Carlucci

by Richard Paul Russo

  Carlucci looked down at his coffee cup, didn’t drink, then looked back at Paula. “What do you expect me to do? I can’t go in and take over the case. I can’t interfere in the investigation without damn good cause.”

  “What investigation?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Paula nodded. The anger was gone from her expression, replaced by exhaustion and a return of the grief. “I don’t know. Something should be done. Mixer said you could help. Do you like it when your fellow cops try to bury something? Don’t you want to know why?” She shook her head slowly. “Somebody should be trying to find out who killed him.” She paused, and Carlucci thought he saw tears welling in her eyes, but she managed to keep them back. “Chick deserves better than this. Anybody does. He wasn’t a saint, but he never hurt anyone if he could help it. This may sound weird, but for all his fuckups, Chick was a good person. Do you have any idea what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “And he deserves better. He deserves something.”

  Carlucci didn’t say anything for a while. Not everyone gets what they deserve, he wanted to tell her, good or bad. But he realized she already knew that. Still.

  “All right,” he finally said. “I’ll look into it. No promises, though. Understand? I’ll have to be careful, and I don’t know how much I can push it.”

  Paula nodded. Her expression didn’t hold out much hope. She wasn’t naive.

  “I may not be able to do much at all,” he said.

  Paula nodded again, but didn’t say anything.

  “Where can I reach you tomorrow? Afternoon or evening?”

  She blinked, as if she’d been thinking of something else. “Um, at Chick’s place, actually. His parents don’t want any of his things, so I’m going to go through his stuff, clean out his apartment.” She smiled sadly. “He was such a fucking slob.” She shook her head. “You have something to write with?”

  Carlucci took two of his cards and handed them to her along with a pen. “Keep one for yourself. Write Chick’s number and your number on the other.”

  She wrote the numbers on the card and handed it back to him.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, or the next day. And when you go through Chick’s things tomorrow?”

  “Yes?”

  “Make a note of anything you think is missing.”

  “And if there is, who will have taken it?” Paula asked. “His killer, or the cops?”

  Carlucci didn’t answer. “No promises, remember?” he said again.

  Paula nodded. “I understand.”

  Carlucci got up from the table. “You coming?”

  “No. I think I’ll stay here a while.”

  Carlucci wanted to say something to her, something that would be comforting, or reassuring. But there wasn’t anything. He stood for a few moments, watching her, then turned away and left.

  2

  LONG AFTER DARK, Paula and Sheela were still out on the fire escape outside Sheela’s apartment, drinking beer. A hot, muggy night, no rain in the air. Sheela was smoking the longest, skinniest cigarettes Paula had ever seen—Silver Needles. Paula was sitting on a crate, her back against the building; Sheela sat on the metal grating, legs and arms and head dangling through the railing and over the edge. A block and a half away, a vacant lot served as the neighborhood dump, and a methane fire burned on the street-side slope of the huge mound of garbage.

  “Pilate Error was supposed to play at The Black Hole tonight,” Paula said. She’d gone through seven or eight beers, and she was fairly drunk, but it didn’t seem to do much to blunt the pain inside her.

  “Chick was a pretty good guitar player,” Sheela said. “Not as good as Bonita, but pretty good.” Sheela had dropped three melters about fifteen minutes ago, but they hadn’t kicked in yet, so she was still coherent. Still, Paula knew she would lose her soon.

  “Bonita never liked Chick much,” Paula said.

  Sheela giggled. “She hated his guts.”

  Paula smiled, brought her beer up to her mouth, and drank. Cold and bitter and smooth, biting her throat. “Yeah, I guess she did.”

  “I liked him okay,” Sheela said. “Even if he did try to prong me that one time.” She turned and looked at Paula, her blonde hair covering one eye. “He didn’t know I don’t go for guys.”

  Oh, God, Paula thought, let’s not go through this again, not tonight. When Sheela got drunk…

  “You want to stay here tonight?” Sheela asked.

  “No. I want to be in my own place, sleep in my own bed.” She also had to meet Mixer at midnight, but she wasn’t going to tell Sheela that. Sheela would misunderstand. “But thanks.”

