Turns out, however, that fabrications weren’t required.
The lights were off, and I couldn’t see anybody from this distance. As I carefully stepped over toward the bungalow, I made out no life at all. While this hung as odd, I couldn’t deny confirmation when I leaned against the cracked plasti-glass, looked inside, and saw dark shadows in which nothing moved.
The crack puzzled me. This stuff was supposed to be harder than steel, so what could have caused that? And why wasn’t it replaced? Poor-man’s maintenance didn’t ring credible here.
From the wide open door, coming out of hidden speakers in low volume, I caught the sounds of an old big band number about a girl from Kalamazoo. Floyd would probably know the name of the tune, but he wasn’t here to quiz. There was a camera suspended above the doorway that refused to swivel even when I waved up at it. Surely I was a target large enough for even a malfunctioning device.
I edged forward to the entrance, still puzzling over why there weren’t any guards. It might’ve been a lower-rung concern, but anyway this underpass would slip into the high-security umbrella, being in such close proximity to politicos like Kenbright. It was inconceivable that they’d leave a post unguarded for even a few seconds.
I glanced around, jumpy re: the lack of personnel, riding notions that it had to be a trap. Without taking the time to procrastinate further, I stepped into the building — and tumbled back out again. I stopped myself from landing on my bum by hanging onto the doorframe.
“Shit,” I muttered, at the same time as I dragged my eyes away from the vivid tableau on the floor of the security booth.
I’d glimpsed enough — two methodically gagged and bound guards, with their throats cut ear-to-ear as an apparent afterthought. The men were as dead as discarded doornails. This had to have happened recently. The gashes looked too fresh and blood wept from them, easing around the edges of vinyl gaffer tape.
I looked outside in the tunnel proper for some sign of the pricks who’d done this butcher’s job, without success — and straight after plucked up enough wayward courage to go through the guards’ pockets. Their holsters may’ve been empty, but one of the guys had a small pistol tucked up under his left armpit. Bingo. Flimsy as it was, this would do fine.
I extended the gun, a nine millimetre Glock 26, before me as I left the death-trap, turned full circle, and decided upon the bizarre: nobody was here. Who would do this much carnage, only to scarper? Why weren’t alarm bells a-klanging? It didn’t make for good sense.
My thoughts turned back to Kenbright, and then Léna.
This had to have something to do with the Senator, though what was another matter. Perhaps it was an attempt on his life? Could Léna have done—? No. I shook my head, my own attempt to lob out idiotic notions.
Whatever the case, if she were with him, I had no time to lose.
I started to jog along the remainder of the tunnel, panting the further I went. I was nowhere near the best condition for this kind of exercise, and I’d forgotten my shorts. Though I kept an eye on the terrain ahead, there was no peep from a single soul. Within minutes I entered a cavernous underground parking garage where priceless vehicles sparkled in uniform rows.
I bent over, hands on my knees, heart pounding, gasping for air. God, I felt like I was going to die. Finally, I dragged in sufficient oxygen to raise my head.
The Senator’s limo was parked over by the elevator shaft.
Even amidst all the other expensive crates it was impossible to miss the car’s hot pink exterior. Kenbright was known for his kinks. The rumour mill said the jerk ironed-out those kinks with a steady succession of young women that people tended to never see again. The thought of Léna as the full stop to this chain jolted me.
With the tiny Glock clasped in both hands but arched down a fraction, I weaved from car to car. The limo had its engine off and I couldn’t see its driver.
The other titbit I’d gleaned was that this chauffeur had a black belt in karate — meaning she could double-dip as personal bodyguard. The only martial art I’d mastered was bathing other people’s cats, so I figured the miniature gun would have to fill in for five digits of death.
I reached the limo and peeked through the tinted window.
Oh yeah, the chauffeur was there, all right, but hardly playing coy. All those after-hours karate lessons had been given the finger.
