Paula kept going. No one tried to stop her. Maybe it wasn’t smart, but she was already closer to the back than the front. When she reached the end of the bar, she walked around it and into the short hall leading to the bathrooms. She passed the women’s room, the men’s room, then hesitated before the curtained doorway at the end of the hall. Fuck it. Paula pulled the curtain aside and walked through.
The room in back was small and dark. Orange lamps in the corners, a few chairs, a desk with a computer. A big-boned man sat at the desk, staring at her. A woman sat in one of the chairs, smoking a cigarette.
Paula walked up to the desk, laid down two twenties, and said, “Paula Asgard.” Her voice sounded perfectly calm, which surprised her.
“Your money’s no good here, white girl.” The man behind the desk made no move toward the money or the keyboard. “You are no good here.”
“Paula Asgard,” she said again, pointing at the computer. “I’m in there.”
The man behind the desk shook his head. “Nobody white is in there,” he said. “You pick up that money now, and go back out the way you came in.”
Paula still had too much nervous energy, pumped up now with adrenaline, and it made her stubborn. And maybe stupid, but she didn’t care. Her heart was beating hard, but she didn’t care about that, either.
“Samuel Eko is a friend of mine,” she said. “You call him upstairs, tell him I’m here.”
“He’s not your friend anymore, sugar,” the woman said.
Paula turned to her. “Yes, he is. Samuel will always be my friend.” She swung back to the man behind the desk. “You call him.”
There was a long silence, no one moving. Finally the man behind the desk stood. “Wait,” was all he said; and then he went out through the curtain.
Paula remained standing in the middle of the room, hands in jacket pockets, right hand gripping the hilt of the gravity knife. She kept her gaze straight ahead, at the unoccupied desk.
The woman put out her cigarette, gave a short laugh, then lit another. “You’ve got balls, sugar. Too bad you’re about to get them cut off.”
Paula didn’t respond. She thought of Samuel Eko, hoping he was upstairs, reachable. She had known Samuel even longer than she’d known Chick. His sister, Angie, had been the percussionist in Heatseeker, the first all-woman band Paula had joined. When Angie had been killed, Paula and Samuel had become close friends, sharing their grief.
The curtain was pulled aside and Paula turned to see the big-boned man come into the room with Samuel Eko right behind him. Samuel was a tall man, well over six feet, almost thin, and one of the darkest men Paula had ever know. He approached her, smiling, and put his long arms around her. Paula hugged him back.
“Let’s go,” Samuel said. With one arm over her shoulder, he led the way to the door in the back corner of the room. He opened the door, and stepped back to let Paula go first.
“So long, sugar,” the woman said.
Paula entered the passage, which led to the Afram Quarter proper, and Samuel Eko followed, shutting the door behind them. The passage was long and narrow, with an occasional door on one side or the other, and lit by bare incandescents spaced every twenty feet.
“You’re a crazy woman,” Samuel Eko said.
“Probably,” Paula replied. “What did I miss? Something with Shockley’s Raiders?”
Samuel nodded. They walked side by side, little space between them; Samuel had to duck at each light.
“They burned down an apartment building on Fillmore this morning. Killed eleven people.”
“That’s what the smoke was.” She’d seen it from her apartment when she got up; smelled it, even.
“Same old shit.”
They reached the end of the passage and Samuel pushed the door open. They stepped out into the Tenderloin, the sky now dark above the buildings, no stars visible through the thick clouds.
“Where you headed?” Samuel asked. They stood on the sidewalk, and Paula was certain that people on the streets were staring at them.
“The Asian Quarter.”
“Why didn’t you just go in there?”
“I should have.”
“I’d better go with you,” Samuel said.
Paula laughed. “Yeah, you’d better.” It was only a few blocks, but Paula didn’t want to do it alone. The streets didn’t look much different from the Nairobi; Paula saw only one other white, a man walking with two black men. A real different feel from what she was used to here. They started walking.