  “I could always…” Sheela started. Then she turned away and stuck her head back between the railing bars, looking down at the street. “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right,” Paula said. And it was. They’d been close friends for too many years.

  A corporate recruiter van appeared on the street a few blocks away and headed toward them. The van, lights flashing and rolling, moved slowly, at little more than a crawl. White text and images flowed along the side of the van, but it was too far away and the angle was wrong, so Paula couldn’t make out the words or the pictures.

  “I wonder what they’re trolling for tonight,” Sheela said. She drank from her bottle, shook it, then set it down. She coughed violently, whacking her head against the metal railing. She’d had a terrible, hacking cough for years, and never seemed able to shake it. When the coughing let up, she said, “Have you ever thought about going for one of those deals?”

  “No,” Paula said. “You?”

  Sheela nodded. “Once, a few years ago. I was broke, I was living in the cab of an old truck, and I was sicker than shit. Thought I had brain fever, even though I didn’t have the rash. Turned out to be some bad flu, but I didn’t know it then.” She held her beer bottle up to the light from the street lamp across the way. “I need another.” She set the bottle on the grate beside her. “A recruiter for the New Hong Kong orbital rolled down the street one night while I was out trying to scrounge up some food cash. I watched it roll past, all those pictures of outer space, gleaming apartments, clean air and healthy plants, glittering lights and fancy restaurants, tables filled with food.” She shook her head. “I almost went for it. I knew what it would really be like for someone like me—scut work, a tiny hole to live in, institutional food. But I almost went for it. Actually got the van to pull over for me. But as soon as it stopped, and the side doors opened, I freaked. Ran like hell. I thought they were going to come after me and force me to go.” She paused, gripped the railing bars tightly and pressed her head against them. “I told a friend of mine about it the next day, and that night she went out looking for the van herself.”

  Paula thought she knew how this story ended. She drank the rest of her beer, then said, “And she found it?”

  Sheela nodded. “She found it. Signed up and went off to New Hong Kong.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. Never heard from her again. Never tried to find out for myself.” She turned to Paula. “You know, I hear the medicos up in New Hong Kong are working on immortality.”

  Paula shook her head. “Not immortality. Life extension.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really.” Paula shrugged. “Those stories have been drifting around for years. Everyone’s searching for longer life.”

  “Yeah,” Sheela said, “but I hear they’re getting close.”

  “I’ve been hearing that for years, too. I doubt it. Doesn’t really matter if they are. You think we’d get a shot at it? They sure as hell won’t want people like us living forever with them.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Sheela looked down at the beer bottle once more. “Want another?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Sheela grabbed her empty bottle, pulled herself to her feet, then reached out for Paula’s empty. Paula handed it to her, and Sheela said, “I’ll be…”
then stopped. She dropped the bottles, her head jerked twice, a kind of smile forming, and she slowly, slowly crumpled to the metal grating. The melters had kicked in.

  Paula sighed, looking down at Sheela, some of the lyrics for “Again,” a Black Angels song, going through her head:

  I’m never…

  I’m never…

  I’m never gonna get

  Fucked up

  Like this

  Again!

  In fact, Sheela had written those lyrics. Sheela, who now lay in a crumpled heap on the fire escape, eyelids fluttering, fingers twitching occasionally. Live forever? Right. Why in hell would you want to be doing this any longer than you had to?

  Paula moved the bottles out of the way, then knelt beside Sheela and grabbed hold of her under her arms. She pushed herself slowly to her feet, leaned back, and pulled Sheela to the open bedroom window.

  After that it was a struggle—propping Sheela against the building, going in through the window, reaching back out to take hold of Sheela again, heaving her up and onto the windowsill, dragging her over the sill and into the apartment. Once she had her inside, it was a little easier. She dragged Sheela across the floor, then pulled and pushed her onto the bed. It was plenty warm, so there was no need for a blanket. Besides, the melters would be heating her just fine.