Her eyes were slitted and stared at some attractive space over my left shoulder. I was tempted to take a gander, though it was pretty obvious she was dead. I couldn’t see a mark on her, and there was nothing behind me.
I turned anyway and leaned against the pink vehicle for a while. I had my arms crossed in front of me as I focused on a nearby exit sign. My tummy growled. Damn.
I’d like to think I was capable enough to mull over the odds and ends and thereby make a decision, but it was pointless trying to slot the pieces into a reasonable whole — none of this clicked, neither disjointed nor lassoed together. The only thing making an impression, the thing that had brought me this far, was Léna’s life being in danger. Mine hanging on the line, too, was beside the point.
Since today’s bill of fare appeared to be the act of stealing things from dead bodies, I took the driver’s ID, headed over to the elevators, and then pushed the button. Nothing happened for several seconds. I wondered if the lifts had been locked-down, but I heard a comical ‘ding’ and a pair of doors slid open.
I stepped inside. It was too bright in there. I found myself squinting.
“Level Forty-two,” I announced, swiping the appropriated ID card across the panel.
After the doors closed I felt a soft upward motion. Toward — what? An awaiting Senator Kenbright surrounded by body-guards? A squad of trigger-happy cops? Christ knew, and Christ bloody well cared. For my part, I had no idea and decided to give up imagining. What a waste. All of that was beyond me now. It always had been. I was screwed the moment they hammered through the Bill of Deviations, but was too much of an overweight blockhead to know it at the time.
As I mentioned, the only worthwhile pursuit was helping out Léna.
She deserved that much — I owed her. She’d given me the time of day when most people look at the fat man as nothing more than light relief. So I raised the handgun before me, level with my gaze, and waited for the elevator to open.
We stopped at forty-two according to the red-light display, and the metal doors slid apart on cue — to an empty, ill-lit hallway. I hopped out and aimed in both directions along the corridor, playing pistolero, but again there were no moving targets. All I saw were a couple of other doors, an antique chest with some purple flowers on top, and a large Renaissance-style painting showcasing a chubby, naked lady on a settee, enjoying a bunch of grapes.
The painting looked like the real deal. Old, faded, apparently oil on canvas, though it could’ve been acrylic or recycled poop for all I knew. Something small caught my eye. When I leaned closer to the picture, I saw a black, oval sticker with white writing — it read ‘if?’ — stuck to the woman’s buttocks. Right. That would’ve devalued the thing a significant percentage.
I pulled myself back to the here and now. One of the wooden doors was slightly ajar, so I headed over to that. The closer I got, the more I was able to distinguish the sound of some kind of slow piano riff. I carefully pushed the door open to a gloomy, average-sized room. The lack of illumination was a worry, though it was the middle of the night, and I supposed it would help mask my movement. This appeared to be a den, with an orderly secretaire and desk, and a bookcase concealing an entire wall. There was another door, closed, that I slowly eased forward.
The master bedroom, I deduced. Who needed Sherlock?
These quarters were huge, with a canopied four-poster bed in the centre, and next to the bed a candelabrum with dozens of burning candles in it, all of them a different shade of pink wax.
They threw enough light for me to see a naked female form lying face-down on the bed, hands tied together with a fuchsi
a stocking, and large red welts crisscrossing her back. She wasn’t moving. I crossed the floor, leaned over, and pushed back blonde hair that obscured the face.
Léna.
I’d already guessed as much. I recognized her backside and the glorious flow of her shoulder muscles, cherished the colour of the hair.
The woman’s eyes were closed. They would never reopen.
From the look of the bruising around the neck I assumed she’d been throttled. I worked the gun across my forehead, feeling the pain of its sharp sight cutting into the skin. I believe I was attempting to blot out the other pain, the one inside me. She was dead — in the same boat as my wife Courtney. The same vessel I’d be hitching a ride on in a short while from now.
What a bloody waste. Not me. Her.