“Sometimes I think we’re never, absolutely never, going to get along,” he said.
“Who?”
“Whites and blacks. Asians and blacks. Anyone and blacks. Hell, anyone with anyone else. Every time things seem to get better for a while, something like this happens. Two years ago it was the crucifixions on the Marina Green. Before that, it was those black crazies burning down all those Cambodian houses and stores. Five years ago it was the Tundra riots and the Mission fires. It’s always something.”
They stopped at an intersection, waiting for a traffic knot to unsnarl. All-percussion music was coming from a bar just down the street; the strong smell of spiced coffee made Paula want to stop at Kit’s, a sidewalk cafe next to the bar, and have coffee with Samuel, but she knew it was impossible. Traffic cleared, and they crossed the street.
“You know my father came from the Sudan,” Samuel Eko said.
“Yes,” Paula replied. “And he met and fell in love with a Namibian beauty who made him the happiest man alive, who became his wife and the mother of his three sons and two daughters.”
Samuel shook his head. “And I’m the only child of his still alive. Sometimes I think I’d like to go back to the Sudan. A simpler life.”
“Starvation’s always a simpler life,” Paula said. “That doesn’t make it better.”
Samuel shrugged. “I know. I know it’s fantasy. But I tell you, Paula Asgard, sometimes I need a little fantasy just to get through the day.”
“I understand, Samuel.”
They approached the Asian-Afram boundary. Most of the Quarters merged gradually into one another, with transitional areas of a block or two. Not here, though. The demarcation was sharp and obvious, as if a line had been painted in the street. Paula half expected to see checkpoints, with armed border guards. Maybe someday.
They stopped at the boundary and Samuel hugged her again. “Take care, Paula. You’re rooting around in something risky, I can tell.”
“Yeah? You a psychic, now?”
Samuel smiled. “You’ve got the feel.”
“I’ll be careful, Samuel.”
“And, Paula? Best if you don’t come back to the Afram Quarter for a while. Maybe a long while.”
Paula breathed deeply, and nodded. “Goodbye, Samuel.” She turned and strode into the Asian Quarter night.
Paula was more at ease on the streets of the Asian Quarter, and within minutes of saying goodbye to Samuel Eko she felt almost normal again, though still keyed up. As always, the streets and sidewalks were crowded, the vehicles hardly moving faster than people on foot. It was so bright that only by looking up, through the message streamers and strings of light, up past the balconies and hanging plants and signs, only by staring up at the dark and heavy clouds overhead, could she convince herself that it was night and not midday.
It took her four hours to find Jenny Woo, and then Paula almost walked right into her. First, Paula had tried Jenny’s apartment above Hiep Quan’s Tattoo Heaven, then a couple of nearby clubs, then the Foil Arcade, followed by run-throughs at a dozen sleazy bars and pits, finishing up at Master Hawk’s Orgone Parlor. No Jenny Woo. She went back to Hiep Quan’s, and almost walked into Jenny as she came out the door next to the shop.
Paula spun around and walked quickly away and into the crowd moving along the sidewalk, not looking back, then swung around the corner and pressed herself against the building wall.
Paula worked her way back to the corner, came around it, and lo
oked toward Hiep Quan’s. Jenny Woo wasn’t in sight. She must have gone the other way. Paula pushed out into the crowd and hurried through it, searching for Jenny.
A pocket of foil dealers surrounded her, scattered when she growled at them. Club barkers reached for her, gesturing into shifting lights and dark shadows. A rat pack streamed past, keeping to the gutter, the leader chanting. Paula squeezed between people, jostled others, sidestepped a quartet of gooners.
Half a block ahead, she saw Jenny Woo dart into the street, zigzagging through traffic, shoving her way through two pop-sellers to reach the opposite sidewalk. Paula hurried forward, but stayed on this side of the road. Another block, and Jenny turned the corner, forcing Paula to cross the street. But she caught a light, used the crosswalk, and almost immediately picked her up again.
