Carlucci sipped at the Scotch, tongue and lips burning. The building was quiet; he could hear faint sounds of movement above him, but not much else. There was flickering light outside, visible through the kitchen window, but the Tenderloin’s night sounds were muted. He felt very much alone.
What to do. Paula and Mixer and the two Saints wanted his advice. Because he was a cop? Yeah, he was a cop, and he was supposed to find out who committed crimes, collect evidence, and then arrest those responsible. And if he did his job well enough, a lot of those criminals would be tried and convicted and pay the price this society had decided they would pay. More or less.
But there had been plenty of crimes committed in this business, probably a lot that he didn’t even know about yet, and he couldn’t make one fucking arrest that would ever stick. There was no way he could see to make those who were ultimately responsible pay. This time, he could not do his job.
It wasn’t his fault, he knew that. It wasn’t from lack of effort, or some inadequacy of his. But he still felt ineffectual. There was nothing, it seemed, that he could do.
He got up from the table and walked to the small window. Leaning against the counter, looking down and out through the grimy window, he could just see the alley below, dark figures moving in and out of the light of fires. Why did they have fires? The nights didn’t get cold. But there was something comforting about the drum fires, and he almost felt like going downstairs and taking up that guy’s offer of a beer. It was a better offer than the ones he’d had from the mayor and the slug. It was an offer he could live with.
Directly across from him, a large, heavy cat sat on the ledge of a lighted, open window, chewing at its claws. A bright light flared overhead, and red embers showered down into the alley, but the cat wasn’t in the least distracted. Fat cats, he thought. The mayor, his buddies, everyone up in New Hong Kong.
No, he could not do his job. Which left him with only two options.
Try to bury it all and walk away; let the mayor and Jenny Woo and New Hong Kong all go on, undisturbed, shipping their bodies, doing their research.
Or somehow blow it wide open, and hope nobody else got killed.
Carlucci returned to the table, sat, poured himself some more Scotch, and waited for the others to return.
27
“GIVE IT TO Tremaine,” Carlucci told them. “Give him everything.”
Outside the Tenderloin, Carlucci and Paula skirted the DMZ and headed for the Polk Corridor on foot. He’d had too much to drink, and was glad he wasn’t alone; he didn’t trust his own judgment. The drizzle had stopped, but everything was wet. It was well after midnight, and the sidewalk was almost empty. The street wasn’t much busier.
No one had argued with him. No one had offered any other ideas. They had agreed to turn over hard copies of the text and translation and diagrams to Tremaine—Paula had them with her now, tucked up inside her jacket. They would all, Carlucci included, tell Tremaine everything they knew. And Carlucci had taken the discs, promising to destroy them once Tremaine’s story was out.
“Do you want the discs?” Carlucci now asked Paula. “For Chick’s music, his videos? No one but me would know.”
Paula shook her head. “No, but thanks. I was thinking of asking you for them, but it’s not worth the risk. Like you said, anyone finds out somebody has them…whatever music’s on the discs, it won’t really matter that much if I don’t have it.”
“I’ve thought about scattering them around the city,” Carlucci said. It was a crazy idea that had come to him. “Drop one on the sidewalk here, toss one onto a roof in the Asian Quarter, leave another in a coffee shop. All around the city. See what the street does with them.”
Paula smiled at him. “That’s not such a bad idea.”
Carlucci shrugged.
“You’re not going to do it, though, are you?”
“No.”
They continued in silence until they reached the Polk Corridor. There was more traffic, now, more lights and noise, more people. The sidewalks were almost crowded.
“Home,” Paula said.
They passed Christiano’s, where they’d eaten and talked, where he had told her he would look into Chick’s death. It seemed to Carlucci like a long time ago. Things had changed quite a lot since then.
Music banged out of a window across the street, and two women were dancing to it in the street, hopping in and out of traffic, smiling when cars honked at them. A man with a see-through prosthetic arm nodded at Paula, who nodded back. Two heavy women bundled in long coats staggered down the sidewalk, cigarettes in hand, both of them drooling. Other things didn’t seem to change at all, Carlucci thought.
A few more blocks, then they cut down a street to Paula’s building. Carlucci stopped on the bottom step of the porch.
“You want to come in?” Paula asked.
“No. I should get home. Andrea will be wondering what the hell has happened to me.”
“I wish I’d met her.”
“Maybe someday.”
Paula nodded and sighed. “Who’d have thought?” she said. “When I first tracked you down and asked you to check out Chick’s murder. It seemed so simple, then. And it turned into such a mess.” She paused. “I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“Don’t be,” Carlucci said. “You couldn’t have known. And it was the right thing to do. Sometimes that’s what’s most important.”
“Is that why you think we should give it all to Tremaine?”
Carlucci shook his head. “I have no idea if it’s the right thing. I just don’t know what else to do.”
Paula nodded. It seemed to be enough for her. “I’m never going to find out who killed Chick, am I?”
“No.”
“It’s over,” she said. “But it’s not.”