I sat on the bed beside Léna, memories hammering my head from within as I bludgeoned that same head, with the gun, from without. This had to stop. The pistol was too flyweight to induce decent physical damage without pulling the trigger, and I needed it to inflict retribution on the arsehole who’d done this.
So, I looked at the murder scene afresh. At the woman in particular. I touched her cheek. Vaguely warm. There were wires leading from the bed that weaved across space, on into an idInteract console propped on a nearby table. Further checking it out was unnecessary — you didn’t need flights of fancy to conjure up the idIotic programs Kenbright would get off on.
Anyway, I could still hear that damnable piano concerto.
It was louder here, music I recognized, a cheesy piece used in some recent TV advertising. What’d they been hawking? Cars? Plastic, more likely.
I tore my gaze from what I told myself was no more than a corpse, lurched up, and rounded the corner of two further doorways in a blundering hurry.
The source of the music was a flyweight, elderly man wrapped in a towel, toga-fashion, seated before a grand piano. Above the keys he tinkered with was the brand name ‘Truffaut’, written in flowing gold leaf.
When he saw me in the doorway to his right, the piano player sat up straight.
“Deaps sent you for me, didn’t he?”
I glared at the man, spots in my vision. “Deaps? Wolram Deaps?”
“I know he wants to silence me. I’ve become a liability.”
“Dunno what the hell you’re talking about. I came for Léna.”
“Oh.” Both his mouth and then the man’s eyes widened themselves into ridiculously formed ‘O’s, as if to emphasize the statement. Then they sagged. “You’re far too late. She’s dead.”
“I know that.”
“Yes, how silly of me — of course you do.”
“Why?” My voice had taken on a croak that sounded pathetic.
“Why what?”
“Why murder her?”
“Well, now. I haven’t an inkling. I think it was accidental —the other times it was definitely an accident. These things happen.”
“Right.”
The man scratched at his black, rakish, RAF-style moustache. This was obviously dyed, since the thinning hair on top of his head was close to white. I noticed that in doing the scratch he’d stopped playing the piano, yet the music continued unabated. This bloke was all sham.
“Senator Kenbright,” I said.
“Yes, yes, that is my name.” The man sighed, like he was irritated with my incompetence. “Well, what are you waiting for? Do your thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing you people are paid for. Putting others out of their misery. Why are you waiting?”
“Beats me. Maybe you got me confused with somebody else? And, to be honest, I just changed my mind — I’m here to arrest you. I’m thinking that way you’ll have a whole lot more misery ahead.”
I took out my Mitt-Mate and made the call. “Jones, H. Seeker Two-Five-Two-Six,” I began. “Ophelia—? Hank. I have a doozie.”
It felt right. Shooting this bogus piano player would be far too kind.
Besides, it stood to reason that someone had set up all of this. The bundled guards and gift-wrapped chauffeur weren’t mere wallpaper. The Senator mentioned Deaps, which meant it could go all the way to the top. Possibly? Probably.
Better to do this by the book, win a few Tinkertoy medals in the process, and then cry into my drinks later. God — Léna.
“So, I’m to be Relocated,” the Senator mused. “Might I at least put on something decent? There are bound to be reporters.”
“Nah. I like the look of you just as you are. You’re lucky I’m letting you stick with the towel.”
“May I smoke?”
He lifted a silver case from the top of the piano, but I knocked it across the room.
“Put a lid on it, wanker. Jeez.”
Kenbright looked like I’d hurt his feelings. “I am not afraid. I simply served my country,” he complained.
“Sure you did, laddie. Me, too. Choice career move.”
“You know, aren’t you a little fat to be a Seeker?”
“Fat and happy, mate.” I could hear the sirens already. “Fat and happy.”
The next experiment was something I toyed with last year, reviving a kind of collage-based story-telling technique I worked with in the early 1990s — when I did a weekly superhero comic about fellow staff members at TAC Insurance in Melbourne, using (mis)appropriated ID tags — but grew out of when I quit my stab at a corporate job.