  Paula sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, recovering her breath, and watched her friend. Sheela didn’t move much, other than the fluttering eyelids and the mild twitching of her hands and feet. One day, Paula thought, Sheela’s nervous system was going to do a hard crash if she didn’t stop this. She was one hell of a drummer, but she put way too much shit into her body.

  Paula looked at the glowing digital clock in the wall next to the bed. Eleven fifteen. She should be leaving soon to meet Mixer. She got up from the bed and crawled back out onto the fire escape to get the empties. The recruiting van was almost directly below her now, and she could read it.

  ATLANTIS II, the huge, lighted letters spelled out as they flowed across the panels attached to the van roof. So it wasn’t for New Hong Kong. On the side of the van itself, three video panels showed a running series of images—color shots of the first undersea dome being built on the floor of the Caribbean, along with computer-generated conceptions of how it would look when completed. The images were probably even more appealing than the ones Sheela had seen of New Hong Kong. Crystalline blue water, lush aquatic plants; a dome filled with spectacular buildings and gardens; incredible views of the water through the dome itself, with schools of brilliant tropical fish.

  Then more text scrolled across the roof panels: WORKERS NEEDED ** SKILLED OR UNSKILLED ** EXPERIMENTAL SUBJECTS ** GOOD PAY, FINE HOUSING, EXCELLENT BENEFITS. The pictures and images and text repeated as the van rolled slowly past and continued down the street.

  Atlantis II, the undersea dome. It all sounded so peaceful and inviting, Paula thought. Paradise on Earth. And New Hong Kong was Paradise in Orbit. It might almost be tempting if she didn’t know what was really being offered. Still, this recruiter might do all right. It was probably a better contract than most, and there were always people desperate enough to go for it, even if they knew the reality.

  Paula picked up the empties and crawled back inside. It was time to go meet Mixer.

  Paula stood on the roof of her apartment building, waiting for Mixer. Midnight meetings on rooftops. Mixer was a romantic at heart—mystery, melodrama, suspense, atmosphere. From here she could see the upper reaches of a corner of the Tenderloin: elliptical strings of blinking lights marking the rooftop mini-satellite dishes; spinning reflections of seeded catch traps; irregular outlines of razor wire; a couple of small fires, shadowed figures moving among the flames. The Tenderloin. Mixer’s home.

  Gravel crunched, and Paula turned to see Mixer walking toward her. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, and as he approached, she could see lines of metal—narrow tubing, wire, complex joints—surrounding his right hand and fingers and extending up his arm beneath his shirt. Exoskeleton. She wondered how far it went, and why he had it.

  “Hey, Paula,” Mixer said, grinning and saluting her with his right hand, metal brushing the twisted spikes of crusted skin on his forehead. She could just barely hear the soft whir of the exoskeleton’s motors. She could also see now that it extended all the way along each finger, past the last knuckle, with special finger pad attachments so he could grip normally, hold onto things. “What do you think?” he asked. “It’s an exoskeleton.”

  “I know what it is,” Paula said. “You do something to your arm?”

  Mixer shook his head. “No, it’s just an augmentation.” He stripped off his shirt, revealing the entire thing. The exo ran up his arm to the shoulder, where it connected to a metal, plastic, and leather harness that fit across his upper back and chest. “Rabid, isn’t it?”

  “How did you manage it?” A true exoskeleton was incredibly expensive, and had to be custom-designed, built, and calibrated.

  “I did someone a favor.” He put his shirt back on. “It took six months and a dozen fittings before it was finished.” He stretched out his right arm and looked at it with admiration, though only the hand section of the exo was now visible. “Final fitting just an hour ago.” He flexed the fingers, then wiggled them at a fantastic speed, metal flickering like a strobe.

  “Must have been some favor.”

  Mixer shrugged. Paula knew he wouldn’t tell her about it, which was fine. She didn’t want to know.

  “So you saw Carlucci today?” Mixer said.

  “Yes.”

  “What did you think?”

  “What’s to think? I talked to him for maybe half an hour.” She put her hands in her jacket pockets. “You’re probably right about the man. I got a good hit off him.”

  Mixer nodded. “He’s a good cop. An honest cop.”

  “Maybe so. But I don’t know if he’ll be able to do anything,” Paula said. “He kept telling me, ‘No promises.’”