“No,” Carlucci said. “Things like this are never completely over.”
Neither of them said anything for a minute. Paula took out her keys. “How are you getting home?” she asked.
“I’m going to splurge, catch a cab.” He paused, then said, “Be careful, Paula. Tremaine does his story, this place’ll get hairy when it breaks.”
“I know.” She shrugged.
“Will you be seeing him soon?”
“I guess.”
“Tell him I’ll talk to him.”
“I will.” She gave him a tired smile. “Good night, Frank Carlucci.”
“Good night, Paula Asgard.”
The mayor’s limo, long and dark and silent, was parked in front of Carlucci’s house when he arrived. Carlucci paid the cab driver, then waited for the cab to pull away. He watched his house, wondering how long the mayor had been here. He started up the walkway to the porch, thinking about the discs in his coat.
The rear door of the limo opened, startling Carlucci, and the mayor stepped out. Carlucci stopped, halfway along the walk, and waited for the mayor to join him.
The mayor’s expression was hard and ugly in the light from the porch. “If you fuck me, Frank, I’ll take you down with me.”
Too late, Carlucci thought, I already have. “What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I told you to bury my nephew’s case,” the mayor said.
“No. I asked you if that’s what you wanted, and you said no.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Frank. You understood what I wanted. You knew exactly what I was asking for.”
Carlucci nodded, sighing. “I understood.”
“I’ve been hearing things. And I don’t like it. And not just about my nephew. The Chick Roberts case wasn’t even yours.”
“Who’s Chick Roberts?”
The mayor’s mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile, and he slowly shook his head. “You fuck. I made you an offer, once. Not just your life, but a much longer life.”
“I didn’t realize at the time what you were offering.”
“You do now, don’t you?”
Carlucci nodded.
“The offer won’t
be good much longer,” the mayor said. “And you won’t like the alternative. Your friend Mixer didn’t. Now you bury this shit, and bury it fast, before all hell breaks loose. You understand?”
“I understand.”
The mayor glanced toward the lighted windows of Carlucci’s house, then looked back at him. “Do you?”
Carlucci nodded. “I understand,” he repeated.
The mayor stared at him a while longer, then turned away without another word. Carlucci watched him climb back into the limo, slam the door shut. The engine started, headlights came on; then the limo pulled smoothly away from the curb and drove down the street.
Andrea opened the front door as he came up the steps. “Are you okay, Frank?”
Carlucci nodded. He stepped inside and Andrea closed the door, locking it and throwing the bolts.
“He was parked out there all evening,” Andrea said. “It was starting to worry me.” Then she wrinkled her nose. “You’ve been drinking. A lot.”
Carlucci nodded again. “Too much.” He smiled. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Why, Frank?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Carlucci took her hand in his and led the way into the kitchen. It was going to be a long, long talk.
Paula stood just inside her apartment, her back against the door, looking around the room. Her gaze stopped on the remaining boxes of Chick’s things. She would have to remind Mixer and the Saints that she wanted the music back, all those tapes and discs. All that was left of Chick.
Chick.
She walked into the bedroom, unzipped her jacket, took out the manila envelope filled with the text and diagrams from the discs, and tossed it onto the bed. Then she sat next to it, picked up the phone, and dialed Tremaine’s number.
It rang several times, finally was picked up. “Hello?” His voice was husky with sleep.
“Ian. It’s Paula.”
“What is it? Are you all right?” Voice clearer, now, alert.
“I’m fine,” Paula said. “I have something for you.”
“What?”
“Everything.”
There was another pause, longer. “Should I come over now?” Tremaine asked.
“Yes,” Paula replied. “I want you here, Ian.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Paula hung up the phone. She took off her jacket, then got up and sat in her recliner, facing the blank monitor. The disc with “Love at Ground Zero” was still in the player, but she couldn’t bring herself to watch it.
“I did what I could, Chick.” Her voice was a whisper, she could barely hear herself. “I did what I could.”
She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and waited for Tremaine.
BODY-BAGS, RECRUITERS,
AND MURDER:
New Hong Kong’s Search for Eternal Life
by Tremaine
This story is not really about “Eternal Life.” This story is about life extension. But life extension so great it has the sound and feel of eternal life. Immortality. Life extension of as much as two hundred years.
Imagine living to be two hundred and fifty years old. Good, or bad? More importantly, at what cost?
The answer to this kind of life extension is not here yet, but it probably will be soon. And it will be the medical researchers of New Hong Kong who find it, because they are searching for it now, and they are closing in. They do not care, however, at what cost they find the answer. They do not care what the answer is. And for now, they will do anything to keep what they are doing a secret.
People have been killed in recent weeks, killed to keep this a secret. A guitarist and low-end drug dealer named Chick Roberts has been murdered. William Kashen, the nephew of San Francisco’s mayor, has been murdered. Robert Butler, William Kashen’s business partner, has been murdered. Rosa Weeks, M.D., and Poppy Chandler: two more murders. Almost certainly there have been others I am not aware of. There might be more to come. There is no way to know how or when this will all end.