I wanted to tell a simple tale, minimalist, possibly even the story of the Hospitalization of Floyd’s wife Veronica (never actually seen in Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, except through the narrator’s blinkered memories).
Then again, it could be the arrest and Relocation of anybody in this suffocating near-future dystopia.
The story also gave me an excuse to dabble with some silly art, utilizing some of the new software that’s available, and ‘twas fun.
Since the story before last was how things (kind of) originally finished, I’m going to now serve up the prologue to Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat that went out with the novel when it was published in 2011.
There is a reason for this, aside from the fact that I feel it sits pleasantly by itself — I’m going to follow this up with the original prologue (here titled Prologue Thingy) that went with the final manuscript in my submission to Another Sky Press in the U.S. in October 2007.
At the time I was suffering from dire lack of sleep — I’d rewritten the novel in three months, while working full-time and coming to grips with being the dad of a child not yet two years of age.
I got this surprising, mind-blowing email back from Another Sky on October 22 that year: “Submission received! In fact, a couple of us here have already looked it over. This is unusual — we get a lot of submissions and there’s usually a delay before we actually have a chance to review something. But somehow you skipped to the front. Anyway, getting to the point — we totally dug the sample you sent and we’d love to read more of Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat. I guess you jumped to the top of the pile for a reason.”
A year or so later, as we plodded on the early editing pleasantries, Kristopher Young — the guy who runs Another Sky — said this amazing thing in an interview. I kept the byte because it knocked my socks off and helped inspire me to follow through on some particularly grim editing moments with TSMG…and to continue pursuit of this writing thing (thanks, Kris!). The quote goes thus:
“We’re working on a project right now by a guy who has an extremely unique voice. I’ve never read anyone with such a unique voice. An Australian that lives in Tokyo. He’s extremely well-versed in film noir. It’s this noirish-Australian-Japanese conglomeration of ideas. The thing is it’s a beautiful labour, but it needs a ton of editing. I am probably going to be spending another year of my life, minimum, finishing this epic novel.”
Little did he suspect it’d take more time than that.
Funnily enough the rambling, somewhat pretentious Prologue Thingy you’ll wade through (after the final version, Fear of that Misplaced Black Bat)
was attached at the beginning of my original submission to Another Sky. It was one of the first things to go.
We ended up throwing it out the window, although you may recognize some of the text since this was threaded into other parts of TSMG, most notably the new intro…which you’ll get to read first now.
Anyway, if you’re still vaguely interested, you can then go grab the pdf and epub versions of the whole novel — gratis — from Another Sky Press at anothersky.org.
Fear of that Misplaced Black Cat
I never really knew the old Melbourne before the Wall, with its sundry pub music, its boutique-club glamour, and vaguely dissident art, a not-so-contaminated Yarra River, all-night warehouse rave parties, superlative eateries, and its easy multicultural charm — I was still only a kid then.
What I really got to know was the xenophobic, rotting hulk of a city it became in the epoch after the shuttering of the place to an outside world on its last legs. Now, the city is divided into a dozen culturally cut-up and socioeconomically distinct districts, you know, each occupied by swarms of police and trigger-thrilled security types, and separated from one another with blockades and fences, along with a shocking case of paranoia. The centre of the city — that’s the Dome — is a play area reserved for the rich. Then there’s the subterranean Hospital zone, but let’s not get into that here.
Melbourne may look a little worse for wear, a little bombed out even, but it’s nothing compared to the ghastly ruins of the other cities out there. Our city suffers from a chronic case of overpopulation, it’s true, but the rest of the lot is devoid of us riffraff altogether.
Oh, I was going to tell you, wait, I was going to tell you about this guy, goes by the name of Floyd Maquina. Now, Floyd was broke and had medical bills to pay to support his ailing spouse, so the government offered him some sort — I don’t know — some sort of a job.
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