  “He’s got to be careful,” Mixer said, nodding slowly. “If the cops are trying to sink this thing, he’ll have to go real easy.” He shrugged.

  “Sounds to me like he might not be able to go after it at all.”

  “He’ll go after it,” Mixer said. “I know him. And if he doesn’t go on his own, I’ll give him a nudge.”

  Paula looked at him. “You know something about Chick’s death?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged again.

  “Jesus, Mix, how much do you know?”

  “Nothing, really,” Mixer said, “and that’s the truth, babe. I’ve heard some things, been hearing some things for weeks. I tried to warn Chick, told him he might be getting in up to his neck again. Looks like he got in a hell of a lot deeper than that.” Mixer shook his head. “I don’t know who killed him, Paula. I don’t really know why he got himself killed, but I have an idea or two.”

  “Like what?”

  Mixer shook his head; he wasn’t going to say any more.

  “Jesus, Mixer, I hope you’re not in this enough to get yourself killed, too.”

  “Not me, babe.”

  “Mixer.” Paula sighed heavily. “Don’t call me ‘babe.’ We’ve been through that before.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. Sorry.”

  They stood together at the edge of the roof, looking out at the night. Paula hadn’t heard a siren in a long time, which gave the night an eerie, quiet feel, though of course it wasn’t all that quiet. On the street below, an all-female thrasher pack cruised past, motorized boards growling at low idle. A trio of rollers wandered in and out of the street, chanting, their head-wheels spinning. And from somewhere nearby came the distorted racket of metal-bang rock.

  “I miss the skinny bastard,” Mixer said.

  “Yeah.”

  Mixer turned to look at Paula. “How are you doing?”

  The ache jammed up against her chest again. When was it going to stop? “Got a hole in my heart,” she said.

 
Mixer nodded and put his arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him. The ridges of the exoskeleton felt strange to Paula, yet comforting.

  “Need anything?” Mixer asked.

  Paula shook her head.

  Mixer leaned into her, kissed her on the cheek. “Let me know.” Paula nodded. “And let me know what you hear from Carlucci.” Paula nodded again, and he let her go. “I’ll talk to you.” He turned and walked toward the roof ladder, gravel crunching under his shoes.

  Paula gazed down at the street below and listened to Mixer’s footsteps until he’d crossed the roof, descended the ladder, and was gone. Gone. Just like Chick, except she’d never see Chick again. “Aw, shit,” she whispered to herself. “Chick…” But she didn’t know what else to say except his name. “Chick…” she said again, then nothing more.

  Paula remained on the roof a long time, fighting the tears until she just didn’t have the energy to hold them back any longer. She sat on the roof ledge, legs dangling, arms pressed into her sides, and cried.

  3

  MIXER WAS BACK on home turf, surrounded by light and sound, crowds and moving vehicles, color and the crash of city music. Walking the streets of the Tenderloin at night. One in the morning, the Tenderloin was still peaking, humming all around him. Message streamers shimmered above the street, swimming in and out of existence, hawking goods, announcing special events, calling for job applicants, crying for help or love.

  Mixer didn’t pay much attention to the activity around him. He was feeling out of sorts. It was his talk with Paula about Chick, about Carlucci. He liked Carlucci all right, but thinking about the homicide cop always made him think about Sookie, which brought up the old aches inside him. No, he didn’t just feel out of sorts, he felt damn shitty.

  Sookie. Thirteen years old, the final victim of the Chain Killer. Tanner and Carlucci had caught the bastard, and the guy had ended up dead, but not before he had killed Sookie, tattooed angel wings onto her eyelids, and grafted metal bands and chains to her wrists and ankles. Mixer had been at the lagoon with Tanner and Carlucci when she’d been pulled out of the water. Shit, he wished he hadn’t seen that. Three years later it still made him sick when he thought about it, still gave him nightmares once or twice a month. He had seen a few dead people in his life, and some things a lot worse, but nothing had ever bothered him like that. Sookie had been special to him, and he figured it must be like losing a sister or daughter, though he’d never had either.