Two more blocks, another turn, and they were edging the Core, which made Paula nervous. She had to stay further back, because the crowds had thinned, and now they were moving along an alley half a block from the Core itself. Twice, when she crossed another alley, she could see the ruins of the Core over the barriers: the quiet, collapsing buildings, the crumbling brick and twisted metal, the broken glass and the dark holes. She shivered despite the warmth of the night.
Ahead, Jenny Woo ducked through a doorway. Paula stopped for a minute, then slowly moved forward, past plated-over windows, bricked-in doorways, until she reached the spot where Jenny had disappeared. A deep alcove, and an unmarked, heavy wooden door. Paula was feeling reckless, but she didn’t feel stupid. She didn’t try the door. Instead, she backed away, and looked around the alley, searching for a place where she could hole up and watch the doorway.
There was none, so she had to retreat to the end of the alley and the street. She stationed herself at the corner of the building across the alley, which gave her a view not only of the doorway, but of the Core barrier and the upper reaches of the Core itself, half a block away. She kept her hands in her jacket pockets; the feel of the gravity knife didn’t give her much comfort.
Paula knew she was safe, but part of her kept imagining some subhuman monster emerging from the Core, clearing the barrier and sweeping down on her, capturing her and hauling her back over the barrier and into the depths of the Core, where unimaginable things would be done to her. She’d never been in the Core, didn’t know anyone who had, but the stories were always there, too damn many for all of them to be false.
The side of the building across the alley seemed to open up, a huge section of metal and brick and wood sliding to the side with a tremendous rumble and creaking. A van worked its way out of the opening, shifting back and forth twice before it could get into the narrow alley, pointed toward Paula. Once it was clear of the opening, the section of wall slid back into place. The van came slowly up the alley, with just enough side clearance to allow people to press up against the building walls on either side of it. Paula hung back and watched the unmarked van. As it neared, she recognized the driver—Jenny Woo. Paula pulled back farther, back into the crowd. The van inched out of the alley, then forced its way into the slow traffic and moved down the street, headed away from the Core. Paula followed.
Following the van was almost easier than following Jenny Woo on foot had been. Paula could stay farther back and still keep the van in sight, and in the crowded streets of the Asian Quarter the van didn’t make any better time than Paula did. It was only two in the morning, so the sidewalks were still jammed, and sometimes she had to push her way through knots of people, but it wasn’t much of a problem.
Just five blocks from the alley, near the fringes of the Asian Quarter and along the perimeter of the Tenderloin, the van pulled off the road and dipped down a concrete ramp leading to the basement level of a brick building. Paula ran forward, then cautiously leaned over a pipe railing to look down. A wide metal door rolled up into the wall, and when there was just enough room, the van shot forward and into shadowed darkness. The door immediately reversed direction, and seconds later clanged shut.
Paula had lost Jenny Woo. The van would emerge from the other side of the building, outside the Tenderloin, and there was no way Paula could get to one of the Tenderloin exits she knew and get out to catch the van as it appeared. Even if she could, outside the Tenderloin she’d never be able to follow on foot.
A hand gripped her shoulder. Paula spun around and pulled away in one motion, hand going into her jacket and pulling out the gravity knife, charging it with a squeeze.
It was Tremaine.
Her heart was pounding, and strange feelings swirled around in her stomach. She didn’t know what the hell to think or feel.
“I wasn’t following you,” Tremaine said.
Paula wasn’t sure whether or not she believed him.
“We’re both following the same person,” he added.
“Who?” she asked, still not sure.
“Jenny Woo.”
“Then we’ve both lost the same person.”
Tremaine shook his head. “Not if we move now. I know where she’s coming out. Are you with me?”
A bang decision. Why not? She had nothing to lose, did she? “Sure,” Paula said. She cut the knife’s charge and tucked it back into her jacket pocket.
