutted the east wall of the Tenderloin, and Tanner hired a scooter. The driver was a skinny old man around seventy or eighty, with long white hair braided down to his waist. He wore black leather jacket and pants, and black leather boots with clear thermoplast heels that sparked a bright blue and crimson pattern in the night.
As he rode through the Corridor, bouncing roughly on the back of the scooter, Tanner thought of Teshigahara’s observation
on the view from his office. Down in the streets a lot less was hidden. Flashing neon and sputtering amber lights lit the teeming crowds and street soldiers, illuminated the scarred edges of skin and fabric, cast pulsing and shifting shadows into the alcoves and gutters. They passed a string of stunner arcades, jerking bodies visible through tinted glass; hovering outside the doors were packs of street-medicos waiting to pick up some business. A thrasher pack was walking their boards through the Corridor, blood leaking from a gash across the leader’s forehead. The high-pitched singsong of Chinese music battled with explosive pockets of neo-industrial metal, an occasional blast of slash-and-burn, and the general clamor of human voices.
The scooter dropped him at the door of Joyce Wah’s restaurant at the far end of the Corridor. Alexandra stood in the doorway, watching him. She wore an ankle-length raincoat of black swirled with opalescent red.
“I know, I’m late,” Tanner said.
Alexandra smiled. “I knew you would be. I just got here a few minutes ago myself.”
Inside, they were met by Tommy Lee, Joyce’s partner. He scowled at Tanner, said, “I wish I could kick you out, you son of a bitch.”
“Is Joyce in tonight?”
“No. Home sick. So why you don’t just leave?”
“We’ll eat upstairs.”
Tommy turned and stalked off.
“He doesn’t like you much,” Alexandra observed.
Tanner smiled. “We had a disagreement a couple of years ago. If it wasn’t for Joyce, he’d probably poison me.”
They climbed the narrow, tilted stairs and sat at a window table with a view of the Tenderloin’s eastern wall directly across the street. A young woman brought cups and a pot of tea to the table. Alexandra spent a few minutes looking through the menu while Tanner gazed across the street at the wall of buildings that formed one boundary of the Tenderloin.
There were no longer any regular street entrances into the Tenderloin. Buildings had been erected across the streets along the outer boundaries, filling the gaps so a nearly solid wall of buildings—broken only by narrow alleys—formed a rectangular perimeter, ten blocks long and eight blocks wide. The streets opened up again inside the boundaries, but you would never know that from the outside.
Lights were on in nearly all the windows, and would stay on through the night. Like the Financial District, the Tenderloin never closed down. In fact, the Tenderloin ran faster at night, like a colony organism on speed. Which was why Tanner was going in at night.
The young woman returned, took their order, and left. Tommy Lee came through the room, glared at Tanner, then headed up to the third floor.
Alexandra laughed. “My grandfather told me once about a restaurant in Chinatown where one of the major attractions was a terribly rude waiter. People actually went in order to be insulted by him.”
“Poor Tommy. Born out of his time.”
Tanner looked back out the window. Across the street and down a block, two large freight trucks were unloading into one of the Tenderloin’s underground docks. The trucks blocked traffic, and men and women worked furiously with the stacks of crates. Horns blared, lights flashed.
“So you’re going into the Tenderloin,” Alexandra said.
“Yes.”
“That should be fun.”
Tanner smiled, still watching the trucks being unloaded across the street.
“You going to stay inside, or go in and out?”
“I’ll stay, at least for a few days. I’ll be looking for someone.”
“I know a place,” Alexandra said. She waited a moment, then said, “My sister lives inside.”
Tanner turned to look at her. Alexandra had a pained, distressed expression on her face. “You’ve never mentioned a sister,” he said.
Alexandra nodded, turning away from him. She did not say anything for a minute, then finally spoke again, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “Identical twin.”
Tanner did not respond. He watched the muscles in Alexandra’s face and neck tighten. She sighed and nodded again.
“I don’t talk about her because she doesn’t want me to.” Another pause. “You’ll have no trouble telling us apart. Her growth hormones went skizzy on her when she was about ten. She’s a foot and a half shorter than I am, and her bones have been rotting away since she was fifteen.” She paused, pressed her face against the window. Rain had begun to fall, spattering the glass. “But her face is just like mine.” She picked at loose slivers of wood on the windowsill.
The waitress brought their food: shrimp chow fun, war won ton soup, rice, and pot stickers. She checked the tea and quietly left.
“I’ve talked to her,” Alexandra said. “She has an extra room, and she’ll be expecting you. Here’s her address.” She slid a card across the table. Tanner slipped it into his shirt pocket.