But there was a beginning, a time when…
Epilogue
TWO WEEKS LATER, near midnight, Carlucci stood on the sidewalk outside The Palms, listening to the muted crash of music. Inside, the Black Angels were playing. Inside, was Paula Asgard.
A lot had happened in the last two weeks. Tremaine’s story had gone out over the nets, and for the next several days the city was in turmoil. Huge crowds of protesters had surrounded City Hall and kept city officials from leaving for a day and a half, until the police and National Guard had broken through. Someone launched two rockets into New Hong Kong’s headquarters in the Financial District, killing over thirty people and injuring hundreds. Small localized riots erupted throughout the city, most followed by large-scale looting and burning of cars and buildings. New Hong Kong suspended flights from Hunter’s Point.
The day Tremaine’s story broke over the nets, the mayor disappeared. There was a wild scene out at Hunter’s Point, crowds at the gates being fought off by security forces. The mayor, in his limousine, forced his way through the crowd and the first gates, wanting to board the last ship to New Hong Kong. But the main security team stopped him—apparently New Hong Kong had hung him out to dry, just as Monk had hinted at, and ordered their security forces to prevent him from boarding. The mayor then left Hunter’s Point, and hadn’t been seen since. Word on the streets was that the Saints had kidnapped him and put him on trial. Carlucci didn’t know if it was true or not, but he hoped it was. He didn’t want to ever worry about Kashen again.
The day his story broke, Tremaine disappeared as well. Paula had called Carlucci to tell him. Afraid that New Hong Kong would come after him—enough people had died already—Tremaine had left the city. Paula didn’t know where he’d gone, or how long he’d be away. She’d sounded depressed, and Carlucci thought he understood—she’d lost someone else. First Chick; then Mixer, in a way; and now Tremaine.
Carlucci hadn’t seen her since that night with the Saints. They had talked several times on the phone, but their conversations were short and awkward, filled more with silences than words. Now, though, he had to see her in person. He hoped it would make a difference. She wasn’t expecting him, but he thought it would be a good surprise.
He finally opened the door, the music blasting him, and he stepped into the clouds of music and smoke, flashing colored lights and a loud, jamming crowd. A young guy just inside the door with foiled hair and two metal hands (real or fake?) put one of his hands up, stopping him. He leaned forward, shouted into Carlucci’s ear.
“You sure you want in here, old man?”
Carlucci nodded, and the guy shrugged. “Ten bucks. For the band.”
Carlucci dug a crumpled wad of money out of his pocket and picked out two fives, handing them to the guy. The guy nodded, slapped Carlucci on the shoulder, and said, “Have a good time, old man.”
Old man. Yeah. To the guy, who wasn’t much more than a kid, Carlucci was old.
He could barely see the band at the other end of the long, narrow room, his view obstructed by the smoke, people at the raised tables, other people walking around or dancing with their hands in the air, and the half dozen blackened wood ceiling supports. Some of the smoke was illegal, he could smell that. There, he caught a glimpse of Paula, pounding at her guitar, wearing a white T-shirt and black jeans, screaming into the microphone. He couldn’t make out a single word.
There weren’t any vacant seats at the bar, and all the tables were full, so he worked his way to the side wall, found a spot to lean against between a woman in a crash suit and a guy in silver-strips who must have been close to seven feet tall. The smells in the place made him feel good, reminded him of the clubs he’d played in with the Po-Leece Blues Band. A different crowd, different sound, definitely, but something the same—people pressed in together, drinking and smoking, having a good time: there for the music.
A waitress in black T-shirt, cutoffs, and heavy leather boots stopped by, and he order
ed a draft. She said something back, the name of the beer, probably, and he shrugged, nodded.
Carlucci had a good view of the band from where he stood, right between two of the wooden posts. Drummer, lead guitar, and Paula on bass and vocals. Loud and fast, a lot louder and faster than he liked, but the energy was fine; he could feel that, he liked that part of it. And the bass pounding through the floor and wall, into his bones.
The waitress came back with his beer, sooner than he had expected; the beer a lot bigger, too, jumbo pint glass. He paid her, and she left. Carlucci looked back at the stage, and saw that Paula had caught sight of him. She was back from the mike, a break in the vocals, and she stared at him, hand banging away at the strings. Then she smiled, nodding once, the smile getting broader, and he knew it was okay. He smiled back at her and put up his hand, feeling kind of stupid. Like an old man.
He saw Paula lean over to say something in the guitarist’s ear, and the guitarist nodded. Carlucci drank from his beer and tried to relax, settle into the music. He was still a little nervous.
The Black Angels played one more song, then Paula announced they’d be taking a short break. The quiet was a relief to Carlucci. There was still music playing over the sound system and people talking all around him, but it was quiet to him, the volume turned way down. Paula stepped off the stage and worked her way through the tables and chairs until she stood right in front of him, smiling. Carlucci couldn’t help smiling back. She looked terrific—healthy sweat, good color in her face.
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