Tremaine had a way out of the Tenderloin in the building next door, through a bubble courier office and a travel agency. His battered Plymouth was parked at the curb just a few feet away. Half a block down, Paula could see the van coming up another ramp, then turning away from them and heading down the street. The night was much darker outside the Tenderloin, the streets nearly deserted.
Tremaine seemed to be in no hurry. “I’m pretty sure I know where she’s headed,” he said. He unlocked the passenger door for Paula, then got in the driver’s side, started the engine, and pulled out into the street. Two blocks ahead, the taillights of the van turned a corner and were gone from sight.
“So where’s she going?” Paula asked.
“Hunter’s Point.”
The spaceport. Which almost certainly meant New Hong Kong. “She going up herself?” Paula asked. “Or delivering?”
“Delivering.”
“Delivering what?”
Tremaine gave Paula a half smile without looking at her. “I don’t know everything.”
They turned briefly onto Market, then swung onto Fourth. The Marriott was a blaze of colored lights, surrounded by security guards and the shimmer of portable Kronenhauer Fields. But just past it, long abandoned, was Moscone Center, a low, dark shadow on their left, broken windows reflecting jagged strips of light. Paula thought she could still see the taillights of the van ahead of them, but she wasn’t sure.
“What do you know?” she asked.
Tremaine didn’t answer immediately. Rain started falling, light at first. Tremaine raised the windows, leaving small gaps for fresh air. They drove under the freeway, barrel fires burning against the concrete supports. The roadway was cracked and potholed, and the Plymouth bounced and creaked across it. When they emerged from under the freeway, the rain was a torrent.
“Before we talk about that,” Tremaine said, “I want to be clear about something. The other night, what I did, what we did, had nothing to do with this.” He looked at her a moment, then returned his attention to the road. “That was personal, not business. That was between you and me, and nothing to do with my story, or Chick Roberts.” He twisted his head and neck and Paula could hear bones cracking, like knuckles. “I’m not saying this very well, am I? I’m having a lot of trouble with this.” He glanced at her again, then looked away. “I like you, Paula. I think I like you a lot, and I want to spend more time with you, so I don’t want you to think that all that the other night was just trying to get to you about this story.”
They were crossing Mission Creek now, and Paula could smell the stench of stagnant water through the narrow openings in the windows. She wanted to believe him. Of course she wanted to believe him. And, she guessed, she mostly did.
“Okay,” she said. But she didn’t k
now what else to say.
They drove along slowly, in silence. Dark warehouses, small, low buildings on either side, a few street lights, everything streaked with the heavy rain. More barrel fires under shelter. Paula hoped the Plymouth was in good shape; this wasn’t a part of the city she wanted to break down in.
“Then tell me,” she said to him. “What is all this about?”
Tremaine shook his head. “You won’t like this, but I can’t really say much about it. It’s a story I’m working on. I don’t talk about my stories, not until they’re done. It’s pretty much all one way. I ask a lot of questions, but I don’t answer many. I want to ask you about Chick Roberts. You can talk to me about him or not. I can tell you a few things, but you won’t think it’s enough.”
“Tell me what you can, then,” Paula said.
“Will you talk to me about Chick?”
“I don’t know.” She was lying. She would tell Tremaine what little she knew, but she didn’t want him to know that yet.
Tremaine nodded once. He slowed, swung around a huge pothole, then picked up speed. They crossed water again, Islais Creek Channel. Two enormous ships were docked nearby, and their lights reflected like flashing, multicolored scales off the water. Paula wondered what it would be like to board one of those freighters and head out onto the open sea.
Tremaine took a hard left, and Paula looked ahead. There were no taillights, no signs of the van. “Did we lose her?”
“No. I’m taking a different way in. Too easy to be spotted following her this time of night.”
There were small houses on either side now, interspersed among warehouses and other commercial buildings. Almost everything was dark. Then suddenly, as they got closer to the spaceport, more lights appeared, on the street and in buildings, and people were out. Shops were open, and the sound of machinery grew louder. Trucks and vans and cars moved along the road.
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