“Thanks.” He hesitated, reluctant to press her, but he felt he needed to know more. “So tell me,” he finally said. “What’s she like?”
Alexandra slowly shook her head. “Hell, that all depends on your timing, I guess.”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s got a lot of weird stuff going on inside her. The hormone stuff. And drugs—painkillers, mostly. And an occasional bout of depression. Most of the time she’s all right, but when you get the downside of all those things hitting her at the same time, well, she can be just a miserable bitch.” She paused, looking at Tanner. “But basically she’s a good person, Louis. Remember that, even if she’s in a foul mood.”
Tanner nodded. “I will.”
They ate without talking much. Water from the rain washed down the window in sheets, distorting the lights and images of the street. The food, as always, was delicious, though relatively mild. Tanner had given up spicy food, as much as he liked it, back when he had been a cop. His digestive system had become too sensitive, easily irritated, and he had wanted to make damn sure he never developed ulcers. He had watched his mother suffer for years with them; whenever he thought of her he always pictured her mouth, lips ringed with chalky white from antacids. It had seemed strange when lung cancer killed her in the end, especially since she’d never been a smoker.
When the food was gone, they stayed and drank more tea. Tanner chewed on the fortune cookie, smiling to himself. Stale. Every time he had eaten here the last fifteen years the fortune cookies were stale. His fortune read: “Monkeys will guide your life. Feed them well.” As always, it meant nothing to him. Alexandra would not read her fortune. Instead, she made a great show of chewing and then swallowing the narrow strip of paper, washing it down with tea.
“It will transubstantiate within me,” she said. “Become a mutated neurotransmitter that will fire my brain to Nirvana.” She smiled. “Or fry it into slag.”
“You probably won’t be able to tell the difference.”
“Probably not.” She stopped smiling and gazed at him silently for a long time. The restaurant was quiet, and the rain was loud against the window, slapping at the glass. “It’s like watching myself decay,” she finally said.
“Your sister?”
Alexandra nodded. He thought she was going to say more about it, but she just shrugged, shook her head. She gestured across the street, then said, “It’s a funny place.” Tanner nodded. “Watch yourself in there.” She paused, gave him a half smile. “And say hi to my sister.”
“I will.”
Tanner stood on the sidewalk in the rain, gazing across the street at the light-filled wall of buildings. The dark, narrow alleys, misted with rain and shadows, appeared to be the only way through, but Tanner knew better. Trying to get in through the alleys wouldn’t get you killed, but you would end up back outside in less than ten minutes, without a nickel, without half your clothes, and completely dazed and confused.
He glanced back and up at the second-floor window. Alexandra was still there, watching him. She did not wave, and neither did Tanner. He turned away, pulled his coat tighter against the rain, and started across the street.
<
br /> 14
SOOKIE STOOD IN front of the basement door, breathing heavily. Wasn’t the same basement, but she was scared anyway. No machines here. No machines, no winged freak with metal skull and metal voice. An empty basement. Maybe.
She stepped back, leaned against cool concrete, lit a cigarette. Fingers shook. Save it, she told herself.
The ground rumbled and she turned, looked up at the street to see a Black Rhino thundering down the road. Chunks of pavement kicked loose, people scattered, and a string of Chikky Birds on roller skates moved along in its wake, dodging the new potholes and chunks of street. Smoke and streaks of sparkling blue electricity shot out from under the vehicle.
Sookie shook her head and turned back to the basement door. Just go. You want to see Mixer? Then go. Go. GO.
She crushed her cigarette, grabbed the doorknob, pulled. Dark and dust. Sookie slipped inside but didn’t shut the door. Light, where was it? She fumbled along the wall, found the switch, flipped it. Nothing.
Oh, man. It’s okay, you know this basement. She had known the other basement, too. Sookie stood against the wall, let her eyes adjust. There was dim light from outside, too. Eventually it was enough.
She could see the rows of empty metal shelving, the rolls of dirt and dust. And the hatch. She went back to the door, got her bearings, then closed it. Sookie moved quickly now, feeling her way along the rickety metal shelves, then dropped to her knees next to the hatch.
The hatch came up easily. A soft glow of light rose from below. Sookie dropped through, landing on the wooden platform, and let the hatch slam shut. She sat on the platform and breathed deeply. Completely underground, out of the basement, she felt safe again.
The tracks beside the platform hummed quietly, not quite silent. Picking light was green. Sookie grabbed a luge cart from the rack, checked the neutrality, then set it on the tracks. She stretched out onto it, feetfirst and belly up. Shoes into stirrups, head into the support, propped up so she could see ahead. Hands on brakes and controls. She cut the neutrality, and the cart shot forward.
Carlucci Page 6